(Written May 5, 2011.)
Teaching can be a very strange profession. Up until the mid-twentieth century, it was probably widely believed that teaching was not a separate skill set. Most assumed that if, for example, one knew how to play the saxophone, one could teach others to play. Knowledge of content was equated with the ability to teach. This is apparently the predominant view in most colleges, universities and churches to this day. Professors are routinely hired for their expertise in a field and given teaching assignments with little or no thought given to their ability to teach. Law schools are the worst. They seem to hold those in the highest regard who have the least pedagogical ability. Law professors who have high failure rates and belittle their students are revered. (Keep in mind, most of my knowledge of this comes from being married to a lawyer and watching three seasons of The Paper Chase.) How many of us have been put to sleep by the lectures of those considered the leading experts in their field, only to leave their classes with no more understanding of the content than when we entered?
Knowledge of content does not equate with the ability to teach. In public schools at least, we have come to this realization.
The problem is that we have seen the pendulum swing too far the other way. In my own field, I have grown sick of hearing, “She’s not really a good musician herself, but she’s an excellent teacher.” Bullshit. No, she’s not. In the arts at least, I sometimes think this is a crisis. I will say this as plainly as I can: if you have not mastered your craft enough to be a passable dancer, actor, artist or musician, please stay out of the arts classroom. You simply do not know enough. You may write killer lesson plans, you may have wonderful classroom management skills, you may even “inspire” students, but all of that will break down where the rubber meets the road. The simple truth is that if you don’t love the subject you teach enough to master it, you cannot possibly guide other human beings to mastery.
The concept of “teaching technique” has reached a strange level in our field. Every few months someone appears with a new method, complete with a reinvented vocabulary, in an attempt to build the teaching craft. My first few experiences with this as a young teacher were truly baffling. I attended a professional development on something called the “Thompson Method,” that was sure to transform the classroom. We learned about “essential questions” and “activating strategies.” It was all very informative. I thought my college professors must have been quite ignorant to not be familiar with this technique. I tried it for about a year, until I went to another professional development session where I learned that Max Thompson had it wrong, that his “essential questions” weren’t all that essential at all.
The same has been true in other areas of teaching as well, including classroom management, approaches to differentiation, lesson planning, assessment, remediation, literacy and so on. I learned how to write instructional guides. I learned the difference between “goals” and “standards.” I learned the principles of project based learning. Every new idea came with its own body of research supporting it and promises that it would reinvigorate our classrooms. It is actually quite difficult to stay abreast of trends in pedagogy. I have a few friends who are always on the cutting edge and I admire them. Every year they have a fresh approach to the classroom and they seem better teachers for it.
I am not like those teachers. Don’t’ get me wrong: I think the craft of teaching is important. For that matter, I think it is a skill that can be developed, just like playing the saxophone. It is incumbent upon educators to learn their craft. What I think I object to is the short shelf life of our vocabulary. I’ll give an example.
At the Department of Education, I’m currently working on professional development for teachers on learning progressions. I’m charged with helping them understand grain size and the importance of vertical alignment of their curriculum. The thing is, I didn’t really know what a “learning progression” was until a few weeks ago myself. (I’m not an idiot: I understand the words “learning” and “progression.” I had just never heard that as a term of art.) I had never heard the phrase “grain size” and “vertical alignment” would have had no specific context for me.
How is this possible? I think I’m a pretty damn good teacher. I’m not saying this arrogantly. I don’t mean I’m a phenomenal teacher, just that I have a degree of competency. How is it possible that I was able to put on several concerts a year without a learning progression? How did my students learn to play the twelve-bar blues, master AP Theory and make the all-state choir before I knew about grain size?
Lest I be misunderstood, let me say that I think it is important that we have these discussions as teachers. Some of these ideas are actually quite good. I am concerned, however, that this mastery of technical nomenclature is equated with good teaching. Nothing could be further from the truth. You become a good teacher much the same way you become a good saxophonist: you practice. Faced with 25 (or maybe 125) teenagers who have just failed an algebra test or broken up with their boyfriends, went to bed at 2:00 AM, skipped breakfast, text constantly and desperately want to learn to play music, the technical knowledge of teaching will only get you so far. It’s good to have a plan. But it’s even better if you can communicate, empathize, improvise, adapt, create and synthesize.
Luckily, if you’re a real artist, you’ve already mastered those skills.
No comments:
Post a Comment