By Faith Tibbetts McDonald
Recently, I met with a representative of a university program designed to promote engaged scholarship. She was looking for opportunities to showcase teaching sessions in which a professor lectures less and facilitates discussions and activities more. This practice, she said, increases student learning. She angled for an invitation to my class to demonstrate. She pitched the session as an adventure that transforms learning. Of course, she was exceedingly careful not to indicate that anyone’s teaching—certainly not mine—actually required transformation.
She’d targeted the right instructor. I’ll try anything that promises to boost college students’ learning. When I learned of Prezi, touted as PowerPoint on steroids, I mastered Prezi. A few years ago, I participated in an I-pads-for-college-instructors’-classroom-use pilot. Carrying an I-pad, I roamed the room, approaching and talking with students, while easily and instantly making changes to the on-screen display which was projected at the front of the room.
One app enabled students to text comments which appeared on screen. We used the app for a brainstorming session. The classroom surged with high tech, stimulating, real-time, professor-student interaction—learning on steroids! Except for the crude potty remarks—in bold–which appeared on screen for everyone to read and prompted snickers. I couldn’t positively identify the author. I had strong suspicions.
Last spring, I more successfully brought my puppy to class—a huge hit with everyone, except an allergic, annoyed math major.
Despite the risk that new teaching approaches might not succeed, I’m always willing to try them. I want to teach on the cutting edge. I’m nervous about becoming a teaching leftover like the overhead projectors that stand on wheeled carts in the corners of our classrooms.
I long to teach in a way that matters to students.
The competition is daunting. Seventeen years ago, when I started teaching, I vied with traditional distractions like daydreaming, doodling and note passing. These days, I compete—sometimes unsuccessfully—with the lure of instant Internet access via cellphone. The knowledge I share in class is not as extensive or as easily tweaked to accommodate a student’s tastes and attention span as Google’s extensive database. I try to connect, but the instructor-student classroom connection pales next to the virtual, popular, flexible appeal of Facebook. Of course, I include visuals to clarify and add impact to lectures, but they lack the exclusive, urgent quality of Snapchat.
So I offered the engaged scholarship initiative spokeswoman a qualified invitation: Come! But don’t be too exciting. After all, the students will be stuck with me for the rest of the semester.
But I felt a little smug, too.
In our brief meeting, when she requested the invitation to share in the class session, I’d gained a new perspective. My teaching weaknesses had been transformed into cutting edge teaching strengths.
See, I’m an introvert who loves to write. I obtained a university teaching position years ago to supplement my writing income, so I could help my own college age kids with college expenses.
I signed on to teach writing classes, not realizing I’d encounter so much pressure to lecture, and, well, entertain. Even in writing classes, where writing workshops and peer editing sessions are common, I felt pushed into the spotlight. My mentor advised me to spend more time perched behind the podium speaking. When, as part of my professional development, I observed colleagues, I witnessed lectures. When I included too many activities in a session, students commented on SRTEs: more lectures would improve this class.
So I marshalled my resources and began to fake extrovert traits like enjoying the spotlight and comfortably talking to large groups of people.
When my watch read time to start class, I’d deliberately move to the room’s front and center to begin my scripted performance. I’d share an introductory story. A writing principle. I’d recite examples of the writing principle applied.
At first, I worried I wouldn’t perform adequately. Then I made a few mistakes. I spilled coffee down the front of my white, silk blouse. Class went on.
I misspoke more often than I’ll actually admit. Once, I started a lecture by greeting a student in front of the whole class. Warmly, I said: I feel like I know you from somewhere. As I spoke, I realized I knew him because his picture had been plastered on the front page of the local paper for weeks in a row—legal issues. Something to do with ill-considered text messages and a brawl. I apologized adamantly: I didn’t mean to draw attention to your legal problems. Which I instantly realized drew more attention to his legal problems. Probably a FERPA violation. Why not list his charges on the board and punctuate them with a squad of exclamation marks? Why not just start over and mention that I’d noticed his sports-related fame. Why open my mouth in the first place?
Class went on.
I gave lectures filled with content and humor and good examples. Some kids jotted notes. Their action fueled the torrent of words.
But after 10, maybe 15, minutes, I’d notice someone yawning, nodding off or texting, and I’d think: I don’t blame him. I’m tired of the sound of my voice.
I recalled a silly game that I played as a kid. I’d recite a word over and over. Maybe the name of the elementary school I attended: Galbraith. I’d say, “Galbraith.” At first, the word, rich with meaning, prompted a kaleidoscope of memories. My first grade class where I learned to read, but more vividly recall the day I sat stock-still, clutching my pencil, afraid to move because the stern teacher had declared that the next student to drop a pencil that clattered and echoed in the room would be punished. “Galbraith.” Turn to memories of my warm second grade teacher, Miss Charcoal, with her dark brown hair piled high on her head. I earned a demerit for chewing on my pencil. “Galbraith.” I could see the playground on a frigid day and my tongue stuck to the side of a frosty slide. “Galbraith.”
However, as I repeated the combination of sounds, meaning turned to nonsense. “Galbraith” became garble rolling off my tongue.
In the same way, in the college classroom, after I’d lectured awhile, my words turned to jumble.
When I looked to the audience to contradict this idea, I saw kids doodling, heads drooping, eyes closing, and students surreptitiously completing homework for other classes.
So I tried to keep their attention by adding some humor. I quickly learned that college students don’t recognize self-deprecating humor. If, gesturing to the overhead projector in the corner, I said something like, “I’m almost as dated as that projector and the writing advice I offer is even more ancient; however, it’s stood the test of time and here’s how you can apply it today.” Students would write in their end of semester ratings: this professor is out of date. She admitted that she’s as irrelevant as an overhead projector.
Prefacing self-deprecating humor with a comment like, “Here’s a bit of self-deprecating humor.” Well, that doesn’t work, either.
And, for me, lecturing is just so tiring.
I could’ve started guzzling energy drinks, but I opted to sneak (just a few) activities into my classes. I worked with stealth and didn’t let on—to anyone—that I was transforming the classroom. Honestly, I didn’t know I was transforming the classroom. I was surviving.
Of course, classrooms filled with active students bring challenges. Student responses are unpredictable. Once, in a creative writing class, I said, “You are in the right place at the right time. But prepare to share about a time you were in the wrong place at a wrong time.” A girl started sobbing. I caught her eye and discretely mouthed, “What’s wrong?” She wailed, “You said to write about a time I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. This class is it for me.”
When I ask students to get out of their seats, find a classmate they haven’t met before and work on revising a message. They resist, “Why do we have to get out of our seats?”
Occasionally, I have presented a communication quandary to resolve and an outspoken student has confidently voiced a ludicrous solution. Contradicting an outspoken student who has volunteered an outlandish response never contributes to positive classroom dynamics for me. I’ve yet to master the delicate maneuver of contradicting a student before an audience of his peers.
But despite the challenges, I love a session packed with activities. I enjoy the buzz of students chatting in groups of two or three. I recognize words that rise to the surface. I hear phrases that indicate students are engaged in meaningful discussions about the material I want them to master. I feel like I’ve spotted a shooting star.
I used to believe that guiding students through activities punctuated with a brief lecture was teaching in a way that camouflaged my weaknesses. However, in my conversation with the engaged scholarship representative, I learned to think differently; I’m riding the new wave of engaged scholarship. I’m not trying new methods. I’m doing the same-old with a new attitude. I’ve stepped out of the spotlight and into a position of strength. Believing that my teaching methods are sound creates an expansive feeling of shiny newness in my heart. It might be called…transformation. Or, at least, some breathing room in which to teach before I join the overhead projector on the side of the room.
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