Approximately two times a year (at the beginning and ending of the school year), I get the opportunity to sit down with my coworkers and have real conversations. This isn't because I don't get to sit down and talk with them during the year, but there's always "something else" that we have to talk about. It's usually (read: almost always) about students--how we can help one or another, what we can do to ensure the continued functions of the school, what teachers are doing that may need correcting of the course to aid the kids--so it's always worthwhile. I mean, I'm not complaining about the fact that I have to talk shop with other teachers about the students we're teaching.
But during our trainings both before and after the school year, that pressure isn't there. I don't have assigned students, there aren't parent emails to consider, there aren't snatches of conversation to wedge between the bells. I can work in my classroom doing mindless cleaning activities and talk about biblical hermeneutics or lounge in an office and discuss the anxieties of Western Tradition, all without a timer ticking down in the back of my mind.
These conversations are both therapeutic as well as invigorating, as they allow me to explore ideas that I either never touch or are beyond where my students tend to swim. Such intellectual stimulation rarely comes my way in this manner--as capable and intelligent as my students are, they are still sophomores (mostly) and tend to think in similar ways. Having taught them for nine years now, I can pretty well sense what they assume and think. I'm not always right, of course, but there's a level that they tend to float at that the professional thinkers with whom I work exceed. And taking advantage of that expertise--being asked new questions or asking some of my own--is genuine and genuinely enjoyable.
My younger self would be shocked at how much I like to have conversations now. I don't know when the switch happened--when the idea of running around, playing (video) games, and creating something (music, videos, drawings, games) moved into the realm of sitting in a comfortable chair and just talking. "Catching up" is what my mom would have called it back then; boring, I would have called it. Yet "getting together" with friends and discussing life and ideas and whatever strikes the fancy? That sounds like a splendid evening. Throw in some good food and minimize the distractions of my children who think the whole talking thing is boring and I'd even look forward to the event.
This idea of conversation is interesting to me, in part because it's a massive portion of my job, but the mechanics of what it requires is startling. The process of speech alone requires minute coordination of tongue, teeth, throat, lungs, and nose, while also requiring intense processing power in order to find the meaning and transmit the idea. Then the recipient has to hear (a passive ability) before decoding, processing, and responding to the ideas. If the recipient is supposed to respond in some way, that process has to reverse itself and swing around the other way. It's an intricate dance of biomechanical steps and intellectual logarithms that we interact with constantly. When it breaks down, which is often (though not as often as one might expect from such a complicated process), it's little wonder that it causes confusion and frustration. There's so much that's expected from speech, and we do so much of it so frequently, that those errors feel...insulting? Distracting? They aren't an affront, per se, but they detract from the dance. Little wonder we get frustrated.
But today's conversations were thoughtful in that they were full of thought, as well as expansive. I feel like I understand the world better (and, as always happens when I learn, a little worse) because of the things I've been able to participate in and learn about. This goes back to my question about building a school. There's a lot of value to that private, individual process of learning through conversing. It's Socratic, it's individualized. Indeed, that's the allure of the home school movement (on one level; I'm aware there are other motives). What I think home school too often fails at is the idea of expertise. I know there's a movement against experts, but we always seek them out when the problem is large. And I know well enough how little I know that I wouldn't want my kids to only learn from me. Indeed, there are lines that a parent has to draw that a mentor needn't--and vice versa, of course--and the distance that non-family can provide is part of the power of education. The inclusion of different voices, expertise, and views is where schools can genuinely shine.*
I don't know that I'd modify the Dream Academy to make it private tutors, because, as much as I loved today's conversations, I love learning from my other coworkers, too. Getting a broader range of understanding is powerful, and I think it helps me become a better person.
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* Much like there are good and bad teachers, there are good and bad home schools. Those which excel and help their children the most are the ones that organize, coordinate, and share the expertise of the world. The bad ones are the parents who read the book before the kid does and then expects to gain something out of the experience. That's my professional opinion. You're welcome to disagree with it. Preferably in an essay of your own.
But during our trainings both before and after the school year, that pressure isn't there. I don't have assigned students, there aren't parent emails to consider, there aren't snatches of conversation to wedge between the bells. I can work in my classroom doing mindless cleaning activities and talk about biblical hermeneutics or lounge in an office and discuss the anxieties of Western Tradition, all without a timer ticking down in the back of my mind.
These conversations are both therapeutic as well as invigorating, as they allow me to explore ideas that I either never touch or are beyond where my students tend to swim. Such intellectual stimulation rarely comes my way in this manner--as capable and intelligent as my students are, they are still sophomores (mostly) and tend to think in similar ways. Having taught them for nine years now, I can pretty well sense what they assume and think. I'm not always right, of course, but there's a level that they tend to float at that the professional thinkers with whom I work exceed. And taking advantage of that expertise--being asked new questions or asking some of my own--is genuine and genuinely enjoyable.
My younger self would be shocked at how much I like to have conversations now. I don't know when the switch happened--when the idea of running around, playing (video) games, and creating something (music, videos, drawings, games) moved into the realm of sitting in a comfortable chair and just talking. "Catching up" is what my mom would have called it back then; boring, I would have called it. Yet "getting together" with friends and discussing life and ideas and whatever strikes the fancy? That sounds like a splendid evening. Throw in some good food and minimize the distractions of my children who think the whole talking thing is boring and I'd even look forward to the event.
This idea of conversation is interesting to me, in part because it's a massive portion of my job, but the mechanics of what it requires is startling. The process of speech alone requires minute coordination of tongue, teeth, throat, lungs, and nose, while also requiring intense processing power in order to find the meaning and transmit the idea. Then the recipient has to hear (a passive ability) before decoding, processing, and responding to the ideas. If the recipient is supposed to respond in some way, that process has to reverse itself and swing around the other way. It's an intricate dance of biomechanical steps and intellectual logarithms that we interact with constantly. When it breaks down, which is often (though not as often as one might expect from such a complicated process), it's little wonder that it causes confusion and frustration. There's so much that's expected from speech, and we do so much of it so frequently, that those errors feel...insulting? Distracting? They aren't an affront, per se, but they detract from the dance. Little wonder we get frustrated.
But today's conversations were thoughtful in that they were full of thought, as well as expansive. I feel like I understand the world better (and, as always happens when I learn, a little worse) because of the things I've been able to participate in and learn about. This goes back to my question about building a school. There's a lot of value to that private, individual process of learning through conversing. It's Socratic, it's individualized. Indeed, that's the allure of the home school movement (on one level; I'm aware there are other motives). What I think home school too often fails at is the idea of expertise. I know there's a movement against experts, but we always seek them out when the problem is large. And I know well enough how little I know that I wouldn't want my kids to only learn from me. Indeed, there are lines that a parent has to draw that a mentor needn't--and vice versa, of course--and the distance that non-family can provide is part of the power of education. The inclusion of different voices, expertise, and views is where schools can genuinely shine.*
I don't know that I'd modify the Dream Academy to make it private tutors, because, as much as I loved today's conversations, I love learning from my other coworkers, too. Getting a broader range of understanding is powerful, and I think it helps me become a better person.
----
* Much like there are good and bad teachers, there are good and bad home schools. Those which excel and help their children the most are the ones that organize, coordinate, and share the expertise of the world. The bad ones are the parents who read the book before the kid does and then expects to gain something out of the experience. That's my professional opinion. You're welcome to disagree with it. Preferably in an essay of your own.