I love those moments in life when two things merge in my thinking in a way that causes me to rethink something. In preparation for part of our August board retreat, I have been thinking even more than usual about the notion of mission. Also, for whatever reason, I've been seeing loads of references to muses lately, whether in the book I recently finished or the NYT crossword or in various conversations. Whether coincidence or serendipity, when these connections occur, I pay attention.
At the retreat we're going to do a mission-review exercise. Like most independent schools (most non-profit organizations, I guess) we emphasize that we are mission driven. Everything we do should advance that mission. It's the beacon.
That is simple in theory, but the challenges are complex. Consider, first, that most schools have the same basic elements and similar words. Yet language is inherently limited, with commonly precise meaning elusive. Just what is, for example, "academic excellence"? It varies by community, and by the members within a community. Another issue is that we most often look for signs that we can declare mission accomplished through affirmation from external sources. It's a natural human impulse, and it makes business sense. It certainly can fuel motivation.
Throughout the history of creativity, we see artists invoking the muse. At the start of The Odyssey Homer cries, "Sing to me, Oh Muse!"; and Picasso had six women he called his muses. I suspect all of us, when seeking ideas but feeling stuck, pray for some spark of inspiration, whether divine or not. Another natural human impulse.
I wonder if, in seeking to fulfill our missions, schools seek to inspire students with the wrong sort of muses. When a teacher warns, "You'll need to know this because it'll be on the test" (or even a more subtle variation thereof), don't we conjure up the grade as a form of muse? I'm sure you can think of other analogies. The carrot-and-stick approach works in the moment and can be sustained for a long time. But as Daniel Pink's Drive made clear, it doesn't really sustain human's craving for autonomy, mastery, and purpose.
And the need for those is just as naturally human as those impulses mentioned above. Indeed, it may be even stronger. Living without it can lead to a lack of fulfillment and even depression. It certainly doesn't inspire. So I'm musing on a new way of thinking about mission. What if our mission became about helping each student discover their own inner muse?
Showing posts with label creativity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label creativity. Show all posts
Thursday, June 22, 2017
Thursday, March 9, 2017
No Time to Waste: Post-#NAISAC 2017 Reflection
I enjoyed the 20017 National Association of Independent Schools Annual Conference...but I didn't love it. I went into it with perhaps unrealistic high hopes. There certainly were some great moments within the experience. I met people in person with whom I previously had a close but only virtual relationship, in a couple of cases even leading to an embrace. I bumped into some folks I hoped to. I caught up with some folks I don't see often enough while enjoying good meals.A couple of keynotes, especially Brene Brown's, enthralled me. I hit paydirt about half the time on the workshop roulette wheel. In general, the typical large conference experience.
One thing that was different--and should encourage all of us--is that more people, whether through conversation, blog posts, or tweets, seem to feel that some real innovation is starting to occur. Apparently more places have moved from realization to theory to ideation to implementation. And evidently they've done so in some very intriguing ways. I'm very excited by that sense.
At the same time, though, I wonder. That's why a careful reader may have noticed the words seem, apparently, and evidently in the previous paragraphs. It's not that I'm cynical or skeptical. In fact, I'm quite hopeful. But my caution arises from my sense during the entire conference that I was, in the words of the great philosopher Yogi, experiencing "deja vu all over again."
One of the biggest waves of that feeling came during Sir Ken Robinson's keynote. I love his work. I have since 2006, when his famous TED talk went viral. Therein lies the point. That was 11 years ago, and some of us were preaching this message even further back than that. I hope we've all caught on by now...indeed, well before now. Another such wave inundated me with all the buzz about the Mastery Transcript Consortium. Admittedly, I know little about it and haven't done much further research. But a colleague who has asked me, "Isn't that what we saw when we visited that coalition school back around 2000?"
Of course, better late than never. But is a new transcript a "game changer" or "silver bullet"? Maybe. We've thought that about other things. We'll likely think it about new things in the future. That suggests how we know things need to change.
They will if we take ownership of our role as the real game changers. Whether a transcript or some new app, inquiry-based curricula or project-based pedagogy, none of it really matters unless we engage in really deep reflection and then bold action. Ultimately, we are responsible for what happens in our schools. We design and play the games.
We know all this. We've known all this. So perhaps my deja vu is really rooted in an impatience that grows as I age. I see and hear of progress--at my school, at other schools--and I see amazing people doing truly inspiring work. It makes me want more and more and more. But I also know how much traditional and bad practice occurs. Sometimes we overlook it because it receives a fresh coat of paint or window dressing that suggests innovation.
Yes, meaningful change requires doggedness and patience, Yet we also have to build on all this momentum, and our students don't have time to waste. As Grant Lichtman wrote after the conference, the introduction to his new book challenges, "Let's roll!" Josie Holford urged, "Make it happen!" Not wanting to be stuck in deja vu all over again, I add, "If not now, when?"
One thing that was different--and should encourage all of us--is that more people, whether through conversation, blog posts, or tweets, seem to feel that some real innovation is starting to occur. Apparently more places have moved from realization to theory to ideation to implementation. And evidently they've done so in some very intriguing ways. I'm very excited by that sense.
At the same time, though, I wonder. That's why a careful reader may have noticed the words seem, apparently, and evidently in the previous paragraphs. It's not that I'm cynical or skeptical. In fact, I'm quite hopeful. But my caution arises from my sense during the entire conference that I was, in the words of the great philosopher Yogi, experiencing "deja vu all over again."
One of the biggest waves of that feeling came during Sir Ken Robinson's keynote. I love his work. I have since 2006, when his famous TED talk went viral. Therein lies the point. That was 11 years ago, and some of us were preaching this message even further back than that. I hope we've all caught on by now...indeed, well before now. Another such wave inundated me with all the buzz about the Mastery Transcript Consortium. Admittedly, I know little about it and haven't done much further research. But a colleague who has asked me, "Isn't that what we saw when we visited that coalition school back around 2000?"
Of course, better late than never. But is a new transcript a "game changer" or "silver bullet"? Maybe. We've thought that about other things. We'll likely think it about new things in the future. That suggests how we know things need to change.
They will if we take ownership of our role as the real game changers. Whether a transcript or some new app, inquiry-based curricula or project-based pedagogy, none of it really matters unless we engage in really deep reflection and then bold action. Ultimately, we are responsible for what happens in our schools. We design and play the games.
We know all this. We've known all this. So perhaps my deja vu is really rooted in an impatience that grows as I age. I see and hear of progress--at my school, at other schools--and I see amazing people doing truly inspiring work. It makes me want more and more and more. But I also know how much traditional and bad practice occurs. Sometimes we overlook it because it receives a fresh coat of paint or window dressing that suggests innovation.
Yes, meaningful change requires doggedness and patience, Yet we also have to build on all this momentum, and our students don't have time to waste. As Grant Lichtman wrote after the conference, the introduction to his new book challenges, "Let's roll!" Josie Holford urged, "Make it happen!" Not wanting to be stuck in deja vu all over again, I add, "If not now, when?"
Monday, September 19, 2016
More Vivid Verbs: Language of Education
Shortly after starting Kevin Kelly's The Inevitable: Understanding the 12 Technological Forces That Will Shape Our Future, I tweeted:
The noun-verb metaphor holds together much of the book. It appeals to me greatly, in large part because of my background as an English teacher. I'm particularly sensitive to how language affects how we perceive and act. It is our primary cognitive tool, and I've enjoyed watching students debate whether language drives thought or vice-versa. On a less ethereal level, as a writing teacher I preached, "The verb is the heartbeat of every sentence. Make them vivid!" Often I would tell students they needed to aim for fewer words overall but relatively more verbs.
Considering how language reflects our thinking about education is nothing new. In The Book of Learning and Forgetting, Frank Smith points out how many of the words we use have their ties back to our schooling model being inspired by the Prussian army's training protocols: "the deployment of resources, the recruitment of teachers and students, advancing or withdrawing students, promotion to higher grades, drills for learners, strategies for teachers, batteries of tests, word attack skills, attainment targets, reinforcement, cohorts, campaigns for achievement in mathematics, and wars against illiteracy." That we use this language so naturally, Smith argues, shows how deeply ingrained such thinking is. This notion has stuck with me since I first read it nearly twenty years ago, and I've often referred to it in various ways. Kelly's line has sparked some more particular consideration, with focus on the idea of nouns and verbs as applied to education.
Nouns dominate our educational language. When we talk about a student, we talk about, for example, "a seventh grader" or a "high school junior." Sometimes we individualize a bit and say the student is "a visual learner." Learning (as a gerund) equals the accumulation of lessons and facts, and that learning occurs in a defined space such as a classroom. We use the text to deliver the curriculum, emphasis on the definitive article, as if these are immutable, near-sacred objects. These examples, especially when linked with the many others I could cite, erect a rigid, finite framework.
The issue is captured perfectly by the practice of grading, even in the best type of assessments such as performance tasks or open prompts or project-based studies. I cite those because they involve students doing something--usually multiple things--as they construct knowledge and skills and understandings. But then we, often per the rubric which clarifies the standards, slap a grade on a piece of work. And what is a grade? A desperate, ultimately futile attempt to capture the quality of a bunch of verbs in a single noun.
Like grades, words are how we try to express what we really mean. They connote what we deem important. But they are intrinsically limited. Mention a table, and it's quite unlikely any two people see exactly the same object. Become more specific, i.e. desk, and we gain a bit more control over the message. I intentionally used a noun, but the same idea applies to verbs, such as run versus jog versus sprint. The more precise we can be, the closer we come to accurate expression not only of what we mean but also of what we value.
Writing chock full of nouns, adjectives, and adverbs without vigorous verbs drags somnolently. It fails to inspire. It deflates. It doesn't probe our human essence. Vigorous writing compels us to play in an imaginarium, a place grounded in reality with innumerable paths meandering into possibilities. There we question and explore and create and hypothesize and analyze and... Thereby we learn. Shouldn't those be the words of education?
More vivid verbs, please.
To which Kevin Ruth (Chief Executive of European Council of International Schools) replied:Love, love this line from @kevin2kelly _The Inevitable_: "Away from world of fixed nouns toward world of fluid verbs" #isedchat— Mark Crotty (@crottymark) September 11, 2016
Potent, indeed.I'm making my way through it more slowly than I do most books, as I find myself drifting into wild speculation based on the not-so-long-ago inconceivable scenarios Kelly lays out. They have brewed a concoction of giddy anticipation and some plain terror.It's a potent read, Mark! https://t.co/4dywzA7iWn— Kevin J Ruth (@kevinjruth) September 11, 2016
The noun-verb metaphor holds together much of the book. It appeals to me greatly, in large part because of my background as an English teacher. I'm particularly sensitive to how language affects how we perceive and act. It is our primary cognitive tool, and I've enjoyed watching students debate whether language drives thought or vice-versa. On a less ethereal level, as a writing teacher I preached, "The verb is the heartbeat of every sentence. Make them vivid!" Often I would tell students they needed to aim for fewer words overall but relatively more verbs.
Considering how language reflects our thinking about education is nothing new. In The Book of Learning and Forgetting, Frank Smith points out how many of the words we use have their ties back to our schooling model being inspired by the Prussian army's training protocols: "the deployment of resources, the recruitment of teachers and students, advancing or withdrawing students, promotion to higher grades, drills for learners, strategies for teachers, batteries of tests, word attack skills, attainment targets, reinforcement, cohorts, campaigns for achievement in mathematics, and wars against illiteracy." That we use this language so naturally, Smith argues, shows how deeply ingrained such thinking is. This notion has stuck with me since I first read it nearly twenty years ago, and I've often referred to it in various ways. Kelly's line has sparked some more particular consideration, with focus on the idea of nouns and verbs as applied to education.
Nouns dominate our educational language. When we talk about a student, we talk about, for example, "a seventh grader" or a "high school junior." Sometimes we individualize a bit and say the student is "a visual learner." Learning (as a gerund) equals the accumulation of lessons and facts, and that learning occurs in a defined space such as a classroom. We use the text to deliver the curriculum, emphasis on the definitive article, as if these are immutable, near-sacred objects. These examples, especially when linked with the many others I could cite, erect a rigid, finite framework.
The issue is captured perfectly by the practice of grading, even in the best type of assessments such as performance tasks or open prompts or project-based studies. I cite those because they involve students doing something--usually multiple things--as they construct knowledge and skills and understandings. But then we, often per the rubric which clarifies the standards, slap a grade on a piece of work. And what is a grade? A desperate, ultimately futile attempt to capture the quality of a bunch of verbs in a single noun.
Like grades, words are how we try to express what we really mean. They connote what we deem important. But they are intrinsically limited. Mention a table, and it's quite unlikely any two people see exactly the same object. Become more specific, i.e. desk, and we gain a bit more control over the message. I intentionally used a noun, but the same idea applies to verbs, such as run versus jog versus sprint. The more precise we can be, the closer we come to accurate expression not only of what we mean but also of what we value.
Writing chock full of nouns, adjectives, and adverbs without vigorous verbs drags somnolently. It fails to inspire. It deflates. It doesn't probe our human essence. Vigorous writing compels us to play in an imaginarium, a place grounded in reality with innumerable paths meandering into possibilities. There we question and explore and create and hypothesize and analyze and... Thereby we learn. Shouldn't those be the words of education?
More vivid verbs, please.
Tuesday, August 30, 2016
Creative Limits?
Recently I finished re-reading Bruce Nussbaum's Creative Intelligence: Harnessing the Power to Create, Connect, and Inspire. Towards the end he writes,
Soon after, I posted this Tweet:
A response from Lee Finklestein captured part of the dilemma:
Let's take a concrete example from a junior level high school English class. Think about how you would have dealt with this. The course focuses on various aspects of language--what it is, how we use it, the various issues. For their first essay the students were told to write on any topic related to the novel they'd read. No rubric existed, but students were told to explore the boundaries of language and take some chances. Most students make some noble attempts, but for the most part stayed within fairly universal essay structures. Except one young lady. She wrote her essay on a box. I don't mean on a box, as in the topic was a box. I mean literally on a box. An introductory paragraph was on the top. Each side has a paragraph on it. She had set it up so the order made sense depending on where you chose to begin. In the middle of each side was a small door. When you opened the door, you found a small icon about the paragraph's primary example. The bottom of the box had a concluding paragraph. I wish I had a picture so you could see just how beautiful it was, and it was intellectually profound. But I have to admit, when I first received it, I wasn't sure what in the world to do with it in terms of assessment...even though I recognized the true creativity. I also admired the student's guts. Not surprisingly, when she received positive feedback, more students took such risks. If I had been using a typical rubric, would she have created such a work? Perhaps. If she had, how would I have graded her? I'm sure you can see where I'm going with this and can follow the lead to the logical conclusion of the fear mentioned at end of my first paragraph.
The question for education, then, is quite daunting, especially if we truly consider the implications. Yes, we have to wonder about how we assess creativity. Perhaps more importantly, we need to ask--and answer quite honestly--how creative we ourselves are willing to be.
We need to trade in an economics of efficiency for an economics of creativity. Because creativity and uncertainty exist outside the dominant economic model, there is little room for encouraging the role that start-ups play in economic growth. Yet it's start-ups--and larger corporations that haven't lost their connection to their founders--that are, by and large, driving modern innovation and job creation. Why shouldn't our economic model reflect that? We should be moving away from a model of economics based on the 'culture of control' that is embedded in the efficient market theory toward a new model that embraces a 'culture of chance' (237).I saw that I had made a note: "Could make for great link to education. Blog post?" I'd never written the post, but the ideas certainly have threaded their way throughout this entire blog. A little bit later, Nussbaum raises a question with which I've also struggled: "How do we assess creativity?" (252). He cites several encouraging examples, ranging from portfolios to certain types of performance tasks. I'm proud to say that we use many of them here at St. John's. At the same time, though, while such assessments mark clear improvement in this area, I found myself thinking about how they can set us up for the same traps that have plagued education for so long.
Soon after, I posted this Tweet:
Responses were varied. One I particularly appreciated came from Adam Fachler, who sent me a link to a piece by Grant Wiggins.Query/conundrum/irony: Can't attempts to assess creativity in fact somehow stifle creativity due to preset expectations? #isedchat #edchat— Mark Crotty (@crottymark) August 26, 2016
His response captures how, as great as it can be, sometimes Twitter is per its nature an unsatisfactory medium. This topic is not one explored well in short-form thinking. I also know that I won't have done it justice when this post ends.@crottymark would you say more? happy/interested to think through. asking similar Q on my end...— Adam Fachler (@adamfachler) August 26, 2016
A response from Lee Finklestein captured part of the dilemma:
I completely agree with Lee, but I also think we need to extend his thinking in some clear and important directions. Beyond creativity being so highly contextual and nuanced, any time we apply standards and/or expectations in any form, we create limiting frameworks. They can affect how we assess, and they can greatly influence--consciously or subconsciously--the work of the creator. We automatically look for certain qualities and/or we try to please the audience. It becomes that much harder for us to see with an open, uncluttered mind. That is especially true when the assessment has some sort of stake attached to it. The subsequent anxiety can stifle the creativity even more. After all, we know the countless stories of those--especially artists such as Picasso or Pollock--who suffered rejection. I suspect the majority of us don't really accept the creative until somehow it has survived to become nearly mainstream because that artist not only touched upon something so human, but also managed to persevere. And how do you measure that?@crottymark I would agree. Skills like creativity & curiosity highly contextual make observations nuanced. https://t.co/c18WPSWk3Z #isedchat— Lee Finkelstein (@leefink) August 26, 2016
Let's take a concrete example from a junior level high school English class. Think about how you would have dealt with this. The course focuses on various aspects of language--what it is, how we use it, the various issues. For their first essay the students were told to write on any topic related to the novel they'd read. No rubric existed, but students were told to explore the boundaries of language and take some chances. Most students make some noble attempts, but for the most part stayed within fairly universal essay structures. Except one young lady. She wrote her essay on a box. I don't mean on a box, as in the topic was a box. I mean literally on a box. An introductory paragraph was on the top. Each side has a paragraph on it. She had set it up so the order made sense depending on where you chose to begin. In the middle of each side was a small door. When you opened the door, you found a small icon about the paragraph's primary example. The bottom of the box had a concluding paragraph. I wish I had a picture so you could see just how beautiful it was, and it was intellectually profound. But I have to admit, when I first received it, I wasn't sure what in the world to do with it in terms of assessment...even though I recognized the true creativity. I also admired the student's guts. Not surprisingly, when she received positive feedback, more students took such risks. If I had been using a typical rubric, would she have created such a work? Perhaps. If she had, how would I have graded her? I'm sure you can see where I'm going with this and can follow the lead to the logical conclusion of the fear mentioned at end of my first paragraph.
The question for education, then, is quite daunting, especially if we truly consider the implications. Yes, we have to wonder about how we assess creativity. Perhaps more importantly, we need to ask--and answer quite honestly--how creative we ourselves are willing to be.
Tuesday, July 19, 2016
Creative Discipline
For the past year, here at St. John's Episcopal School we've been immersed in the early stages of some large-scale marketing work. After the initial research, we moved into all the areas of branding, design, copy, et cetera. The process has proven fascinating, and I've learned a great deal. As part of that, I've spent extensive time talking with various "creatives." Fortunately, we've engaged incredibly talented people for this work, and I'm in awe of their work. I've also enjoyed learning about them and their work because I've been calling for more creativity in schools for quite a while. (See this or this.) It's in line with the work of people such as Tony Wagner and Sir Ken Robinson.
One thing which has surprised me--but probably shouldn't have--is how tied to process these people are. They are, contrary to the assumption and stereotypes many people have, quite committed to certain rituals and disciplines. In fact, in the only case where we weren't pleased with some of the work we received, I realized we had basically forced the creative to operate in a way that was not his normal methodology and thus out of his comfort zone.
I've read enough about creativity that I should have realized this basic truth. Creativity, Inc, for example, spells out in great detail the systematic process that Pixar uses. Most writers and artists have very specific work routines, whether the times they work or how they lay out materials or follow certain steps.Some of this is the sort of exacting discipline required for success in any area. Too often people forget, or perhaps never understood, that creative pursuits share a great deal with other areas. We seem to think that creative work is somehow different, that it strikes at random moments of inspiration; and that when it strikes, somehow stunning art suddenly appears.
But in many ways creative work is not that different than any other. Just as an athlete must practice a skill over and over, a painter works on brush strokes. Just as a scientist studies all the theory in their field, a musician studies past songs from many genres. More than that, it's simply a matter of getting the work done. And a great deal of it, because the misses far outnumber the hits. Picasso produced 79 different drawings in coming up with Guernica. In fact, while we know of several famous Picasso works, his total output numbered more than 1800 paintings, 1200 sculptures, 2800 ceramics, and 12000 drawings. In music, beyond their noted compositions, Mozart composed over 600 pieces;, Beethoven, 650; Bach, over a 1000. Compare that to the number of papers of Einstein's 248 publications or patents of Edison's 1093 had real impact. So even beyond creativity, it's about persistence.
It also affirms my belief that we can teach creativity. Or, to be more accurate, design educational experiences that nourish our innate creativity. Well, at least not tamp it down, let alone beat it out of us. There exist plenty of practical and philosophical arguments for this, and I don't need to reiterate them here.They all seem to have one underlying commonality: life as a work of art. How does that happen? Creative discipline. So perhaps as we rethink these intellectual conveniences that we call academic disciplines, we need to make creativity one of the new disciplines of future education.
One thing which has surprised me--but probably shouldn't have--is how tied to process these people are. They are, contrary to the assumption and stereotypes many people have, quite committed to certain rituals and disciplines. In fact, in the only case where we weren't pleased with some of the work we received, I realized we had basically forced the creative to operate in a way that was not his normal methodology and thus out of his comfort zone.
I've read enough about creativity that I should have realized this basic truth. Creativity, Inc, for example, spells out in great detail the systematic process that Pixar uses. Most writers and artists have very specific work routines, whether the times they work or how they lay out materials or follow certain steps.Some of this is the sort of exacting discipline required for success in any area. Too often people forget, or perhaps never understood, that creative pursuits share a great deal with other areas. We seem to think that creative work is somehow different, that it strikes at random moments of inspiration; and that when it strikes, somehow stunning art suddenly appears.
But in many ways creative work is not that different than any other. Just as an athlete must practice a skill over and over, a painter works on brush strokes. Just as a scientist studies all the theory in their field, a musician studies past songs from many genres. More than that, it's simply a matter of getting the work done. And a great deal of it, because the misses far outnumber the hits. Picasso produced 79 different drawings in coming up with Guernica. In fact, while we know of several famous Picasso works, his total output numbered more than 1800 paintings, 1200 sculptures, 2800 ceramics, and 12000 drawings. In music, beyond their noted compositions, Mozart composed over 600 pieces;, Beethoven, 650; Bach, over a 1000. Compare that to the number of papers of Einstein's 248 publications or patents of Edison's 1093 had real impact. So even beyond creativity, it's about persistence.
It also affirms my belief that we can teach creativity. Or, to be more accurate, design educational experiences that nourish our innate creativity. Well, at least not tamp it down, let alone beat it out of us. There exist plenty of practical and philosophical arguments for this, and I don't need to reiterate them here.They all seem to have one underlying commonality: life as a work of art. How does that happen? Creative discipline. So perhaps as we rethink these intellectual conveniences that we call academic disciplines, we need to make creativity one of the new disciplines of future education.
Friday, October 30, 2015
Make a Makerspace?
Not surprisingly, a recent #isedchat on Twitter focused on makespaces. (I couldn't participate that night, and I haven't read the archive.) They are a hot topic right now, and many schools either have opened or are planning to open makerspaces, often with some very clever names. Here at St. John's we have a couple of rooms that we are thinking of doing something interesting with. Of course, some people have suggested a makerspace. Right now, it's "the thing" to do. Meanwhile, I take pause.
That hesitation does not signal some anti-makerspace stance. Actually, I love the philosophy behind them--that hands-on, make-a-mess, take-chances sort of experiential learning. I love the active engagement of makerspaces. I love that they are places where kids do rather than get done. So I don't deliberate because of any pedagogical reasons. I just want us to take five or ten and think about a big question.
Shouldn't the entire school be a makerspace? Either literally or metaphorically?
Instead, we create isolated areas that can serve as an analogy for how we treat what amounts to making in many areas of the curriculum. Let's consider a typical English program. Students learn how to parse sentences and to analyze literature; much of their writing becomes formulaic literary analysis, particularly as they grow older. Writing a short story is an "alternative" activity; creative writing is often available primarily through electives, if at all. All kids should be doing creative writing. Similarly, in history students can use their research--primary and secondary--to write the traditional research paper but also to produce documentaries. In math and science students could build scale models and simple machines, both of which would reveal understanding. Indeed, I argue that such activities lead to deeper, longer-lasting learning. I believe it gives students a stronger grasp on key concepts and skills, along with keeping alive positive attitudes about learning. It's why I'm proud that at St. John's we already take such an approach in many areas and always seek to add more.
In a larger sense, the current fascination with makerspaces captures some of the truly sticky challenges with education reform. Some will dismiss them as just the latest fad, convinced that one only need wait until it passes and the next new thing (which may have been the next new thing once before) comes along.At the other end of the spectrum are those who glom onto the newest shiny object, seeing it as the silver bullet. The majority stand somewhere in the middle, not voicing too much dissent or excitement, not becoming too upset as long as they don't have to change too much of what they do. To extend the analogy another way, these folks are okay as long as the newcomer knows its place and stays there.
At the risk of seeming cynical, I have to ask: How are makerspaces any different than the computer labs of 20-25 years ago? What's next--maker carts? Of course, it's now more common for technology to be more ubiquitous throughout schools. The hope is the same for the idea of making. Yet questions remain about how much of a transformative effect digital technology has had on education, especially versus the possibilities it creates. Part of the problem is inertia; part of it is fear; part of it is how we think we can measure success.
Some irony exists in that I suspect part of the reason the makerspace movement has gained momentum is in response to the rise and spread of technology. Perhaps we've realized that we may have turned too much over to virtual experience. Did we really believe a virtual dissection would be just as good as actually wielding the scalpel and slicing into a frog, formaldehyde blasting our nostrils? Once again we are reminded of the need for balance.
So perhaps in a way it is all cyclical. But makerspaces are different than computer labs in a key way. Early on, part of the reason technology remained in labs was cost. Another was portability. The truths of economics and Moore's law let us overcome those obstacles. When it comes to makerspaces, particularly if we focus on the philosophy, we face no such hurdles. The biggest stumbling block--perhaps the only one--may be people's mindsets.
So here at St. John's do I want to make a makerspace? Certainly. For now, if I can't think of anything better, I'll take a great room. But ultimately I want it to be our school.
That hesitation does not signal some anti-makerspace stance. Actually, I love the philosophy behind them--that hands-on, make-a-mess, take-chances sort of experiential learning. I love the active engagement of makerspaces. I love that they are places where kids do rather than get done. So I don't deliberate because of any pedagogical reasons. I just want us to take five or ten and think about a big question.
Shouldn't the entire school be a makerspace? Either literally or metaphorically?
Instead, we create isolated areas that can serve as an analogy for how we treat what amounts to making in many areas of the curriculum. Let's consider a typical English program. Students learn how to parse sentences and to analyze literature; much of their writing becomes formulaic literary analysis, particularly as they grow older. Writing a short story is an "alternative" activity; creative writing is often available primarily through electives, if at all. All kids should be doing creative writing. Similarly, in history students can use their research--primary and secondary--to write the traditional research paper but also to produce documentaries. In math and science students could build scale models and simple machines, both of which would reveal understanding. Indeed, I argue that such activities lead to deeper, longer-lasting learning. I believe it gives students a stronger grasp on key concepts and skills, along with keeping alive positive attitudes about learning. It's why I'm proud that at St. John's we already take such an approach in many areas and always seek to add more.
In a larger sense, the current fascination with makerspaces captures some of the truly sticky challenges with education reform. Some will dismiss them as just the latest fad, convinced that one only need wait until it passes and the next new thing (which may have been the next new thing once before) comes along.At the other end of the spectrum are those who glom onto the newest shiny object, seeing it as the silver bullet. The majority stand somewhere in the middle, not voicing too much dissent or excitement, not becoming too upset as long as they don't have to change too much of what they do. To extend the analogy another way, these folks are okay as long as the newcomer knows its place and stays there.
At the risk of seeming cynical, I have to ask: How are makerspaces any different than the computer labs of 20-25 years ago? What's next--maker carts? Of course, it's now more common for technology to be more ubiquitous throughout schools. The hope is the same for the idea of making. Yet questions remain about how much of a transformative effect digital technology has had on education, especially versus the possibilities it creates. Part of the problem is inertia; part of it is fear; part of it is how we think we can measure success.
Some irony exists in that I suspect part of the reason the makerspace movement has gained momentum is in response to the rise and spread of technology. Perhaps we've realized that we may have turned too much over to virtual experience. Did we really believe a virtual dissection would be just as good as actually wielding the scalpel and slicing into a frog, formaldehyde blasting our nostrils? Once again we are reminded of the need for balance.
So perhaps in a way it is all cyclical. But makerspaces are different than computer labs in a key way. Early on, part of the reason technology remained in labs was cost. Another was portability. The truths of economics and Moore's law let us overcome those obstacles. When it comes to makerspaces, particularly if we focus on the philosophy, we face no such hurdles. The biggest stumbling block--perhaps the only one--may be people's mindsets.
So here at St. John's do I want to make a makerspace? Certainly. For now, if I can't think of anything better, I'll take a great room. But ultimately I want it to be our school.
Friday, October 16, 2015
Re-Learning Learning: Infodoodling 101
Surely by now you've been at a conference or workshop and seen someone creating those amazing graphic overviews. Just in case you haven't, here's an example on Jessica Lahey's talk at the recent Changing the Odds conference put on by the Momentous Institute:
(You can see more of them on the institute's blog in the two posts recapping the conference.)
I've decided I want to learn how to do this. Well, more accurately, I want to gain some basic idea of how.
Sure, part of the motivation comes from my thinking this is just incredibly cool. I mean, who wouldn't want to be able to do this? But there's more to it than that--even more than wanting an excuse to buy more Moleskin notebooks and a pail of Sharpies in a bunch of different colors. No, it's not just some middle-aged head of school's desperate attempt to regain whatever sense of hip I imagine I may have had.
It's about re-experiencing a certain type of learning. I learn all the time. For me it's essential, sort of like hydration, even breathing. Part of why I love my job is that it forces me to keep learning and growing, to keep taking certain risks. Usually it occurs the way we like to imagine school happening, with pieces snapping like Legos onto those already in place. There's something so assuring about that little click.
This new venture, though, is different. I feel completely out of my element. I'm one of those people who says I can't draw. I've taken notes a certain way for a long time. I want the results more quickly than is reasonable. I've grown frustrated with what I quickly deem failures, like the total block I hit while trying to typographize certain phrases. The entire project has prompted some serious doubt about whether I can do it, leading to some anxiety, making me wonder if I should even try...even though no one else is forcing me to do this.
And that's a really good thing. It's a great reminder of how some, perhaps many, of our students may feel at any given moment.As a school leader I need to think about how teachers may feel when being bombarded with messages from about how they must change so much of what they do. Each time I do one of my little units, I can imagine my amygdala taunting, "I'm going to clog up every possible synapse and keep you from learning this stuff!"
So I'm forging ahead in a manner that seems well-suited for effective learning. First and foremost, it's entirely self-motivated and of my own choosing. I've gathered strong resources based on others' recommendations. I take small steps forward, mini-lesson a day, trying not to take in too much at any one time. When I step back, I'm pleased with my crumbs of improvement already. Surely we can find ways to run classes and professional development that way, yes? Then we can revel in the process without so much angst about the product.
Anyway, reality is, I probably never will be produce something like the example above. Or I might... I'll report back later in the school year. No matter what, I'm enjoying my perhaps quixotic journey into the world of infododdling. If I keep at it, I'll celebrate by buying those Sharpies. But never will I be mistaken for hip.
(You can see more of them on the institute's blog in the two posts recapping the conference.)
I've decided I want to learn how to do this. Well, more accurately, I want to gain some basic idea of how.
Sure, part of the motivation comes from my thinking this is just incredibly cool. I mean, who wouldn't want to be able to do this? But there's more to it than that--even more than wanting an excuse to buy more Moleskin notebooks and a pail of Sharpies in a bunch of different colors. No, it's not just some middle-aged head of school's desperate attempt to regain whatever sense of hip I imagine I may have had.
It's about re-experiencing a certain type of learning. I learn all the time. For me it's essential, sort of like hydration, even breathing. Part of why I love my job is that it forces me to keep learning and growing, to keep taking certain risks. Usually it occurs the way we like to imagine school happening, with pieces snapping like Legos onto those already in place. There's something so assuring about that little click.
This new venture, though, is different. I feel completely out of my element. I'm one of those people who says I can't draw. I've taken notes a certain way for a long time. I want the results more quickly than is reasonable. I've grown frustrated with what I quickly deem failures, like the total block I hit while trying to typographize certain phrases. The entire project has prompted some serious doubt about whether I can do it, leading to some anxiety, making me wonder if I should even try...even though no one else is forcing me to do this.
And that's a really good thing. It's a great reminder of how some, perhaps many, of our students may feel at any given moment.As a school leader I need to think about how teachers may feel when being bombarded with messages from about how they must change so much of what they do. Each time I do one of my little units, I can imagine my amygdala taunting, "I'm going to clog up every possible synapse and keep you from learning this stuff!"
So I'm forging ahead in a manner that seems well-suited for effective learning. First and foremost, it's entirely self-motivated and of my own choosing. I've gathered strong resources based on others' recommendations. I take small steps forward, mini-lesson a day, trying not to take in too much at any one time. When I step back, I'm pleased with my crumbs of improvement already. Surely we can find ways to run classes and professional development that way, yes? Then we can revel in the process without so much angst about the product.
Anyway, reality is, I probably never will be produce something like the example above. Or I might... I'll report back later in the school year. No matter what, I'm enjoying my perhaps quixotic journey into the world of infododdling. If I keep at it, I'll celebrate by buying those Sharpies. But never will I be mistaken for hip.
Monday, August 31, 2015
Finding the Holy Metric
If you read this blog with any regularity, you've seen numerous comments and even full posts about educational metrics. There are simply too many for me to provide links. I've railed against ones I abhor, extolled those that seem worthwhile, patched together comprehensive packages of various ones, and contemplated "new" ways to capture educational value. Sometimes it feels as if I've spent a large part of my professional life for the past fifteen years on the quest for the holy metric of education.
Recently I may have found it, even grasped it for a moment. And it made me so proud of St. John''s Episcopal School.
Before I share it, I ask you to take a moment and reflect upon a pretty basic question. Basic...but one I'm not sure we talk about enough. What does great learning look like?
On Friday, August 21, I experienced a first in my 33 years in education. As I took one of my walks around the school, I didn't see a single classroom in which students were simply sitting and listening. I saw them engaging in lively discussion, working in small groups, brainstorming on idea walls and researching on iPads. They were spread out among the room and even spilled into the hallways. I saw students creating in art classes, baking gingerbread men, reading in quiet corners, and playing in PE. Everywhere I went students were engaged in active learning. There were loads of smiles and shining eyes.
Of course, I Tweeted about it, which led to these two responses from Grant Lichtman, who's probably visited as many independent and public schools as anyone the past few years:
I haven't had the same experience since. But now I know it can happen. The North Star has become more distinct and even brighter because we're drawing ever closer.
Recently I may have found it, even grasped it for a moment. And it made me so proud of St. John''s Episcopal School.
Before I share it, I ask you to take a moment and reflect upon a pretty basic question. Basic...but one I'm not sure we talk about enough. What does great learning look like?
On Friday, August 21, I experienced a first in my 33 years in education. As I took one of my walks around the school, I didn't see a single classroom in which students were simply sitting and listening. I saw them engaging in lively discussion, working in small groups, brainstorming on idea walls and researching on iPads. They were spread out among the room and even spilled into the hallways. I saw students creating in art classes, baking gingerbread men, reading in quiet corners, and playing in PE. Everywhere I went students were engaged in active learning. There were loads of smiles and shining eyes.
Of course, I Tweeted about it, which led to these two responses from Grant Lichtman, who's probably visited as many independent and public schools as anyone the past few years:
This is REAL progress for any school; great to hear! https://t.co/dfShSCMLQX
— Grant Lichtman (@GrantLichtman) August 21, 2015
RT @crottymark "Just walked #sjes halls--didn't see single room where Ss were just sitting and listening." Can you make the same claim?
— Grant Lichtman (@GrantLichtman) August 21, 2015
My pride grew even more, and since then I've been gushing to folks about it and hoping I help them understand what a big deal this was. It may not indicate an individual student's progress in any particular area, but it highlights how we're creating the fertile environment for tremendous individual growth. The type that comes via great learning.I haven't had the same experience since. But now I know it can happen. The North Star has become more distinct and even brighter because we're drawing ever closer.
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
Not Either/Or; but Yes, And...
Many people have offered many valid reasons innovation can occur slowly in schools. Risk aversion, ossified structures, lack of vision, fear, silos, intellectual arrogance, myopia, standardization, the textbook industry, poltiics, parental concerns, silver bullet belief in the latest fad--I'm sure you could add some other items. As I reflect on that list, I notice that many of them share a common problem, one which smacks of oversimplification. Too often in education we engage in either/or thinking.
To illustrate, let's consider a recent, perhaps ongoing, battle about early childhood language instruction. In this corner, we have the defending champion, Phonics Instruction. In the oppositie corner, the challenger, Whole Language. In schools all over the country, people picked one side or the other and bet the house. Phonics people continued with the "tried and true," and Whole Language folks threw out the traditional. Was one side right about the better approach? Perhaps. Then one would have to be wrong, and both had very valid points. Yet in many cases one side viewed the other only with disdain, rather than with an open mind that would enable integrating the two in a way that woudl work. They thus missed an opportunity to reach more children through effective differentiation.
Let's take a curernt example but switch focus a bit to consider two issues: cultural literacy and a more modern approach. I'll stick with language arts. Most people--even those who are not the most vocal defendants of a cultural literacy approach--likely would argue that students should have some familiarity with Shakespeare. Let's use Romeo and Juliet since that seems a popular choice for inclusion in many curricula. We know the traditional way of studying Shakespeare: read it while struggling with the language, analyze the themes, take some quizzes, memorize and recite passages, take a test, write an essay. Now imagine this approach. The students, upon hearing of the trend in modernizing the Bard's works, suggest doing that also. So as a class they decide to rewrite the play. They figure out a plan and go at it. They keep all the key elements; for example, the balcony scene remains an interlocking sonnet. But now it's set on a porch outside the school library. Once done writing, they rehearse and then perform and record their version of the play, making it availaible for a much larger audience. After, they have to write reflections that show their understanding of the play and how this project aided in that. They've gained the cultural literacy. After all, which approach do you think will better lead to kids learning and even appreciating Shakespeare? They also had to work on the basic literacies of reading and writing. Plus they had to be creative and to collaborate, and their final product was a contribution to their community--some of the essentials of a modern education.
That Shakespeare project--one of the real highlights of my teaching career--epitomizes how we can take a "yes, and..." approach to education. The best part? The students initiated it. All I had to do was go along. This happened in the late 1980s, and I argue that our doing more and more work like this is more imperative now than ever. But too often the response is "yes, but..."--that killer phrase which is the hallmark of either/or thinking and even closed-mindedness. Even beyond the curricular and pedagogical implications, I worry about this in terms of role-modeling for students. F.S. Fitzgerald wrote, "The sign of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposing ideas in the mind at the same time and still maintain the ability to function." Kid suffer when we can't--or won't--do this to improve education.
Posted with BlogsyThursday, August 14, 2014
Opening Remarks to Employees 2014
Introductory Note: The following are my opening remarks to all-employees on August 14, 2014. Our theme for the year is creativity, and this was right before a design thinking workshop. I apologize to regular readers, who will see a previous post contained herein. But two-thirds of it is new.
Since we’re focusing on creativity this year, for my
remarks this morning I’m going to talk about what I believe to be a topic never
before addressed in schools: what I did on my summer vacation. Or, more
accurately, what I did on my summer vacation and how it provided some great
metaphorical reminders.
We’ll begin with a
short video: (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y88_e7BMQ3w).
Obviously that wasn’t me, but last week I scaled the Beehive in Acadia National
Park (Maine) with my two children, Kate, 17, and Stephen, 14. Or, more
accurately, they basically scampered up as I slowly eased my way along,
clinging to every little bit of granite I could, even crawling in a few places.
See, it was only a short way up when I realized I had a newfound but quite
profound fear of heights. As I squeezed as flat as I could against the wall,
Kate and Stephen kept peering over the edge and looking down, Kate talking
about adrenaline rushes and Stephen yelling, “Yee-ha!” Meanwhile, I was
thinking about how the previous year Kate had gone down the Beehive, which
strikes me as much harder.
Once I reached the
top, I was glad I had. As you could see on the video, the view was amazing, and
I was proud of having forced myself to persevere. Still, I will admit that I
had some bad dreams that night. We did some more climbing, though nothing quite
as challenging. Despite their begging, we avoided the trail called “The
Precipice.” Still, The Bubbles and the cliffs along the ocean shore had some
very steep drops. I found myself struggling to allow for their sense of
adventure and to manage my parental fears. There was a lot of “That’s far
enough!” and “Not so close to the edge!” Probably too much, in retrospect.
See, it’s about
balancing that level of healthy fear versus confidence versus realities. And
that is affected by life experience. For me the idea of falling was very real,
very possible; the odds were probably increased by my conception and fear of
it. Kate and Stephen have that adolescent sense that it can’t happen to them.
Yet they, like most kids, can be overly dramatic about what we perceive as mere
learning experiences, such as bombing an assessment in school. To them that
feels like falling off a cliff. We have to consider every aspect of the school
experience from the student perspective and do so with great empathy. The
parent one also. So there are three challenges in there for us to think about.
How do we create the right environment for kids to take risks which to them
seem reasonable? How do we get parents to understand this and how it relates to
the big picture of learning and growth and perseverance? What risks are we
going to take as the role models for that?
Some of my angst
about the dangers of these climbs was heightened by an incident a week or so earlier.
The phone rang around
7:30 PM one Saturday. The number was unfamiliar, so my wife almost didn't
answer. But she did because both kids were on adventures: Kate biking from Reno
to San Francisco and then down the coast to Santa Barbara; Stephen hiking
around the Colorado Rockies. Both go with an amazing company called Overland, who sponsor different types of programs all over the
world. We were enjoying being “kid-free” for a while.
The call was about
Stephen. While climbing to an alpine lake, he had slipped and smacked his head
on a rock. He didn't show any signs of injury other than a three-quarter-inch
long “jagged gash” above his eye that would require stitches. Plus they wanted
him checked since it was a head injury. Adding to the challenge was that the
group (2 leaders and 12 kids) was in real back country. One leader and Stephen
would have to hike 2 hours just to reach their van, then drive about 1-1/2
hours to a hospital. Meanwhile we’d have to wait until they reached a spot
where they could get cell service for any more word. (They had called the
office on a satellite phone, which needed to stay with the group.) So my wife
and I simply had to sit tight, unsure when we would hear more, and of course
that took longer than we believed it would, knowing it was getting dark on the
trail, worried about all the things that could go wrong on the trail, such as
one of them getting badly hurt. Honestly, I was especially worried about the
leader getting hurt.
As we waited, my wife commented at one point, “Kids really are sacred, aren't
they?” We sort of let that comment sink in. We comforted ourselves by talking
about how incredible the leaders at Overland are, the great training they
receive, their experience, their optimism. They, as an organization and individuals,
take on an incredible responsibility. And they've suffered tragedy, such as
when some teens were killed on the Ride across America last year. It’s a trip
Kate plans to do in a couple of years. I was struck anew by just how much trust
we had placed in Overland by sending our kids on these trips. It was Kate’s
third and Stephen’s second. While I was worried, I also had faith in Overland.
They honor the sacred trust.
It should be no different in schools. As I saw in a tweet recently, “Each child
in our class is someone’s whole world.” Our relationship with children and
their families should be a sacred trust, ideally one that goes both ways.
Parents place incredible faith in us to do what is best for their kids, to
appreciate their absolute uniqueness, to forgive their inherent and
developmental foibles, to nurture them lovingly, and to challenge them
appropriately. That trust is the deepest root of a partnership. During that
sleepless night and since, I've found myself thinking about this quite a bit as
perhaps the key of a truly great school.
We heard from Stephen and the leader as soon as they could call, then
again from the hospital, then again after he’d been treated. The communication
was great, and we heard again the next morning. Stephen checked out just fine,
just needing a bunch of stitches. No other problems. He will have a pretty good
scar; but as we like to say, scars are just tattoos with better stories.
Furthermore, he also found the positive in the situation. On the phone from the
hospital he gushed that on the trail they had seen an “amazing sunset and a bunch
of deer and five moose.”
That
attitude ties to my third point. Cadillac Mountain is one of the first places
in the United States to experience the sunrise each day. So on our final day in
Maine, we woke really early to be at the peak by 5:00 AM. (We drove, not
hiked.) We’d had some storms the evening before, it was cold and windy, and the
cloud cover was fairly heavy. There was one long horizontal strip which slowly
filled with glorious pink and purple streaks. Gorgeous, but it wasn’t the full
sunrise, and people started to leave. We were at our car when we looked back,
and the sun had suddenly burned through all the clouds and shone like I’d never
seen it before. Just absolutely stunning! I was reminded again how each new
day, like each new school year, is bursting with possibilities. It’s up to us
to use our creativity to realize them.
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
Challenging Indy Schools to Take Advantage of Independence
During some various Twitter chats on assorted subjects, I've often asserted that I believe independent schools (including mine) should take greater advantage of their independence. Out of all my tweets, these seem to generate the most positive responses, retweets, and favoriting. Clearly this notion strikes a chord, at least with a certain audience, one I believe is fairly representative.
The question becomes rather obvious. Why don't we?
Let's first consider the answer from a rather sweeping philo-psycho-socio-historical perspective. Recently I've been reading Frederic LeDoux and Ken Wilbur's Reinventing Organizations: A Guide to Creating Organizations Inspired by the Next Generation of Human Consciousness. The basic premise is that each major shift in human consciousness has led to giant leaps in our level or collaboration and thus how we set up institutions. Under-girding it is how we perceive humans and how we measure value. Each stage is assigned a color. Currently most of our organizations (and I'd say much of how we live) is based on amber and orange type thinking. This emphasizes power, authority, hierarchy, measurable outcomes--that which we associate with the "business" world but dominates so much of human establishments. It's obvious how this links to the factory model of education that has become so entrenched over the past 150 years. The authors believe we are moving into the teal stage, which is more about extensive collaboration, transparency, and self-management of individuals and teams. It's much more soulful. They cite 22 businesses, both profit and non-profit, that operate in teal fashion, the best known of which may be Patagonia. They do refer a few times to a school in Germany. All, of course, sound like wonderful places.
I'm not going to question Ledoux and Wilbur's general thesis. In fact, I think it makes great sense. We know, for instance, that schools operate as they do because of large cultural shifts and needs. Now they're changing, albeit slowly for the same reasons. And therein lies the real reason that, in this broadest of senses, we don't take advantage of that independence much, much more than we do. We're rather trapped within a strong historical framework, and such shackles are difficult to break off. Especially if we're not fully conscious of them.
Even if we are aware, it's all many of us know when it comes to education. It's how we were educated. It's how our parents were educated. It's how much of the world has been educated. And, to a certain degree for a while, it's worked well enough. That's particularly true in independent schools, where we serve a clientele that is highly motivated and thus basically compliant. Tied to that, it's how many of our families want their children to be educated. As some parents have told me, they don't want their kids being used as guinea pigs in an educational experiment. So, yes, it's what we know and what we know is safe.And there, for independent school leaders, reality hits. Like it or not, we are a business; and we need for enough people to buy what we are selling. For us, full enrollment is safe. Glowing next level placement, high test scores, prizes and honors--those are assurances of safety. For us, anyway. Or, I should say, some of us. At least in the immediate and short term.
The problem lies in a certain failure, or lack of imagination. We know the world is changing, but we do not fully conceive what this means. In fact, we can't except in abstract ways, and that troubles us because we can't fit in in our existing schemes. Similarly, it requires true vision to conceive of truly different ways of doing school. Then come the challenge of actual implementation and courage.
I realize this post may suggest frustration, even hopelessness. There is some of the former, but none of the latter. Quite the opposite actually. We see wonderful innovation happening in independent schools around the country, and I'm very proud of the strides we've made here at St. John's. I expect even more this year as we focus on creativity in our professional development. As we all work on rethinking and re-imagining education, it's essential to understand the deep and broad complexity. Then we'll be better poised to take full advantage of our independence.
The question becomes rather obvious. Why don't we?
Let's first consider the answer from a rather sweeping philo-psycho-socio-historical perspective. Recently I've been reading Frederic LeDoux and Ken Wilbur's Reinventing Organizations: A Guide to Creating Organizations Inspired by the Next Generation of Human Consciousness. The basic premise is that each major shift in human consciousness has led to giant leaps in our level or collaboration and thus how we set up institutions. Under-girding it is how we perceive humans and how we measure value. Each stage is assigned a color. Currently most of our organizations (and I'd say much of how we live) is based on amber and orange type thinking. This emphasizes power, authority, hierarchy, measurable outcomes--that which we associate with the "business" world but dominates so much of human establishments. It's obvious how this links to the factory model of education that has become so entrenched over the past 150 years. The authors believe we are moving into the teal stage, which is more about extensive collaboration, transparency, and self-management of individuals and teams. It's much more soulful. They cite 22 businesses, both profit and non-profit, that operate in teal fashion, the best known of which may be Patagonia. They do refer a few times to a school in Germany. All, of course, sound like wonderful places.
I'm not going to question Ledoux and Wilbur's general thesis. In fact, I think it makes great sense. We know, for instance, that schools operate as they do because of large cultural shifts and needs. Now they're changing, albeit slowly for the same reasons. And therein lies the real reason that, in this broadest of senses, we don't take advantage of that independence much, much more than we do. We're rather trapped within a strong historical framework, and such shackles are difficult to break off. Especially if we're not fully conscious of them.
Even if we are aware, it's all many of us know when it comes to education. It's how we were educated. It's how our parents were educated. It's how much of the world has been educated. And, to a certain degree for a while, it's worked well enough. That's particularly true in independent schools, where we serve a clientele that is highly motivated and thus basically compliant. Tied to that, it's how many of our families want their children to be educated. As some parents have told me, they don't want their kids being used as guinea pigs in an educational experiment. So, yes, it's what we know and what we know is safe.And there, for independent school leaders, reality hits. Like it or not, we are a business; and we need for enough people to buy what we are selling. For us, full enrollment is safe. Glowing next level placement, high test scores, prizes and honors--those are assurances of safety. For us, anyway. Or, I should say, some of us. At least in the immediate and short term.
The problem lies in a certain failure, or lack of imagination. We know the world is changing, but we do not fully conceive what this means. In fact, we can't except in abstract ways, and that troubles us because we can't fit in in our existing schemes. Similarly, it requires true vision to conceive of truly different ways of doing school. Then come the challenge of actual implementation and courage.
I realize this post may suggest frustration, even hopelessness. There is some of the former, but none of the latter. Quite the opposite actually. We see wonderful innovation happening in independent schools around the country, and I'm very proud of the strides we've made here at St. John's. I expect even more this year as we focus on creativity in our professional development. As we all work on rethinking and re-imagining education, it's essential to understand the deep and broad complexity. Then we'll be better poised to take full advantage of our independence.
Monday, May 12, 2014
Case for Creativity
Throughout this past school year I've led some sessions called "Inside the Head's Head." In them I've been laying out my philosophy, ideas, vision, and tying it all to what's happening at St. John's. After I set the table with some remarks, the discussions would take off, sometimes in unexpected fashion. In many ways it really was like being inside my head, where things fly around all the time and I try to connect the pieces coherently as I consider multiple facets of each. The sessions were quite enjoyable, and some "groupies" appeared regularly. Along with giving me a chance to share my thoughts, I gained some insight into parents' thinking. Reflecting on the most recent forum, I realized that I need to spend much more time clarifying my explanation about one of the most pressing issues in education: creativity.
As we were talking about the notion of creativity, very quickly I could see that people were holding onto two limiting points regarding the topic. I don't say this as a criticism; the parents were willing, but they also have certain understanings that run through society as a whole. The first is that creativity refers to artistic endeavors. The second is that creativity is an innate, fixed attribute one either has or doesn't.
If we're going to consider creativity as a quality beyond the traditionally artistic, we need to consider possible definitions. Famed educational critic Sir Ken Robinson--perhaps the first voice to raise the issue via his TED presentation (the most viewed ever)--calls creativity "the process of having original ideas that have value." While I like the basic idea here, I quibble with certain elements. For example, value is quite a relative term. Also, students may have great ideas that are not truly original, except perhaps to them. Perhaps that is what Robinson means. Still I prefer a couple of other similar notions. In Creative Confidence Tom and David Kelley talk about creativity "using your imagination to create something new in the world." They move beyond this circular thought to see it as "looking beyond the status quo," with creative confidence an "inherently optimistic way of looking at what's possible." This echoes cartoonist and blogger Hugh MacLeod's definition: "Bringing new light to what life might be." I've been developing my own draft definition: Using one's talents to affect positive change which allows individuals and societies to flourish.
Each has its good and bad aspects. Most important, however, is what they have in common. First, they all ask us to consider the notion of creativity as something broader than the long-standing and limiting framework of artistic expression. It's about perspectives and orientation and action. It's about innovation and options and exploration. It's about determining what's better. Second, they imply--and further digging would let you see they believe--that everyone is innatiely creative in some form or fashion. The real issue is that we've been led to beleive, for various reasons, that we are not; and it also has not been emphasized as a necessary trait. To a certain degree, then, it's also a matter of mindset, and traditionally we've appraoched this with the typical fixed mindset.
Similarly, we must move beyond the notion that creativity is fixed. In that regard, it's no different than the notion many have held about intelligence. And we know through Carole Dweck's work that intelligence is mutable if approached the right way. Also, consider how,the concept of multiple intelligences and that we've come to understand that intelligence is individually distinct, diverse, and dynamic. Certainly the same truths apply to creativity. We can reveal and nurture all forms of creavity. Primarily by introducing the basics of design thinking, workshops based on the Kelley brothers' methods have helped hundreds feel more creative in their particular endeavors. Per the Kelleys, "Design thinking relies on the natural--and coachable--human ability to be intuitive, to,recognize patterns, and to construct ideas that are emotionally meaningful as well as functional." Creative Confidence has numerous examples. The brothers write, "People who use the creative techniques we outline are better able to apply their imagination to painting a picture of the future. They believe they have the ability to improve on existing ideas and to positively impact the world around them, whether at work or in their personal lives."
Therein lies the real point. As far as work goes, we've all seen the multiple surveys of CEOs and other sorts who point out the increased importance of creativity in the increasingly complex world marketplace. They see it as the number one criteria they seek in new hires, but they also say they can't find it in enough people. Certainly that's important. But I argue the real value is more essentially human than that--that it lies deep inside those qualities which help make us human. It ties to Pink's work on motivation being tied to autonomy, mastery, and purpose. Our sense of those blossoms when we are being creative in any endeavor. It helps foster that sense of flow. It helps us to flourish and to thrive in all aspects of our lives. For that reason it should be an integral part of our educational mission.
Monday, April 7, 2014
Why Creativity Really Matters
Many practical reasons exist for schools to be putting more emphasis on creativity in all its forms. The move from the information age to the creative age, employment prospects, the new emphasis on design, ties to innovation, the fact that thus far computers can't ideate--if you're reading this blog, like me you know most of the broad strokes, all of which I have invoked in various fora. I've even made hour-long presentations on this very topic.
I love what this emphasis on creativity has brought to schools. We see more project-based learning, more integrated curricula, more collaboration, more questioning. The use of design thinking principles fosters key character and intellectual principles foundational to human progress. Maker spaces and design dens and innovation labs (and whatever else they are called) are pretty awesome places to see in action. Simply yet profoundly, education now seems more engaging and more relevant. More real.
Having said all that, I don't know that we've articulated maybe the most important reason this trend matters.
As I see it, the educational process and all its pieces should add up to a single whole: the creation of a self. In many ways growing up is forming updated prototypes of oneself, better iterations of one's core, hopefully in relation to others.For that to happen, one must be able to dream, to conceive of the possible, and to imagine oneself moving into it, whether by baby steps or in a giant leap. The stages of design thinking, for example, thus becomes a metaphor for striving to fulfill the mission. But a crucial difference is that doing so is as incumbent upon the students as it is the school. Probably even more so, which should be the goal since education should be about their futures. When it happens, that's learning at its most meaningful.
I love what this emphasis on creativity has brought to schools. We see more project-based learning, more integrated curricula, more collaboration, more questioning. The use of design thinking principles fosters key character and intellectual principles foundational to human progress. Maker spaces and design dens and innovation labs (and whatever else they are called) are pretty awesome places to see in action. Simply yet profoundly, education now seems more engaging and more relevant. More real.
Having said all that, I don't know that we've articulated maybe the most important reason this trend matters.
As I see it, the educational process and all its pieces should add up to a single whole: the creation of a self. In many ways growing up is forming updated prototypes of oneself, better iterations of one's core, hopefully in relation to others.For that to happen, one must be able to dream, to conceive of the possible, and to imagine oneself moving into it, whether by baby steps or in a giant leap. The stages of design thinking, for example, thus becomes a metaphor for striving to fulfill the mission. But a crucial difference is that doing so is as incumbent upon the students as it is the school. Probably even more so, which should be the goal since education should be about their futures. When it happens, that's learning at its most meaningful.
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Move Out of the Way, and Be Delighted
Recently Lauren Bush, an eighth grader at St. John's, won the USA Network and R&R Partners Foundation's Flip the Script Unite Against Bullying Commercial Challenge. This allowed her to be part of the creation of a public service announcement based on her original video:
We're incredibly proud of Lauren and the immense quality of her work, along with the poignant message. No surprise the video is going viral. She deserves all the attention and accolades.
It's also important to consider the circumstances that allowed Lauren to create the video, as I believe they hold vital lessons for how education can function at its best. It was a first trimester film elective, and the students had a "simple" charge: create an inspirational video. Lauren then created "Word Play."
Let's examine what the teacher did and didn't do. He gave the students the very basics of film-making and let them play with each of them. They had a powerful tool (we're a 1:1 iPad school) that made the filming and editing process easy, meaning the students could focus on the creative aspects of the project. The assignment was specific and broad at the same time, and no rubric confined their ideas. He set them up for success...then moved out of their way. Finally--and this probably is the most important point--he believed in the students and their ability to delight us. To push what too many teachers see as impossible.
We're incredibly proud of Lauren and the immense quality of her work, along with the poignant message. No surprise the video is going viral. She deserves all the attention and accolades.
It's also important to consider the circumstances that allowed Lauren to create the video, as I believe they hold vital lessons for how education can function at its best. It was a first trimester film elective, and the students had a "simple" charge: create an inspirational video. Lauren then created "Word Play."
Let's examine what the teacher did and didn't do. He gave the students the very basics of film-making and let them play with each of them. They had a powerful tool (we're a 1:1 iPad school) that made the filming and editing process easy, meaning the students could focus on the creative aspects of the project. The assignment was specific and broad at the same time, and no rubric confined their ideas. He set them up for success...then moved out of their way. Finally--and this probably is the most important point--he believed in the students and their ability to delight us. To push what too many teachers see as impossible.
Monday, February 3, 2014
Just How Much 21st Century Teaching Occurs? Reflections After an #Isedchat Session
Last Thursday night I was only half paying attention to the #isedchat session, even though I love the sessions found the topic fascinating: classroom design for the 21st century*. So I may not have all my facts correct, and I fear this post may come across as cynicism rather than genuine wonder. Some comments and points made me ask just how much innovative, engaging teaching is actually happening in our schools.
First, I have to say that I find the people in these chats to be extremely thoughtful and dedicated, the type of people I want working in my school. Just think about the fact they are in an hour-long Twitter chat on a Thursday evening at 9:00 Eastern time, looking for nuggets to improve their craft and schools. They are the people advocating for positive changes. Every time I participate, I learn something; when I can't, I scan the archive. On this particular night there were multiple great points about furniture, multi-use walls, idea paint, configurations, sitting versus standing. Much of it centered around a much more active environment, with students much more active in their learning.
Then I think about what Grant Lichtman calls all the "brush fires of innovation" he discovered on his massive journey around the country and since. I see the amazing things many of my faculty are doing and what my children's teachers at Greenhill School are doing. I hear from other heads of school. So I know we're moving in the right direction.
But how much so? And how fast?
Here is why I ask. In the midst of that wonderful chat, people raised concerns and/or asked questions about the following points. What about when it's blue book/final exam time? Don't we have to train them to sit and listen for long periods of time? To sit for SATs and APs? They won't have classrooms like this in college, and we have to get them ready for that.
Those are realities, and people are right to bring some of them up. As a head of school, I battle constantly to balance my idealism and my practicality. Why, though, would there be a blue book final exam in such a classroom? Maybe schools that have fully embraced this type of modern education should forget about AP courses and exams. At times the conversation felt a bit schizophrenic. It seemed tinged with a degree of resignation, perhaps even assumption, regarding certain "time honored" practices. Thus arose the question which has been rattling in my mind ever since: just how much innovative teaching--and thus better learning--is going on?
Whatever the elusive and likely-to-some-degree disappointing answer to that question, I think there is a more important question. It's a big, hairy question, multi-faceted with myriad responses. How do school leaders make sure those who are creating those incredible classrooms for the 21st century, whatever the furniture, feel encouraged and supported?
*As many others have said in other places, I really dislike how we continue to use this term.
First, I have to say that I find the people in these chats to be extremely thoughtful and dedicated, the type of people I want working in my school. Just think about the fact they are in an hour-long Twitter chat on a Thursday evening at 9:00 Eastern time, looking for nuggets to improve their craft and schools. They are the people advocating for positive changes. Every time I participate, I learn something; when I can't, I scan the archive. On this particular night there were multiple great points about furniture, multi-use walls, idea paint, configurations, sitting versus standing. Much of it centered around a much more active environment, with students much more active in their learning.
Then I think about what Grant Lichtman calls all the "brush fires of innovation" he discovered on his massive journey around the country and since. I see the amazing things many of my faculty are doing and what my children's teachers at Greenhill School are doing. I hear from other heads of school. So I know we're moving in the right direction.
But how much so? And how fast?
Here is why I ask. In the midst of that wonderful chat, people raised concerns and/or asked questions about the following points. What about when it's blue book/final exam time? Don't we have to train them to sit and listen for long periods of time? To sit for SATs and APs? They won't have classrooms like this in college, and we have to get them ready for that.
Those are realities, and people are right to bring some of them up. As a head of school, I battle constantly to balance my idealism and my practicality. Why, though, would there be a blue book final exam in such a classroom? Maybe schools that have fully embraced this type of modern education should forget about AP courses and exams. At times the conversation felt a bit schizophrenic. It seemed tinged with a degree of resignation, perhaps even assumption, regarding certain "time honored" practices. Thus arose the question which has been rattling in my mind ever since: just how much innovative teaching--and thus better learning--is going on?
Whatever the elusive and likely-to-some-degree disappointing answer to that question, I think there is a more important question. It's a big, hairy question, multi-faceted with myriad responses. How do school leaders make sure those who are creating those incredible classrooms for the 21st century, whatever the furniture, feel encouraged and supported?
*As many others have said in other places, I really dislike how we continue to use this term.
Friday, September 13, 2013
Killdares Concert and Education
Last night my 16-year-old daughter and I went to GrapeFest in Grapevine, Texas, so that we could attend a concert by The Killdares. (You can hear the music!) The easiest way to describe their music is hard-driving Celtic alternative rock. It's new and fresh, but with many traditional rock and Celtic elements thrown into the mix. They also have an incredible amount of fun when they are playing. My daughter was able to meet one of the band members after they played at her school, and he said, "Where else am I going to get to play the bagpipes in a rock-and-roll band?" As you can see in the photo, they have the usual lead guitar, drums, and bass--but also a fiddle and bagpipes. (One song last night highlighted the Irish tin whistle.) Anyway, I came home nice and sweaty from bopping around.
And during last night's concert, I saw something I'd never seen before; I don't think I'd ever even heard of it before, actually, although it makes sense. For one song the bagpiper pulled out something that looked like a giant meat thermometer.
Electronic bagpipes! When he started playing them, I couldn't discern any real difference, and I thought it was quite cool. What a great piece of innovation!On the ride home, my daughter asked why I thought the Killdares have not become a really giant band. We concluded that their music might be just a bit too quirky for many people, even though that's what we love about them. The Killdares combine some very traditional elements from rock and Celtic music in really creative ways to provide a very unique, truly engaging sound. They very much appeal to that primal part of us that responds to wonderful music.
Naturally, I see all this as a metaphor/lesson for what I'm urging for schools. We can't ever cease to be, first and foremost--places about those things which make us human at our very essence. Learning, creating, growing, connecting--these are what keep us moving forward as individuals and as a species. Now we live in this amazing time that fosters us so many opportunities to relish in those activities in new ways. Keep those traditional elements that truly matter, but design experiences that grab kids and makes them want to dance.
Friday, April 5, 2013
Reaction to News a Computer Can Grade Essays
The science section of yesterday’s New York Times had the headline—or at least some variation thereof— I’ve been expecting to see for a while now: New Test for Computers: Grading Essays at College Level. I still gagged a bit.
I’m not skeptical that a computer program with sophisticated enough AI software can grade basic essays. At this point, doing so is perhaps not even that great a challenge.
But why would we ever think this is a good thing? To me this development captures so many of the ills plaguing education, particularly an unrelenting push to standardize as much as possible.
Let’s consider the following example. I know it’s extreme, and it’s not the sort of work the computers would be grading. But bear with me to what I think will be a clear point. Students used to ask me frequently how long a paper had to be. Early in the year, I would bring in two of my favorite novels, Melville’s Moby-Dick and Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea, and juxtapose them. They are, I would explain, in many ways the same essential story told in very different ways. The kids grasped the message. I wonder how a computer would deal with either classic work.
That notion leads quite naturally into the same concept expanded. Language is tied to the same neurological expansion that enabled us to develop tools. It encompasses the higher of human capabilities, that amazing cerebral flexibility to merge the abstract and the concrete, to capture thought and imagination in ways that seem almost tangible to us. Not only that, but language also allows us to express ourselves in infinitely, highly individualistic fashion while unifying us as a community.
And at a time when creativity and communication are keys to solving the gigantic issues we face as a society—perhaps as a species—why would we willingly reduce the assessment of a vital human skill to a series of algorithms?
Friday, January 25, 2013
Learning to Fly: The Greatest Time to be an Educator
Note: This post works as a follw-up to previous post, "The Real Enemy of Great."
Earlier this month, St. John’s had Jonathan Martin lead an in-service on 21st Century Education for us. It was awesome—“best in-service ever,” several teachers praised. Jonathan packed his presentation with loads of theory and concrete information, and teachers left with clear steps for moving forward. The day made me miss being in the classroom as a teacher. What has resonated with me since then is a question Jonathan asked: When was a time when you suddenly knew things would never be the same?
While I can think of many pivotal moments during my career in education, four stand out as “Aha!” sort of experiences.
· The first came in the mid-90s. I was teaching 9th grade English, and students were doing research on a small section of Genesis or Exodus. The idea was to dig as deeply into it as possible, from various angles. Our library had limited resources, and my knowledge was finite. I convinced the tech director to give each student an e-mail address. Then I contacted various seminaries and religious studies departments around the nation to see if anyone would be willing to serve as a “telementor.” Suddenly my students were collaborating with experts on some very serious scholarship. I wasn’t obsolete, but my role was certainly different as I became much more of a guide and partner in the learning process.
· Around 2005 or so, I was teaching a self-developed course called The Ways We Know, a hybrid of neuroscience, cognition, and epistemology. Needless to say, there was no pre-existing textbook, and I wanted a wide variety of resources. The course book became a page in a content management system with a bunch of links to myriads materials. So much for my notion of the textbook.
· About that same time, I was teaching a junior poetry course. For the final project, I wanted the students to do something that would incorporate all the facets of the course. The typical analytical essay just wasn’t going to work. Instead, the students created electronic poetry museums which had multiple facets, including the usual written elements along with created and downloaded multi-media elements. An added bonus was how much time the students spent exploring each other’s museums. Authentic assessment became my ideal.
· The final one occurred in the spring of 2010. The chairman of the arts department came to see me about an email he had received from someone in Bhutan. The person was an education student and was inquiring about something she had traced to our school via an article in some education journal published in Asia. But the information was vague, and we had no idea what she was referring to. We apologized for not being able to help, but the person politely tried us again. We involved the educational technology director, who did some searching and “got a Google”— a single hit for the entered search terms. It turns out the article had contained a reference to a website some of my students had created in a junior English class several years earlier. Yes, we are closely connected in unforeseen ways, and students can make important contributions.
At the end of each anecdote I comment very briefly on its significance, and each point matters. More important is the composite. Together, they show just about every traditional aspect of the teacher-student relationship beyond the basic human connection being upset to some degree.
At the same time, however—and this where the crucial idea really starts—these epiphanies did not alter my essential philosophy. Powerful relationships, finding relevance and purpose, learning how learn, creativity, collaboration, student as worker—all these ideas and others have fueled my practices from the first time I stepped into a classroom. After all, I’m the guy who put everything aside for a month in 1988 when a bunch of eighth graders wanted to rewrite their own version of Romeo and Juliet and then videotape the performance (still one of my greatest experiences as a teacher; how I wish it had been digitalized before the tape was ruined). Two simple truths often held me back. The first was, as a young teacher, having to reconcile my beliefs and wishes with so much of what my experience as a student and the larger culture were telling me a teacher should do—the very traditional view of the role. Working through that was difficult, full of inevitable pitfalls only deepened by the mistakes most young teachers make. The second was more practical. It was too hard and even impossible to do some of what I would have liked. For example, recall the story above about creating the on-line repository of resources for a course. Back in the 80s, I wanted to create a reader for one of my classes. Dealing with the publishers, the copyright issues, the fees, and the sheer time involved were simply overwhelming; and I abandoned the project. Twenty years later, I could create just what I wanted, with multimedia, rather easily. I’ve written many times that technology must function as a tool that allows us to achieve our objectives in the bet fashion. Tablet, laptop, phone—the device doesn’t matter. The power lies in the what and the how, driven by the why. As suggested above, that why becomes much more achievable. It’s really quite amazing and empowering.
Sometimes I think we forget that. We have become so accustomed to rapid technological change that we fail to consider its impact. Take a minute and ask yourself: What am I glad I can do now that I couldn’t do x number of years ago? Even more importantly, what can students do? Think about what happened in the examples outlines above. In just about a decade, my students went from passive consumers to active creators and even contributors on a global scale. Imagine, then, what the future may hold. And we must prepare young people not for our pasts or even our presents, but for their futures.
Even beyond that, this empowerment feeds the educators our children need in other key ways. As Dan Pink’s work in Drive shows us, true motivation and fulfillment come from autonomy, mastery, and purpose. In the right environment, teachers have more and more opportunities to sense those feelings. While doing so, to borrow Seth Godin’s metaphor about important work, thoughtful and brave educators can become true artists. We can build upon the great work done before our time. However, we have an obligation to break molds, to imagine and design and create, to take small steps into the adjacent possible or flying leaps into the skies of what could be.
Friday, January 18, 2013
The Real Enemy of Great
The opening line of Jim Collins’ best-selling Good to Great declares, “Good is the enemy of great” (1). There is no telling how many times over the few years immediately after the book’s release I heard that line in a presentation or read it in some sort of piece. I don’t disagree with the notion; and I won’t argue with the many examples, the piles of data, and the behaviors that Collins presents. Ultimately, though, I’m not sure Collins identifies the real enemy. The closest he comes is when he writes, “That good is the enemy of great is not just a business problem. It is a human problem” (16).
Agreed. But Collins doesn’t dig any further into the issue; in fairness, that is not really his point, as his real work lies in delineating the process for improvement. He does focus on qualities needed to make this happen, whether at Level 5 Leadership or in the various seats on the bus. Certainly important. However, the question of the real human problem lingers.
Complacency, blind spots, limited abilities, narrow bandwith, practical constraints—I’m sure you could add to the list, and all are realities. But I think there is something more insidious at work.
Cynicism.
Hiding behind a cloak of cool, this jaded posture is quick to launch spears of negativity at new ideas, at the unfamiliar, at the original. It’s often the spawn of ego and fear, so it lashes out at any threat. And what’s required to become great—the risk, the uncertainty, the personal investment, the vision—threatens many.
Sadly, reasons abound to have become cynical. People we’ve chosen as role models and leaders seem to let us down almost daily, i.e. cheating athletes and dogmatic, uncompromising politicians. So now cynicism seems to fuel much of what passes for humor. After all, do we laugh or cry?
I cry. Mainly because of the effect on the target of the barbs, and those are the people who can move us toward becoming great. Instead, they begin to feel those tugs of doubts, to heed those cries of the lizard brain, to suffer bouts of paralysis. It also can erode the belief of those who support the move.
More dangerously than anything else, cynicism carpet bombs the realms of possibility. Ideas are reduced to rubble; dreams, burned to crispy cinders. Unless we can construct ever-taller towers, how can we become great?
Sometimes the move towards great is relatively easy, when we take small steps into the adjacent possible. The real gut-wrenching occurs when we leap into a place realized primarily in our imaginations. That calls for courage and faith.
I am sure this concept holds true for most areas, but I think it’s particularly true for education. At its essence, education depends on a steadfast, unshakable belief in the possibility of each child. It’s not just the adults who must have this belief. The child must internalize it.
We also must embrace the possibilities of education—not what it can achieve, but what it can become. I know that I couldn’t do my work without grasping that ideal. That is particularly true now. This is my thirtieth year in independent schools; and, as I plan to explain in my next post, I think this is an amazingly exciting time to be an educator. Maybe the most exciting. An era to accomplish truly great things. It’s certainly no time to be cynical. It is time to conquer the enemy.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Props to Tony Wagner
Last night I started to read Tony Wagner’s Creating Innovators: The Making of Young People Who Will Change the World. I am not yet far enough into it to give a fair review, but I have to salute Wagner right away.
In November 2010 I posted a piece titled “Reading--By Book or By Nook or By...?”. It was some musing on the future of the book and what it may become.
With the encouragement and work of Robert Compton, Wagner’s book contains qr codes and hyperlinks that lead to videos which augment the text. If you are reading the hardback version, for instance, you can scan a code with your smartphone and watch a video. On an ereader, you can follow the links or purchase a version with the videos embedded. At least so far, the videos don’t really add that much depth, but it’s still quite cool and suggests great possibilities.
I’ve been to plenty of conferences and presentations about innovation and teamwork and cooperative learning and brain-based, active learning and Socratic dialogue…all presented via the traditional lecture.
We will see how this affects the reading experience. No matter what, Wagner deserves credit for practicing what he preaches.
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