tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68737848740148061422024-03-05T03:16:26.427-08:00Working Together 68Shelley Beleznayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981654330766573108noreply@blogger.comBlogger144125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6873784874014806142.post-22890596984847302642020-08-13T16:30:00.000-07:002020-08-13T16:30:00.988-07:00Simply Love<p>I woke up this morning, even before I remembered, thinking about
love, about how teaching is about love, maybe only about love, and how seldom
we talk about it.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Today is a fitting day for love. I have mourned my brother
for sixteen years today. Sometimes it seems like yesterday that he was still
here, as though it might yet be possible to pick up the phone and talk to him,
and other times those missing years, the years of missing, are unimaginably
vast. Forever. That inconsolable word. I sometimes consider the ease of
forgetting, yet how important this remembering is. Remembrance not only breaks but
opens hearts; remembrance brings weight and substance to pitiless statistics of
death that toll far from my small circle and turns them into sorrow <a href=" https://dailypoetry.me/william-wordsworth/thoughts-lie-deep-tears/">too deep for tears</a>, into love.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Isn’t this what learning is? This stretching out of our
small circles to love more widely? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Can we teach love? Teach with love? Teach to love? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It seems a small thing to think about, I suppose, in this time
of a global pandemic, of deep divisiveness, of unthinkable inequities, of
endless wars and mounting ecological ruin. We turn our minds to changing the
world through education. Debates rage about what and how to teach to this
not-yet-agreed-upon change and who we want our children to become through any
changes or what they need to know to become agents of this change: we splinter,
divide, tangled in our complex ruminations and expanding theories, expending
our energies to defend our own causes and discount others. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Yet there have been dark days before this.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://poets.org/poem/september-1-1939" target="_blank">W. H. Auden</a>, sitting “uncertain and afraid” in “one of the
dives/ On Fifty-second Street” on September 1, 1939, reflects that “no one
exists alone”: thus, “We must love one another or die.” This is echoed decades later
by <a href="https://www.africa.upenn.edu/Articles_Gen/Letter_Birmingham.html" target="_blank">Martin Luther King, Jr</a>. writing from Birmingham jail in 1963: “We are <span style="background: white; color: black;">caught in an inescapable network of
mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly,
affects all indirectly</span>.” We must, thus, he says, become extremists for
love. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Perhaps it <i>is</i> this small, this simple: to teach with love,
for love, to love, <i>as</i> love, so that with the remembrance of the weight
of even one death, an inextinguishable gratitude for the preciousness of living,
of life, for <i>all</i> life blossoms and grows. <o:p></o:p></p>Shelley Beleznayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981654330766573108noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6873784874014806142.post-1207186622289228022019-08-13T05:48:00.000-07:002019-08-13T05:48:34.855-07:00Keeping Still<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am lying in a tent staring up at the roof. I can hear my
granddaughter singing just outside it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are in her bedroom. I am tucked in beside a giant tiger and a bunny.
I know there is a basket of books beside me, but I can’t move.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I call out to Ava, “Don’t you want to read a book?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Not right now,” she says, “I’m playing.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the distance I hear my son. “Ava, you can’t leave Grandma
in the tent! I’m going to come and get her to see the twins if you do.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At this threat, Ava comes into the tent, crouching down so
that I can see her and explains the game again. I am supposed to be <i>sleeping</i>
and it’s not time to get up yet. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For Ava, this virtual play (I am on the phone in the
FaceTime app) is ordinary. For me, it is surreal, a miracle, terrifying. We know so little about this world that
children are growing up in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can get up and empty the dishwasher or put on a load of
wash, keeping my phone nearby to listen for any new instructions, but I lie on
the carpet and imagine myself there. Present. It isn’t difficult, although
perhaps it is the most difficult challenge of this new world. This slowness of
presence when it’s possible to do something else. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think about the hours and hours spent playing cards with
my brother. Long slow days that wind thick connections that aren’t severed
even by death. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stay still. It’s not time to get up yet. I listen to Ava
sing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br /></div>
Shelley Beleznayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981654330766573108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6873784874014806142.post-67343200660047608232018-08-13T19:13:00.000-07:002018-08-13T19:13:00.808-07:00The harder the conflict<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I woke up this morning questioning my commitments. I didn’t want to go to CrossFit at all. Ever. Why, I
wondered, after years of doing nothing more vigorous than gentle walking, did I
choose such high-intensity training? I’m tired. I questioned my commitment to continue with my doctorate. I’ve
spent 12 hours a day for the past few days trying to meet a deadline for a draft
of the first three chapters of my dissertation. I’m tired. I questioned writing this blogpost. Every year for the past eight, I’ve
commemorated my brother here on this day. What would it matter, I wondered, if
I missed this year?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It wouldn’t. Not really. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Except that each time I pause to remember Marc, I remember that
I have this gift of time that is lost to him forever. I have more blessings than I can count, and a
lot of work left to do to keep my promise to him to find ways to ensure there
is a place in the schools of tomorrow for the brilliant children like my
brother who struggle with learning in our schools today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I remember, too, the Thomas Paine quote
he sent me days before he died: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="background: white; color: black; line-height: 107%;">The harder
the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we
esteem too lightly; it is dearness only that gives everything its value. I love
the man that can smile in trouble, that can gather strength from distress and
grow brave by reflection. 'Tis the business of little minds to shrink; but he
whose heart is firm, and whose conscience approves his conduct, will pursue his
principles unto death.</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The conflicts I face are so small, my rewards won so cheaply;
it’s back to work for me with a grateful heart.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br /></div>
Shelley Beleznayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981654330766573108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6873784874014806142.post-53440155782255020142018-02-24T06:46:00.000-08:002018-02-24T06:46:58.806-08:00Why do we listen to John Hattie?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Recently I received a memo to remind me of John Hattie’s research
on collective teacher efficacy, the number one influence, according to his
mega-analysis, on student achievement:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<b><span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Collective teacher efficacy </span></b><i><span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">(d</span></i><span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> = 1.57). This is a factor that
can be manipulated at a whole school level. It involves helping all teachers on
the staff to understand that the way they go about their work has a significant
impact on student results – for better or worse. Simultaneously, it involves
stopping them from using other factors (e.g. home life, socio-economic status,
motivation) as an excuse for poor progress. Yes, these factors hinder learning,
but a great teacher will always <i>try</i> to make a difference
despite this, and they often succeed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">There are so many questions no one seems to ask. First,
how do we know this is true? So often we are handed this nugget of information
as though it were fact.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hattie’s famous
list of influences is a meta-analysis of </span>800 meta-analyses of more than
50,000 quantitative studies of variables affecting the achievement of students.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But what does that mean?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite the large numbers, it means that
Hattie selected only those studies that focused on factors that he argues can
be influenced in schools, so topics like class, poverty, health in families,
and nutrition are excluded. Thus, although he says teachers should not use
those factors as an “excuse,” he does not calculate their impact on learning. He
includes only quantitative studies, that is, studies that measure what can be
measured, test results, for example.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anything that documents the experiences of children and teachers, their
joy, their anguish, their hopes and fears is excluded. He includes or excludes
further studies based on his beliefs about the quality and motives of the
research. These 50,000 chosen studies, then, conducted in the past, are stirred
in the pot of statistical analysis, place, gender, culture, age, ability all
blended, amalgamated, averaged and then summarized to give us the list of
influences. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I keep wondering why we accept this list as though numbers so
derived matter more than common sense. Children who are hungry, who don’t know
where they are going to sleep at night, whose parents are suffering in the grip
of generational poverty and trauma are not going to magically “improve” when we
use concept mapping (effect size 0.64) in our classrooms. Although schools
can’t “influence” poverty, our time and resources are used to heal, at least in
small ways, the effects: we have food programs, extra clothing, washing
machines and showers, counseling for children who are angry, hurt, grieving; we
send home grocery cards, Christmas hampers, used laptops; we have after-school
programs, organize funding for running shoes, and to pay costs so all the
children can attend field trips or get extra music lessons. When we shush a
child who is talking during the announcements, and he tells us to fuck off,
pushes over his chair, and storms out of the room, we understand that it’s very
possible he didn’t sleep last night, because he shares his room with two
brothers and his aunt’s baby who often cries most of the night; we know he came
late to school and so missed the breakfast program and likely hasn’t eaten
since we fed him lunch yesterday; we understand that anger is a response to
frustration, hurt, pain. We feed him; we love him. But it doesn’t help us teach
him math. This is not an excuse. A teacher cannot be responsible for the
success of a child. Even a great teacher. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But then, what is a greatness in a teacher? With the
Olympics on right now, we know what great athletes are. Still, even a great
snowboarder like Mark McMorris is excused when gusts of wind shift his balance.
Even a great skater like Nathan Chen is excused when the complex, impossible to
measure factors of heart, nerve and confidence destroy his poise. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most of us are just ordinary. Still, I’ve never met a
teacher who didn’t <i>try</i>. I see
day-to-day miracles from ordinary teachers who try, try, <i>try</i> every day, without
fan support, without a coach helping from the sidelines, without the resources
they need, despite ludicrous lists that tell them to simply <i>try</i> harder, despite gusting winds and
broken hearts.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wonder why we continue to listen to the statistical
machinations of an Australian academic rather than the teachers in our own community
who say, please help.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<br /></div>
Shelley Beleznayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981654330766573108noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6873784874014806142.post-44982476128797937532017-08-13T14:52:00.001-07:002017-08-13T15:01:22.353-07:00Fishing Stories<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have been reading. A lot. The more I read, though, the
less I seem to understand anything at all. I’m trying to find the answer to how
to teach. I don’t mean the technical part. After twenty odd years, I’m
confident I can plan a lesson, organize a classroom, adapt, modify, assess,
intervene, revise. I’m always learning, of course, but I’m “on my way,” as a
teacher might say. What I mean, though, is the rest of teaching, the part that
no one seems to talk about.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not even sure I can put it into words. It’s the day-to-day
and moment-to-moment work of teaching. It’s how to be present even when you are
tired or sad, how to stay calm and ready to hear the children even when you are
frustrated or hot or hungry, how to keep trying to help a child who pushes you
away at every opportunity, who hurts the other children, who sometimes weeps uncontrollably
in the cloakroom. It’s the decisions day-to-day and moment-to-moment of
teaching – what to teach these children before you (not the ones you planned
for), how to teach them in this moment for this lesson (should I begin with a
pretest? an anticipation guide? paired conversations? a video?), when to keep
pushing forward even when the children seem lost or bored, when to stop and let
them run or change directions entirely to begin again differently. It’s all the
things that need to be created in the moment, moments that can’t be planned for
or polished up. It’s finding space to
think about this part of teaching in a day filled with doing and assessing, planning,
organizing, organizing, organizing to begin again the next day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My brother used to send me pithy quotes like this one: whatever
you focus on is what you get. I’m beginning to wonder if what I want to focus
on can’t be found in books. Perhaps all this reading is only pointing me in the
wrong direction. How, after all, can we capture in words what exists only in a
moment, in this moment, when Janice looks at me with a question in her eyes and
the light of hope shining behind. And the moment passes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What’s funny, though, is that it is the moments, in the end,
that last, that we remember, that inspire or discourage us, that stay with us,
like the last conversation I had with my brother thirteen years ago. I was
telling him fishing stories from my trip to Haida Gwaii. He was laughing. Save
some for later, he said. Tell them to me when you get here. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Shelley Beleznayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981654330766573108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6873784874014806142.post-34733151900947495162017-07-30T05:58:00.000-07:002017-08-13T15:00:22.241-07:00Summer Slow<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you are a teacher, you know about the summer list. Not only are you going to lounge at the beach
and read novels, hang out with friends and family, take trips to here or there,
and binge-watch that series from Netflix everyone is raving about, but you are also
going to clean the kitchen cupboards, organize the laundry room, sort through
your drawers to get rid of all the clothes you no longer wear, plan an amazing
unit for school start-up, collect math games, and redesign your classroom. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yet somehow, at least for me, summer time simply slips away.
I’m not sure where it goes. A barbecue with friends. A weekend with family. An
afternoon of shopping for a gift. My list is still long.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This morning the sky is tinted apricot; the ocean is bands
of soft blue. I sit here and watch the colours change and I wonder if I’m
missing something by always doing something. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
I wonder, too, about our children. What do I do now, the
students always ask me, when they have finished something early. Whatever you
like, I say. But what, they ask. Do nothing, I say, and they stare at me,
perplexed. I wonder if they even know anymore, in these days of always-on-now
entertainment, about the rich possibilities of doing nothing. I wonder, too,
if, in that slow creeping way of change that overtakes us unnoticed, I, too,
will soon know nothing of doing nothing. Will I always, in those moments
between doing something, pick up my phone and scroll through Facebook, text a
friend, play word games on an app rather than sit and stare out a window? Will
I miss something important?<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Shelley Beleznayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981654330766573108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6873784874014806142.post-16942632411470011042017-01-09T05:59:00.000-08:002017-01-09T05:59:53.961-08:00New Year’s Resolution: Do Not Be a Curmudgeon<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">Lately I’ve
begun to feel like one of those dreadful curmudgeons, crossed arms, curled lip,
jaded eye, slouched in the back of required meetings. I’m trying to be
positive. I love teaching. I love the students. I love the challenge that each
day brings. I love puzzling at the end of the day over the children, thinking
about how I can engage Janie in the story we are reading or support Andrew in fractions
or work with Sandra and Linda to solve the burbling dispute between them. I
love designing next step lessons, building on what captured students’
imaginations, adding more steps where they were confused, creating multiple
pathways when needed to meet diverse needs and places where we’ll converge
again as a community. It’s challenging. It’s stimulating. It’s joyful. It’s exhausting.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">I can’t
help wishing, though, that someone finally would say, good heavens, let us help
teachers. They spend the whole day in one small room with thirty children! They
try so hard to teach each of those children beautifully every day! How can we
help? What do they need?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">Instead, we
are always bombarded by more that <i>we</i>
need to do. This year, we </span>have a new curriculum, modernized, we’re told,
to respond to the new world of constant change. There are new core competencies
– communication, thinking, and personal and social competencies – as well as
new curricular competencies, big ideas and learning standards for each of the
content areas. I am supposed to make sure that what I do matches these new
ideas. Connected to this is an experimentation in new reporting procedures. <span lang="EN-CA">“</span>The ultimate goal,” the
Minister of Education tells us, “is to develop a student reporting process that
gives families a deeper understanding of their child’s progress at school
through timely and comprehensive information.” <span lang="EN-CA">In my district, this means that I need to share
with parents “authentic evidence of learning” with “explicit reference to
learning standards,” including “descriptive feedback” of how students are doing
and “student voice” – their reflection or their description of “where they are
in the learning process” – a minimum of 8 times this year as part of “ongoing
communication.” In addition, I must write two report cards with comments and,
rather than letter grades, include a sliding scale on levels of competency from
“beginning” to “extending.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">None of these
changes are bad, particularly. Somewhere out there people have worked very hard
in meeting rooms around long tables with chart paper and coloured pens, coffee
and muffins on the side table to sustain them and assorted sandwiches at lunch.
They’ve consulted experts, reviewed the research, and created comprehensive
documents complete with coloured charts and appendices. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">Yet as I
scramble to figure out these new changes, attend meetings, try new programs (we
have, as well, a new attendance program, a new online portfolio program, an
upcoming requirement to add coding lessons), my attention to the children is necessarily
fractured. My time is not infinite. I try not to be angry. I try not to think
about the millions of dollars spent on these changes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA">Still, I
can’t help but imagine, sometimes, what it would be like if even a fraction of
that funding were spent on what teachers need, if instead of creating documents
to tell us what they need us to do differently (whoever they are, these people
who sit comfortably somewhere and have ideas), they came to us to find out what
we need instead. Imagine, oh, imagine, a team coming to our school, setting up
a space with coffee and muffins, offering us assorted sandwiches at lunch (oh,
the luxury!) and time (time!) to sit and ponder with them about the challenges
and progress, the obstacles and advantages, the small things that would make a
big difference, the resources that would help us move forward. Imagine how it
would feel to go back into the classroom (as much as I love teaching, it is
hard, hard work and there are days when it all seems impossible). Imagine,
then, the bounce in our step, the feeling that we are not alone, that we are
appreciated (muffins!) and listened to as though our opinion counted, and
supported as though our work mattered. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA"><br /></span></div>
Instead,
the changes roll on. From somewhere. I try to stay positive.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Shelley Beleznayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981654330766573108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6873784874014806142.post-36599343821874735792016-09-06T06:30:00.000-07:002016-09-06T06:30:19.814-07:00When It Makes More Sense to Eat the Marshmallow<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Almost everyone has heard of the marshmallow test. Researchers left small children in a room with a marshmallow. They told them – if you wait to eat the marshmallow, I’ll give you two when I get back. Then they watched what happened. Some children ate the marshmallow as soon as the door clicked behind the researcher. Others resisted the urge with a variety of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QX_oy9614HQ" target="_blank">(adorable) strategies</a>. A follow up study of the children showed that the marshmallow resisters – the ones who could delay gratification for a better reward through self-control – were more successful in the future. Schools have begun to spend a lot of time parsing how best to develop this capacity in children.<br />
<br />
Then Celeste Kidd thought differently. She was volunteering at a homeless shelter and began to wonder – what if one of these children were given a treat and told to wait before they ate it? Could their likely quick gobbling be explained by a theory of self-control? She thought that expectations would play a bigger role. These children might expect to have their treat stolen – a big risk in a homeless shelter – and they might not expect adults to follow through on their promises – a big risk when adults are suffering. For these children, then, the most rational choice would be to eat the marshmallow right away. That is, it isn’t that they lack self-control, but rather that they are making the most sensible choice given the situation.<br />
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She decided to <a href="http://www.bcs.rochester.edu/people/ckidd/papers/KiddPalmeriAslinCognition2013.pdf" target="_blank">test her hypothesis</a> by adding another element to the marshmallow test. She began with an art project. The children were given an old used crayon package and told they could use those to draw a picture or wait until the researcher returned with a brand-new set of exciting art supplies. All the children waited. After a brief delay, the researcher returned either with the promised set or without it, apologizing and saying, ‘‘I’m sorry, but I made a mistake. We don’t have any other art supplies after all. But why don’t you just use these used ones instead?’’ Then the marshmallow test was done. As usual, the children were given a marshmallow and told that they would get two if they could wait. Children who experienced the unreliable researcher who did not bring art supplies waited on average only 3 minutes. Children with the reliable researcher waited an average of 12 minutes. In other words, the children quickly learned to adapt their expectations from their experiences and acted accordingly.<br />
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It makes me wonder how many of the conclusions we draw about children are misguided. We keep trying to look inside for their motivations, aptitudes, and abilities, when we need merely look more often outside and ask what prompts their actions. Perhaps then, we might begin to break the cycle of expectations that closes around the children who can expect little (why wait? why ask for help? why try?); teachers, seeing their “lack of self-control” expect less of them. And so it goes - unless we see things differently.<br />
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Shelley Beleznayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981654330766573108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6873784874014806142.post-39369149356842573292016-09-01T04:42:00.001-07:002016-09-01T04:42:52.043-07:00What is the cost of "best practice"?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In his book <i><a href="http://www.toddrose.com/endofaverage/" target="_blank">The End of Average</a></i>, Todd Rose begins with a story of mysterious crashes of United States Air Force planes in the late 1940s. After multiple inquiries led nowhere, researchers wondered if the pilots had gotten bigger since the cockpit, based on average sizes, was designed in 1926. Using ten dimensions of size most relevant to flying, one of the researchers made a startling discovery – out of the 4063 pilots measured, not one airman fit within the average range on all ten dimensions. Even more surprising, he found that using only three dimensions, less than 3.5 percent of pilots were average sized on all three. In other words, there is no such thing as an average pilot. As Rose puts it, “If you’ve designed a cockpit to fit the average pilot, you’ve actually designed it to fit no one.” In an environment where split second reaction times are demanded, a lever just out of reach can have deadly consequences. Adjustable seating was designed. Not only did it prevent deaths, but it opened the possibility for people who aren’t even close to “average” – like women – to become pilots. <br />
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The dimensions of a learner are even more multi-faceted, complex and diverge, we know, as widely. Yet we continue to measure our children according to averages that don’t fit anyone, to apply solutions based on averages, to focus on “best practice” gleaned, of course, through averages. Consider <a href="http://visible-learning.org/2016/04/hattie-ranking-backup-of-138-effects/" target="_blank">John Hattie’s widely touted list</a>, a synthesis of now more than 1200 meta-analyses about influences on learning and ranked according to effects on student achievement. How is the effect size calculated? Through the observed change in average scores divided by the standard deviation of the scores. Hattie chooses 0.4 as the point when the effect size is significant enough to make a difference to students. How did he choose that number? The average effect size of thousands of interventions studied is 0.4.<br />
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Our focus on “best practice” is like lavishing all our time to refine the fixed pilot seat, making it more precisely fitted to average. The trouble is, no matter how effective our strategies are “on average,” they don’t necessarily (or even likely) fit the children in front of us in our classrooms. Perhaps it’s time to spend our time thinking in a different direction entirely. Who knows what possibilities might open. <br />
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Shelley Beleznayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981654330766573108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6873784874014806142.post-39230971891449537142016-08-13T20:00:00.000-07:002016-08-13T20:00:04.877-07:00Stopping to be Still<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Heartbreakingly, it was almost a year before I understood Percy. He is a quiet boy. Very. In writing, he seldom managed more than a sentence, neatly printed, most often trite, but every once in a while, so poetic and rich that it rocked me back on my heels. Those few sentences should have been an obvious clue for me, but I continued blithely to give him strategies for generating ideas in answer to his terse – “I can’t think of anything.” One day his mother said to me, Percy wants you to know he has too many ideas. That’s what makes writing hard for him.<br />
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I don’t think I did anything very much to help him with this difficulty that all writers face. I simply saw him differently – as a writer, rather than a non-writer – and then he saw himself differently. Suddenly, he was writing.<br />
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I’m thinking of Percy now, as I stare blankly at the blinking cursor. I have promised myself to pause each year and write about my brother on the anniversary of his death. It’s been twelve years. My mind is a jumble of too much, of all the changes this year, the death of our step-sister, the birth of the babies, his youngest son’s travels around the world, his oldest son’s new girlfriend, the Syrian refugee crisis, Justin Trudeau and Donald Trump, Pokemon Go. Life has relentlessly gone on. And yet a part of me stands still always, locked into a time when the tragedies and joys, the silliness and seriousness of life were shared with Marc.<br />
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I wonder, often, if we need more stillness, more pauses. I wonder if, as a wife, mother, grandmother, sister, daughter, aunt, friend, teacher, I would be better for stopping more often, for listening, not so much to what is said, but for the silences, for the story behind the blank page, for the avalanche of words waiting beyond the brief phrase. I wonder if it’s always what we can’t find words for that’s most important, and if what matters most is stopping long enough to feel our way forward with our heart to hear what can’t be said. <br />
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Shelley Beleznayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981654330766573108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6873784874014806142.post-18265679971250446342016-07-27T05:30:00.000-07:002016-07-27T05:30:53.279-07:00Can Data Tell Us Who We Are? And Does It Matter?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17.12px;">Christian Rudder’s book <a href="http://dataclysm.org/" target="_blank">Dataclysm</a> explores who we are when we think no one is looking – our lives told through every Google search, tweet, Facebook like. He is one of the founders of OKCupid, an online dating site; data, he says, unlike surveys or small scale experiments doesn’t merely tell you what people say they prefer, but shows how they actually act and interact in private. This information, he argues, is not only useful for selling and surveillance, two of the most common practices at present, but it also tells “the human story.” Rudder’s idea “is to move our understanding of ourselves away from narratives and toward numbers, or rather, to think in such a way that the numbers are the narrative.” He promises to “put hard numbers to some timeless mysteries” that had previously been considered “unquantifiable.” His title captures this grand vision for data use: data is not only an “unprecedented deluge” but “the hope of a world transformed – of both yesterday’s stunted understanding and today’s limited vision gone with the flood.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17.12px;">So what are the “timeless mysteries” that are uncovered? Using millions of pieces of data, he reveals the “nexus of beauty, sex and age.” As she ages, women find older men attractive. For men, no matter his age, a women’s at her best when she’s in her very early twenties. Although people say they aren’t racist, they make choices and draw conclusions according to race. Woman are overwhelming judged by appearance. We pick on the weak. These are the “facts that need facing,” Rudder says, proved by the data that will “ends arguments that anecdotes could never win.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17.12px;">It seems naïve to hope, however, that more proof of racism, sexism, meanness as an act to inflate importance, even with incontrovertible facts, will change actions. In education, we know the Big Data stories well. They, too, aren’t new stories. Here are a few: if you live with poverty or with a learning exceptionality, if you belong to one of the involuntary minorities, then your likelihood of success in our current system is limited. The data, however, even when gathered in the millions, while noisy with never-ending streams of information about “what’s wrong” and “what works” is silent about how to change actions in the future.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17.12px;">Still, more data has become the new answer to every question. Gathering data, of course, feels like action – parsing, graphing, creating colour graphs, pointing fingers. I’m not sure there are any fresh insights to be gleaned at scale, though. We simply get confirmation of what we already know. All the surprises exist on the edges, after all, the outliers and anomalies, the information outside of our data entirely. Big Data, Rudder argues, lets us tell the story of Everyman. Perhaps. But how can Everyman’s story help us? In schools, we become mired in inevitability (what can you and I do about poverty and its grip on the future of our children?); we see the deluge of “facts that need facing” instead of the child who surprises us, if we pay attention, by being entirely unique, unexpectedly extraordinary (I haven’t met a child, yet, who isn’t). </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17.12px;">What we need in the midst of this deluge of data that tells us that we bully the weak, our children aren’t learning and our prejudices continue are heroic stories to remind us of how we can act differently anyway. We need to see the one child, never data sets, who looks at us in hope, her big brown eye flooded with despair, and know this: we must move mountains today so she can learn unobstructed by prejudice tomorrow. No other data is necessary. </span></span></div>
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Shelley Beleznayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981654330766573108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6873784874014806142.post-431390337158151592016-07-12T07:42:00.000-07:002016-07-12T07:42:27.793-07:00Why Some Slow and Boring in Schools is Good for Kids<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I recently listened to Will Richardson’s <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sxyKNMrhEvY" target="_blank">TedX Talk</a>. He is an advocate for revolutionizing schools. Like many, he believes that our current system makes no sense of the world we live in today where extraordinary learning is now in our pockets. Based on his conversations with about 50,000 people, he constructed the lists below: what we want for schools (the items on the left) and what we don’t want (the right). Yet what we don’t want, he says, still describes schools today. (I won’t quibble now about his description of schools except to say that it doesn’t describe the schools I’ve been in; they are a blend, rather, of the two lists.)<br />
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He argues that the disconnect between the way we all intuitively know we learn best and the way we are taught in schools points him to this surprising truth: “Schools aren’t built for learning.” He notes that his own children learn deeply on their own as they follow their passions, thanks to the abundance available through technology. He shows his son’s chemistry vocabulary quiz (pity his children’s teachers who are routinely held up as examples of what not to do). His son, he says, got 100% on the quiz, but no doubt will forget the words, because it isn’t something he wanted to learn more about. This shows, he says, another example of why schools are unproductive. Why not make the work relevant? Meaningful? Connected to his passions? Engaging? Our challenge, he says, is to make schools amazing places of learning for kids. We know what to do, he argues. All we need is the commitment and courage to shift the description of schools to the items on the left. <br />
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It sounds so right, doesn’t it? But I keep wondering if it is important for each moment of our children’s lives to be exciting, creative, thought-provoking, personalized to their particular interests. Are there things kids ought to learn even if they don’t want to learn them? (“Gimme never gets” springs to mind.) Are there things that can’t be – or shouldn’t be – wrapped up in student’s “passions” or particular interests? (The history of residential schools, for example.) Certainly, as many argue, why learn anything, when everything can be looked up (is it sufficient to simply look up respect for others or calculus?) but that only works if you know what you don’t know. Or are interested. Or can learn independently. Giving students a set of base concepts and vocabulary opens possibilities for all students that they might never know existed. Passions, after all, always fall within our knowns. But what if our goal in schools is to spark new passions? Then we need to present what kids don’t know yet - which is never as comfortable or as easy.<br />
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What’s more, forgetting isn’t just what happens when you learn in a straight row in age-related groups with no real world application. When I was 18 I learned to speak Dutch by being deeply immersed in the language. It was powerful, relevant, real world, challenging and self-directed learning. But I’ve forgotten the language now. Remembering demands that we <i>use</i> what we learn, not merely that we are taught in a particular way. It’s hardly surprising that many students forget many things they learn in school. Not all of us will be mathematicians or chemists or study literature. We won’t continue to practice many of the concepts we learned in school. But some of us will. And all of us will have had an introduction and opportunity to understand the basic literacies in key learning disciplines that will allow us to learn further when/if we choose to in the future.<br />
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And there’s something else. I couldn’t fully articulate my unease with personalized learning and this fashion for following passion (although <a href="http://workingtogether68.blogspot.ca/2011/07/why-students-should-not-follow-their.html" target="_blank">I’ve tried)</a> until I read, recently, <a href="https://www.brainpickings.org/2015/01/21/bertrand-russell-boredom-conquest-of-happiness/" target="_blank">this excerpt</a> from Bertrand Russell’s <i>Conquest of Happiness</i>.<br />
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The pleasures of childhood should in the main be such as the child extracts from his environment by means of some effort and inventiveness… A child develops best when, like a young plant, he is left undisturbed in the same soil. Too much travel, too much variety of impressions, are not good for the young, and cause them as they grow up to become incapable of enduring fruitful monotony.</blockquote>
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I do not mean that monotony has any merits of its own; I mean only that certain good things are not possible except where there is a certain degree of monotony… A generation that cannot endure boredom will be a generation of little men, of men unduly divorced from the slow processes of nature, of men in whom every vital impulse slowly withers, as though they were cut flowers in a vase.</blockquote>
Yes. That’s it exactly. No harm will come to children from the slow processes of memorization, of copying notes, of listening, of reading long texts, of learning “boring” things, of waiting. Not all the time, of course, but in balance with exploration, discovery, passion. And perhaps they will grow stronger, drawing on inner resources, building the capacity to accept that the pace of life varies and we must often adjust our own to others. I worry, instead, about this “cut flower” generation we are cultivating with personalized learning. How will they resist the lure of instant, fast, fun, intriguing that has always beckoned but now sits in their pocket? How will they step outside of their personal desires to meet the slow, hard, effortful and other-focused demands of healthy relationships, peace on earth, environmental stewardship? Their future, our future, depends on it. <br />
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Shelley Beleznayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981654330766573108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6873784874014806142.post-81133324192247698202016-07-01T14:48:00.002-07:002016-07-01T14:48:44.886-07:00A Short Love Letter to Teachers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
School’s out! I just wanted to be sure that after the mad month of June with stuffy classrooms, report cards, endless end-of-year events and summer-crazed children added to your usual litany of things to do someone took the time to tell you how much you are appreciated. I wish there was a parade in your honour, a brass band playing, and a rousing round of “For s/he’s a jolly good fellow!” I wish confetti came pouring down from the ceiling as the last bell rang and a huge cheer went up as each child you taught shook your hand and thanked you. I wish a TV crew was outside of the school and ran up to you as you left asking for an interview, begging for just a few words about how you managed to get Jimmy to read, Suzy to sit long enough to hear a story, Janice to stop hitting the other children when she’s frustrated, Calvin to stop crying long enough to engage in activities. But even if that didn’t happen, even if you didn’t get a single card or mug, not one thank you as children ran out of the room cheering (not for you), I hope you know that you are amazing. Your work is a gift beyond measure to our children and to our community. Thank you. </div>
Shelley Beleznayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981654330766573108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6873784874014806142.post-6042028684484918392016-06-03T08:20:00.000-07:002016-06-03T08:20:23.896-07:00CrossFit Learning? <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A friend of my son’s said that he started CrossFit to “outsource his motivation.” It is an idea that has stuck with me, and inspired me to start my doctorate, so that I can continue to learn deeply and reflect on teaching and learning. I could learn by myself, of course, but something (a new mystery novel, a friend’s invitation to coffee, Facebook, a squirrel running across the lawn) always gets in the way. The “outsourcing” comes from reading lists, assignments, deadlines and expectations. I love it. I also started CrossFit to the astonishment of friends and family. Give me 10 books to read and I’m up for the challenge; ask me to run 10 kilometers (okay, 10 meters) and I’ll start to whine. Yet surprisingly, since it is a grueling one-hour work-out, I love CrossFit. Why? I’m not sure, yet, but I am hoping there is something in the process that I can bring back to the classroom to encourage kids to engage joyfully in the sometimes grueling work of learning. After all, CrossFit is designed to do what we try to do in K-12: teach anyone, no matter their skill level, across a broad range of disciplines. <br />
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Oddly, as I start to research CrossFit, the first thing I discover is that a lot of people think it is dangerously cult-like. What draws people and keeps them “entranced”? (I would definitely find this power useful with 12 and 13 year olds!) What makes it dangerous? And why do so many people attack CrossFit with such vehemence? <br />
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The danger, I’ve come to learn, is that the work-out is hard and because it includes a strong level of competition (at least, you are encouraged to improve and the side-by-side improvement of others may lead some to compete), the argument is that some people add too much weight too quickly, for example, and hurt themselves. Perhaps, as the critics argue, CrossFit can be blamed. Still, there are always choices and ways to scale the workout to fit your level, and the coaches (at least in my “box”) encourage good-fit and safe options. Surely we need to know our own bodies, our strengths and limitations. Aren’t we each in charge of what’s right for us? <br />
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However, the critics cite competition as over-riding our ability to make sensible choices. In CrossFit, although you aren’t competing directly against each other, not only do you do the workout side-by-side with others, but everyone posts their workout results publicly on a whiteboard daily, so you can compare your progress. (We always conflate comparison and competition, don’t we?) For example, in a recent workout (WOD in CrossFit talk) of 200 m run, 15 air squats, 10 push-ups, and 5 pullups repeated as many times as possible (AMRAP) in 15 minutes, I managed just over five and a very large, extremely fit young man half my age completed nine repetitions. Still, I didn’t feel in any way diminished by his success, but was rather inspired. If I were alone it’s very doubtful I could have even completed five repetitions. I need to think further about the role of competition in the classroom, something that we’ve been eliminating as far as possible, emphasizing, instead, cooperation and collaboration. <br />
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I wonder if it’s exactly this element of competition framed within supported skill progression, that, like videogames, makes CrossFit so popular. Indeed, there are other ways CrossFit, like videogames, is “brain-friendly” (we are, after all, “wired” to compete). For example, it uses novelty – every day is a different work out. Not only does this capture and keep our easily jaded attention, but it pushes us to think about, rather than simply “do” the workout, maximizing our effort. The workouts in CrossFit are still just workouts, but the combinations are always shifting. I definitely think I could use this strategy more effectively in my classroom.<br />
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The level of challenge is high (some say extreme), but each workout has scaling options to make it accessible to anyone (consider the vast difference between me and the very fit young man!) and certainly simply completing the workout, even using every scaling option, releases the “happy” chemicals dopamine and endorphins. Posting times keeps you accountable to the challenge. Every workout is an opportunity to challenge yourself just a little more to perfect a skill, to add weight, to increase speed, to add more reps. It’s impossible to be “bored.” The movements change every 10, or at most 20 minutes and within those time-frames, there is often opportunities to progressively challenge yourself on a given task. This is the biggest challenge for classrooms, to choose tasks challenging enough for the most “fit” students with sufficient scaling options so that all students can do the same task, progress while doing it, and feel satisfied at the end.<br />
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The power of immediate feedback, something we already know is deeply valuable for learning, is available through the 12 – 1 coaching ratio. In weight sessions, the coach divides the group in half to better watch and support. I can’t get over how helpful small points are – core tight, eyes ahead, move your hands out slightly on the bar. I know how little help it would be if at the end of each workout the coach said – that was a C+. Next time, work on keeping your core tight. It’s the learning in the moment that matters most. How can I do this more in my classroom? (Yes, classroom ratios are closer to 30:1 but I know I could use the strategy of dividing students more effectively.)<br />
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Perhaps what astonishes me the most is the use of repetition. Although there is a new configuration every day, the format stays the same: “buy in” to warm up, skill development and then the workout of the day. (This formula of variety within routine is perfect for our brains!) In the skill development section, we gather in a circle to review the skill, even those who have practiced the same skill for several years. I love this unrushed awareness that complex skills take thousands of repetition, that the nuances take time, that review is essential. I think about how I can do this more effectively on a daily basis.<br />
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Perhaps what makes CrossFit most “cult-like” is that it instills a sense of community. Every session begins in circle, and every person says their name and answers a question – favourite restaurant, least favourite CrossFit exercise (burpees almost always “win”), weekend plans. You begin to know each other in small ways. Encouraging each other is a part of the culture. Peer coaching and support during the workout are common; high-fives at the end are routine. We know that community matters in classrooms; we know that daily community routines can make a difference.<br />
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And still. While I think there are elements of CrossFit that we can weave into classrooms (and, of course, we already do), there is a reason, I think, that so many people relinquish their sense of responsibility during the training, why so many feel repelled by the movement and call it a cult. CrossFit taps into the way our brain works to keep us motivated. But it’s a mindless approach. We don’t make choices and decisions; we follow routines. Certainly CrossFit does not support mindlessness; it assumes its clients are already mindful. Yet mindless competition is dangerous; it’s the law of the jungle. A mindless community is a cult.<br />
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CrossFit’s methods are a path to fitness, but it is our daily mindful choices, even at CrossFit, that are the path to health. In schools, “brain-friendly” strategies can improve learning, but getting an education is something different. An education, to use today’s jargon, is mindful. Mindfulness demands slow time, down time, reflection, pondering. Mindfulness requires solitude and stillness. It is inevitably “boring.” Mindfulness, however, allows us to make just, good, wise decisions even when our brain is engaged by speed, variety, challenge, competition, community. Mindfulness comes, not only by sitting cross-legged on a mat and breathing deeply, but when we stick with a knotty math problem or write the third draft of an essay or read a difficult text. With a pipeline to distraction in our pockets and available 24 hours of every day, we need mindfulness more than we ever have before, yet instead we are all lured to find ways to make education like our phones, like videogames, like CrossFit, always on, fast, effortlessly engaging. Mindless. If we succeed I think we’ll be leading our children down a primrose path to learning, but we’ll fail to educate them.<br />
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For now, I’ll keep going to CrossFit. But I’ll keep my mind on. Will I use CrossFit techniques in the classroom? Certainly. But I’ll try very hard to remember that the most important part of education isn’t merely learning (oh, this is the low hanging fruit, isn’t it?), but something much more elusive. <br />
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Shelley Beleznayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981654330766573108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6873784874014806142.post-26326103387351434412016-03-24T06:22:00.001-07:002016-03-24T06:22:38.467-07:00Is there anything wrong with a toddler playing on a phone for a long flight? Maybe. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
On a flight home recently, I sat next to a mom and her toddler. I suppose he was not yet two, since he was sitting on her knee for the two-hour flight, I gave them my window seat and the little one happily looked out the window for take-off, sucking assiduously on his soother, pointing and grunting. (I’m not sure if he couldn’t yet talk or if his soother made it impossible; he didn’t take it out at all.) I pulled out the book I’m reading – Sherry Turkle’s <i>Reclaiming Conversation: The Power of Talk in a Digital Age</i>. The mother gave me an ironic smile when she saw my book and gave her phone to the boy.<br />
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The toddler spent the rest of the time engaged with the tiny screen, expertly navigating the interface to find his games, opening the photo app and scrolling through the pictures, playing a video, and listening to his mother’s commentary on his actions (that’s Jordan, there’s the birthday cake, you fed the penguin). He was quiet for the whole trip (I was grateful), fussing only at the end when his mother tried to take the phone to text her husband. <br />
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So mission accomplished, right? The toddler is quiet and happy. His mom didn’t abandon him with the device, but continually interacted with him. It isn’t much different from reading to him, singing with him and playing games. Is it? <br />
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But it worries me, nonetheless. He seemed not simply engaged, but hyper-engaged. Every moment was filled with flashing images and constantly changing entertainment. I was imagining what it would have been like without the device. Harder for the mother – and me – and the little one, too. Perhaps he would have had some favourite toy and played imaginary games with it – driving a car around the window and on the table tray, building a magazine tower for the toy to climb, engaging with the woman in the next seat to find out what games she knew. Perhaps he would have fallen asleep as most of the rest of the passengers had – it was a late afternoon flight – and rested for a little while. Certainly the digital games he played were educational (for example, in one numbers flashed up to show how many bits of food he’d fed to the animals and he had to choose food that matched the their colours), but it seemed, now that I think of it, almost robotic: the machine was doing all the thinking, and the boy was being led along. I suppose that’s what worried me. His mother’s engagement was passive, too. And mine. <br />
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I’m worried that we are relinquishing some important responsibility – Sherry Turkle claims it is the responsibilities of mentorship and she may be right. By the time we figure it out, though, it will be too late for a whole generation of children. <br />
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Shelley Beleznayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981654330766573108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6873784874014806142.post-63921484272050964292016-01-01T05:33:00.000-08:002016-01-01T05:33:02.153-08:00A Diet for a New World<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The New Year has arrived, so we know what’s coming. The next best diet. There will be an app for that, of course, articles in all the glossy magazines at the grocery checkout, a new book topping best-seller lists, another super-food, and at least one miracle routine (drinking kale and hot sauce smoothies three hours after standing on your head, perhaps).<br />
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And yet the answer to what really works best will remain the same. David Katz and Stephanie Meller researched the medical evidence for and against every mainstream diet. What works best won’t surprise anyone - a diet of minimally processed foods, predominantly plants, and including whole grains, nuts, and seeds. Yet despite scientific evidence and common sense, people continue to seek a different answer. And there is always someone willing to provide it. <a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2014/03/science-compared-every-diet-and-the-winner-is-real-food/284595/" target="_blank">In an interview</a> Dr. Katz said, “I really at times feel like crying, when I think about that we’re paying for ignorance with human lives. At times, I hate the people with alphabet soup after their names who are promising the moon and the stars with certainty. I hate knowing that the next person is already rubbing his or her hands together with the next fad to make it on the bestseller list."<br />
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I know how he feels. We are constantly at the whim of the next new thing in education, too, and, like Katz, I feel like we are paying, or at least playing, with the lives of our children. Every few years, millions of precious education dollars are spent to follow a new idea when, really, if we stopped to think, the answer for how to teach is as simple (and as hard) as eating healthy foods.<br />
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Indeed, all the most important things in our lives - health, relationships, learning, saving the environment, peace on earth – are simple. They are just hard to stick with and take a long time. <a href="http://www.state.gov/p/io/potusunga/207201.htm" target="_blank">John F. Kennedy said</a>, “Peace is a daily, a weekly, a monthly process, gradually changing opinions, slowly eroding old barriers, quietly building new structures.” You could substitute health or learning or saving the environment or relationships. Perhaps it’s our human nature that has us seeking a different answer; we keep looking for a technological fix that will make everything easier and faster.<br />
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Perhaps it’s time, though, that we turn our ingenuity toward finding a diet for a new world. The recipes won’t be new. The hard part, the part we need to work on the most, will be slowing down, being patient, persisting, digging deep and resisting the temptation to dash madly off in all directions after the next shiny new thing. <br />
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Shelley Beleznayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981654330766573108noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6873784874014806142.post-78547796814539695362015-12-24T06:38:00.001-08:002015-12-24T06:38:47.097-08:00What Not to Buy Kids for Christmas<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I was braving the Christmas crowds at Chapters bookstore when I saw it. Chapters, of course, doesn’t sell just books anymore (I wonder how long it will be before books are a decorative sideline for the main business of flogging gewgaws), but the tower of fort-making kits in the middle of the aisle took me by surprise, nonetheless. I thought of my daughter, now grown, the master fort-builder in our family. She made forts everywhere and with everything - at the beach with driftwood, in the forest with branches and logs, in the house with sofa cushions, blankets and boxes, in the back yard with a tarp tacked to the woodshed. The fort-making kit at Chapters comes with clips, posts and a colourful plastic sheet; on the box in bold letters is the catch-phrase - “a different adventure every fort.” Gone, however, is the best part of the adventure.<br />
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This Christmas, with the much anticipated and long-hyped new Star Wars film out, you can’t go anywhere without seeing stacks of Star Wars gear and toys (also available in Chapters). I was listening to an interview with the set designer of the original Star Wars. It was a low budget film. He gleefully described creating the now legendary light saber, a flash handle found in a box of junk in a photography store, bubble strip from an old calculator taped on, a d-ring glued to the top so it can fasten to a belt.<br />
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Creativity, surely, is in creating. The joy of making isn’t only in completing, but in finding, in arranging, in putting things together until you can say at last – that’s it, that’s better than I imagined. Children find a way to thwart the adults in their lives, of course, playing with the fort-making box, refashioning wrapping paper, building castles out of toys and light-sabers from cardboard tubes, but don’t you sometimes wonder why we seem bent on crippling our children with gifts.<br />
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Shelley Beleznayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981654330766573108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6873784874014806142.post-25340184702460197632015-08-13T17:00:00.000-07:002015-08-13T17:00:25.866-07:00Remembering<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My mother and I travelled from St. Petersburg to Beijing by train this summer. It was an extraordinary adventure. One of our stops was in Ulaanbaatar (the capital of Mongolia). While we were there, we visited a monastery and listened to the monks chant, a joyful, colourful experience; it didn’t feel rehearsed or solemn, but instead like friends gathering to share music and laughter.<br />
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Afterwards, we turned prayer wheels, fed the pigeons to increase our karma, and allowed ourselves to be seduced into buying souvenirs. I bought a necklace with a brass medallion. Happiness is upon you, said the smiling man as he put it around my neck. Mom bought a bone bracelet. It wasn’t until later that we noticed the little markings on it were skulls. To our surprise, we learned that skulls are important Buddhist symbols, reminding us that because there are only two truths – we are born and we die – we should live in the moment. We used the bracelet for the rest of our journey, especially at the end when our minds began to turn to lists of things to do on our return; we touched the skulls and remembered to be fully present in the moment.<br />
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At home again, my mind is so busy that it’s only at night before I fall asleep that I see again the wide sweep of hills in Siberia, the sudden rainbow on the Gobi desert, the Great Wall of China stretching forever across the green, green mountainside. My days are filled with the struggle to understand teaching, but answers keep slipping away. Perhaps it’s the influence of my journey, but more and more I think that teaching is only moments in the moment, no matter how I long to pin it in place with theory, to tie it up in neat phrases and tidy lists of best practice. <br />
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Today, the moment – the soft wind blowing in the window, the pale pink sky, the blank page on a bright screen – keeps disappearing as my mind floods with memories of Marc. Eleven years ago today, my brother died. How he would have loved the stories of our mother riding a Mongolian pony up the steep slopes behind our ger camp and galloping a horse across the Russian steppes. I can picture him, sprawled out in a chair, laughing. I’ve seen him, just so, so many times. Our life and our love – and learning, too, I’m almost sure – are built on moments, moment by moment. Even moments like this, saturated with sadness, remembering.<br />
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Shelley Beleznayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981654330766573108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6873784874014806142.post-41342084206614018592015-01-01T07:27:00.000-08:002015-01-01T07:27:55.006-08:00Pondering the Gift of “Nothing to Do”<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I read aloud passages to my oldest son from the book I've purchased my son-in-law for Christmas – <i><a href="http://www.endofabsence.com/" target="_blank">The End of Absence</a></i>. The author, Michael Harris, suggests that we who are the last generation to experience pre-Internet life need to “reclaim what we've lost in a world of constant connection.” He writes:<br />
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I think that within the mess of changes we’re experiencing, there’s a single difference that we feel most keenly; and it’s also a difference that future generations will find hardest to grasp. That is the end of absence – the loss of lack. The daydreaming silences in our lives are filled; the burning solitudes are extinguished.</blockquote>
I’m enjoying the book and sorry to have to wrap it at last but we are dashing out the door for our second big holiday dinner and there’ll be no time tomorrow before the rest of the family arrives (including my son-in-law) for the third dinner. We drive to Courtenay, a beautiful sunny mild afternoon and are welcomed by the houseful of guests – my father and step-mother, two of my step-sisters and five of their children ranging in ages from 12 to 17. We laugh, talk, tell stories and eat much more than we should.<br />
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On the drive home, David remarked on something that didn't even register with me at the time – the young people only engaged minimally with each other or us. It exemplified, he said, the premise of <i>The End of Absence</i>. David, not so far away from being one of the kids, noticed that the young people all had phones out, one was plugged in completely, using ear-buds, the youngest played an online game, the girls chatted in a desultory way and engaged with the “other” in their phones. No one went out to play darts, he said. They didn't bundle up to play tag or pull out a board game or put on a skit. In fact, they didn't do anything they might not have done any other day of the week. There was nothing special about the evening, in fact. They weren't bored. But the boredom of a long evening doing “nothing” didn't drive them to invent new games and challenges, to connect or re-connect with siblings and cousins. They didn't interrupt the adult conversations with questions about what to do or badger us into the inter-generational play that is always the first thing we all remember about past years.<br />
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It made me think. In eliminating “nothing to do,” have we lost the best part of being together?</div>
Shelley Beleznayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981654330766573108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6873784874014806142.post-64647178377774520152014-12-23T07:03:00.001-08:002014-12-23T07:03:05.780-08:00Why learning should not be like playing video games<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I was reading, recently, <a href="http://ideas.ted.com/2014/01/28/in-conversation-salman-khan-sebastian-thrun-talk-online-education/" target="_blank">a conversation</a> between Salman Khan, founder of Khan Academy, and Sebastian Thrun, founder of another online education platform, Udacity. Thrun talked about the directions he hopes to go with online learning and asked: Can we make learning truly addictive in the same way we make video games addictive? If so, how do we get there?<br />
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The question is in keeping with a constant refrain in education, demanding we find ways to allow students to follow their passions (something I've argued against <a href="http://workingtogether68.blogspot.ca/2011/07/why-students-should-not-follow-their.html" target="_blank">before</a>), to get them excited and engaged in learning, to make learning FUN. Like video games. <br />
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But I’m wondering if we are heading down a dangerous path. Addictive things, it seems to me, are not what we want to chase in the first place, and our methods to achieve this state are worrisome: we use games, excitement, action and play to hook kids and sweeten the “bitter pill” of learning. Learning, surely, is in and of itself, delicious, but it is a taste that needs to be acquired over time. It’s hard work, focussed attention; it demands learning things you didn't know you didn't know (not just what you’d like to know) and pushing yourself to stick with hard things longer than you ever imagined you’d want to, past the fun part, past the easy part, past the frustrating part, past the part where it becomes easy again until it becomes a part of the way you think and know the world. Perhaps learning is addictive, but not in the way video games are, not in the way sugar and drugs and alcohol are - instant, easy. It’s only addictive years after the hard work has been done, after difficulties and failures and pain and frustration have allowed you to understand that the end is just a signpost, that the journey, including – maybe especially – the hardest parts (the parts that aren't fun at all, in fact) are what make it worthwhile. <br />
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I don’t think that means learning needs to be dull drudgery, but it’s certainly hard and it’s always slow. It’s possible to entice people into learning something hard for the short term with games and gimmicks, but since sticking with it is always an inner struggle against the lure of easy and instant distractions, that method is like encouraging children to eat vegetables with the promise of dessert. It too often leads to a desire for the prize rather than for the good thing we wish to instill. <br />
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Indeed, it seems to me that our current efforts in education are designed to thwart deep learning, to create a mindset that waits for learning to arrive custom-fit, always fun, easy and engaging. No wonder so many of our children now are bored in school. The problem, we are told, will be solved if we make learning more FUN, if we personalize and tailor the experience so it is just right for each child, if we infuse play, inquiry and choice into our lesson design, if we add tents and bouncy chairs to our classrooms. I’m worried that our solutions are crippling our students rather than helping them, atrophying their capacity to sift, sort, figure out, struggle, seek, fail, restart, persevere, and find their own way. Surely, a better question than how we can make learning fun might be – how can we support our students to do hard things?<br />
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Shelley Beleznayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981654330766573108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6873784874014806142.post-33790184465533947182014-10-13T09:18:00.000-07:002014-12-20T04:34:50.259-08:00Remembering why I’m grateful to be a BC teacher<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Sometimes it’s easy to get lost in all the things I can’t change as a teacher. Which is a lot. The size of the classroom. The number of books to meet the needs and passions of my new students. The in-class support. The adverse conditions at home.<br />
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But there are even more things I can change. Small things: noticing a student, adding a visual, acknowledging effort. I know how much small things can make a difference. What’s more, what I do have, when I lift my eyes to think into the past or across the world is extraordinary. On a trip to Uganda I visited a school. They had children of all ages in one room – very big girls who had never been to school before a law requiring attendance sat alongside very small children. When I asked to see the library, I was shown a book room with a handful of worn and out-dated textbooks. I have so much.<br />
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It’s easy, too, very easy, to get lost in all the things I do wrong as a teacher. Which is a lot. Every day.The small things I <i>didn't</i> change. The student I didn't notice <i>again</i>, the conversation that went sideways, the lesson that slid into chaos. But there are at least as many things I’m pretty sure (I’m hoping) that go well, small “aha” moments, students who realize their extraordinary potential as they learn, a child who feels a sense of accomplishment at last, a kindness that lands. <br />
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<i>Dear Ms. Beleznay: </i><br />
<i>I have learned so much about English and Literature but more about life. I promise never to ‘bury my gift.’ You have taught me so much and I will be forever grateful. No words can express how thankful I am to have had you in my life. I will never forget all I have learned (or you). </i><br />
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<i>Dear Ms. Beleznay:</i><br />
<i>I like the way you teach. In all my other classes I would never state my opinions aloud, and by doing things as a class, I've gained more confidence in my thoughts and opinions. I think that each and every person should have a chance to realize that their thoughts are valued as much as the next. You helped me realize that, so I thank you very much!</i><br />
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<i>Dear Ms. Beleznay:</i><br />
<i>I've never really been smart, but you make me feel like I’m glowing. Thank you for everything. I’m truly grateful.</i><br />
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No matter how often I get lost, I am grateful that I always find my way back through the astonishingly kind words of children who routinely forgive my blunders, or if they are silent (and most are), in their shining eyes, in a frown of concentration, a surprised “I get it!” I am grateful to be a teacher. I am grateful for the extraordinary resources available to me, for the open hearts of the students I teach, for the impossible generosity of the teachers I work with, and most of all, for the opportunity to do work that matters every day.<br />
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Shelley Beleznayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981654330766573108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6873784874014806142.post-54829040660340962592014-09-19T07:18:00.000-07:002014-09-19T07:18:22.896-07:00On Kindness<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I have a quote above my desk by Vaclav Havel: “Work for something because it is good, not just because it stands a chance to succeed.” The other day someone sent me a kind note to say how much she appreciated my work. It was one of those days when I was feeling low, when I was thinking that my work was not only unsuccessful, but perhaps not even good. How can we be certain? But those kind words lifted me up again. While it’s been said often enough to be a cliché, it doesn't diminish the truth: a small act of kindness can make an enormous difference to us.</div>
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During the teachers’ strike so many people were kind in small ways, honking, waving, bringing cupcakes, pizzas, notes of appreciation. Now that the strike has ended and we return to our ordinary hurry, it’s more important than ever to think about kindness, especially when bitterness, hurt feelings and anger against colleagues has been inevitable in this battle. Each of us does what we believe is good. Who can know for certain? The only certainty is that our bitter words hurt and our kind ones heal. </div>
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Shelley Beleznayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981654330766573108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6873784874014806142.post-23505034470182655662014-08-26T06:04:00.000-07:002014-08-29T09:02:09.662-07:00The surprising advantage of larger class size, dyslexia and losing your parents<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In Malcolm Gladwell’s latest book, <i><a href="http://www.amazon.ca/David-Goliath-Underdogs-Misfits-Battling/dp/0316204366" target="_blank">David and Goliath</a></i>, he tells the always appealing story of the underdog – the little guy who wins despite the odds - from a seductive standpoint: our disadvantages are often the advantage that allow us to win. For example, he tells of dyslexics whose very struggle with reading allows them to win in the world by conferring some advantage – the capacity to listen carefully in one story, in another, the capacity to take risks, because frequent failure numbs fear. He shares stories of people who have gained an advantage – again, a kind of fearlessness – from losing a parent before the age of 20. A researcher reviewed the lives of people whose lives merited more than one column in the <i>Encyclopedia Britannica</i> or <i>Encyclopedia Americana</i>. By the age of 10, 25% of these high-achieving people had lost a parent; by the age of 15, 34.5% had had a parent die; by age 20, 45%. On the other hand, Gladwell also points out that prisoners are two to three times more likely to have had a parent die in childhood and the number of dyslexics in prisons far exceeds the average. When I was telling my very practical youngest son about the people whose disadvantage gave them an advantage, he said that he had no doubt that the number of dyslexics and people with early childhood loss in prison far exceeded the number that excelled. And quite likely, he added, the high-achievers had other advantages that factored more importantly in their success. <br />
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Yes, but we are always so easily seduced by the story of the underdog, especially the story of an underdog whose very disadvantages are the weapon against the established top dog. The vast majority of us, after all, are underdogs with a full gamut of disadvantages. (Gladwell lists some of them in <i>Outliers</i>; simply being born after March, for example, is a disadvantage.) Surprisingly, one of the disadvantages that turns out to be an advantage in Gladwell’s book is class size, a topic of great interest in British Columbia right now, where schools are shut down for a teacher’s strike that includes a demand for a more thoughtful approach to class size and composition. According to the research that Gladwell shared, class size falls into a category of things that follow “inverted-U” logic. For example, too little food is detrimental to health, but at some point, adding more food to our diet becomes as harmful. So, too, he writes, too many children in a class is a disadvantage, but at a certain point, too few children is equally disadvantageous.<br />
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Any teacher would agree. As Gladwell writes, “It is a strange thing, isn't it, to have an educational philosophy that thinks of other students in the classroom with your child as competitors for the attention of the teacher and not allies in the adventure of learning?” Indeed. That’s why BC teachers never speak of class size without composition; diversity in a classroom also falls on the inverted-U: too little does not spark creativity and divergent thinking; too much causes chaos. (How do you know when you've reached the tipping point from advantage to disadvantage? Ask the teacher. But of course that would mean we respected teachers’ understanding of the complex dynamics in their classrooms. We prefer to find a mythical mathematical formula.) Gladwell argues that wealthy people who send their children to expensive private schools with small classes may be conferring an unwitting disadvantage. I find it hard to believe. I’d argue that a larger class size is like the “advantage” of dyslexia and losing a parent, helping a few (perhaps) and harming countless others.<br />
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The most disturbing part of the book for me was how many of the stories showed that disadvantages in early life allowed the person to be ruthless or deceptive enough to win – and these qualities, serving a “win,” were renamed an advantage. Of course, that’s how the Davids win. And really, when you think about it, that’s how the Goliaths stay on top (or the Davids, once they've beaten Goliath).<br />
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I keep wondering, lately, if there are different stories to grip our imagination, that don’t focus on who wins or who loses or how to gain an advantage over our enemies. Today, thousands of years after David took out his sling shot, in what seems an endlessly perfect summer of blue skies and gentle breezes, the tragic battle continues in the land of David and Goliath and the bitterness deepens in the decades-long dispute between the BCTF and the government. No new ending seems possible in either story. The rhetoric of peace and negotiations, fair deals and settlements are merely maneuvers to gain advantage. It seems to me that as long as we continue to focus on how to be or remain the winner, we lose the story of good. That’s a story I’d love to hear. <br />
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Shelley Beleznayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981654330766573108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6873784874014806142.post-19036728298838801512014-08-13T20:54:00.001-07:002014-08-13T20:54:04.119-07:00Counting the Blessing of Wrinkles<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9WOtsR-ShIj4NTQvhmBumk3FuOXJ86obhEY2EeH_bUL_a5hrmEftkSaI5Xo5Hee9Dbu9xuFmabmQ5-4l8SPV6UesS29vnn44R6IEQEs2woK5RHODwCTE1a9rwskLrKCAyw29_sG7b9gs/s1600/Marc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9WOtsR-ShIj4NTQvhmBumk3FuOXJ86obhEY2EeH_bUL_a5hrmEftkSaI5Xo5Hee9Dbu9xuFmabmQ5-4l8SPV6UesS29vnn44R6IEQEs2woK5RHODwCTE1a9rwskLrKCAyw29_sG7b9gs/s1600/Marc.jpg" height="226" width="320" /></a></div>
My home is filled with family this week. My youngest is getting married on Saturday, so we’re all gathering to laugh and play and be merry together. Today, though, I’m taking some time to remember my brother, who is missing. He died ten years ago today. How he would have loved all the family festivities and the wedding, his youngest son the Master of Ceremonies, his “other son,” as he often referred to Will, the groom. We are taking advantage of the gathering of so many family members to also celebrate my daughter’s becoming a dermatologist last month, a profession that her uncle had recommended to her when she first told him she was going to be a doctor. We are all getting older, he told her; you go to school, I’ll set up your office and we’ll make a killing off all the people who want to look young again. <br />
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Getting older is a blessing we don’t count often enough these days. Today I’m grateful for the wrinkles and grey hairs, for the grown children and for Jack, our grandchild, filling the house with squeals of delight as uncles toss him in the air – and for the memories of my brother who will never grow old. <br />
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Shelley Beleznayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981654330766573108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6873784874014806142.post-88765845307689910222014-08-04T08:11:00.001-07:002019-08-17T06:17:46.694-07:00Anna Karenina: Too Long; Read it Anyway<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I've just finished rereading <i>Anna Karenina</i> by Leo Tolstoy. It’s a revelation to me on a number of fronts. I read it first when I was 19, a lifetime or two or three ago. I remembered it only vaguely, except that I loved it. On rereading I wonder why. What did I think of the great swaths of the book dedicated to Russian politics, the long passages describing hunting trips, the chapters about farming? Did I admire the, to me now, overblown emotions of Anna and Levin?<br />
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Yet although I finished reading the novel over a week ago, I can’t stop thinking about it. Perhaps it is the slow painting of a life and time sketched out in such close details that, even now, I feel like I've been there, that the people of the story are part of my life. Perhaps it is the awful way that Tolstoy strips his characters for us to view the vulnerability that we skitter away from, even from our own selves, particularly from ourselves. Perhaps it is the unhurried unfurling of ideas, revealed through lives and moments.<br />
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Too often, now, I skip from idea to idea; if a book doesn't interest me quickly, I read a different one; if an article drags, I click to another. When I first read <i>Anna Karenina</i>, however, there were no bookstores nearby; the Internet did not provide an endless supply of reading material. I wonder if it is new for me to become frustrated with passages that don’t meet with my tastes. Perhaps with no unlimited supply of reading to turn to when I became uncomfortable, I was more patient in my youth, savouring the story as it unfolded. We so routinely set aside anything too long now, that we use an acronym – tl;dnr – too long; did not read.<br />
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I wonder what in my life, in our lives as a community, is being lost in abundance. I am grateful that, despite its being too long, I read <i>Anna Karenina</i> anyway. <br />
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Shelley Beleznayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00981654330766573108noreply@blogger.com0