Sometimes it feels like being a teacher is being a sorter. We sort papers, sort lesson plans, and sort through our calendars. And with so many students, we often sort them into the categories to which we feel they belong. Usually this is based on some combination of academic ability, effort and behavior. There are high-flyers, overachievers, mid-packers, strugglers, Ivy League, U.C., Cal State, D.V.C., future CEO’s, future managers, future receptionists, future “I hope they don’t screw ups”. Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin.
While grades often feel like the crystallization of all of our sorting, I’ve been wondering how much my own biases play into it. Whether I’m conscious of it or not, my approach to teaching many students is often impacted by the category I have placed them in. This might be based on something I heard from a previous teacher, or how courteous they are when they walk into class, or the tone of their parents’ emails, or whether or not they understand my lesson on thesis statements. While this can be helpful in some ways, I think it can also be problematic because it limits the range of expectations I have for my students.
A few weeks ago, I came across this quote: “The ability to observe without evaluating is the highest form of intelligence” (Krishnamurti). As I think of ways to apply this to my teaching, I’m tempted to think of this as a refutation of grading, which would be convenient, but miss the point. The more I grapple with this quote, the more it calls on my teacher self to strive to see my students for who they truly are, and not project my own limited ideas of who they are.
Recently I was thinking about a lesson I learned from my own kids while teaching each of them to ride a bike. Lucas, my older son, got to a point when he was ready for me to take off his training wheels. I had begun to notice that while he rode, he could find that balance and the clanking training wheels would silence for brief moments. My strategy was to do what I have always seen dads do on television – I took the training wheels off and ran alongside him so he could get the feel of riding. Then I started taking my hands off until I was confident that he understood the balance. This moment was absolute joy, the transfer of understanding and his own new independence. He called out to me, “I’m doing it Dad!” Pure Hollywood magic. He was now a member of the category called “bike rider”.
Evan, on the other hand, was different. When the three of us would go on bike rides around the neighborhood, Lucas and I were trailed by the cacophony of Evan’s clanking training wheels. He relied on them so much that they were beginning to grind down to little nubs. There was no moment when he seemed ready for them to come off; he just reached an age where I didn’t want him to be embarrassed that he couldn’t ride a bike yet. On our first attempt without training wheels, I quickly realized he was nowhere close to riding on his own. He had absolutely no sense of balance and would even turn the handle bars abruptly while I ran alongside him. To let go would have only resulted in a bloodied kid.
We went through a cycle of doing this every week or so, but the result was always the same: me shaking my head in my garage, putting the training wheels back on yet again. I honestly worried that the kid would just never learn to ride a bike. What had worked perfectly with Lucas was clearly not working here.
After a few months of frustration, I decided to go to the internet. I was so fixed on the idea that there was one way to teach your kid to ride a bike, that I couldn’t imagine other possibilities. A brief search led me to one suggestion that I find a grassy hill, and have the kid ride down without pedaling first to understand the balance. Then do the same with pedaling. That Saturday we packed up the bikes and went to Arbolado Park. We went to the top of the hill and I explained the method to Evan. Ten minutes later he was riding a bike across the entire grassy field. Five minutes after that, he added the sidewalk and rode back to me. It was that easy.
I see a similar dynamic in my kids’ academic performance too. Things that come quickly to Lucas do not come as quickly to Evan. But that doesn’t mean he won’t get it; it just means we need to find a grassy hill method to help him learn. I’ve talked to him about this, and he is aware that he learns differently from his brother. But I also emphasize that there is no higher value to either learning style. In fact, Carol Dweck might argue that learning to struggle and persevere will serve Evan better in the long run.
This is a reminder of the need to differentiate my approach with my students. I need to look beyond the categories I might want to place them in and believe that all of them can meet my learning objectives. The pace and pathway will look a little different for each one. One silver lining about teaching through a pandemic is that I have learned to use so many tech tools that give me immediate, concrete data about how well my students did on any given lesson. The challenge now is to use the data and create grassy hills that give all students access to learning.
A few weeks into the pandemic, my boys dusted off their bikes and started to ride around the neighborhood. Over the months, riding bikes has become a daily activity, and they now ride with neighborhood kids every afternoon after school. This is something that didn’t happen when their schedules were packed with sports. The other day I was outside and Evan called out for me to watch him. When I looked up, he was actually riding with no hands down the street. I’m so grateful that I was able to get out of my own way and learn about grassy hills.
I loved reading this… So true and an important lesson in reaching kids where they are. Here's to more grassy fields and opportunities to grow in their own way and pace.
There is nothing like life experiences to make ideas become real. Differentiated instruction does open doors for students. If we could only scale this to find and meet the needs of the approximately140 students we teach. What a coup that would be.