Missing the Leap: Removing Scaffolding too Quickly

For our first assignment in my freshman composition course, I wanted them to select an article of their interest and choosing to use for their discourse analysis.  After reading and discussing The Declaration of Independence the previous class, last week (our fourth class meeting together) students wrote a response to "What do you think the founding fathers intended the American Creed to be?" After a brief discussion and a too brief introduction to Padlet where we could capture our ideas, I asked my students to search for an article that connects to the themes we had identified in the historic document (e.g. equality, liberty, pursuit of happiness).

And the plan collapsed.

I watched my students attempt their (figurative) leap from incomplete scaffolding to grasp a crumbling ledge.  Students' hands popped up with questions in some parts of the room while elsewhere they sat gazing into their computers for answers.  The supplemental instructor and I visited students one on one, working our way around the room to coax students in the directions we had begun to travel the previous class period: topics such as free trade and the collapse of agreements, equality and the current questions about equal pay or discrimination, and freedom and the discussion of immigration and DACA. 

After bailing water the second half of class, I asked students to complete an exit slip with their topic of interest and the questions they had at that point. 

It was obvious to me that I needed to repair the scaffolding for this new group of students, but I was so stuck in what went wrong that I had difficulty focusing beyond the stack of slips with students' topics and questions.  Fortunately, chapter 7 of The Innovator's Mindset by George Couros (@gcouros) gave substance to my work.  His description of the eight things to look for in today's classroom gave me pause as I considered how I was creating opportunities for voice, choice, time for reflection, opportunities for innovation, critical thinking, problem solving, self-assessment, and connected learning. 

I wanted these characteristics in my classroom, but having already planned the end of the semester, I was missing the incremental steps of establishing the classroom culture that warmly invited students into these conversations and periods of reflection.  My intentions steamed ahead of community.  I attempted choice and critical thinking without building solid foundations that would make students' voices and connected learning meaningful.  Though it was mid-year for K-12 students and teachers, and a second semester continuation for my pre-service candidates, it was a new course and a fresh start for me and these freshman composition students.  I needed to know where they were so I could meet them there, something at this point in the year in my previous teaching positions I have not had to do.

The exit slips indicated that students needed much more assistance with finding articles.  I located ten articles that I hoped would honor students' interests while providing for rich analysis.  Categorized into general themes of liberty, equality, and pursuit of happiness with topics ranging from discrimination of people with disabilities to wage gaps to DACA to opportunities for happiness, articles would provide choice but in a way that kept this first assignment manageable.

This teaching mis-experience sank my spirits and no amount of positive interactions that day changed this feeling until I worked on a solution.  The bigger lesson from that day was this:  In the deepest part of me I want to be a good teacher, but more importantly I need to really see and know my students in order to do so.  Only then can we build a classroom in which we can solve these problems together.

Welcoming the Spring Semester

Welcome 2018!  

This new year and new semester prompted me to consider what I want to be and do in 2018.  Determined to be more and better in this year than I was in 2017, I began January 1 with reading, reflecting, and enjoying family time.  Each day is an opportunity to shape who I am and want to be.  My new and improved routine did not begin on January 2.  Some weeks into 2018 and the first week of spring classes, I'm still figuring out how to get up in time to stretch or have coffee, wake up children, read a news blog, make lunch, get ready for the day, and leave the house to drop off the high schooler before work.  After a few days of saying, "I think I need to start my day earlier," I reset my alarm.  Baby steps.

Many things stay the same when you work within an academic calendar.  I have ongoing projects with accreditation, research, and writing that stretch along the August-July continuum rather than the calendar year.  Yet, new classes in the spring semester revitalize me with opportunities for curricular revision.  And this semester, two pathways to enhance my understanding of students and partnerships have presented themselves in very different settings.  One is within my freshman composition course; the other is in my secondary English methods course.

The second semester Writing Studies delves into discourse communities, and in my particular learning community cohort the focus is civic engagement.  I began planning for this course in November while attending the National Writing Project Annual Meeting.  At that time, I was introduced to the PBS documentary American Creed and worked with instructors who had previewed the film and developed resources.  It was with even more good fortune that I learned the director of freshman composition at my university had received a grant for including service learning in the Writing Studies courses.  My course will analyze historical discourse, which will unfold as an exploration of today's discourse and the needs in our local communities.

My affiliation with the Illinois Writing Project and my participation with the National Writing Project College, Career, and Community Writers Program (C3WP) placed tools in my hands that will deepen this exploration of discourses in the composition class.  These argument-writing resources provide a framework for putting texts in conversation with one another and a foothold for students to engage in these conversations with each other.  Being present, being open, and being responsive allowed me to make the connections necessary to plan this semester.  I hope that what the freshmen experience within the class is as meaningful as planning for them has been.

In my secondary English methods course, five teacher candidates are continuing their program that began last fall.  We weathered some obstacles in the fall course, including my attempt to add writing and research layers to an already packed schedule.  We tried writing personal pieces with little time to develop them.  We recorded teaching episodes but did not fully take advantage of the feedback feature that was available in the technology platform.  After experimentation that resulted in marginal (if any) success, I should have been hesitant to try anything new this spring.  However, I want to enrich the candidates' experiences in the program, and have prepared myself for the setbacks that might occur. 

It has been a dream of mine to recreate my graduate research assistant experience of assisting a middle grades methods course taught in a middle school, often utilizing technology for backchannel discussions about classroom observations.  At the least, I hoped for my candidates to observe in a school together at the same time so that we could unpack the observations in our weekly class sessions.  Though possibly more than I should have hoped for, I also wanted a classroom space within a high school.  I am thrilled that our new partnership with a local high school opens doors for that dream to become a reality.  We meet in our high school classroom next week.  As we discuss candidates' observations and unpack the assigned readings, it will feel different from our university campus space.  I want it to feel different.  High school is where they have chosen to be, and it is my responsibility to prepare them.  Surrounding ourselves with the high school culture is only the first step.

Baby steps.

Getting It Right

As a secondary English methods professor, I wish I could get it right every time.  The truth is, I wish I could claim just one perfect year as a middle or high school teacher instead of a few near-perfect class periods or too many near-perfect disasters.  As many educators of any level might agree, it is the striving for perfection that keeps us moving forward: researching best practices, finding better resources, attending professional conferences, and meeting new colleagues as we continually shape and reshape our philosophical stance on teaching and learning.

Every week, my English methods students pose tough questions about numerous topics in education that experienced teachers struggle with daily.  Last week they asked, "How do we get students to actually read (or care about reading) during silent reading?  What does accountability for independent reading look like?  How do I manage student choice and grading?"  Channeling some of my best professors' strategies, I asked them to discuss their own classroom observations and what they have learned from their mentor teachers.  Most recently, however, during our discussion of Lev Vygotsky's Zone of Proximal Development and Deborah Appleman's Critical Encounters in Secondary English: Teaching Literary Theory to Adolescents, one student stumped me with questions about grading: How do we assess scaffolding if one student needs more resources and assistance than another student?  How does the scaffolding enter into grading?  


Time limited our discussion that evening, which made it immediately clear that we needed more resources to help us grapple with these issues around grading practices.  Having experienced the depth of the Twitter professional network, I turned to #sbgchat and discovered #sblchat (Wednesdays at 9 p.m. EST).  In just moments, I found a video by Rick Wormeli, proficiency grading guides, a website on all things standards based by Matt Townsley, and conversations archived by Garnet Hillman around grading theory and practice.  


Yes, my students' questions give me pause, more now that I realize how much there is to learn.  But knowing how to navigate these education resources moves me closer to being the professor my secondary teacher candidates need me to be.  I have an advantage over my first-year teacher self of twelve years ago: supportive professional networks that constantly teach me (how else would I have discovered teachers on Twitter?).  These networks include the National Council of Teachers of English (@NCTE), National Writing Project (@writingproject) beginning with the Louisville Writing Project (@LouisvilleWP) and continuing with the Illinois Writing Project (@IllinoisWP), the International Literacy Association (@ILAtoday), the Illinois Reading Council (@ILReadCouncil, and the Literacy Research Association.  Through these professional networks, I have learned the value of mentors, lifelong research, and constant investigation.  I have also learned the importance of wobbling on the edge of new challenges.  Without these experiences and the support of these associations--of mentors and friends--I wouldn't be able to show my future teachers how to get it right, even if it's only some of the time.

Longing for Writing Space as an Early Career Researcher Professor

I woke this morning with the longing to write, the need to carve time for creativity, to voice the thoughts swirling around in the ether.  Simultaneously, university course work tugged at the coattails of a writing desire that has become more and more elusive over the past several weeks.  I wobbled against its weight.  The pull of grading, of announcements to students clarifying their questions, and of emails to colleagues scheduling meetings worked to stifle what I know to be true: if I do not write, I cannot teach writing, nor can I teach future teachers how to teach writing.

Attending the Illinois Reading Council (#IRC2016) reminded me of the passion I need to reignite: writing to discover new ideas and to nourish the ideas that have had little time to take root.  A small group of professors with the College Instructors of Reading Professionals answered questions, and more importantly offered much-needed encouragement in my pursuit of what fills me as a professional.  Anne Gregory with NIU said it best when describing how early she rises each morning to workout: "I deserve this . . . and you deserve the time for your passion." Deserve.  I deserve the time to write.  That one word shifted my thinking profoundly.

But it did not shift my ability.

In a late afternoon session yesterday, Ralph Fletcher showed us poetry and encouraged us to draft a few lines ourselves.  I stumbled.  My phrases were lackluster.  The poem ended awkwardly with no connection to Fletcher proposed be our final two lines.  And how I needed that punch to generate an image, an idea about a memory long past.  I could then, and now, feel the rusty spigot creaking little by little with each word.  No pressure except for the words pressing themselves against the narrow faucet opening.

When Kelly Gallagher spoke in his session about voluminous writing in the classroom, I nodded agreement.  How can students improve their writing and enhance idea generation, organization, and detail development without constant opportunities to experiment with craft and improve writing stamina?  His strategies for engaging students in low-pressure writing without increasing the grading workload should be easy to implement in any grade level.  In fact, I am eager to add his Reading Reasons to my collection of professional resources to become as well-referenced as so many other reading and writing experts.

But then, let's flip the voluminous writing concept back to us.

Are we creating the space--time and place--for low-pressure writing in our own professional and personal settings?  In a sense, everything I have written in the past several weeks has been for a "grade."  Grading students' essays and communicating with colleagues or partner schools via email are higher-pressure writings that become evaluated by the people who read them.  Likewise, reports, course syllabi, and students' degree study plans cannot receive failing grades.  I like having a job.

Blogging is that release for me.  Writing in this space solidifies the ethereal thoughts, giving them legs to stand on . . . and hands to shake loose whatever weight might be hanging onto the tails of this new coat I am trying on.

So tell me, how do you create the space for writing?  What do you recommend for early-career researchers and professors?  What helps you reignite writing when other weighty obligations begin to take over?

Operating on the Dissertation Behemoth for Academic Publishing

When I first entered the doctoral program in summer of 2011, I viewed academia as a place where someone else shared knowledge with me.  In that fall's doctoral seminar class, however, the professor shared bewildering information.  We needed to eventually publish.  Whether we co-authored with mentor faculty or were the sixth author on a research article, we would be in better academic and professional standings if we published in journals (although Raul Pacheco-Vega questions this logic in his recent blog post).  So, as a full-time middle school language arts teacher and part-time graduate student, I ignored this advice and focused on providing endless feedback on 8th grader drafts and writing my own projects, articles, reflections, or unit plans for graduate coursework.

Fortunately, a popular writing course at the university cycled the program every few years and fit my schedule.  Writing for Publication brought together students from across disciplines in a joint effort to resurrect old drafts for journal submission.  We dug deeply into Wendy Belcher's Writing Your Journal Article in Twelve Weeks: A Guide to Academic Publishing Success.  I wish I had purchased the actual book rather than the digital version, but her website provides the consumable resources so books can stay "clean."  The intense yet practical approach pushed me to write, revise, share drafts, and revise again while also researching possible journals and attending to specific audience needs.  I finished the course successfully and submitted my manuscript, which I described in a previous blog post.  My waiting resulted in disappointment when it was rejected several months later.  With the bustle of other projects and without the pressure of a grade, I let the manuscript and feedback collect dust.

Over two years later, several pieces of writing lurk within my computer, notebooks, and coursework folders.  I have written drafts of literature reviews and reflections in preparation for my dissertation and some did, in fact, make their way into that behemoth of data and analysis.  I proudly and successfully defended my dissertation (Understanding through Narrative Inquiry: Storying a National Writing Project Initiative) on March 28, 2016.  Imagine my excitement when my committee members said they could see possibilities for six journal articles I could develop from this work.  Six!

Six! Imagine my anxiety knowing I should dissect my beautiful behemoth into smaller beasts for academic journal writing.  I wrote a semi-traditional five-chapter dissertation and pushed its boundaries only slightly with creative mini-narratives to describe findings in chapter four.  How do I distill the essential learning found in my research problem, literature review, methodology, findings and closing discussion chapters?  How do I engage in meaningful academic writing that highlights my insights about professional learning communities, teacher-leadership, planning professional development, trust, and invitation?  These are real questions for which I have not yet found answers, even though I feel it is my responsibility to already know.

I do not step lightly into this task.  For many months I raised and cared for each of these 213 pages.  Now, like Dr. Frankenstein, I have to operate on a monster for these insights to live on.  Thank you in advance, Wendy Belcher, for being my assistant.  And thank you, readers, for your own experiences about how you managed this task.

Being a Student Again

As a recent graduate, I have pondered my journey to completion and what it actually took to get here.  Even though the Louisville Writing Project Invitational Summer Institute hours applied toward my coursework, my official entrance into the doctoral program came the fall of 2011 with a seminar course.  For many students, I can imagine, their initial experiences in a program can determine their trajectory for the remainder of their studies.

This seminar introduction to deciphering qualitative, quantitative, and mixed methods; writing literature reviews; and developing a path for research was akin to mental Olympics.  I felt pushed, pulled, and stretched in new, very demanding directions.  For the first time in a very long time, my brain felt out of shape.  For over seven years I had attended professional development, created innovative lessons, crunched impossible amounts of data, and learned how to be a more effective teacher, but none of these experiences trained me to run this marathon.

During that first semester, I remember wondering if I would ever learn it all.  Would or could I learn enough to earn a doctorate?  Fortunately, our professor named our fears and welcomed them.  He encouraged us to wrangle literature and make sense of published data.  My brain hurt.  I felt, well, dumb, and may have said as much to my classmates (and professor).  By the end of the semester, though more knowledgeable, we all had glazed eyes with expressions of "what the hell have I gotten myself into?!" plastered on our faces.

When I think about some of my attempts with data collection and analysis even closer to the end of my coursework a few years ago, I realize now the incredible patience my professors must have had.  For instance, only experienced researchers should attempt to record and analyze unstructured interview conversations and try to make sense of their contextual significance or explain that significance in class.  Thankfully, I learned from these experiences.  With guidance and understanding (surely everyone has early researcher mistake stories), my professors modeled what I hoped to become.

Being a student influenced my teacher lens in my middle school classroom.  I hope I became more sensitive to students' struggles, more flexible with my instructional approaches, clearer in my expectations.  At the minimum, I hope I found ways to stretch my students' brains.  For that reason, I encourage teachers to pursue higher education--a master's degree, endorsement or certification, or doctorate.  Enroll in MOOCs or a study group to which you are accountable in some way.  Be a student again.  Yes, we have well over eighteen years under our belts as students, but (sigh) that is the same argument we hear with members of legislature.  Becoming a student after being a teacher revealed insights I never would have discovered otherwise.  I promise it was worth it.

Terminal Degree as the Beginning

As I listened to Ashley Miller speak at the doctoral hooding ceremony about her fears of not graduating, of that dreaded email requiring one more course or one more draft, I realized how real my own fears had become.  The time-line of defending my dissertation at the end of March, addressing the committee's recommendations in early April, sending the revised draft to my adviser soon afterwards, submitting the final dissertation to the graduate school before April 22, and the ceremony on May 13, intensified these fears rather than relieved them.  And when I was in line to step onto the stage, I held back the urge to look inside the cardboard tube with the University of Louisville seal to see if anything was inside.

The ceremony marked the transition to "Doctor" as one to be taken with great responsibility.  Dr. Beth Boehm, vice provost for graduate affairs, assured our families that a terminal degree meant "the end"--no more coursework or dissertation drafts.  Yet, this journey is just beginning.  As doctoral students, we learned how to create new knowledge.  Through our doctoral programs, we discovered the needs within our communities.  Our new terminal degrees have positioned us as researchers, creators, and problem solvers.

Through courses in education and literacy theory, teaching writing, cognitive coaching, and qualitative research design and methods, I discovered the need for "small data."  I am prepared to analyze trends, identify learning gaps, and further disaggregate data as tiny lenses into education; yet, more exists to be seen and heard.  My dissertation research study narrated the stories of a teacher leadership team and the liaisons across the country who developed and implemented a Literacy Design Collaborative professional development workshop called Assignments Matter.  Narratives such as these show us effective ways into big data.  Teacher and student narratives help us see the faces behind the numbers.

Inspired by the speakers' encouraging words, my adviser Dr. Penny Howell's vote of confidence, and my professor Dr. Lori Norton-Meier's special congratulations, I enter the next phase of my education.  Empowered with the knowledge of how to create new knowledge, I attend to the literacy and professional development needs within education through organizations such the Illinois Writing Project.  And although I hesitated to add "Ph.D." to my C.V. until it was official, I now have a signed parchment that no one can take away from me--I'd like to see them try.