...and how we learn what works.
When I first began teaching here, I asked several seasoned instructors around me the same set of questions: What do I do? How do I do it? How do I arrange the class? What does a lesson plan look like (as opposed to a syllabus)? Why haven't I gotten more direction? As the person answered my questions, more would come. I knew squat about teaching. (I now know squat plus one, which apparently qualifies me to answer the same questions posed by newer instructors.)
The answers I usually got were consistent, if not highly instructive. They ran something like this: Every teacher has a style and you must find your own. Arrange your class in a way that works for you. Most instructors don't really work from a lesson plan, per se (in the same sense that my grandmother doesn't really "measure" things when she cooks, I think). The most frightening message I got throughout this nervous period was You'll figure it out as you go.
The best inputs I received were from Lt Col Roy. He's a reservist who balances teaching literature and coaching the rifle team. When I approached him for input, he listed several things I needed to understand in order to be effective, but should I forget the rest, if I remember and apply this one, everything else will be fine: They don't care what you know until they know that you care.
Armed with little else, I went into the classroom. I tried to call students "Cadet Smith" or "Cadet Jones," according to Academy rules,* but it simply didn't work for me. Instead, it seemed to reinforce the division between my position as an officer/instructor and theirs as cadets/students. I recall some of my instructors who called me Miss Black or asked me to call them by their first names, and both approaches struck me as artificial, at best. Thus, within two weeks, I began calling all my students by their preferred name or nickname. The fact that they must still address me by my rank is enough to reinforce the power structure.
* The Academy requires that all four-degrees (freshmen) be addressed by their ranks and last names until "Recognition," which is the final ordeal they must undergo before being fully accepted as members of the cadet wing. Recognition for the class of 2010 was last weekend. We were supposed to call all our freshman cadets "Cadet X" throughout the fall semester and halfway through the spring semester.
This rule is counterproductive. Not only does it erect a wall in the classroom, but worse--it marks us as unapproachable, and we (the faculty) are the ones the students are most likely to come to with their problems. Why? Three reasons:
1. They see us more than they see any other authority figures in their lives, and thus we establish rapport the others can't.
2. We often hear about problems because we ask the student why he's falling behind, why he hasn't turned in papers, why he sleeps in class and doesn't seem to care, etc.
3. We're unaffiliated with the athletic and military sides of the house; our stated goal is academics. Thus, the cadets often feel more comfortable bringing their problems to us than to the Air Officer Commanding in charge of their squadrons.
When it comes to using rank and last name, I don't know how to have a conversation with a cadet who has been accused of rape (charges dropped) and ostracized by his squadron for a month and who is falling apart if I can't use his first name. Most of the faculty, from what I've seen, have made the same compromises with the "rank and last name" rule I have, and probably for all the same reasons.
When I first arrived, I went through a week or two of new faculty orientation, the theme of which was "learning-centered instruction." It sounds nice, doesn't it? Very...holistic. But what does it mean? Among other things, it means "Don't lecture to the kids because they have an attention span of about 8 minutes." I also recall something about the necessity of asking questions and encouraging student discussions and group work to keep them engaged so they can discover the answers for themselves.
If I sound cynical, please forgive me, because--with few exceptions--this approach sounds to me like lessons on how to keep kindergarteners slobbering on their building blocks and cooing happily. I agree that drawn-out lectures can be boring, but I've repeatedly found that taking notes--as if the student expects to take a test on the material later, say--goes far toward engaging interest and mental activity, as well as provoking questions for clarification of material.
I have one or two students per semester (out of 72 or so) who take notes without my telling them explicitly (and repeatedly) to do so. I finished last semester and started this one before I realized I repeat everything five or more times because they do not take notes. Now, if I must repeat something, tell them to Take notes! (Oddly, most of them will whip out pencil and paper if I write something on the board, then copy it verbatim--like a bunch of trained monkeys--no matter how cryptic. This is not "note-taking" and it is not helpful and I'm certain it is not limited to my students. Further, I'm quite certain this is a problem "learning-centered education" does not solve.)
So you have a better idea of what I'm talking about, here's a link providing some specific guidelines concerning "learning-centered education." In my opinion, number 7 and number 2 contradict one another. Number 2 asserts: "Learning is enhanced when it is more like a team effort than a solo race. Good learning, like good work, is collaborative and social, not competitive and isolated." That depends upon the student--and the subject--now doesn't it? As a matter of fact, during faculty orientation, the Center for Student Educational Services (or something like that) told us they'd repeatedly found that most students study better alone than in groups. (I'm one of those, without a doubt.)
Most of that is common sense stuff that applies to all education everywhere, such as "have high expectations of the students." If you Google "learning-centered education," you'll get dozens of sites that read something like this:
Learning Centered Education places the focus of all district activities on the real needs of schools, classrooms and students. A learning centered district sets high expectations for all students and staff, and is committed to system redesign that supports performance excellence for all students. The emphasis is on all students taking active responsibility for their learning and all support staff taking responsibility to support student learning.
:roll:
It sounds like a cry for help to me: How can we get the students to engage with the material?! Oh! I know! Let's say our education is "learning-centered" (as opposed to...what, though?).
And isn't the whole approach contradictory? Let's make the students responsible for their own education but not require they learn to settle down, focus, take notes, study, and take the initiative to approach the instructor when they need help. (Don't we have a responsibility to require the students learn to focus?) If the students are doing all the work, what on earth is the instructor there for? Can't you get a "learning-focused education" at your library for $2.50 in late fees (thanks to Good Will Hunting for that line)? I'm supposed to guide them, I suppose. (But guide what? "Discussions," "group work," and other general terms that only pretend to answer the question without actually being troubled to answer it. As I repeatedly tell my students, "If you can't answer the question specifically, you don't really know the answer yourself." I haven't yet found anything specific that says anything concrete about how this "student-centered education" theory that's sweeping the nation should be applied.)
So, lacking any real direction, I turned to the crusty old educators who reached me for a better approach. (I'm also, as the last post mentioned, consulting the thoughts of other professional educators on the subject via the library.) One of the standard responses to my "How should I teach?" question was "Think back on your two/three favorite teachers. How did they do it?"
Quite frankly, I wasn't a student of teaching at the time, so I the question didn't get me very far. I've had many excellent teachers over the years. The only thing all of them had in common was a passion for the material. Many of them lectured outright. The ones I thought were least effective were the ones who led class by asking a series of questions meant to prompt student thought and (hopefully) meaningful discussion. The vast majority of my literature teachers, unfortunately, fell into this category. In those classes, my main benefit--other than an easy A--was that I had to read the books that otherwise I wouldn't have picked up. Some of these teachers would have student-led discussions. Sometimes, we'd have trivia contests about the material, which amounted to a pop quiz.
One literature teacher--my favorite--used a unique method. Dr. Marion Michael taught "Themes in Culture and Society, Part II" in my master's program. The class's stated goal was to observe how literature and the arts influence and are influenced by their environments. Dr. Michael gave no tests or quizzes. He didn't care if we took notes. We wrote one paper in the course of the class, and in my opinion, he graded it very lightly. He gave us a "final" only because he was required to do so; our "final" was a presentation of something--anything--we wished to share. The shorter and more entertaining, the better. Very holistic so far, right?
His teaching approach, however, consisted of rather demanding reading assignments followed by his spending most of the class giving the history of the work and author (with much intriguing trivia). He'd often do close readings of a poem or story then discuss how we know certain things about it. Instead of asking the class to give their take on a text, he offered his. For example, he spent an entire class arguing the Turn of the Screw was, in fact, a ghost story. He didn't ask us to agree with him; our agreement was unimportant. I spent much of the class wondering what, exactly, we were supposed to get out of it, which other than the entertainment potential of the material and presentation itself, is another reason I listened to and thought about everything he said.
A couple of years later, I realized that his teaching approach worked because it modeled what it meant to be a scholar. His is the only literature class I've ever taken for which I recall the extra information I gleaned in the classroom more than I recall the literature itself. Each class took the format of a scholarly paper in which he discussed important aspects of the literature and drew conclusions. In short, he took full advantage of the father-child aspect of classroom instruction; he didn't tell us how to interpret literature or be a scholar. He modeled it and left us to think about his arguments and emulate him.
Thus, in my mucking about for a good approach to classes--particularly with literature--I accidentally stumbled upon his approach. I didn't realize I was copying Dr. Michael's approach until just now, to be honest. It was the day Dr. Vargish, my course director, came to view my lit class this semester.
Dr. Vargish is a Rhodes scholar. The short version of his story is that he retired in the Springs, then got bored, went to the Academy, and asked if they could use him. They said, "We'll find a way," because they aren't idiots. Despite the fact that he's by far the most advanced and respected scholar and teacher we have, he's the only older prof I'm comfortable calling by his first name--probably because he introduced himself simply as "Tom" when I interviewed, and it fits. He's both incredibly brilliant and unassuming. (He flyfishes, too; I'm thinking of asking him to teach me, but I don't know if he takes beginners with him into the mountains.)
Tom was scheduled to come to my class, and I was teaching Henry V. I'd just read the play for the first time two months ago, and didn't have any idea what to teach. Thus, I went to the library and read some scholarly discussions on the play, thinking I'd just borrow the ideas of a Shakespeare scholar for my class. I found, happily, that I disagreed vehemently with the assertions and conclusions of one in particular. Like magic, my class plan formed itself.
I began by asking the question I aimed to support and answer: "Why did Shakespeare use a Chorus in this play?" He rarely used one and even mocked plays that use a Chorus in two of his other plays (perhaps more). So why did he use one in Henry V? I read the theory of the scholar I disagree with, and explained in detail (but briefly) why her theory didn't make sense. Then I spent about 25 minutes reading bits of each chorus (at the beginning of each act) and comparing its patriotic, worshipful language to the contradictory behavior and words of the characters themselves in the scene or scenes immediately following it. I kept returning to the main question, and the students offered their own ideas (which may or may not be better than mine). At the end, I summed up with my own theory and what we learn from it. I didn't ask them to agree. Indeed, I don't know if I agree with my own conclusion here (I haven't done enough scholarship to support it fully yet). All that's important is that they see me thinking about the text, being willing to disagree with the opinion of a scholar, having my own opinion, and supporting that opinion.
Coincidentally, that was as close to a "lecture" as I've ever gotten, and I'd class it as the best literature class I've yet conducted (Tom gave me five stars, he said).
But let's not call it "lecture. Let's just call it "modeling."
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