It’s stormy outside. The lightning is gorgeous. I waited to catch a break in the weather. Made between torrential thunder clouds. Thought throughout my chancey walk that staying in shape is a lot of hard work, committment, and dedication. I was just three blocks from the house when that was brought to home–no pun intended–as I nearly drowned in the downpour as the dark skies opened up and had to swim the rest of the way.

As I am sipping my cup of freshly brewed coffee sitting here a tad damp in front of the computer going over yesterday’s messges, I was struck by how many more people asked me to send them copies of THE STORY as well as descriptions of the other “getting-to-know-ya” stuff we–I and the students–do during the first five or six days of the term as we struggle to begin forging a classroom learning community. I have been gladly and unhesitatingly doing it. The tips of my fingers are blistering. I tell each them, as I told some of you already, however, that there is no miracle in THE STORY or any of the exercises I use to forge a classroom community, or in any of the project they have to do to experience the subject material. The magic will not flow not from what you do, I say. As an e-mail colleague said, it eminates from WHY you do it and HOW you do it and WHO you are.

Thought of hard work, committment, and deidcation brought back memories of one of my colleagues on campus who didn’t really understand that. A while back, she had heard about the “stuff” I do in class and the excitement it generated in most of the students: the “getting-to-know-ya” exercises, my boom box, the triads, the Tootsie Pops, abandoning of lectures and testing, depreciating the value of grades, the active learning projects, brown discussions on my lunchtime, journaling, student portfolios, end-of-term closure, etc. We talked. We talked a lot. But, she only wanted to know what it was I do. She was all that interested in why I do what I do. She came to my class several times to observe. We talked some more.

She said she understood how things worked.

“It looks easy,” I remember her ominous words like it was only yesterday.

Those words made me shudder. “It’s not,” I remember warning her. “It’s a lot of hard, time-consuming work.” My answer is burned into my mind and heart as constant warnings that pot up to kick me in my butt any time I feel that complacant “it’s a snap,” “I’ve got this thing made” feelings coming on. “It is a lot more work, hard work, than just lecturing and testing and grading. It’s the attitude about myself and each student that I bring into class, not the things I do in class, that make the difference. The magic is not out there; it’s in here,” softly touching my chest. “Everything I do has to be me–in me, a part of me, an extension of me, an expression of me. It’s woven into every fiber of my being. And, if you want to change what you do, you have to somehow and in someway change you. There’s nothing automatic in any of this stuff.” I remember emphasizing that these techniques and methods are not tricks pulled out from some top hat that will automatically wow the students. Her classes won’t turn into some elegant coach, anymore than do mine, with some incantations from a fairy godmother. “Who you are are the magic wand, the ruby shoes, and a wish upon a star.”

She really didn’t hear me. She decide to give it a try. It didn’t work and she didn’t know why. She didin’t ask me or ask me to sit in on her classes. As it happened, she had two first-year students in her class who were also in mine. She approached them and asked them how things were going in my class. They answered, “Great.” She admitted the same wasn’t true in hers. They agreed. So, she asked them why. Their first response was a question, “Can we be honest?” That in itself was reflective, for they knew they would not have to ask for such permission in our class. When she said they could, choosing their words carefully, as they told me, their succinct but brilliant answer was, “Well, all you did was to move the chairs around.”

Sadly, she gave up after that first attempt and went back to her old ways in the classroom. Nothing is automatic.

Make it a good day.

–Louis–

Hit the streets real early this morning. It was about 4:15. On the weekend! There was an unseasonable nip in the air. I was in a deep contemplative mood. Since Wednesday, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about a long entry written by a student I’ll call Charlotte in her journal about something forceful and magical that had happened in class within herself about two weeks ago. With her permission, I xerox that entry and have been reading it over and over in amazement. It’s laying here on the desk at the side of the computer. I’d like to talk with you about it. It tells us how we as educators can design a social architecture in the classroom where magic can mysteriously occur.

The term had just begun, and for the first four days in my first year history survey class, we hadn’t come near history. Instead, we started to know each other. We’ve started breaking the barriers of being strangers as we started forging a classroom learning community . We walked around class introducing ourselves to each other; we discovered interesting things about each other; we did biographical interviews with each other. We slowly stopped being alone in the crowd. We looked into each other’s faces, learned each other’s names, and something about each other. Now, it was time to actively start building bridges between and among each other as we continued to create a supportive and encouraging classroom learning community.

The first of the next four or five exercise I use is called THE STORY. I didn’t create it. Most people, however, use it as an exercise for “conflict resolution.” I use it for what some would call team building. I call it “creating family.” Here’s how it goes. I hand out a four sentence story and eleven short questions to which the choice of answers are: true, false, unknown. The instructions are simple: “Read the story and answer all the questions by yourselves. When everyone in your triad is finished, compare your answers and reach a consensus for all the answers. Then, compare your triads’ answers with those in other triads. EVERYONE in the class must reach a consensus for ALL eleven answers.”

Like a volcano about to blow, complete quiet grew into a murmur; the murmur built into a low rumble, and the rumble exploded into movement and sound: students getting out of their chairs, squeezing between chairs, moving chairs, climbing over chairs; they were walking around, bumping into, bending over, kneeling; they were arguing, talking, debating; they were persuading, being persuaded, talking, listening: “Let’s keep it simple….” “But, we don’t know…” “No, look…” “If you read….” “How do you figure that….” “It says that….” “It doesn’t say….” In twos and threes that swelled to fives and sixes that grew to twenty and settled at the whole class huddled in the center of the room in one circular mass; answers were erased, cross-out, rewritten, kept, defended, questioned, attacked; fighting over a word, strugging with a phrase; confronting over a sentence; heads nodding agreement, heads shaking in disagreement, arms moving and flailing in all directions, feet stomping; faces smiling, frowning, laughing, becoming wrinkled and puzzlied, getting tight and serious; quiet students becoming; vocal students becoming silent.

I noticed in passing that Charlotte was one of those students who at the beginning of the exercise sat as a quiet listen, began to say a word here and there, and who by the end of the class had become quite vocal. Many others were like her as they slowly shed their hesitations. Well, not quite like her. You see, towards the end of the class period, all the students but she had reached a consensus on all the answers. Holding her ground, Charlotte argued, “I still think all but two are unknown.”

A friendly mass groan arose.

I stood in a corner, leaning against the wall, my butterflies fluttering away, thinking, “It’s working.” I didn’t realize at that time what was really at work.

“You’ve got to agree since we all agree.”

“Yeah, majority rules.”

“There’s always someone.”

“You’re wasting time.”

“You’re being a dictatorship,” Charlotte firmly replied. She turned to me for some reassurance, “I can disagree if I want. Dr. Schmier, isn’t that what’s called ‘the right of dissent?'”

I didn’t say anything. Just continued to smile. But, inside my guts were “wowing.” But, I didn’t really know at the time what to really “wow” about.

“Throw her out the window,” came a joyful response, almost with a tone of admiration.

But, she held her ground. “No, this time I ain’t gonna go along just to get along!”

I could see her hands slightly shake with nervousness. Her voice almost cracked. She was taking deep breathes. I caught the phrase “this time”, wondered about it momentarily, made a mental note, but didn’t catch its full meaning.

Some students sighed with frustration, some moaned with annoyance, but a few began to listen. “Okay, tell us why you think we’re all wrong and only you are right.”

She did, rather forcefully, and slowly you could hear a growing of hesitant “yeahs”, “okays”, “I see thats”. Utlimately she had everyone scratching out or erasing and recircling. She changed everyone’s mind! A cheshire smile cut her face in half as her classmates, strangers only a few days ago, came up to her after class saying: “Good job.” “That was great.” “You taught me a lesson.” “Boy, I wouldn’t have had the nerve to do what you did. Maybe I will next time.” “That took a lot of guts.”

I handed her an orange Tootsie Pop with a smile of my own that said it all.

During the two weeks since, Charlotte continued to be vocal: before class in chitchat with other students, in her triad as they worked on projects, in classroom discussions during what we call “tidbit Monday.” I didn’t make much of it. I assumed she was one of the natural outgoing “talkers.” I soon learned better.

Last Wednesday, I read her journal and I learned the true meaning of “this time” and what proved to be the special moments of that class:

This is going to be a long entry, but I’ve got to put what I’m thinking and feeling on paper so I can see it over and over. Wow! What a tidbit discussion we just had on racism. I couldn’t believe how I spoke out–again. A few weeks ago, I would never have thought I could do that. Each time I open my mouth I surprise myself, but why should I after what I learned about myself from THE STORY. Boy, have I changed in this class so quickly. Everyone told me to sign up for this class because they said I would learn a lot of history and enjoy it at the same time. Learning and having fun seemed like an odd combination. But, I was so scared to hear that if I liked to talk and voice my opinion, I would really love the class. I was so scared to hear this. I would rather die than speak out, but I heard also that Dr. Louis really cared about his students. One of my friends used the word love. I thought that was weird. Love in a college classroom. The guy must be queer. Sorry, but that’s what I honestly first thought. But, something told me I needed the challenge. I guess it was time and Dr. Louis’s class was the place. I am always to[sic] scared to tell people what I think about things. I’ve always been a go-alonger and get-alonger. Each day at the beginning I wanted to drop the course. I didn’t want anyone to know I was in the class. Those getting-to-know-ya exercises we did got me out of the back corner seat and scared the shit out of me, but at the same time calmed me because I found out I wasn’t the only one scared shitless. I got the feeling that a lot of us were quickly becoming friends. We’d come into class and start talking with each other about what we had done and wondered what was coming up. Then, came THE STORY where we all had to agree on each question. That was the time I opened up.

I could not believe that I came out of the shadows into the spotlight and put my ass in front of everybody. I actually took on the whole class and disagreed even after ….. yelled to throw me out the window. I held my ground and told them why I thought I was right and they were wrong. Everyone just went off on me because they wanted me to agree with them. Damn I was and I wasn’t scared to tell them how I felt about it. Weird feeling. It was like two people inside me fighting for control. That always happened. The one who told me to shut up always won before. I couldn’t believe who won this time. I could not believe I actually spoke out.

Now, I find myself, especially after we all had to sing, moving from being someone who was too scared to “emote” to someone who isn’t afraid to talk in class. I’m surprising the hell out of me and finding stuff I didn’t know I had in me. But, somehow Dr. Louis did. It all seems like magic. I’m slowly becoming less of a jerky, quiet follower to a leader. I can’t let myself stop. I am finding that I was quiet because I didn’t think I had much worth saying and honestly I really didn’t listen much to others. But now. I can’t believe how much so quickly I am believing in myself. How much more I respect myself and funny but I respect and listen to others more also. No bullshit!! Now, I am the one in my triad who is encouraging the others to talk. I never dreamed I had that in me and how I was holding myself back–AND DOWN. Neat to see what I might be capable of.

I thought all Dr. Louis’s talk about creating a class family was hokey shit, but now I don’t think it is. I’m learning to grow out of my shell and not worry about what everybody thinks and to stop trying to please everyone. You know I I think I see how uncomfortable I was when I was quiet and now how much more I’m comfortable opening up. Really weird. Wonder if it’s because even after only three weeks I feel everyone is becoming part of a family. We all know and starting to help each other in large and small ways. At least, that’s what I feel. Words are poping into my head all over the place. Wonder what’s ahead. What else can I do that I thought I can’t. Exciting. Scary. Can’t close the door. Too much light pouring into my darkness. Feel more confident than scared. Weird. I can’t believe I’m writing this way.

Gotta go meet my triad in the library and work on our “Hemmingway” project on Chapter 3. Almost said I can’t write. Is this my next door? But, like Dr. Louis would say, I sang, I talked, I can kick ass and write. But, I’m gonna get …. to read the short story to the class when our turn comes. Even though I need to still work on my hesitations alot, she needs to face her shyness and fears just like I am and I’m going to help her. That’s nice feeling. Sorry for the long entry. Why did I say that? No, I’m not. See ya.

I think I’ll just say that it’s the Charlotte’s who have helped me to learn that I love teaching for what it can be; I love teaching for what it is even though it often falls far short of what it can be; I love teaching for both; I love teaching for what I learn about myself as I struggle to take the latter into the realm of the former.

Make it a good day.

–Louis–

I received a message from an education major at the University of South Florida last week. With great sincerity, she wanted to know if I could show her where and how to start developing a philosophy of education and principles of teaching. I have to admit that it has taken me a week to begin coming up with a response. In fact, it has thrown me for a loop during this past week. I’ve thought of little else. I must have written and rewritten my response a proverbial hundred times. Each time I finished, my head yelled out,”boy, that’s a great answer. Neat stuff.” Then, I would erased it after I heard a louder “cliche” and a still louder and dismal “yuk” as the only reveiws my heart could muster.

I thought you might be interested in my initial answer which I hope will stimulate an on-going conversation with her. I told her that I personally have difficulty summing up my life at the tender age of 56 and with a younger spirit of about 18 with a fixed philosophy or set of principles. I’ve done that on occasion, but never as something chiseled on a tombstone. I’ll let other people sum up things as a eulogy if I’m worth one. Right now there’s a lot more inner journey to travel. Sure, every now and then I take stock I admit that I am usually satisfied with my new-found outlook and proud of my recent achievements–for about an hour or so when I feel the cement around me feet start to harden. Then, a restlessness begins to set in, an awareness stirs telling me that it’s not yet over; I begin to look towards the horizon; I start racheting things up a notch or two, and start to move on.

I told this student that I do know that whatever outlook her journey moves towards, however the way of that journey, that she look for guidance first and lastly to her heart rather than her head or technique. I say that because I don’t think the problem with most of us educators and academicians is our knowledge, talent, ability, or potental. And I don’t think there is any one best classroom technique. The real problem is that too many educators are into their heads and books and resumes more than they are in their hearts and spirit and other people, and too often their heads are disconnected from their hearts depriving them of the dynamos of passion and committment. The result is a very lifeless, spiritless, unenjoyable, laughless, painful, unauthentic, dour classroom experience.

The simple truth is that the head and intellect need the heart and emotion. The head may do the doing, but it’s the heart that does the steering, that places a value on what the head does or wants to do–or does not do. They’re connected to each other no less than the foot bone is connected to the ankle bone however many educators may wish or pontificate to the contrary. Without the fulness of dreams and hopes, teaching goes flat. But, dreams and hopes can take a lot of gas out of you, and passion is the emotional fuel you need to achieve your dreams. I know of no master craftsman and artist who appeared on the scene passionless and complete; who had not tried and fail, tried again and fail, tried once again and failed; who has not endured, groped, strained, suffered, hesitated, doubted, questioned, second-guessed. I don’t know of one master who didn’t pick up a chisel, paint brush, pen, baton, test tube, or whatever for the first time. They all were indebted to others and reached deadends before they evolved into themselves and we became indebted to them. Passion is the stuff that perseverence is made of. It is the deep pool within each of ourselves that when discovered and tapped provides the power, that drives us. Take away the essential, energizing passion–the laughter and tears, the heat, the excitement, the vibrancy, the vitality, the full spectrum of feeling–for who you are and your discipline and what you do and for those around you, and what you do goes limp and comes to both a figurative and literal heartless, sputtering halt.

Committment is no less important, for it gives direction and guidance and meaning and purpose to your passion. It is the stuff of values and vision. Committment gives us the reason of why we are here and how we will leave the world behind. If you fail to commit to your craft and your discipline and most importantly to your fellow human beings, you commit to failure. More importantly, it is committment that gets you ready to pay the price. It is committment that demands nothing less than authenticity, the strength and courage to stick your neck out. Once you’ve come out from the closet, taken off the mask, stopped lurking, you can’t go back in; you can’t be quiet; you can’t hide. You’re in full view, out in the open for all to see and you’ve got to deliver. That’s the price of committment.

My initial difficulty was to find a way of telling this student where to start finding her philosophy of education, where to start, what road to take while getting her to understand that it must be her philosophy and her journey and her road. I mean the collection of Random Thoughts she has read on the internet, at the web page, and in the published volumes that I have shared is not something–some theory or abstraction–that I have written. It is something I have recorded. What she read, I am always carefully thinking about and planning it; I am always prayerfully and passionately practicing it; I am always darefully and committedly living it. It is my life. It is me! And therein lies the beginning of my answers to her questions. Or, actually the posing of my questions in answer to her questions.

I’m not a Bible thumper, but before anyone starts to plan their life’s work in education–or anything else for that matter–he or she should pick up a copy of the Holy Scriptures and read the first line of Proverbs 23:7. It is the best beginning answer I have to questions such as hers. It tells us all where we have to start and continue our journey, how to start developing our values and vision, where we have to look closest in order to see the farthest and clearest.

Make it a good day.

–Louis–

Date: Tue, 1 Apr 1997 08:18:45 -0500 (EST)
Subject: Random Thought:
I was a bit bleary-eyed as I walked the dark streets of Valdosta this morning. Staying up late watching the overtime victory of Arizona over Kentucky for college basketball’s NCAA national championship will do that. It was a bit of a consolation that eased my mourning–admittedly not much though–over the Saturday defeat my team, UNC, by Arizona. It was some road to college basketball’s Final Four. It was a cinderella story.

As I listened to the chirping birds harkening the coming of another day, I was also thinking about another road to the Final Four. It was not taken by a team, but by a single player. It, too, was a cinderella story. It’s the story of Ed Cota of UNC, who without the help of a teacher would now be a high school dropout instead of a first year student at one of the top universities in the country, who would be on the road to ruin in the dark alleys of New York instead of being on the Road to the Final Four in Indianoplis’ RCA Dome, and would now be a “loser” instead of being a champion riding the crest as a play-maker on one of the Final Four teams.

A solid B student and basketball player talented enough to be a McDonald’s High School All-American, Ed Cota had been devastated by a family tragedy that nearly killed his mother and put his father in a wheelchair for life, started skipping school, finally dropped out, and took to the streets. It was a teacher who cared enough to reach out to pull this down and out teenager up out of the streets. It was this teacher who said to him, “If you want to play, you have to go to class and get your grades.” It was this teacher who, when Cota did not respond, hooked up with him and hooked him up with a caring clinical psychologist who was anything but clinical. It was this teacher who sent Ed Cota to a prep school. It was this teacher who taught Cota to open up and love himself. It was this teacher who used basketball as one of the means for the young man to regain his sense of self-worth and self-respect. It was this teacher who admired him enough that he urged Cota to go to UNC to get an education and learn how to play basketball rather than hot dog it as a star at some other school which was not as committed to educating and graduating its players.

It’s the stuff of make-believe, to be sure. Did I say Cota was helped by a teacher? Did you think I was talking about his English or math teacher or some other classroom teacher. How silly of me. It was really his high school basketball coach.

What’s in a name. A person, any person–be he or she titled teacher, professor, councilor, coach, adviser, RA, chaplin, maintenance person–who forges a bond with a student, helps a student find a deeper capability, convinces him of his or her worth, engages in the process that will lead a student to believe in and love him/herself, helps a student to find a way to use his or her special talents and to learn, helps a student build a bridge to find a way to him/herself is in truth a teacher in my book. And, the helping a student find his or way is sometimes called love.

Make it a good day.

–Louis–