Teaching  Philosophy  in  Narrative   Part 1 Anti-lecture As a student, I was a lecture addict. My condition began in a hard chair towards the back of a Middleton, Idaho High School classroom. Grizzly Mr. Forse, the football coach/rugby player/world history teacher, began each class with a half hour long lecture from transparencies. While other students were frightened into listening by Mr. Forse’s intimidation tactics, I was mesmerized by the stories he told. Sure it was a lecture, but I began to learn that lectures were just another format for telling stories. When I got into Dr. Mooney’s English class the next year, I was hooked. He would become so passionate in his lectures on George Orwell’s 1984 or Shakespeare’s Hamlet that white spittle would flip out of mouth as he spoke. When he taught us about economy in writing, he brought in a Hallmark greeting card, read it aloud, and then smeared it with Kraft Marshmallow Crème. He pinned the gooey card on a bulletin board at the front of the class as a constant reminder that we needed to say something significant in our writing, to avoid fluffy and gooey language. Throughout my college experience, I only had a couple of classes that were not lecture format, and I was delighted. I avoided any class that forced me to work in groups or do something other than passive listening. As a teacher now, I have a new perspective on my feelings as a student. While I found listening to lectures almost as enjoyable as watching a movie, I now see how most students simply zone out during lectures. Their faces slowly droop, eyes heavy and glazed, the desk pulling their head down with the gravitational force of a black hole. I suspect that the same thing went on in all those classes I used to love, but I was so engaged that I was oblivious to what was going on around me. Also, with teaching experience, I better understand why I enjoyed lectures. I loved learning of course, but I specifically enjoyed lectures in place of activities. I recognized that it was far easier to sit and listen rather than actively participate. In listening to a lecture, there was no risk and no commitment. I just had to sit there, and I was reluctant to do anything else because activities represented more work. In my students now, especially at the beginning of the semester, I see reluctance when I assign activities, but I have learned through experience that active involvement teaches more than lectures. Even reflecting back on my experiences as a student, I remember well those few classes where I was forced into discussion, activity, and writing, but all of those lectures, all of those strings of dazzling, entertaining words have vanished. Students learn better through carefully designed activities, and my students usually catch on to this as they go through the semester. As a result of these lessons, my teaching has shifted dramatically over the past few years. I used to ask: How can I design a crafty, entertaining lecture that will mesmerize and engage my students in this material? Now I ask: How can I design an activity that will give my students engaging, hands-on experience with this material in a way that will meet my objectives? This is not to say that I do not lecture, but I try to find a blend so

that students encounter different teaching methods during each class period. I try to use lecture, individual tasks, and group activities to approach the material from different angles, and I have found in the past few semesters that students learn more using this approach. While it is difficult at first to break the students from their addiction to passivity in the classroom, it is worthwhile in creating more lasting learning experiences. Part 2 Hiding in the Margins Last semester was the autumn of perimeter students. Ryan sat on the far right side of the room, ensconced in the middle of the row. He was skinny and awkward looking, slouching into his desk as if he would curl up in the fetal position if he could. When words were spoken to him, the physical pain registered on his face, and I imagined, unintentionally, that the layers of red hills on his face were the result of hundreds of spoken words pricking his delicate skin. His humble appearance seemed an apology for imposing himself upon the class. Joyce sat behind Ryan creating a symbiotic, passive relationship. They never spoke to one another, but their silence seemed to ease each other’s pain. They needed to feel each other’s tacit nod, acknowledging existence without risking interaction. Joyce seemed to say to Ryan, “You are safe there in front of me. I will not force the moment. I will not speak.” Joyce was half Japanese and seemed uncomfortable in both her American and Japanese skins. She needed Ryan’s silence. Jodi sat on the opposite side of the room, near the large windows. Sitting near the window was an act of aggression because if she could look outside, she didn’t have to be in the classroom. Jodi would walk into our classroom, sit in her desk, and then quietly walk outside to spend the rest of the class period. She was tall and carried just enough weight to make sitting in the small desk uncomfortable, but she only noticed this in passing as she spent most of her time in the gardens on the west side of the Hinckley Building. She would pull her head back in through the window long enough to say “I don’t know” in response to a question, and then quickly leave again. About midway through our semester, we read the essay “Four Words” by Bob Greene about a young Japanese woman who attended college in the United States. He describes a series of mildly painful attempts to blend with our American culture which culminate in a game on a volleyball court. Feeling awkward and extremely un-athletic, the young woman hangs to the sides of the court, hoping to make herself an inconspicuous and unnecessary teammate. Her disappearance is thwarted when they hand her the ball for her turn to serve. Noticing the panic on her face, one nameless boy approaches her and says softly “You can do it.” The young woman never forgets those words of encouragement, and she takes that memory back to Japan as a moment when nationality became unimportant. Being a human being was all that mattered. I planned the perfect journal response to engage the students in the ideas of the essay. For five minutes, I had the students write about a moment they remembered from their

past when someone said something hurtful to them that still affects them to this day. Except for Barry, the star high school football player from the Shelley Russets, everyone wrote furiously, easily reliving those painful wounds which reopen with the least provocation. Ryan, Joyce, and Jodi wrote furiously, as if possessed with the ancient muse of hostility. This was their moment of silent vengeance where on the page they could relive and reinvent the past, forcing what should have happened into existence. They skillfully remodeled the past as they wrote. I saw their writing as I passed, touring the room. The silent trio was in the zone, hands scribbling furiously, eyes intently focused on the scrawled writing. For once in the semester, there was no shortage of ideas, no illusive topics to hunt down and staple to their papers. After five minutes, I told them to stop. Who were these strange students who longed to keep writing? I forced them to put their pens down, and several students shared their entries. The injuries were surprisingly minor, but the pain was unbearable. Amy simply could not forget that Beth said she was ugly when she wouldn’t surrender the swing to her at recess in the third grade. Ben wet himself in the second grade and endured the name “diaper pants” for the rest of the year. Ryan, Joyce, and Jodi held in their pain. They treasured the hurt as they had learned to do so expertly throughout their lives, medallions proving that life indeed only held a marginal spot for them. I gave the students the second five minute prompt. I told them to write about a moment they remembered from their past when someone said something positive to them that still affects them to this day. Most students began writing right away. A few looked straight ahead with furrowed brows, pouring over the past. After the first minute, all were writing—all except Ryan, Joyce, and Jodi. Two minutes passed. Ryan hunched over his journal. He curled up more than usual, willing something to appear on the page. Joyce looked ahead. She seemed to stare at the back of Ryan’s head, but upon closer inspection, I could see that she avoided even that intimacy. She was lost in the past, searching for something hopeful. Jodi was in the garden. Her face was not relaxed, but tense. Three minutes passed. Four minutes. I squatted down beside the fetal Ryan. He looked up. I didn’t speak out of respect for his seclusion. Ryan almost made eye contact with me and said “I can’t think of anything.” He smiled weakly, simply stating a fact. I nodded and touched him gently on the shoulder as I got up. I walked by Joyce and Jodi and felt their body language tell me not to make the moment more tragic by forcing them to speak. To say “I can’t think of

anything,” made the confession both too real and too public. I regretted my moment with Ryan. Between the three of them, they could not come up with four words. I was painfully reborn as a teacher that fall afternoon. I knew my students in a too intimate way, but I needed that knowledge to see beyond the faces in my classroom. I saw Ryan, Joyce, and Jodi for who they are, children of God who are in desperate need of positive experiences. If those three and other students like them are to succeed in my classroom, they must feel like they are important. I must instill in them the idea that they are unique, valuable because of who they are, and they must see that they have the potential for success. I see myself more clearly as a teacher because of this experience. I look now for ways to make the students the center of my classroom as learners and as individuals. Responses to journals, papers, and assignments allow me the opportunity to give honest, positive feedback to let students know where they are succeeding. I remember the power that I have for good in the lives of my students, and I search for ways to praise and thank them. With Ryan, Joyce, and Jodi’s class, I made a point to praise the students in class for their completed assignments, participation, and performance on quizzes. This type of praise has helped to generate a positive atmosphere in the class which facilitates a boost to self esteem. Since a strong teacher must motivate students to learn, I use positive comments and praise to drive them to work, learn, and feel good about themselves. Group work has also helped to draw these students in from the perimeter. While they feel somewhat excluded in a classroom environment, they seem more likely to participate in small group discussions and activities. These approaches help keep my students at the center of my classroom. I am able to draw reluctant students in from the boundaries. In my classroom, I work to ensure that there are no perimeter students. Part 3 Working the Groups A brief moment of dread gripped me when Daniel, Jake, and Ben wanted to see me after class, one week into their group research project. I could tell that they were all struggling—Daniel, the senior, frustrated; Ben, the junior, apathetic; and Jake, the freshman, stereotypically confused. My fears were realized when they told me that they were thinking of “just going it on our own.” I asked them what the problem was, and Daniel responded “we don’t know what to do or how to do it.” He meant this literally.

When I asked him if he could be more specific about the problem, he explained that they all liked their research question: “Is the cause of the higher incarceration rate among African Americans because of drug use?” I told them that I liked their question too. Daniel described how they did not know what to do next because it was awkward working and researching with three people. Anger at times scrunched his features into a painful face as he spoke. “We sat at the computer for three hours last night without getting a single sentence written.” Ben complained that it was too hard to compose a sentence with the three of them trying to put it together. While I could tell that Ben was frustrated, I could also tell that he would rather not be in my office, that he was angry with Daniel for dragging the three of them in. My first thought was to let them work individually. That would be easy for all of us. However, I also sensed that there was a learning opportunity for us. The skills they were lacking to work in a group were the same skills they would need when they entered the work place. Letting them escape now would only postpone their misery and perhaps force them to learn their lessons in a less supportive environment. I encouraged them to stay together despite their initial problems, and they agreed as long as I could help them get started. We discussed how writing in a group can function effectively by choosing a leader and dividing up tasks. Rather than sitting down as a group at the computer to write, I encouraged them to write sections individually and then meet together to discuss what they had done. The group sessions, I told them, should be collaboration sessions on what they accomplish individually. Daniel was the natural leader in the group, but he was reluctant to step up and take charge. When I told them to pick a group leader, both Jake and Ben enthusiastically took a step backward, tacitly nominating Daniel. By the time they left my office, they seemed optimistic but slightly skeptical. The group began functioning a little better, but it was not until two or three weeks down the road that the group began to click. Through trial and error and my coaching, the group took the more challenging route of staying together, and by the end of the semester the results were impressive. They went from a group that did not even know how to function, to a team that worked together almost effortlessly. The learning experience they gained was far more significant than if they had worked alone, and Daniel developed into an effective leader, a skill that will benefit him all his life. I am always satisfied when group writing projects work well, and frustrated when they don’t. I see so much value in collaborating during the writing process where students are able to work with and teach one another. Daniel, Jake, and Ben pushed me to innovate my teaching strategies, coaching group work and leadership skills in a way that I previously thought irrelevant in a writing class. I now see my writing students as future leaders and collaborators which fits very nicely into the mission of BYU-Idaho.

Part 4 Tight-wire I taught at least four students struggling with severe mental illnesses this semester. Those were the four that actually spoke to me about their health, but it seems likely that there were others. I struggled all semester long to let the spirit guide me in working with these students, but my efforts failed. I did feel the spirit, but I lost several of these students. I recognize that it was not my responsibility to “keep” them, but I feel the pain just the same. Anne was an exceptional student and exceptionally quiet. Her dark, straight hair, thin, acne-scarred face, and contact-avoiding eyes suggested the delicacy of fine china, at once exquisite and fragile. After two stellar months in my American Lit class, Anne disappeared. I found out later that she not only disappeared from my class, but her roommates and parents had been looking for her for days. I heard, through another student, that she was in the hospital. Several weeks passed, and finally her father called me. He tearfully told me of Anne’s ongoing mental illness. Since high school, he told me, Anne had disappeared periodically. Her personality would almost completely change, and she would become suicidal. Anne was currently in one of these cycles, and he hoped that she would be back in class soon. I told him that I would do everything possible to help her succeed in the class. I sent her several emails of encouragement and sympathy, but I concealed that fact that I knew about her illness. Her father said that she would not want me to know. Anne came back to class broken. She was there for a day, and then disappeared for the rest of the semester. I still have not heard from her or her father. Laurie was one of my favorite students. I taught her in my Intro to Lit class where she was inspired to become an English major. While we are not recruiters, it sure feels good when a student really catches the spirit of our discipline. This semester I had her, now as an English major, for my American Lit class. She was a fantastic student, full of life and energy. Shortly before Anne disappeared, Laurie started coming late to class, missing several classes, and finally not attending at all. Since I had a fairly close relationship with Laurie, she came into my office about once a week even though she was not attending class. As I tried to help her succeed in the class, she related the story of her downward spiral into severe depression. Over the semester I fought so hard for her, with her. Laurie’s parents could not understand her situation or her illness, and they just wanted her to come home. She dropped all but two of her classes, hoping that she would be able to survive, but by midterm, Laurie could not sleep until about 5:00 AM each morning, and then could not get herself out of bed until the evening. With about two weeks left in the semester, she disappeared for good. Despite my efforts to contact her, I still have not heard from Laurie. Daniel’s wife of three months was diagnosed during the semester with borderline personality disorder, a mental illness that tears apart both the patient and the spouse. The

relationship usually ends in taters, with both spouses worse off than they began. Worse than this, Daniel felt the betrayal of not having been told by his wife or her family about her condition before the marriage. Every other week, Daniel would enter the class, exhausted, eyes blood shot, nerves frayed. His wife would crash and be completely incapacitated for a week at a time. She would shout profanity and blame Daniel for all of their problems, her eyes red and swollen from weeping, throat hoarse from screaming, snot running down her face. Work and school, including my advanced writing class, would shut down temporarily until Daniel’s personal life became bearable. His own sanity at times seemed tenuous as if he could just barely hang on. I loved him and prayed for him, but I found in the end that I couldn’t really do anything for him. I was just his teacher. I had to admit that despite following the spirit and doing all I could, I cannot be The Catcher in the Rye; I cannot save anyone. That’s not my job, nor am I capable of it. But I can love these students, and I can make a small, positive difference in their lives. There’s the possibility of becoming too close, but I also run the risk of being distant and cold. I was close enough to these students to feel extreme pain when they fell but distant enough to keep doing my job, to not get burnt out. That is a fine line. As an instructor I sometimes walk the tight wire. I have to remind myself that there is no net. No one to catch me. I did not lose Daniel. I think about him a lot. Part 5 Learning Model Moments Inspired by all the work that has been done with the learning model, I decided to start off the semester with an activity that would focus our classroom on it. I thought that this activity might work best on the first day of class, but my problem was this: How can I fit the reading of the syllabus with this additional first day activity? My answer was surprisingly simple, and it came from the learning model of all places. I decided that I did not have to hold their hand through the syllabus. I put the syllabus down as one of their first reading assignments and allowed the students to act. That solution worked well as I did not have to bore my students with the syllabus, and they were able to come to class the next day with questions and issues to discuss. The activity was made up of several parts, some of which took place on the first day of class and others continued on throughout the semester. In class, before our introductions, I prepared a handout to be reviewed in small groups. The students were to introduce themselves to their group members and then read through several key quotes from Elder Bednar and President Clark in addition to the learning model itself. I gave them an opportunity to act on that reading by coming up with ways that the learning model affects our class (I’ll use my advanced writing class as an example here). The students were to report their conclusions to the class.

On the board, I listed the students’ responses which surprised me by their insight. Some of their responses follow:

• We should not expect you to be “the sage on the stage” feeding us information on how to write.

• We should take responsibility for our writing—both failures and successes. • We need to come prepared to teach the material on writing skills [I asked what

that meant]. o We have to do our reading and understand it enough to be able to explain

it to other students. o We must read to understand and comprehend, not just to get through it. o We have to do our own writing and also be prepared to help others master

the skills we possess. o We have to get rid of pride and be willing to ask fellow students for help.

• We have to make the learning important to us as individuals. In some ways, these are canned responses, but they are also connecting these basic principles to writing which I don’t think they would do otherwise. In interacting with the students, I try to press them with questions that help to get at the heart of the model and what it should mean to them. I also emphasize my role as a learner in the classroom which is something that they usually do not pick up on initially. They find it odd to consider me a learner and teacher rather than just a fountain of knowledge. As a follow up to this activity, I introduce to them the assignment I call “The Reflective Learning Blog (see figure 1). The students quickly see the connection between the activity and the assignment as we discuss why it is important to reflect on both their learning and participation in class. The blog assignment is weekly and allows the students to evaluate themselves on participation and performance. One student that I watched closely as the semester progressed was Steven Hoffman (an interactive exchange with Steven follows this reflection). He was a social work major preparing for graduate school, and I saw connections and learning that he made throughout the semester. Concepts, both spiritual and temporal, were stored into long term memory through the weekly blog that

Reflective Learning Blog

The BYU-I Learning Model instructs that “true teaching is done by and with the Holy Ghost,” and we know that one of the ways the Spirit can teach us is when we ponder and reflect. Requirements

• Write a blog entry once every week (any day, but preferably towards the end of the week).

• There is no length requirement. • Respond to the following questions:

o What have I learned this week? o How have I actively participated in class

this week?

Assessment This is a learning tool for both you and me. While this assignment does not receive a letter grade, it will be used in combination with your attendance to determine final grade adjustments (see “Attendance” on your syllabus). I want to see that you are taking responsibility for your own thinking and learning. Figure 1: Reflective  Learning  Blog  Assignment  Sheet

facilitated their reflection. This also allows me as the instructor to monitor Steven’s learning and needs. We work together on the students’ education and growth through action—this is what the learning model is really about. Part 6 Twenty Year Reunion—Past, Present, and Parallel Universes As an awkward seventeen year old in Middleton High School, Idaho, I could not imagine myself a professor teaching English. The summer before my senior year, I relished the fact that I had made it through three years of high school having read only one book, Paul Zindel’s young adult novel Pigman. I anticipated a final torturous year of reading-free school followed by a life of ease as … what? A policeman. An Air Force person. A lawyer, no that required more school. That same summer I was rescued from my own tragic ignorance by an insulting remark from a good friend. Before the school year began, we sat in a dark room watching the thrilling new movie Alien. If only I could watch movies for a living. A half of an hour into the movie, a glanced in the back corner of the living room to see Morgan Hammerbeck sitting beneath a dim lamp, his hands weighed down with the massive Les Miserbles, unabridged. I could not conceive such behavior. Morgan had confused his priorities, and I could not let it pass unnoticed. “Morgan, why are you reading that book? For a class?” This was the first time I had heard of Les Mis and Victor Hugo. “No, I’m just reading it.” “You are such a loser. Come on! We’re watching the movie.” “I’m watching.” “You are such a loser!” I really meant that, in the way that high school buddies banter. I did not understand how anyone could choose a book over a movie. “Hey, look around this dumpy little town, Darin. Find the people who are stuck here—with nowhere to go and no way out. The guys who work down at Manford’s Service Station, Milt’s Market. The stoners, the drug dealers. Ask those guys how many books they have read since leaving Middleton High School. Then, you tell me, who is the loser … you or me?” He chuckled, not maliciously, and returned to his book. Morgan made me think for the first time about the future and my position in it. I glimpsed who I would be twenty years down the road without reading. I am grateful, 2009 being my twentieth year out of high school, that I am not there, that I am not that person. Reading books saved me from the prison of myself. My senior year I read over a hundred books compared to the one prior to that time. I became conscious of the world around me and the world of thoughts, cultures, and people in books. I recognized my own narrow subjectivity, and I saw the other as too separate from myself. Now, looking back through years of school and teaching, I cannot see myself as anything other than a teacher and a student. Facilitating my student’ reading, writing, and learning empowers me as a human being as it empowers them. My education and

teaching have made me a better person than I would have been otherwise. Education defines me, and as I pursue a Ph.D. in English, I expect to discover more about myself while at the same time evolving into someone else. I will become a better scholar and teacher, and in the process, a more complete and complex human being and citizen of the world. I am grateful to Morgan for his insult that sparked an awareness in me. I realized my potential and the ability in life to change and become someone different.