The Line

We’re outlining our final writing assignment for A Day No Pigs Would Die. I’m asking the kids to take either the role of a parent who wants to ban the book from our library, or a student who is defending its presence. We’re using the persuasion map from the NCTE Read, Write, Think website (a GOLD MINE– not kidding) as our guide; the American Library Association’s banned categories for our vocabulary; and somehow everything is, miraculously, coming together. Their arguments are solid, nuanced, metacognitive. You experimental souls will understand my bemused joy when I say I’m not really sure how this happened.

I had a student four years ago who was this kind of thinking crystallized– it flew out of her mouth like birds. A brilliant, passionate, headstrong Afghani refugee, she had risen above her every circumstance, mastered English in three years, and earned a full scholarship to a local college. The last time I saw her, just before she graduated last year, she had taken her head scarf off, and flew at me from the doorway of her house to give me a huge hug.

I learned yesterday that a few weeks ago she came home and was stabbed several times by her older brother, in what appears to be a shame retribution. She survived, barely.

I kneel next to a student who is still working on her Pigs outline. “Tell me more about what you mean when you say, ‘This book teaches you about the real world’.”

She thinks. “You know. Like, there’s death, like Pinky dies.”

“Yes,” I encourage her. “That’s an incredibly important theme. Life is beautiful, but there’s death and suffering, too. That’s just a part of it all.”

And I suddenly have to close my eyes, bite my lip, and walk away.

As I get further into A Day No Pigs Would Die I’m discovering, quite by accident (or maybe not), a wealth of nature-related wisdom packed into it. It does take place on a Shaker Vermont farm, after all. So despite my initial woes, not only is Pigs starting to work well as an example of a banned book, but it makes this unit a shoe-in for the one just before The Leopold Education Project next year. We could collect Pigs axioms (I’m already getting kid-generated questions like, “Is it really true that pigs and cows can’t be penned next to each other?”) and research them, while relating them to excerpts from Sand County Almanac. Perfect springtime stuff, perfect high quality literature, perfect dovetail between fiction and non-fiction. I can’t wait.

I’m reflecting on this while my kids and I are wildcrafting in the backyard this evening– this is the absolutely lovely word, I’ve learned, for harvesting uncultivated edible plants. Today we’re hurrying to get four packed cups of violet blossoms before we cut the lawn. We’ll boil them down with sugar into a deep-hued, fragrant syrup, great over pancakes and near heaven with vanilla ice cream. My daughter is tweezing the flowers with her little fingers out of the long grass, singing “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad” at the top of her lungs.

We’re doing double-duty by also weeding the garlic mustard that’s spread into the yard. One of the worst spreading non-indigenous plants of New York State, it was originally brought over by European settlers as a fast-growing herb for flavor in stews. My daughter offers to help me pull up the shallow root stocks, which complain by letting loose their characteristic pungent smell.

“But why are we pulling these up? They have pretty white flowers on the top,” she comments.

“Well, we don’t really want them in the yard,” I say gently.

“Why?”

I’m suddenly faced with explaining the concept of invasive species to a five year old. This sort of thing happens a lot.

I hunker down to her level in the grass, try to put it in language she’ll understand. “See how it grows so fast, and goes all over the place? When it does that, it takes the light and the soil away from other plants. It doesn’t want to share.”

She processes this, then nods.

“Oh,” she says solemnly. “It’s like people.”

Thanks to Doug Noon for introducing me to all of the following, woven together in a lovely post that summarizes much of what I have been wrestling with this year:

• The new think tank The Forum for Education and Democracy and their report released last week, Democracy at Risk. Stars such heavyweights as Linda Darling-Hammond, Gloria Ladson-Billings, and Deborah Meier.
• Wellford Wilms’ disturbing piece on reform in a California high school, Liberating the Schoolhouse, cataloging the systematic destruction of a bottom-up, autonomous management model. Far more editorial than report, but still leaves one wondering. I wonder in particular what Ed Deci would have to say. Pair it with Henderson’s piece on hierarchical hard-wiring in the brain, and you may want a drink.
• Structuration Theory. This is extremely tough going, only for die-hard intellectual freaks, but fascinating. (Try the user-friendly approach at Theory.org– I mean, you have to love an organization who makes trading cards and Lego figures for famous sociologists.) Stephen Smoliar succinctly applies one of ST’s central ideas to schooling with some scary implications. I have to do some more reading on this.

I got two emails today, hard on each other’s heels, from Ph.Ds I’ve been badgering for information communicating with on classroom issues that have come up.

Harry Brighouse sends a sneak preview of a chapter in an upcoming edited collection of essays– see the attached file controversial-issues.doc– on the topic of navigating controversial philosophical topics in class. I’ve only skimmed it but it reminds me right away of a dialectic classroom approach which hasn’t gotten nearly enough press called The Paideia Seminar.

Sue Sing of the Open University U.K. sends her views, based on her dissertation research, on whether we can legitimately expect adolescents to know how to use apostrophes. This is thanks to Nigel Hall, whom I mention here. It’s worth quoting at length.

“In the UK, children begin to learn about punctuation at
school during the primary years. They are taught the omissive
apostrophe in Year 3 (aged 7), though they are highly likely to have
encountered it much sooner than this through their reading. In Year 4,
children then learn about the possessive apostrophe. Two years later,
by the end of primary education they are expected to be able to use the
mark for both its functions, easily and competently. However, as you
have found with your students this is often rarely the case.

Through my analysis, I learnt that while some children may appear to use
the apostrophe correctly (for either or both functions), they may not
always be using it for the right reasons. However, without exploring
children’s thinking behind their punctuation decisions this fact will
simply go unrealised and therefore what may appear as sound knowledge
and usage in fact disguises a host of uncertainties and confusions. In
addition, children draw on a range of information sources to help them
decide where to use punctuation marks - some of these being
linguistic-based but equally, some being for non-linguistic reasons.
This is not to say that children are not able to understand how to use
such marks; on the contrary, through our research it became quite
evident that our participants were thinking deeply and intensely about
the subject and were really working hard to try to work out what mark to
write and why.”

These guys are great.

I suppose you could put such generosity down to my excellent criteria in choosing Ph.Ds to badger (snort), but the same thing happened several years ago while I was looking for someone– anyone– to give me a crash course in Haitian Creole for an ESL kid who was coming into the district. I got someone on the phone from a midwestern university and we talked for near an hour.

I think there’s a message here to be had about vertical alignment, that lovely educational buzzphrase that usually means the woefully prosaic “we shouldn’t teach the same material seven years in a row,” but should mean “Let’s make it an institutional priority to talk on an ongoing basis to any university researcher who can help us teach better.” Maybe I should have titled this post “They Don’t Bite.”

You’ll note that I choose the words “institutional priority” with great care. I can call every professor at Harvard until their Nobel Prizes come home, but until intellectual partnerships between school practitioners and university researchers are institutionally supported, they will remain the myopic crazy email fun and pet projects of, well, geeks like me.

Do we do enough of this? Are we scared to do this? What does this say about how we conceive of ourselves as professionals– and how we hold ourselves accountable for effective practice?

“The spring over there takes you by the throat, the flowers blooming by the thousands over white walls. If you strolled around for an hour in the hills surrounding my town, you would return with the odor of honey in your clothes.” — Albert Camus

My students know this instinctively, and I’ve been in a bit of awe this week at the teacher-class relationship which has apparently also so blossomed, in spite of my multiple missteps this year, that instead of dragging in and disengaging in favor of honey in their clothes, they throw their cards right on the table: “Ms. S, can we go outside?”

Truthfully, they know they have a sympathetic ear. I try to honor this request whenever I can justify it academically, which is fairly often– one of the joys of teaching English. Nothing like honing the powers of observation while outdoors. Additionally, by happy accident, the novel we are about to embark upon, A Day No Pigs Would Die, begins and ends in April. We are tracking its content under the essential question Why was this novel 17th on the list of Top 100 Books Banned for the decade? as a continuation of our unit on the First Amendment.

The unit I’ll try next, as it turns out, is going to really offer my throat to Spring: it’ll be based on a workshop I’ll take in August through the New York State Department of Environmental Conservation, called the Leopold Education Project.

For more and more I am convinced that this is a fundamental need of children that I am (frankly) morally bound to address immediately: In content, to be able to negotiate decent scientific nonfiction with confidence. In communal responsibility, to understand the finite, fragile, and internconnected nature of our resources. And in plain ol’ to get the heck outside– especially in the face of continued and ever-widening acceptance of physical digital isolation.

Such a unit cannot be solid milk chocolate sunlit meadows and daffodils, though. One of the first “wilderness texts” I read and loved was Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, and it comes to mind with a vengeance now. Its first image is one of a frog being liquidated from the inside by a preying water bug. Yummy.

I have to square this with the inimitable sense of belonging I can find nowhere else but out in the woods– the same impulse that drives my kids to bombard me with “Can we go outside?”I struggle with it, as Annie does throughout the entirety of Tinker Creek. The late Stephen Jay Gould, the brilliant Harvard biologist, terms this aspect of nature “non-moral” in an essay that uses similar gruesome examples of predator and prey– I don’t know about you, but bugs seem to have cornered this market.

It’s what causes me to balk when folks suggest that a complete moral code, or system of meaning, may be found entirely with nature or nature’s metaphors. Sorry– I can get with cycles and our bodies being made of elements that are only created within stars, but the bugs. You’ve got to explain the bugs. CS Lewis had to write several whole essays on the problem of pain in the animal kingdom to try and do it.

Beyond that, I know well that if I break my ankle in the Adirondacks backcountry winter with no survival equipment, the mountains will look upon me in their loveliness, unmoved, as I fade away. Funny, perhaps, that this might also be the source of my sense of peace. The trees will never say anything as mean-spirited or abusive to me as I will to myself. Such as how I overphilosophize about my units.

Anyway. These are the things I will somehow have to repackage for profitable consumption for 7th graders. Maybe in a pill? Nah– someone’s tried it already.

So I’m out crazy sick yesterday– fever, aches, nausea, the whole nine yards. This, of course, occurs right at the key point of introduction in a unit I’m creating from scratch based on the First Amendment. Students bring in favorite “statement” T-shirts and analyze them in writing– first for their presuppositions, and then as protected (or not) free speech. It’s challenging for everyone involved, and weird, and genre-busting, and full of little steps and student-centered discussions and teacher as guide and I was very nervous about my ability to carry it off to begin with– never mind that the products are going to be displayed for parents next week.

I’m in at 6 AM before I retreat to my bed, plugging through the haze of my aching bones, writing out what I am sure are completely unintelligible sub plans for a person I’ve never met– probably certified in math 25 years ago. I’m positive I’m going to come in the next day and find shreds of t-shirts, note cards, half-finished background packets, and a charred overhead projector, with a one word message from the sub in red pen: WHY?

Instead I find this note.

“Hi! The kids were great. Most of them got a solid start on their drafts. We had some wonderful conversations. My undergraduate degree was in Constitutional Law, so I think I fielded most of their questions well.”

It was almost worth being absent.

Well, heck– we’ve got a rubric for everything else, don’t we? I sat down to write about reading/writing and technology, and this came out instead.

I’m not arguing here against tech being a powerful means of delivering information, mind you—for example I think Mr. Mayo’s Skyped conversation with the director for an Ad-Free Childhood absolutely rocks, or Dy/Dan’s love affair with his digital projector. I’ve asked kids to take pictures with their cell phones of grammatical errors in the world.

Rather, I’m talking mainly about tech that claims to have inherent pedagogical value.

So here we go.

1) Does the technology, a priori, add value to the learning?

Have you noticed that good teachers can scaffold good pedagogy around an empty juice box? So why is no one on board with “One Empty Juice Box Per Child”?

Because we know better, deep down. The tech has to teach the student something of value on its own before we can justify asking a teacher to pour energy and resources into using it. And trust me: there’s a lot of tech out there that is just an empty juice box in the end.

2) Does this value-added, teacher-independent learning relate DIRECTLY to my content objectives and standards?

Sorry. “Universally related” or “indirectly related” just doesn’t cut it—this is the open door for uncritical idolatry. For example, I have never understood the lumbering Godzilla-like argument that because our kids are “digital natives,” we should de facto use tech in school. Why? If using tech is as natural to them as breathing, isn’t this like asking us to teach kids to breathe?

Now, perhaps your kids are in Appalachia, as Greg Cruey’s are, and are on the wrong side of the digital divide. At this point clearly you’ve got a stronger argument for spending precious pedagogical minutes on the “how to”s of tech.

However, let’s say you teach in a solidly middle class district, as I do. My students don’t need practice in configuring a web page, podcasting, Youtubing, or uploading pictures. THEY ALREADY KNOW THIS STUFF—a heck of a lot better than I do, in fact. In my classroom, they do need to know about how a main character in a compelling story can help them lead better lives of their own. What tech— a priori, remember—helps them do that? I’m not saying it doesn’t exist—only that we must be very careful in our approach to it.

An important exception would be if your content objective is, in fact, evaluating Web content critically (and it sure should be at some point). For this, obviously, any 2.0 tech can be made to serve your purpose. But even here, it is crucial to remember that is the TEACHER creating the learning: not necessarily the tech itself.

3) Can we learn the basics of the tech (not counting bells and whistles) in twenty minutes?

Yep. Twenty. Any more is a waste of my time and my students’.

Or, barring that…

4) Does the tech have the Dishwasher Effect?

In otherwords, does it provide an eventual incontrovertible savings of oodles of time?

5) If it breaks, is there someone at school who can fix it?

If not, is there a workable Plan B?

6) If it is new to my school, will my school support it (even via oblivion to its existence)…

or firewall it before I can make it work in my classroom?

And finally,

7) Have I sufficiently balanced the use of the tech with the things tech has inherent danger of obliterating:

• Environmental sustainability?
• An authentic human connection to the students’ local community: home, school, society, and ecosystem?
• A multi-sensory, diverse experience of the world?

Not everyone is going to agree with me on this last one, but I’ve included it because it’s where I find myself stuck the most. These three things are absolutely essential to educating our students to be good people, and our schools already don’t do enough to address them. If I am going to pile the siren call of technology on top of that fundamental deficit, I’d better have a darn good reason for it.

In many instances, I don’t yet. Although I’m basically an experienced teacher, I am new enough to my subject area to feel that I haven’t developed my curriculum enough yet to give technology this balance. To me, this means right now I just might be better off figuring out how to get my kids to a play, rather than on Powerpoint.