Somewhere along the way, we have lost our way.
Across our communities and our schools, we rush about in a manic fashion to finish this task or that one that it is no wonder why we don’t enjoy the moment or (sometimes) even remember it.
It was Hall of Fame golfer Walter Hagen who first asked us to “stop and smell the flowers.” How quickly we forget.
Much like life outside of school, life inside the classroom feels much too rushed for our teachers and children in light of their mad dash to “cover everything.”
We all understand that a certain amount of material must be mastered to proceed from one grade to the next – even from one course to the next. Still, if our curricula were more aligned, overlapping, and spiraled we could accomplish so much more with much less crisis and chaos. In many parts of the country the pressure to cover more material has been made even more pressing through mandated assessments created by the state or district. These tests tend to be content-heavy: You know, “Who fought in the War of 1812?” – that sort of thing.
And so we rush, not stopping long enough to consider what may.
Instructional leadership demands that we consider what may
The War of 1812 is important to American history, though not nearly as important as knowing how to “think” about war, conflict, nation-building, rhetoric, propaganda, and revolution. Yes. Yes. There are some foundational names and dates that intelligent and active citizens need to know, though too much of what we teach in schools is so specialized as to border on trivia (and not knowledge).
In fact, I would submit that intelligence is not about how much we know. It’s about how much we know about how much we know. Let’s take a peek inside a science classroom to find one easy example. I can recall my son telling me that his class was studying the different types of rocks (igneous, sedimentary, and metamorphic) and he could recite with great confidence what was unique about the various rock formations, etc.
As fate would have it, a few months later a neighbor who traveled overseas brought him back some really cool rocks that she found along her route. There was a note attached to them that said they were sedimentary rocks. Of course, I asked him what that meant and, as you might have guessed, he didn’t know. “But didn’t you study that in school this year?” I asked him. “Oh, yes, but that was months ago. I don’t remember much of it anymore.”
Let’s let that sink in for a minute. He didn’t remember much of it anymore.
Like you, I do not have all the answers, though encounters such as these beg so many questions.
In truth, the topics, timelines, people, and places we cover in school and how much time we spend on them has challenged us for decades. It has all become a bit absurd, really, especially when most content experts are “true believers” in making the case that their content is the most critical to student success.
I suppose my argument today then is about priorities, both in life and in school. It is a plea for us to consider what is possible, what is likely, and what really, really matters.
Instructional leadership demands innovation and personalization
In the end, we all want the same things. We want our students to graduate both highly skilled and highly articulate. Now, all we have to do is define those things. One place to start is to agree that our children need to know how to read, write, and think deeply about the world around them.
In science, I say we teach them to read, write, and think about the science they see around them, from environmental issues to ecological ones. In social studies, I say we teach them to read, write, and think about the events unfolding around them, from wars and politics, to social justice and revolution. In language arts, I say we teach them to read, write, and think through an exploration of their passions (not ours) and a discovery of their own voices (not ours).
I am reminded of a line from Jodie Foster in the movie Contact. As the ultimate scientist in search of answers, she is sent into space in search of life among the stars. As she floats weightlessly in the darkness of space, she struggles to find the right words to describe her experiences. “They should have sent a poet,” she says.
Indeed, they should have sent a poet.
I say this because I believe that the science of learning too often trumps the poetry of learning. It seems that we’re in such a rush to teach content, to thrust facts and figures upon our kids, that we don’t take enough time to teach them to think, reflect, contemplate, and consider. We don’t see it as a priority of the first order to teach them to question, to reason, to defend their own thinking, to write and speak passionately, and to make their claims in highly articulate manners. That’s because most of us are teachers of our content first and teachers of all that other stuff only as time permits.
In fact, we are much more likely to ask students to memorize and than to theorize. I wish it were not so.
If we are ever to aspire to grander expectations for our children, we must go about this all quite differently. Along the way, we would be wise to consider and capture in our classrooms what Harvard professor Sara Lawrence-Lightfoot describes as “the art in the development of science and the science in the making of art.” We must respond what John Dewey called us to do in his classic text Art as Experience (1934) in creating more meaningful and cerebral experiences for our children.
Of course, sublimity cannot be rushed. Neither can art.
This will take time, and bold leadership. Our next generation teachers will be called upon to devise inspiring new curricula that are more personalized, empowering, authentic, and artful. An educational experience that is beautiful not merely pretty, creative not merely competent.
Discovery over mimicry.
In doing so, here’s hoping we find some way to slow down a bit, to cover fewer things well, and to find a bit of poetry among the stars.
