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.

Chris Lehmann at The Faculty Room writes on Cheektowaga Middle School up the road from me, profiled in the New York Times for its hard-line disciplinary tactics.

My colleague Joe Henderson suggested a post on it, in light of some stuff I talk up regularly on the blog in regards to the massive and irreplaceable value of intrinsic motivation in school. I thought I would respectfully request the originator of Self-Determination Theory himself, Dr. Ed Deci, to comment instead.

Dr. Deci, in case you don’t know, is the author or co-author of much of the motivation research used by major education experts in the field, including Alfie Kohn and Robert Marzano. Very kindly, he agreed to help out.

I pitched to him three possible arguments for the idea that Cheektowaga Middle School is taking the appropriate approach to their problems. Here’s his responses.

Statement: A highly disruptive and dysfunctional situation such as the one at Cheektowaga requires initial Draconian measures. Once order is restored, then perhaps a more autonomous approach can be adopted, but not before.

Dr. Deci: A highly disruptive and dysfunctional situation is a tough one to deal with, that is true. But my inclination is to avoid Draconian controls. They are most likely to exacerbate rather than help. In troubled situations, it is necessary to reach students, and it may take “big measures” but control and force are not the methods most likely to work. How about some restructuring that allows teachers and students to interact
in more meaningful ways, for example. I agree it is not easy, but it is important to try to understand the students’ perspectives in order to work with them toward meaningful change. The Cheektowaga situation is one where students’ perspectives seem to be being run over rather than understood and acknowledged.

Statement: Middle schoolers, and children in general, do not have the developmental maturity to handle an autonomous management approach. Because of their youth, they require “carrots and sticks” to facilitate the internalization of societal values.

Dr. Deci: This is utter nonsense. It is possible to have elementary students who are relatively autonomous in their self-regulation and who do not require carrots and sticks to any significant degree, so to say middle school students are not old enough (or mature enough) to be autonomous is inaccurate ideology.

Statement: The minority population of the school (35% Latino and African-American) would respond positively to authoritarian, teacher-centered management, as this is a cultural norm for them (as Lisa Delpit argues).

Dr. Deci: First, I doubt that that minority students respond positively to authoritarian approaches. If that is what they are getting at home and elsewhere, and if they were responding positively to it, there would not be the problems that are apparently being faced in Cheektowaga.

Second, whenever we have looked at our data in terms of differences in majority vs. minority participants, we have not seen meaningful differences in how they respond to autonomy support. It has positive effects for minority participants and for low-income participants just as it does for “majority” participants. Autonomy support works for females as well as males (some people say it is a male thing); autonomy support works for eastern cultures as well as western (some say it is a western thing); and it works for low-income individuals as well as high-income individuals (some say it is only a high-income thing). So, there is no solid empirical basis for the Delpit view that I have ever seen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thoughts, readers?

My union’s gearing up. Without getting into details, I am ambivalent.

Unions are indispensible (check this out for what they’re doing for the service workers in Las Vegas– fascinating stuff.)

And, I believe there is credence to the argument that educational unionization as it now stands has contributed to the deprofessionalism of teaching.

Unions do the dirty work– negotiations, protection, grievances– and they do it well.

And, I’ve been concerned from the beginning about the fact that should I or any of my colleagues choose not to join the union for considered, thoughtful reason, in New York and 18 other states one is legally forced to pay them nonetheless. Additionally one is therefore tied, however indirectly, to union involvement in politics, which may or may not have anything to do with one’s own personal political convictions. (Try this for a thought-provoking criticism of teacher unions.)

Yet there is no power for justice, whisper Gandhi and ML King Jr on my one shoulder, unless it is the power of the unified.

And, I sleep at night with Thoreau and the Sierra Leone Refugee All Stars whispering on the other.

watch?v=eWcQFrJeEOc&feature=related

Why the All Stars?

One of my first ESL students was a tiny girl from Sierra Leone. And frankly, once you’ve met a kid who’s lucky to not have had her limbs macheted off, you can’t help but place the increasingly and inexplicably fraught contractual negotiations of your First World union and privileged school district next to the message of the All Stars: peace, in the face of arguably some of the worst violations of human rights on the planet. It makes you think hard about what real “diplomacy” is.

So yes, I’ll listen carefully to my union. But there is a deeper reality I must honor first, deeper than unified stances, worker’s rights, or socialist utopia: the human being’s inalienable right to think for herself. I’ll be thinking of this.

05-big-lesson

The whole All Stars documentary (and related lesson plans) are available here.

It’s JP, of course, who’s coming up to me during writing time at the end of class, and I’ve learned by now that it can be for only one of three reasons: a) to show me his incomplete work and beg for help; b) to tell me about his missing work and beg for time to complete it; c) to attempt to make one of those jokes that demonstrates, once again, that there is an unusually decimated circuit between his head and his mouth.

But every once in awhile something astonishingly beautiful opens up in him, like a flower in flash photography.

“In this chapter,” reads the writing prompt I have created, “Haven Peck says his ‘mission’ is the work of slaughtering pigs– something that must be done, no matter how hard it is. What do you think your mission in life is?”

He hands it to me, points to his one sentence, and sits down fast, not making eye contact. I glance at the lack of development and sigh inwardly. Then I actually see what he has put down.

“My mission is to find my mission,” he has written.

“I am not letting you fail. Even if that means coming to your house every night until you finish the work. I see who you are. Do you understand me? I can see you. And you are not failing.” — Freedom Writers

Yeah, right.

Dan has some knifing things to say about teacher portrayal in film along these lines: that the heart-attack-inducing martyrdom of the protagonists is merely a sob story excuse for the absence of what real teaching should be: intelligence, ruthless truth-telling, and rigor.

Chris Lehmann agrees last week on his blog, but with a twist. To him, the application of this same rhetoric is what excuses our schools from improving themselves. He asks in turn: why haven’t our best and brightest figured out how to solve the horror of our working conditions already? His answer is to cite this dreadful survey (reading it feels a bit like rubbernecking at a car wreck) as a snapshot of a energy-sucking system that doesn’t leave practitioners enough time to eat and sleep, much less think critically about change.

Myself, I keep going back in my mind to this article by Linda Darling-Hammond in February’s Time magazine on the way teachers are supported in Singapore, and wondering why the edublogosphere didn’t go crazy over it.

Is it indeed because teachers prefer a mythology which camouflages their incompetence? It is because we have no mental or physical resources left to combat the mythology?

Or is there something else in the mix?

I wonder if we are looking at the birth of a new psychological evil. We might call it the Plymouth Syndrome.

A hybrid of the famous Stockholm Syndrome and the against-all-odds, paradigm-resistant Protestant work ethic which carved out our country in the first place, the Plymouth Syndrome causes teachers to make the day-to-day decisions that align ourselves with our “captors,” swallow the global rhetoric of “whatever it takes,” and enable our broken system: in otherwords, to welcome, not challenge, the teacher-martyr mythology.

Why?

For the simple reason that fighting not to change the dysfunctional system, but fighting within the dysfunction, is what actually gives us a sense of purpose. In this scheme of things, if there is no dysfunction—even if the dysfunction is being actively replaced with health– there is no sense of purpose.

Thus the expending of one’s energy running the gauntlet of public education is, in the end, more immediately satisfying, and therefore more desirable, than expending energy to get rid of the overarching dysfunction itself.

I’m not proposing that this is a conscious decision—after all, who says to themselves, “I’d rather teach 165 kids at a pop, thanks”? I mean rather that an educator who cannot find meaning within the system might instead, at a subconscious, bedrock level, embrace her microcosmic struggle itself as the meaning of what she does. Once she does this, she needs only the struggle—not the resolution of the struggle.

The means becomes the end. So why bother with real change?

I have no data for this (and actually find solid sociological research on teacher culture pretty scarce anyway. Ideas, anyone?) So my theory is a conjecture, based on informal observations and the vaguaries of my own heart. But I wonder very much about its prevalence.

For example, the first reaction of my own heart is not to congratulate, but condemn, every time I forgo a completely unmanageable assignment such as weekly dialogue journals. (These would require me to spend five minutes minimum responding to each of my 88 kids every week, for a whopping total of over seven hours of grading. If I spend a thoughtful ten minutes on each journal? Fifteen hours.) Yet why do I react this way? Because I find that partially lose my bearings, my sense of meaning, if I am not mightily struggling with something related to school.

This same heart can feel deeply uneasy without the exhaustion of an 11+ hour work day. It elevates me—indeed, in my silliest moments, elevates me above my own co-workers. (”Where are they at 6:00 in the morning? I must be doing something right.” Insane, isn’t it?) Such toil gives me purpose. It is a symbol of my worth.

I’m not saying this attitude is healthy, or (on the flip side) my entire motivation. But it does exist.

So I find myself shaking my head a bit when it comes to both Dan and Chris’ assessments. Can they be right, and not entirely right? I wonder if they might be missing the Plymouth Syndrome, a much more subtle sociological dynamic than either fatigue or fatuousness– and one to which intelligent and motivated individuals might be particularly susceptible.

I remember a conversation I had with a colleague last year. We were discussing the working conditions of a private school in a neighboring town, where teachers have weekly half-days dedicated to reflection and collaboration, adequate pay, and no teacher load over twelve students.

“Cushy,” she said, disparagingly.

And I agreed.

Thanks to Kate Olson for bringing this to my attention: Barbara Kingsolver’s commencement address this year at Duke, the eminent author of The Poisonwood Bible and Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. I am as grateful for this speech as if I was in my cap and gown in the audience: it addresses nearly everything that has been nesting in my brain this year, and nestling its way ever so slowly into my concepts for English curriculum.

Quote:

As you leave here, remember what you loved most in this place. Not Orgo 2, I’m guessing, or the crazed squirrels or even the bulk cereal in the Freshman Marketplace. I mean the way you lived, in close and continuous contact. This is an ancient human social construct that once was common in this land. We called it a community. We lived among our villagers, depending on them for what we needed. If we had a problem, we did not discuss it over the phone with someone in Bubaneshwar. We went to a neighbor. We acquired food from farmers. We listened to music in groups, in churches or on front porches. We danced. We participated. Even when there was no money in it. Community is our native state. You play hardest for a hometown crowd. You become your best self. You know joy. This is not a guess, there is evidence. The scholars who study social well-being can put it on charts and graphs. In the last 30 years our material wealth has increased in this country, but our self-described happiness has steadily declined. Elsewhere, the people who consider themselves very happy are not in the very poorest nations, as you might guess, nor in the very richest. The winners are Mexico, Ireland, Puerto Rico, the kinds of places we identify with extended family, noisy villages, a lot of dancing. The happiest people are the ones with the most community.”

Read it. Read every glowing word.

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?

Check this out, on the high-philosophy blog Crooked Timber. Harry Brighouse is one of my heroes– his deceptively slim and devastatingly crystalline book On Education has kept me sane this year. I’m immensely grateful for his link back to The Line, which only happened because of the truly shocking success of this “send your heroes fan letters and ask for feedback” policy I seem to have developed for 07-08. Try it. It works.

More overarchingly, credit for the introduction to Harry Brighouse, and multiple other theorists who are now staples of my educational philosophy, is once again, and rapidly becoming as always, Joe Henderson’s.