Wk2 Reading: Possibility & the Art of Contributing

POST 1

As I begin writing, the dominating truth is Ben Zander’s playing of Chopin.  I started the video in a welter of not just tension and anxiety but resentment: “WhateverwhateverIjust don’tfreakinghave TIME forthis.”  There’s something about his playing that transcends any musical experience I’ve ever had before—as if Plato’s actuality of beauty had manifested itself through my ears into my brain.

That’s not good right now.  Several times during the reading of these chapters, I teared up—my physical response to truth—but I squelched the tears.  I don’t have to look at my thoughts to see the characteristics of the measurement mentality in my “operant powers”—tell me, when one quotes Shakespeare, is one required to cite?  Or doesn’t one rather leave hanging the assumption that, of course, one’s conversational partners will recognize the allusion?—one of my favorites being pretention.  Oh, there’s a maelstrom of well

edublogs.org

measured melancholy burbling under my surface, as I sit at the end of a challenging year, which is at the end of a grievously difficult decade.  And this blog would give me an opportunity to do another productive round of bleeding ink, symbolically speaking, or I can turn to a rather more intellectual analysis of my classroom and my students.

I don’t have time right now to bleed.  The kiddies it is.

I had an epiphany in Dr. Dan’s class that changed the way I look at the emergent adults in my classroom.  I can’t even remember why now (of course, I can’t remember if I ate lunch today), but I recognized that what these young people really wanted out of their education was not to get out of it, but to know that what they were doing was meaningful.  And that what they’re doing in school, well, they usually feel that that isn’t.  We were at this time wrapping up Pygmalion, and instead of giving them the usual literary analysis essay topic, I asked them to think about a problem they or a friend had that might have a solution in a lesson they learned from that play.

I’ve been teaching seniors for twenty years, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen them so engaged in my life.

So when Mr. Zander writes that “adolescents are looking for an arena in which to make an authentic contribution to the family and to the community,” and “how few meaningful roles are available for young people to fill” (p. 40), I saw an explanation for the present vacuous obsession with prom.  When we fail to give them anything productive to do, how can we be surprised when all that’s left to care about is “Me!  Me!  Me!!!”

On the other hand, “Me!  Me!  Me!!!” is a rut almost all of my students have been in for a long time.  And I don’t know where this “senioritis” garbage came from, but they are utterly unashamed of wallowing in it.  If I gave my students a guaranteed A, I have no doubt I’d never see a majority of them lift a finger again, except to text under their desks.

My students, you see, aren’t there because, like Mr. Zander’s students, they desire deeply to improve their performance, but because the state and their parents force them to be.  Does this mean they’re getting nothing of value in my classroom?  Oh no, no, no—you should see them, this week, shining eyes reflecting the black-and-white glow of Olivier’s Hamlet.  And I am really sure that’d be happening, grade or no.  But the other wonderful things they’re doing—the visual poem, the fascinating discussions?  They wouldn’t have those experiences if I didn’t reward them with points.

My grades aren’t competitive.  Plenty of points to go around—an unlimited supply.  Of course, I’m fond of saying “I don’t give points—you earn them.”  And I hope they earn them doing valuable work that teaches them not only how to express themselves effectively but who they are and what they are capable of.   I see them satisfied when they achieve something in a way that certainly transcends the reward/punishment system of points.  But without that carrot, I don’t see them giving themselves the opportunity to achieve the satisfaction.

At least, not this year.  As I reflect, though, on opening for my students a “Universe of Possibility,” I see that I have myself modeled that concept continually this year. I’m not only one of the “Old Farts” but had a well deserved reputation for being, while devoutly enthusiastic, hmm, let’s just say a bit of a stickler.  This year I have continually tried one new thing after another, flagrantly experimenting and making mistakes and trying something else.  I’ve boldly gone where no one (not at my school, anyway) has gone before. When I showed our principal the tweets we did in class watching Hamlet, he looked at me and grinned, “Who’da thought you’d be the one doing this, huh?”  I’ve demonstrated categorically that one is never too … too anything to learn new stuff, no, not even if one's first pet was a dinosaur.