The new academic year began yesterday, and I spent much of last week in school and department meetings, preparing syllabi and working out schedules. In a break from the usual, I chose to do much of my preparation for the new semester at the RIWP office because it's far removed from the central traffic of campus, it houses a copier that is at my disposal, and it is deliciously quiet over there these days. Also, I put in several work orders to have computers and printers at the RIWP updated and to also have the massive pile of recycling carted away, so I was also there waiting for the technicians and workers who were slated to arrive.
When I got to the RIWP offices, ready to get down to working on my syllabus for my writing class, I noticed how dusty and grimy the desks in our office were. I thought, "Geez. These desks probably haven't been wiped down in months." But, I couldn't wipe the desks off until I removed all the piles of papers from the desks, papers that hadn't been sorted through for months. So, I sorted the papers into folders, recycle bins, and trash. Once the tops of the tables and desks were ready for the accumulation of a new year's worth of stuff, I got to spraying and wiping them down, keyboards, phones and all. Once I had sorted and wiped and cleared and cleaned, I needed to get to work on the computer, generating emails that had been neglected for trips to the beach and backyard barbecues. So, I sat down at our former program assistant's desk (we no longer have a program assistant), and I tried to channel her efficiency in getting right to work. There were many boxes to be checked on my To Do list.
But, just as I began to write the first of many emails, a RIC custodian came walking up the stairs, into the office, and asked if I requested that the trash and recycling be hauled away. I said, "Yes," and then asked him his name. I stood up, introduced myself, learned his name was Mike, shook his hand, and we started talking about why the Physical Plant doesn't assign a regular custodian to clean the RIWP offices. Apparently, the custodians in the Physical Plant on our campus operate on a rotating schedule, with some custodians assigned as "floaters." The RIWP generally gets the "floater" custodian, Mike explained to me, which is why we have to call in our requests for trash pickup. While Mike was working--breaking down big cardboard boxes, hauling reams of paper downstairs to another office, cleaning out the upstairs bathroom for me (even though I didn't ask)--he and I continued talking. I learned that, in the rush at the end of the summer to get the campus in tip-top shape, the staff members working for Physical Plant get all the overtime they want, while, during the summer, their hours got cut back. Mike also talked to me about his brother who used to work for a big company and who, accidentally, once recycled some very important papers from his boss's office. He got in big trouble. That's why, Mike told me, he's hesitant to recycle anything in our office until he's gotten the go ahead from me. What had seemed to me, just minutes before, to be a simple, mindless task (recycling paper) now took on a certain moral complexity. I learned something right then about custodians, recycling, and the business of cleaning up after others.
After Mike had finished with the recycling upstairs, he asked me to walk downstairs with him so he could show me the bathroom. He had cleaned it, he said, and he wanted me to see the difference. Also, he noticed that the toilet wasn't working. "The flush isn't flushing," he said to me, suggesting that I go upstairs and submit another work order to have the toilet fixed. But, to Mike's surprise (his face gave it all away), I lifted off the top of the toilet tank, reached my hand into the tank water, and reattached the chain that had come undone and had caused the flush valve to malfunction. Once the chain was reattached, I put the top of the tank back on, gave the toilet a flush, and looked at Mike with a glow of self-satisfaction. Mike smiled at me and asked, "Do you own a house?" When I replied, "Yes," he said, "Well, if you own a house, you learn how to do everything, I guess." I think Mike might've learned something at that moment about women and professors and assumptions.
After our interlude in the downstairs bathroom, Mike and I parted ways, though I told him I'd probably be seeing him around, even if he was assigned to another building, since I do a fair amount of "floating" myself as a teacher on this campus. I went back upstairs to the office and to my To Do list. I emailed and invoiced my way through the afternoon, but I couldn't stop thinking about what a nice experience I had with Mike that day and how appreciative I was of his bright personality, sense of humor, and pride in his work. I had retreated to the RIWP offices, originally, to seek solitude so that I could finish my work. As it turned out, I had a good afternoon--productive enough--made better by interacting with one other worker. On that day, in those moments of that afternoon, we were just two workers, doing our jobs, sharing in the day-to-day labor.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Monday, July 23, 2012
Becoming a Networked Teacher Leader
Six months ago, I was so proud of myself for having eschewed Twitter for so long. As someone who was hesitant to create a Facebook page (but finally did), I made a solemn pledge that my digital social network would not go beyond that. After all, I'm too old to Tweet, and don't only famous people Tweet, anyway? Also, joining Twitter would add another "distraction" to the already long line of things that are actively distracting me from my work and my family. Why on Earth would I voluntarily sign up for MORE social networking when I'm the person whose heart soars at the thought of a rotary phone, a letter sent or received by the postal service or a conversation on a front porch. I am the queen of slow, deliberate practice, of cursive handwriting and paper notebooks and face-to-face teaching. I am not a product of the digital revolution. In fact, in many ways, I fight the ethos of digitizing our communication. "It'll make us less human," I'd say. "It will make us forget how to talk to one another," I'd warn. "Hiding behind screens exacerbates our fear of the other," I'd predict.
In April, midway through my sabbatical, I was at the National Writing Project's Spring Conference in Washington, DC, where people from every site in the US gather for a "lobbying blitz" on Capitol Hill. I was there in DC to visit our Senators from Rhode Island, Sheldon Whitehouse and Jack Reed, who have been supporters of the NWP and the RIWP, and whose support I wanted to continue to cultivate. Before setting us loose on the Hill, the smart staffers and consultants with NWP gathered us in a large hotel conference room to brief us on the fine art of lobbying. During that briefing, we were encouraged to "live Tweet" our Capitol Hill experience; that is, NWP folks were encouraging us to fire up our Twitter accounts and to send Tweets to a specified hashtag. One of the results, they said, of doing this is that we would be able to see, were we to follow the hashtag, who was winning support and who was meeting a challenge throughout the days of lobbying. As the only representative there from the RIWP, I felt somewhat responsible for updating folks on my progress. I was also intrigued by live tweeting. So, at that moment, spurred on by the NWP, I opened up my iPhone and signed up for a Twitter account.
From that moment forward, my handle's been @cookout70
I now have 113 followers, have sent over 800 tweets, and I am following over 400 individuals and organizations that are in some way connected to me as a teacher and a professional. In the past 4 months, I have cultivated a digital PLN, a personal learning network, that is tailored to my interests, my stance, my professional beliefs, and my eclectic tastes. I have gained so much, in just this short time, from this tremendous network of thinkers and do-ers. Here are five tangible benefits I've experienced since joining Twitter:
1. I now have colleagues across the globe, folks who are preparing teachers, teaching in colleges and universities and fighting corporate privatization of public schools and spaces.
2. As a result of cultivating international colleagues, I'm heading to the UK in November for a week. I will be spending time with professors at the University of Lincoln to study and better understand their "Student as Producer" model of teaching and learning. This, in turn, has opened up a whole new avenue for my interest in teaching writing by engaging my students in authentic, original research.
3. I now have readers visiting my blog. Folks don't comment much, but I can see that they are reading! And, that feels good. Like I am making a very small footprint.
4. I am able to easily stay connected to my NWP network, especially by following @writingproject and @NWPSiteLeaders.
5. My Personal Learning Network gives me hope because I've chosen to follow hopeful people. And, that's a small way I can positively impact my psyche and self-worth in a time when I am made to feel ashamed about being an advocate for public school teachers.
As a teacher educator, first-year writing instructor, and director of the RIWP, I'm so happy to be able to use Twitter to connect the three streams of my professional life in one place. The most important piece of advice I can give you about becoming a digitally networked teacher leader is this: If I can do it, you can do it.
Here are some resources to get you started!
What is a PLN?
http://onceateacher.wordpress.com/2009/05/05/pln-your-personal-learning-network-made-easy/
George Couros: "What Should a Networked Educational Leader Tweet About?" http://georgecouros.ca/blog/archives/1810
What are some good teacher-related discussions to join?
#edchat #engchat #edchatri #edblogs #yalitchat #teachchat #ISI2012
*diagram courtesy of Alex Couros
George Couros: "What Should a Networked Educational Leader Tweet About?" http://georgecouros.ca/blog/archives/1810
What are some good teacher-related discussions to join?
#edchat #engchat #edchatri #edblogs #yalitchat #teachchat #ISI2012
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Collaborating with Campus Colleagues
Yesterday marked a "first" for the Rhode Island Writing Project. Yesterday we held our first ever Summer Invitational Institute for Adjunct Instructors of First-Year Writing at Rhode Island College. Though the institute has a much-too-long title, to be sure, I am thrilled with what we created yesterday. Thanks to my good colleague and friend, Becky Caouette, the Director of Writing at RIC, for daring to enact a new tradition at our College: collaborating with K-12 teachers to improve our understanding of and teaching of First-Year Writing at the College.
We invited 10 participants to enroll in a day-long Institute devoted to: (1) discussing the new General Education program at our College and how it will impact our teaching; (2) discussing the new Common Core State Standards and how they might impact our teaching of college writing; (3) hearing from a panel of high school teachers about their experiences and observations teaching high school writing. The Institute was filled, a good sign, and we welcomed a panel of three exceptional high school teachers to the Institute in the afternoon to share their experiences with us. By the end of the day, we had grown to 15, and there we were: high school and college writing instructors, at the same table, talking about teaching our students to write for various audiences, despite and in light of assessment pressures. It was AMAZING! And, in true Writing Project fashion, it happened in a tiny little corner of a tiny little state in a dimly lit, air-conditioned room in a weird little building on the far side of campus. But, nevertheless, there we all were, changing the world in our small but sincere way.
So, what happened as a result of this attempt to break down the institutional barriers between people who share the same passions and concerns?
We built a new community. We instilled some confidence and scooped out a lot of validation. We passed along some new and relevant knowledge. We shared our writing: stories of good and not-so-good memories of ourselves as high school writers. We marveled at each other's writing abilities. We ate good food and snacks. We drank lots of water. We listened to one another, with respect and good intentions, and without fear of judgment or evaluation. We shared practices. We shared secret fears. We compensated everyone. We also gave them nice tote bags. There's no doubt in my mind that everyone left the room--and the day--much lighter and much happier than when we had all entered.
At an institution where 95% of the First-Year Writing courses are taught by Adjunct Faculty, I am so proud to have begun a professional development resource for this under-served and under-recognized population of vital instructors on our campus. Becky and I both believe that without taking good care of our Adjunct Instructors of writing, without building a community in which they, too, feel that they are growing as intellectuals, as researchers, and as practitioners, the entire college community will suffer. Writing--and the teaching of it--is just that important.
Here's to many more collaborations between the RI Writing Project and RIC's First-Year Writing Program. It's one way that the Rhode Island Writing Project is working to make our presence on the RIC campus vital and our work, both on campus and off, indispensable to the College.
We invited 10 participants to enroll in a day-long Institute devoted to: (1) discussing the new General Education program at our College and how it will impact our teaching; (2) discussing the new Common Core State Standards and how they might impact our teaching of college writing; (3) hearing from a panel of high school teachers about their experiences and observations teaching high school writing. The Institute was filled, a good sign, and we welcomed a panel of three exceptional high school teachers to the Institute in the afternoon to share their experiences with us. By the end of the day, we had grown to 15, and there we were: high school and college writing instructors, at the same table, talking about teaching our students to write for various audiences, despite and in light of assessment pressures. It was AMAZING! And, in true Writing Project fashion, it happened in a tiny little corner of a tiny little state in a dimly lit, air-conditioned room in a weird little building on the far side of campus. But, nevertheless, there we all were, changing the world in our small but sincere way.
So, what happened as a result of this attempt to break down the institutional barriers between people who share the same passions and concerns?
We built a new community. We instilled some confidence and scooped out a lot of validation. We passed along some new and relevant knowledge. We shared our writing: stories of good and not-so-good memories of ourselves as high school writers. We marveled at each other's writing abilities. We ate good food and snacks. We drank lots of water. We listened to one another, with respect and good intentions, and without fear of judgment or evaluation. We shared practices. We shared secret fears. We compensated everyone. We also gave them nice tote bags. There's no doubt in my mind that everyone left the room--and the day--much lighter and much happier than when we had all entered.
At an institution where 95% of the First-Year Writing courses are taught by Adjunct Faculty, I am so proud to have begun a professional development resource for this under-served and under-recognized population of vital instructors on our campus. Becky and I both believe that without taking good care of our Adjunct Instructors of writing, without building a community in which they, too, feel that they are growing as intellectuals, as researchers, and as practitioners, the entire college community will suffer. Writing--and the teaching of it--is just that important.
Here's to many more collaborations between the RI Writing Project and RIC's First-Year Writing Program. It's one way that the Rhode Island Writing Project is working to make our presence on the RIC campus vital and our work, both on campus and off, indispensable to the College.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
RIP Ray Bradbury
I am so sad that Ray Bradbury has died at 91. Wasn't he supposed to live past all of us, to see robots making him eggs in the morning and to vacation on Mars? He will always be one of my favorite writers, someone who cracked open my imagination and my fascination with the space. When I was younger, I was slightly obsessed with aliens and with Mars. I even dressed up like a "Martian" once to do a report at school on Mars. Ray Bradbury helped me embrace my inner dork. Space continues to fascinate me and always will: all that eternity, time, darkness, mystery, and the unknowable. It scrambles my mind just right.
Bradbury once said in an interview, "Lone at night, when I was twelve years old, I looked at the planet Mars and I said, ‘Take me home!’ And the planet Mars took me home, and I never came back. So I’ve written every day in the last 75 years. I’ve never stopped writing." God, I love that!
My favorite Ray Bradbury book is Fahrenheit 451. The man was a prophet, a seer, a visionary. In 1953, he looked into the future and saw a culture ruled by fear, one in which people are burning books, have become slaves to their screens, and are addicted to substances that dull their senses. He envisioned a band of "Book People," living in the woods, in the margins, who dedicate their lives to memorizing books, which are outlawed. They "become" a book, and their life is about preserving the cultural memory that the leaders are so intent to destroy. (Sound familiar?)
So long, Mr. Bradbury. Thank you for the stories, for feeding my mind with visions of other worlds. In my fantasy world, here's how it all went down: You simply hitched a ride with Venus last night, as she sailed across the face of the Sun. You planned accordingly, packed your bags, and waited for the right moment. What a genius. I hope it's a great ride up there.
Bradbury once said in an interview, "Lone at night, when I was twelve years old, I looked at the planet Mars and I said, ‘Take me home!’ And the planet Mars took me home, and I never came back. So I’ve written every day in the last 75 years. I’ve never stopped writing." God, I love that!
My favorite Ray Bradbury book is Fahrenheit 451. The man was a prophet, a seer, a visionary. In 1953, he looked into the future and saw a culture ruled by fear, one in which people are burning books, have become slaves to their screens, and are addicted to substances that dull their senses. He envisioned a band of "Book People," living in the woods, in the margins, who dedicate their lives to memorizing books, which are outlawed. They "become" a book, and their life is about preserving the cultural memory that the leaders are so intent to destroy. (Sound familiar?)
So long, Mr. Bradbury. Thank you for the stories, for feeding my mind with visions of other worlds. In my fantasy world, here's how it all went down: You simply hitched a ride with Venus last night, as she sailed across the face of the Sun. You planned accordingly, packed your bags, and waited for the right moment. What a genius. I hope it's a great ride up there.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Achieving balance
The summer is nearly here, though you wouldn't know it from the weather in Rhode Island this week. Our minds are easily fooled by the weather, and when I stepped outside this morning and smelled the crisp, wet-leaf air, it felt, just for a moment, like back-to-school and not the end of the school year. I'm sure my sensory confusion also has something to do with the fact that I've been on sabbatical since December 22, freed from my teaching and administrative duties for six months to rekindle the creativity and drive from within. I have been a teacher since 1994, the year I graduated from UMass Amherst with my M.Ed. and my Massachusetts 7-12 English teacher certification. I was full of fire then, my desire to affect change, to make a difference, to make a mark, fueled the gears and pistons inside of me. But, as even a hybrid car will show you, engines cannot run without fuel. After 18 years of teaching high school, completing a doctoral program and dissertation, co-founding a non-profit organization, hopping on the "tenure track" and eventually earning tenure and promotion, the brain and the body deserve a rest, a recharge, a renewal.
I am happy to say that I have achieved this goal. I've found renewal in an odd combination of lo-fi and high-tech. I've found new joy in the exploration of Nature, in drawing with a pencil, in writing cards and letters and mailing them, in resurrecting forgotten technologies in order to access old memories (slide projectors, reel-to-reel tapes, record players). I've also found joy in Twitter, where I've formed a professional development network of people I respect and want to commune with as intellectuals. I've found joy in digital comics-creating tools, in creating YouTube videos of my mandolin playing so I can share my music with others, and in creating a digital presentation using my ethnographer's skills.
I find that the slower technologies--paper, ink, stamps, magnetic tape--slow me down, too. And, I like that. The reward is in the doing, in the process, in the unfolding. It's also in the inconsistencies and idiosyncracies of these tools. ("Oh darn! The rain is smudging the fancy ink on the card! I should have used ballpoint. Oh well, I'll put it in the mail anyway and see what happens.")
The faster technologies--namely Twitter and Facebook, all accessed with one device, my iPhone--allow me to cast a wide net and catch halfway decent-sized fish very quickly. The reward is in the instant gratification. The reward is in the instantaneous publishing of, well, anything. ("Look at what I found, everyone! Make sure you read this! Right now! It's important! I'm important!)
These two modes of being--slow, deliberate and quiet and hasty, multifaceted and public--have gotten me thinking a lot about teaching and learning and schooling. As with most things in life, the answer to the riddle we are all trying so desperately to solve lies in the balance: balancing what we know about how people learn and grow with preparing young souls for the the imminent rapidity of technological change in this futureworld.
I read an article last summer about how young children in China are growing up without knowing how to create, with brush and ink (or brush and water for the novice), the individual characters of their language because they've been taught to read and write on computers and keyboards, where they press a button for a character instead of learning the brushstrokes needed to create it. Surely this isn't only happening in China. I think about the muscle memory of learning how to write, the slow, artistic process we use when we create letter after letter, words after word, the complex brain and fine motor function that we cultivate by practicing and practicing this most basic form of communication. I think about a teacher showing her students how to make letters, how to move their fingers, hands, and arms to create these abstract symbols that indicate sounds that make up words that form sentences that allow us to talk to one another, face to face and screen to screen.
I worry about losing these things--these ancient human traditions and interactions--because we are so drunk on solutions, competitiveness, and "reform." We need to resist this strong pull to let the machines and the men who own them take over our schools, our jobs as teachers and teacher educators, and our expertise. There's no balance in their "solutions;" they are quite one-sided, in fact, in that these "solutions" benefit the purveyors and not the consumers. Until we remember that balance--of the old and the new, of the slow and the quick, of the bland and the sexy--is how we achieve our fullest potential, we won't be able to "fix" anything. Balance=sanity.
Here's some further reading to get you up to speed.
http://blogs.edweek.org/edweek/Bridging-Differences/
http://blogs.edweek.org/teachers/living-in-dialogue/2012/06/technocratic_groupthink_inflat.html?cmp=SOC-SHR-TW
http://jerseyjazzman.blogspot.com/
http://susanohanian.org/
I am happy to say that I have achieved this goal. I've found renewal in an odd combination of lo-fi and high-tech. I've found new joy in the exploration of Nature, in drawing with a pencil, in writing cards and letters and mailing them, in resurrecting forgotten technologies in order to access old memories (slide projectors, reel-to-reel tapes, record players). I've also found joy in Twitter, where I've formed a professional development network of people I respect and want to commune with as intellectuals. I've found joy in digital comics-creating tools, in creating YouTube videos of my mandolin playing so I can share my music with others, and in creating a digital presentation using my ethnographer's skills.
I find that the slower technologies--paper, ink, stamps, magnetic tape--slow me down, too. And, I like that. The reward is in the doing, in the process, in the unfolding. It's also in the inconsistencies and idiosyncracies of these tools. ("Oh darn! The rain is smudging the fancy ink on the card! I should have used ballpoint. Oh well, I'll put it in the mail anyway and see what happens.")
The faster technologies--namely Twitter and Facebook, all accessed with one device, my iPhone--allow me to cast a wide net and catch halfway decent-sized fish very quickly. The reward is in the instant gratification. The reward is in the instantaneous publishing of, well, anything. ("Look at what I found, everyone! Make sure you read this! Right now! It's important! I'm important!)
These two modes of being--slow, deliberate and quiet and hasty, multifaceted and public--have gotten me thinking a lot about teaching and learning and schooling. As with most things in life, the answer to the riddle we are all trying so desperately to solve lies in the balance: balancing what we know about how people learn and grow with preparing young souls for the the imminent rapidity of technological change in this futureworld.
I read an article last summer about how young children in China are growing up without knowing how to create, with brush and ink (or brush and water for the novice), the individual characters of their language because they've been taught to read and write on computers and keyboards, where they press a button for a character instead of learning the brushstrokes needed to create it. Surely this isn't only happening in China. I think about the muscle memory of learning how to write, the slow, artistic process we use when we create letter after letter, words after word, the complex brain and fine motor function that we cultivate by practicing and practicing this most basic form of communication. I think about a teacher showing her students how to make letters, how to move their fingers, hands, and arms to create these abstract symbols that indicate sounds that make up words that form sentences that allow us to talk to one another, face to face and screen to screen.
I worry about losing these things--these ancient human traditions and interactions--because we are so drunk on solutions, competitiveness, and "reform." We need to resist this strong pull to let the machines and the men who own them take over our schools, our jobs as teachers and teacher educators, and our expertise. There's no balance in their "solutions;" they are quite one-sided, in fact, in that these "solutions" benefit the purveyors and not the consumers. Until we remember that balance--of the old and the new, of the slow and the quick, of the bland and the sexy--is how we achieve our fullest potential, we won't be able to "fix" anything. Balance=sanity.
Here's some further reading to get you up to speed.
http://blogs.edweek.org/edweek/Bridging-Differences/
http://blogs.edweek.org/teachers/living-in-dialogue/2012/06/technocratic_groupthink_inflat.html?cmp=SOC-SHR-TW
http://jerseyjazzman.blogspot.com/
http://susanohanian.org/
Thursday, May 10, 2012
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