Normally, I try to avoid talking about my students specifically, but there's something that happened today that I can't get out of my mind. I've changed the names, obviously. I also want to say that, though I'm discussing what I'm thinking about these students, I want to be clear that I don't hold it against anyone who dislikes my class or who doesn't enjoy the way that I teach. Just because I'm talking about my experience as a teacher doesn't mean that my students should feel bad/obligated to change or anything else.
So: I'm in the midst of my World War I unit. Since I teach in the Socratic method, I try to use questions with my students and have interesting discussions with them. This doesn't always work out, for various reasons, but that's always my goal. However, question-based learning doesn't necessarily work for teaching something like the First World War. Oh, sure, there are ways that I could have the students lead the way: Give them some background, let them loose on their Chromebooks, and then facilitate any questions they have as they go. That's a great way for them to learn--it's what I did when I was teaching Things Fall Apart and had them do research on the customs of the Igbo (Ibo, in the book) people. It can be interesting and it gives the kids a chance to learn in a way that's less "Stand And Deliver". When it comes to the Wars, though, I…I don't know. I don't feel like it's the right thing to do--letting them approach it through a glowing rectangle. First of all, the First World War is complicated, and though I go quickly and, of necessity, gloss over a great many details, I feel as though I present the information in a way that helps, rather than impedes the way that kids see the Great War. This year, though, things have felt…different. Off. For me--and many other teachers, I'm sure--there's a feeling that you can get from a class. Particularly after spending three terms together, I can get a sense of some of the ways the personalities are behaving, the body language, the rote actions. These subtle clues are processed by me in the background, and I start to gain an attitude toward the class. I try to account for this, taking pains to treat each class with respect. I have certain information that, were I to say it in one class, could go over really well, while in another, the exact opposite. I still try to bring in the same information, but I recognize that it's going to go differently for the separate sections I teach. This intuition (for lack of a better word) has been painfully lacking this year. Or, more accurately, I'm getting less reciprocation than usual. One of my classes is really struggling, and they don't even know it. But it kind of boils down to what I observed today. Jane is a hardworking, dedicated student who is absolutely committed to the idea that she will see dividends for the effort she puts into class. She's smart, conscientious, and--above all--empathetic and kind. I know she has areas of stress and pain--she's still human, after all--but she is learning how to balance everything in her life and learning that well. John is an intelligent boy who, to quote a phrase from a coworker, "Knows just enough to be dangerous." His intelligence and experiences in the world set him apart from the majority of his classmates, and there's an aura of arrogance about him as he sits in class. Sometimes it's because of the way he tries to derail a conversation to put it into terms he's more comfortable in. Sometimes it's his body language. But whatever it is, John gives me the feeling that he'd rather be anywhere but in my class. Did I mention that he's also really polite? Like, unfailing in thanking me for my class after every lesson. Always turns in good, solid work on time. It's…weird. Today, I was talking to the students about All Quiet on the Western Front. I've taught this book for years. Part of my introduction to the book is to tell them, up front (pun only kind of intended), that the book has swearing, lots of war violence, and a "sex scene" that is more of an implication than a scene. It's clear what the characters are there for and what they're going to do, but there isn't anything explicit. To go along with that moment in the book, I share the detail my college professor made about what the men were looking for when they went to brothels: Sometimes, the soldiers would pay the prostitutes, not for sex, but just to hold them while they cried. When I said this, Jane turned away from me, her eyes closed, as if she'd been slapped. I could see pain and anger and frustration on her face. I could recognize what I feel whenever I study the Wars, the emotions that make it so hard to read on. I hadn't necessarily expected that sort of a reaction. That's one of the things about teaching, particularly the Wars: I never know what's going to hit a student hardest. Sometimes it's a story of sadness, like this one. Sometimes it's a story of brutality, something that shocks them to their core and gets them to think differently. Sometimes it's a story of bravery, or mercy, or hope. So my sharing of this particular detail wasn't calculated to generate such a visceral reaction, and it was sad to see her react this way. John, on the other hand? Nothing. He stared with the same expression--one that I've taken to read as "Why are you telling me this? I already know all of this." Unimpressed. Uninterested. Completely different response. I'd like to cut him some slack on this. After all, there isn't a person alive who hasn't had a bad night's sleep, then been completely unresponsive the next day. Or that he picked that moment to tune out and so, perhaps, he'd missed the comment and didn't know why kids around him were stirring. But I don't sense that. I don't get that wavelength from him. It's been frustrating to have this experience, because, of all the things that I teach, the Wars help open up students to a broader view of humanity, the dangers of myopic and self-aggrandizing worldviews, of the injustice in the pains of the world. Yet, with John, I have a hard time getting the sense that this is happening. So confident in his own knowledge and purview, he is going through the motions of school. And yet…when I read through his writings, he's constantly on the lookout for how he can improve, how he can learn from the lessons in the literature. Needless to say, I'm confused about him. I don't know where he's going or what he's trying to get out of anything, so I'm forced to read the classroom attitude and guess at his real experience. It's frustrating. I've expended more than enough mental energy trying to figure out this kid. Indeed, one of the reasons that I wrote this essay is to try to figure out this different point of view. I understand Jane; I don't get John. I could talk to him, ask him what he's thinking, but I've seen him dissemble in subtle ways before. I don't know that he would deign my questions worth answering honestly. And that's the whole crux of the problem. I don't know how I'm supposed to teach a kid like that. Despite my years of experience, I've yet to meet a student quite like that. The cynic in me wants to say, "Who cares? May will be here before you know it. Then it's not going to be your problem anymore." The realist in me says, "You can't change him and it's not worth worrying about. Teach him to the best of your abilities: You can't expect any more than that." The idealist in me says, "You're failing! You're failing everyone in the classroom and they'll all be sociopaths because of your failure!" So, I guess, I really have three points of view, not two. |
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