If teachers were to live in constant full cognizance of the full weight of responsibility that they have, the result might well be blind panic, or paralysis. I’m not referring to the quantity of work that many teachers experience, but rather to the fact that teachers take on the awesome responsibility of being the guides to particular fields of knowledge, and to the broader experience of learning as a whole. As a result of one’s teaching, a student might be inspired to devote a lifetime to a subject, or equally might swear off it forever. Few people emerge from their educations completely unscathed. In my experience, teaching is second only to parenting as an activity which almost every day leaves you feeling that you failed in some small or large way, that you didn’t manage to provide what was needed in that particular situation, and that with more time, and patience, you could have done better.
Since this blog began earlier in the year I’ve been a pretty enthusiastic proselytiser of various pieces of education theory/scholarship. And a lot of that theory itself radiates enthusiasm, if not zeal. The parts of it that I have encountered are often very ‘up’. In particular, books about teaching in higher education which are at once research-based and designed to offer guidance to teachers will be quick to point out where we have been going wrong up to now, but will also offer clear advice about how we can make things better, perhaps by moving towards a student-centred mode of teaching, and/or ensuring constructive alignment between learning outcomes, learning activities and assessment tasks, and/or ensuring that we create feedback-rich learning environments. I have no doubt that thinking through all of these ideas and applying them to my own teaching has been hugely beneficial. But I also have no doubt that in teaching there are no magic bullets. Nothing I have learned or tried has stopped me feeling ‘down’ rather than ‘up’ about teaching a fair proportion of the time, and as I look back on my year of teaching there’s one thing in particular that I keep returning to.
I feel like I’ve gotten a lot better at getting students to participate in classroom activities, and at designing those activities themselves (the two things are of course related). Reading Diana Laurillard’s Teaching as a Design Science was something of a ‘lightbulb’ moment for me in this respect; that book gave me a name for and a way of thinking about things I had been trying to achieve for a few years. If something is well-designed, be it a public space or a domestic appliance, then one’s engagement with it will be smooth, natural, intuitive. Few of us need to be told how to find a cash machine or a place to sit in an urban area, nor how to operate a microwave (some people reading may also detect the influence of Heidegger via Paddy Scannell here – another set of ideas I’ve been absorbing for the past two years). In my classrooms, I consciously design things in order to encourage students to act in particular ways, to engage in particular activities. Sometimes it will be a spatial matter: I will make students sit in a horseshoe around a screen so that the audio-visual sequence we are analysing is there before us, everyone can see and respond to everyone else, and so on. Sometimes I will issue a set of instructions that create a series of steps for the students. Sometimes, taking control of the learning environment will also involve, quite simply, holding one’s nerve in the face of initial reluctance to talk. Teaching/learning is too inherently ‘sticky’ and ‘subversive’ to be as smooth as the other kinds of design alluded to above, but there are similar motivations at work.
‘So what?’ might be the response so far. All teaching activities are planned and therefore by logical extension ‘designed’. What gives me pause for thought is the element of coercion that goes along with certain kinds of learning environment design. A big part of the job of all but the most fortunate teachers is getting students to speak more than they are naturally inclined to. We smile while we do it (well, most of us, most of the time), of course, but we are applying pressure. A lot of this can be justified in the name of getting the best out of students (notice the language of extraction), and again, it could not really be any other way.
And yet. There are times, over the past eighteen months or so especially, when I have felt that my role as teacher was shading into something more like that of a ‘gamemaker’. I think that, along with carefully-structured activities which assign students roles which are difficult to escape, things like provocation, persistent questioning, playing the fool, and even plain old goading all have their place in teaching and learning. But so too do things like prolonged solitary reflection, letting a question or a piece of reading stew in the back of one’s mind for weeks (months, years), and the right to say ‘I do not feel ready to talk about this yet’. If learning environments should be designed to cultivate in students the kinds of habits of mind they will require for ‘deep’, ‘life-long’ learning, then those environments should not just be about cut and thrust, wall-to-wall talking, and rapid cycles of feedback. One of my teachers once told me, as I was about to embark upon my own teaching, ‘Don’t be afraid of silence.’ More and more, I see the value of such advice (especially when I consider that the filling of silence can often be as much about the alleviation of anxiety as it is about the contribution of something worthwhile).
It is good to feel permanently dissatisfied. It is a sign that one is still learning, and still alive. When my teaching resumes in the New Year, one thing I will try to do is let my teaching pendulum swing back (or is it rather a deepening spiral? – that’s the metaphor that most closely fits my pattern of thinking on the topic) a little towards a set-up that allows students more space and time to reflect, and to involve themselves in ways that may be less audible and visible to others, but may also be ultimately more beneficial to them, which is, after all, what it’s all about.