Think Like a Teacher

Ning  shook the world of web 2.0 junkies late last week by letting everyone know that they are going to change their terms of service and no longer offer “free” social networking spaces. Many, many teachers will ask, “who cares?”  Those who have been teaching and learNing using these spaces have filled the twittersphere and a vocal Elluminate get-together to vent, discuss alternatives, and stir a web-based uprising for web 2.0 consumer rights. The conversations in Elluminate the other night included several digressions into web 2.0 business models  as seen through educators’ (idealistic?) eyes. Adam Frey of wikispaces articulately shared their philosophy for K-12 schools and was careful to underscore the fact that every tool has its own unique model. We educators would like to think that the nobility of our cause is enough to justify “free”– forever.  After all, we gave up the big bucks to serve kids, so why can’t these web 2.0 companies? Free is the noblest route. But in today’s web 2.0 world, will it last?

As a person who runs a FREE (ad- free) web site, I am often questioned about where the money comes from.  Teachers — and even my curious friends — are secretly skeptical that we at TeachersFirst must be:

a. planning to “bait and switch” to a fee-based service as so many others have done
b. quietly advocating for a frighteningly evil cause
c. vulnerable as minnows about to be eaten by the Big Fish of the web
d. secretly funded by independently wealthy philanthropist individuals (ha!)

Actually, you should have blackened the space for e. none of the above. Unlike today’s amazing web 2.0 tools, we are a simpler site.  You can’t remix, mash up, or random-generate anything except ideas and resources for learning. What you can do is FIND anything. Good stuff. Written or reviewed by Thinking Teachers. Free. No strings. No “while in beta.” No ads creeping in next to what you really want to see. No bikini-clad models selling you anything. So skeptical (thinking!) teachers ask me directly,  “What is YOUR business model?”

The answer is simple: Robin Hood.

Our non-profit parent company is fortunate enough to have something that cellphone companies want to buy–or lease: frequencies. Those same companies that make money from your teenage students’ text messages and from charging people for precious minutes are also giving us their money. Rob from the rich (cell companies),  give to the poor (teachers). What truer justice could there be?

I wonder, though, why this “business model” could not be translated into other web venues. Wikispaces has adapted the semi-Robin Hood scenario….Take (at a reasonable fee) from those who CAN pay, and give to over 300,000 “poor”  classroom teachers. Strike a blow for Robin.

Today’s web 2.0 world has far more tools than can ever possibly survive. There are so many slideshow makers and PowerPoint wannabes that our review team simply drew an arbitrary line and stopped reviewing them. Perhaps we should examine the Robin Hood legend long enough to point out that Robin Hood is himself a physically fit, thriving benefactor/thief. Those not strong enough for a few sword fights will not survive, even if they are able to snag a few bags of gold. But I sure hope the good ones will wield their web 2.0 swords a bit on their way to hand over the coins of learning to the kids  and teachers who are ready and waiting.

I am speechless. Those who know me are probably stunned that anything could silence this mouth. But the US DOE has done it to me and to millions of students, teachers, and minds with one stroke. They have eliminated funding for the National Writers Project (NWP) as part of the proposed Education budget. Carolyn Foote and Bud Hunt give the details, including Bud’s efforts to ascertain the rationale behind such a crazy decision. The story continues on their blogs, and I hope you will follow it as you scream via whatever medium works for you.

I am stunned at the notion that the NWP  might not have demonstrable impact on student achievement or might have to compete to prove its impact. The NWP’s impact is not only STUDENT achievement. It is discovery of adult voices for life. The NWP is the mental musical accompaniment that helps writers of all ages and stages find their voices, voices they will use to sing, speak, convince, debate, and contribute forever. Teachers who participate in the NWP go from classroom voices to real world voices. The NWP is not a school-specific approach to writing. The NWP makes writers.

The summer I spent in a NWP affiliate program drew me closer to articulating creative process and metacognition than anything I had ever experienced. I lived, survived, and thrived as I watched a kindergarten teacher next to me go from fear of writing to celebrating her voice among her peers and even in a wider world. The NWP makes writers who make writers who make writers. If there were ever a viral learning experience, the NWP is it.

Policy makers and education critics tout the strength of alternative teacher certification programs in bringing experienced practitioners from any given field into the classroom. The NWP makes those in the classroom into practitioners of writing, lifelong writers who continue to hone their craft as they live among other (younger) writers. The NWP allows teachers to learn among their students in a community of writers and to articulate the experience with more authority than a nuclear scientist who walks into a physics class. The NWP provides both the experience and the vocabulary to help each teacher start a writing garden. The NWP experience is viral. The NWP makes writers who make writers who make writers.

You are a blog reader. You are benefiting from the NWP.  Every student of every NWP teacher-participant benefits. And they go on to jobs where they can explain, argue, email, tweet — and perhaps stop to personally question word choice or paragraph substance as they live, survive, and thrive as writers in a world often bereft of deliberate word choice or thought about how we speak and write. Isn’t that the community of literate adults we want? The NWP makes writers who make writers who make writers.

Now it is your turn to write to someone about the NWP. If you never knew much about the NWP or are not sure if it has had an impact on you, ask. Ask your former English teacher, kindergarten teacher, or any adult whose writing you admire: did you ever have anything to do with anyone who had participated in the NWP? Did your teachers?  If we could trace the connections between writers we respect and contact with NWP, how many degrees of separation would there be? Maybe we should be asking that out loud. If I could reach out to the thousands of students I taught over the years, I would remind them: I was a fellow of a NWP affiliate. And they would conclude: The NWP makes writers who make writers who make writers. Pass it on.

I recently came across this post about task analysis, an approach to helping many students master new concepts by carefully breaking them down into steps:

I believe that every new skill can be broken down into steps. We follow a certain procedure no matter what we do. Everything has its own recipe.

I fear that so much of education has swung in this behaviorist direction that we are losing touch with the countervailing trend in what our students do on their own, with their own time and self-directed learning. We have also created entire generations of teachers who learn — and therefore teach– via this step-by-step approach.

There is no question that for many learners, both young and not-so-young, staircases work. The risers are of equal size and measure out to arrive exactly at the landing after the prescribed number of upward swings of the legs. No single step is too taxing, and success is virtually guaranteed, provided we allow for differing rates of speed in going up the steps. Once a teacher masters the analytical skill of measuring out and calculating the amount of rise and number of steps, he/she is likely to guide most learners to the desired landing.

Now look at how our students learn when left to their own devices. Instead of staircases, some students’ learning takes place via giant, expanded Habitrail-like environments with wheels, chutes, interwoven tubes and shortcuts, and even a tube with an open-ended escape the big, wide world. The speed and rapid turns of these learners may not be suited to staircases, but they often have no other choice. They may see tasks a big pictures, with favored route that go by way of the big,wide world. They may even chose to climb three times farther and descend to the desired landing. They may never even cross that landing becuase they have built a direct chute to a whole different level. In a web 2.0 world, learning can be much more of a build-your-own Habitrail than a well-designed staircase.

Some kids prefer running up and down stairs over and over. As adults, we assume that everyone wants to go up. Some learners want to start at the top then appreciate the steps by exploring them (or striding briefly past a few at a time) on the way down.

I sincerely hope that those who teach do not forget that staircases, no matter how admirably engineered, may not be the way their students learn. Trying to navigate even a well-designed staircase can be a bruising experience for the leapers and learners who choose another way.

The thing I enjoy most about teaching is the chance to dream. I have been lucky during my entire adult life that my jobs have allowed me to create and implement new ideas with kids, not locked into a script or fixed curriculum sequence with specific required materials or approach. I have always been encouraged to dream blue sky “what if” scenarios for new ways to inspire and experience learning together with my students or teaching colleagues.

Today that blue sky grew wider as I collaborated together with three top-notch educators, Jim Dachos of GlogsterEDU, Ollie Dreon of Millersville University, and Louise Maine of Punxsutawney Area High School (PA) , to submit an application for a Learning Labs grant from the MacArthur/HASTAC Digital Media and Learning Competition. What a rush of excitement it has been to brainstorm, dream, and distill our ideas into 300 words or less. The excitement of the ideas keeps growing in inverse to the number of words we have available to explain it. This project, like the learning environment it envisions, is as wide as the sky and has taken on a life of its own.

(Ed. Jan 27): MacArthur/HASTAC have released the entries for public comment on the DML competition site. Please stop by, read our entry, and comment. We value your input as we prepare for the resubmission phase where we incorporate new ideas garnered from the greater public.  This competition has VERY quick turnaround, so please do it NOW. This phase ends in less than 2 weeks. Be a part of our blue sky: http://www.dmlcompetition.net/pligg/story.php?title=543

Our sky is expanding, and I cannot wait to see where the horizon may move as comments on the application expand the blue sky of our dreams.

I can’t see 3D movies. I mean actually, physically will never be able to make the neuro-messages from my two eyes converge into a three-dimensional experience. As far as I know from talking to ophthalmologists for decades, there is nothing in current medicine that will change this.

As I read all the hype about Avatar in 3D and the possibility of 3D television and more and more 3D movies in theaters, I am downright resentful. How dare they leave me behind as someone who will not be able to see any movie or show projected or broadcast in this fuzzy new medium? Don’t they know there are people like me who will be abandoned as lost?

My reaction bears a strong resemblance to some we as teachers and/or technology “leaders” may have  passed by as we jog ahead. Learning support students have always felt abandoned and resentful during lessons taught through means they cannot “see.” When the faddish, highly patterned posters with hidden images first came out over a decade ago, some of us could not force our eyes to decipher the hidden images. My most empathetic teaching colleagues finally understood how their LD students felt and changed their lessons to include multiple approaches to concepts. Just as those posters were not the only things available to hang on the wall, however, finding other options for teaching was similarly easy.

Now , with people marveling at Avatar  and promoting the prospect of ubiquitous 3D, I  am experiencing my first near-terror at technology “progress.” For the first time in my tech-loving life, I am not an early adopter. I am negative and angry that I could be considered “challenged.” I do not know of a way to “fix” it and am secretly afraid that NOT welcoming 3D will make me less of a an innovator-teacher-communicator. I don’t want to be the old person who doesn’t try the new thing. This is not my role, and I resent being pushed aside.

pause for Aha moment

THIS must be the way some teachers feel as technovations beyond their vision whizz through their worlds like hummingbirds on steroids.

I have the luxury of time to play and commitment to make the effort with every new technology, always excited to figure out how it could fit into learning. Like many edtech leaders and willing educators, I continue to add, adopt, adapt, and build my PLN with new tools. In two years, Twitter has cycled from a curiosity to a regular part of my day/week. The difference between my initial Twitter reaction and my 3D reaction is that I can’t see 3D.

If teachers truly believe that they are similarly hampered, organically or logistically, they must be feeling the same resentment and embarrassment.   Can’t See It empathy must be part of  planning for all of us who lead and teach our fellow educators, even those who simply teach alongside a peer in a similar panic.

I know I have written about the issues of  technology adoption, fear, and teachers’ professional obligation to grow and change before. But now I am living Can’t See it, and the intensity of my reaction is the perfect fuel to do my job better.

If there were one thing I would like to model to the teachers I work with and students I teach, it is risk taking. Yes, I know that many teens need no encouragement to take foolish risks. (I raised two kids and taught hundreds, maybe thousands.) Those risks, the physical kind, are not the ones I am advocating. To be real thinkers, we need to be willing to share ideas out loud which might otherwise stagnate in silence inside our skulls — or insolently kick up a lasting intellectual headache.

A day or two ago, I was fortunate enough to hear that one of my presentation proposals was accepted for ISTE 2010 (the conference formerly known as NECC). It should not surprise me that, of my three proposals, this was the one that was the greatest risk: an idea I had never really shared out loud but had held for some time. I don’t know if I have ever even heard or read anyone on the topic. It is just an idea that had been kicking the dirt inside my head for quite a while.

The rush of validation I feel that others thought this idea was “worthy” is a rare occurrence. I can point to times in my life when I have felt the same way, always because I took the risk to step off a creative cliff. I want all teachers to feel that rush, to model it, and to help their students find it.

This may sound as though I am advocating for wholesale disruptive behavior or challenge to authority. Actually, I am simply saying that we, as teachers, need to say those things that we wonder inside. We need to say them to kindergarteners and to high school seniors. Such opportunities should not be reserved for professorial types or op-ed writers. We need to be honest when we question, muse, or mentally hum:

Sometimes I wonder why we teach this…

Was this really the cause of the civil war? The way out of the Depression? The Founding Fathers’ greatest hope?

What would Martin Luther King, Jr. say if he saw me teaching about him this way?

Why is this story the one they chose to put in this anthology?

Why is this work considered a masterpiece? It’s hideous.

I know we cannot confuse students by barraging them with risk-taking ideas when they have no solid ground, but dropping a few into the conversation once in a while is the most honest way we can help them find lifelong curiosity and innovative thinking of their own. Maybe you could raise a flag with a question mark and cliff icon as a signal when you ask them, but you must ask these things aloud.

You never know. You might be asked to speak at a conference among your peers and those you admire. Oh, the presentation topic that was accepted, you ask? “Dimensions of Creativity: A Model to Analyze Student Projects.” Guess I am kind of hooked on this creativity thing.

What teacher is not in favor of making sure our students graduate with these skills?

• Information and media literacy, communication
• Critical thinking, problem identification, formulation, and solution
• Creativity and intellectual curiosity
• Interpersonal and self-direction skills
• Global awareness
• Financial, economic, and business literacy
• Civic literacy

I think you would be hard-pressed to find any educator who is not hoping for these results for each student’s formal education and personal learning. These skills are not new to the 21st century, but they are the skills that we in the 21st century still struggle to build in all students. I read with great disappointment today about a food-fight occurring between the Partnership for 21st Century Skills (P21) and other groups who question P21’s motivations. At the risk of sounding like a seventh grader: Who cares?

As a teacher, I care about what happens when the rubber meets the road (or the index finger meets the mouse): What happens when I try to incorporate these skills into the discipline(s) I teach? Is there one and only one way to align them with existing curriculum? Does current curriculum go away, to be replaced completely (some of it probably could!)? And most important: how can any organization OWN such ideas? These ideas belong to those who grasp them as they learn, not those who describe them, prescribe them, or trademark special names for them.

I think of the old computer simulation game, Civilization, where you had to design a society and set its priorities. Would the poets and artists survive or die off? What happened if you had no thinkers or philosophers? The solution was always balance. You had to have some of everything to help a society endure.

Today’s Civilization is worldwide, and we need all of it. We do not need people fighting over semantics and who owns the important concepts of creativity, global awareness, etc. We certainly don’t need to know which organization is winning the race for the ear of policymakers. Out here in the classrooms of the world, we need to apply OUR 21st century skills of interpersonal and self-direction,  critical thinking, problem identification, formulation, and solution to continue evolving as teacher-learners and continue to challenge, inspire, and lure our students to self-directed, meaningful learning that lasts. It would certainly be nice to have the food fight end and the sharing begin. Do you ever wish you could just shake a few business people and politicians?

As a teacher, I am thankful for:

An orphaned pack of construction paper discovered at the back of the cupboard — unfaded!

A parent who asks, “What can I do to help?”

Free online tools without a “what’s popular” button,

Friday nights,

Going home on empty-tote-bag days,

Drive-through anything,

Other parents of my child’s soccer team or Sunday School class who volunteer instead of me,

A box of Kleenex donated anonymously on my desk,

Neon colored paper,

Free anything,

Each successful program, concert, field trip, performance, science fair, etc. that went off without a crisis,

Email when I need to contact someone,

An empty email box when I have no time to read email,

Each time I use laptops with my students and they all connect to the Internet on the first try,

My fellow teacher who shows me how it fix it when something doesn’t work,

The polite student who fixes it for me,

Being able to save interactive whiteboard files so we can continue tomorrow or email it home to a sick student,

Students who stay home when they are sick,

Being able to try a lesson a second time to fix what I messed up the first time,

My fellow teachers who help me laugh at myself after a disastrous lesson,

Finding a web resource before I need it for a unit, not after,

Students who said “Thank you” today,

Students who say “Thank you” years later.

What are you thankful for?

As Thanksgiving approaches, I thought it appropriate to talk about the blessings of educational technology for which we should all be thankful.

I talked with several teachers this week about what concerns them most as they plan a technology-infused activity or project with their students. As part of an OK2Ask online professional development “snack session” TeachersFirst conducted, we asked teachers, both preservice and experienced, what challenges they encounter in these activities.

The sampling of attendees in these online sessions came was a non-scientific one, comprised of about 25 preservice folks: teacher-interns, undergrad and graduate level teacher certification candidates,  and about 25 current classroom teachers.  The results knocked me down with a wave of deja vu. Almost every teacher currently in the classroom emphasized concern over availability and reliability of the hardware and Internet connection needed to do the activity. The 25 newbies voiced similar concern along with general management and planning issues.

When I moved full time into a role as an instructional technology specialist/technology integrator about ten years ago, this was the cry I heard from teachers. Before that, when I was just another teacher trying to convince fellow teachers to try using the Internet, the cry was the same.  Has nothing changed? Even in schools blessed with better-than-average facilities, the demand is higher, so the barriers grow proportionately. Will we ever get past the wall of “I can’t get the (reliable) computer time I need”? Is this barrier real or perceived? Has this complaint become a habit, or do teachers still have trouble with the Internet going down mid-class? My experience was that if a lesson”failed” once, it took ten times the effort to convince that teacher to try again. And I can’t say that blame them. It is a nightmare to have thirty eighth graders off task while you trouble-shoot the wireless or make up new directions on the fly because the Internet is glitchy. And you end up planning two lessons: the ideal and the back-up.

So where are the blessings here? In the last ten years, the students have come to the rescue. We are blessed with kids who can help figure things out. We are blessed that the demand has grown to use technology in the schools. We are blessed that bandwidth has improved dramatically,  even in poorer schools, but so has demand.  With every blessing comes another barrier. When a Humpty Dumpty of a lesson idea falls down, we have better tools to rebuild him, but he will probably fall off his new and improved wall again and again. We can rebuild our bionic Humpty Dumpty over and over. New barrier, new fall, new blessing. Teaching really hasn’t changed. We just have faster-evolving blessings and barriers these days.

Relationships. Chad Sansing writes a great post about the value of relationships in the classroom. Even the links are a good read. Isn’t that the point: the links are as important as what is said. The links are person to person, person to thoughts, person to words. Chad underscores the importance of relationships with some great articles — connecting in my mind to what I was trying to say about  teachers “worrying deep,”  i.e. CARING deeply and at an intuitive level: forming relationships. His words link to my thoughts and my words as I read. That is what good readers do,  they say. But more importantly, that is what good thinkers do. They keep on linking. Chad has links about linking, too:

relevant content fits right into comforting and enjoyable patterns and connections of prior knowledge

But, Chad asks, how do we define the role of “teacher” in this fully-linked, relationship-oriented, new classroom?  He draws an analogy to a learning republic. I gravitate to something that removes the hint of bureaucracy entirely. My analogy:  microwaving hot marshmallows.

Hot marshmallows, fresh from the microwave, stretch and stretch. They are enticingly sweet and smell of vaguely of cotton candy. The stickiness is the connection, the linking, that we experience during those warm moments of connection and understanding. The sweetness is the taste of  “aha” moments. It may be cliche, but it does feel good to “get it,”  to form a new connection. As saliva floods into your surprised mouth when it senses the sweetness, so do you savor moments when you taste a connection of your own: person to thoughts.  The smell lingers even after the taste, and the smell of other hot marshmallows lures you back, looking for more.

The “teacher” is simply a microwave to the molecules of lumpy, white marshmallow blobs, stirring them into hot stickiness.  And the teacher is not the only microwave. Everyone in (or connected to) the room is capable of pushing “Start. ” The “teacher” simply pushes it over and over, then steps out of the way to be sure everyone has access to the microwave.

Yes, it’s messy. Once you touch a hot marshmallow, your fingers stay sticky. You cannot resist the urge to lick your fingers and repeat the rush. And 25-30 stretching, hot marshmallows quickly spread stickiness on the desks and every surface in the room. Faces get sticky. Hair gets sticky. Minds get sticky.

And just think: With enough hot marshmallows, we could go for s’more…