MY LEARNING JOURNEY

Bruce Sallee

My first year of teaching was not at all what I had been led to expect it would be. I had heard all of the stories of shell-shocked first year teachers. "If you can survive that first year, you'll be fine" seemed to be common wisdom. The things that really affected me that year were my own mononucleosis in October (the "lost" month) and my wife's hospitalization with a severe case of pneumonia complicated by her asthma in January. Other than that, it was so easy…

As I walked into the school in August,1991 it really hit me for the first time. I could hear the theme song from "Welcome Back, Kotter" playing in my mind. Teaching in the high school I graduated from was going to have a lot of advantages. Not the least of these was that I understood the community. I knew the expectations and values that surrounded my school as a place of learning (and a highly regarded one at that). I would know how to deal with parents who had the same high expectations of their children as my own parents had had of me. I lived in the community, shopped in the community, worshipped in the community--I had never really left, even though I had lived abroad for a year during my university career. It's amazing how a small-town atmosphere can exist in parts of a large city like Winnipeg. Coming back to my own high school as a teacher was like slipping on a comfortable pair of slippers. The fact that this high school is held in high regard in our Division, and in general throughout the city and province, was proof of my success--I had truly "arrived."

Setting up the classroom. What to do? I had used that word, "student-centred", during my interview. I had also used "cooperative groupings" to describe what one would see going on in my classroom. Damn, I'd become really good at using those two terms in the after-degree program…I need to make a quick trip around the school to see what else is going on. I bump into one of my former teachers up on the second floor-"Hey, welcome back!" (There's that MUSIC again…I'm starting to get annoyed.) I continue on my tour of the school, trying to discreetly peer into rooms through locked doors. And I really do feel at home--I've never been around the school since I graduated seven years ago, yet it's the same old place. Not much has changed. Some teachers still have the same posters on the walls. I have truly come home.

Back down to my room. Hmm. No one has kids sitting in groups. Well…they taught me. They made me what I am in a lot of ways. I'm still proud to be a graduate of this school. Better not rock the boat too much.

I set that room up in pairs of desks. My desk was at the front of the room (where else is the teacher's desk supposed to go?) in front of the board and with the overhead conveniently placed along side. We worked on group projects that I chose. Sometimes, students copied notes for half of an eighty-minute period as I bravely "worked through the curriculum." I was particularly sensitive to my students' needs as we worked on large chunks of French grammar. This is what students in Immersion needed in grade nine. It didn't feel very good, but it would do them good--kind of like the cod-liver oil in grape juice my mother made me take every morning when I was a child. Most of them bought into that--their marks on grammar quizzes and tests were above average. Their writing (I was taking my first baby steps toward writing folders) showed no evidence that we had studied grammar. Administration and colleagues seemed happy with the way my classes ran, with the results, with the smoothness and lack of problems. The biggest challenge to "what I believed" came when a parent sniffed as he looked around the room at parent-teacher interviews and remarked "When I went to school we sat in rows--there was none of this pair stuff!" Kids accepted that I was the expert, and sat, taking in or ignoring as they chose what I, the "student-centred, cooperative grouping" guru delivered to them…

As I walked into the school in August,1995, it really hit me for the first time. I had changed so much in the previous four years. Students were much more engaged in their own learning. I had moved to much more authentic writing. My classroom had gone from being the controlled, authoritarian place it was in that first year to being a slightly jungly place. It was a noisy, busy place, where kids did real work, and talked about things that were important to them. I had taken many baby steps over the last four years. Some of the most significant were teaching the same group of kids the same subjects, so that we could begin to explore the links between subjects…except that never quite worked because the same kids weren't necessarily scheduled as a class, or even in the same semester. The sabbatical year in France really helped. I studied at the Sorbonne for four months (and informally, most of my studies were about the teaching styles of the various profs I had) and then spent five months sitting in a gorgeous three-hundred year old house, dreaming of what kind of place I wanted to work in.

I want it to be completely student-centred. Yet, I see the need for deeper structural changes if that is to occur. I spend some of the time in France coming up with a plan that all the immersion teachers can talk about. Maybe we can move to a desemestered program to remove some of the gaps in the language learning process. That might also help with cross-overs between courses and the inherent problems with scheduling students--we wouldn't necessarily have to teach a "course" during the time it was scheduled in.

I give that plan to the new head of the Immersion program, a colleague that I have known as a friend for nine years, someone I trust completely, admire, and even love. She returns it to me covered in comments. The first one stings--"Why do we need to make these changes?" I put the plan away. We have still not discussed it, but we have discussed a lot of other things. I guess I feel a bit foolish, because I interpreted her "We need to ask as a group why these changes are important" as "These changes aren't important."

So…onwards and upwards. We move into the great student-centred classroom. I set the wide parameters, and students are free to run, create, and explore within those parameters. I find this way of teaching rather exhausting. It's not easy, the way it was when I first began. My classroom seems to have expanded to be three classrooms--my room, the library, and the computer lab are all in constant use. I know I'm doing the right thing for my students. A conversation helps confirm my satisfaction.

Debbie and Jordy stop me in the hall. They're both former students-I taught them three years ago when they were in grade nine.
"I'm gonna die if this history course isn't over soon!"
"What's up, Debbie?"
"I HATE IT! This is not the class I signed up for-I signed up for a class where something happens. Then the teacher who was supposed to teach the class got transferred. All we do is sit and read an article, and then answer the questions at the end. The essay questions are set, and we have no input into them. I'm struggling in English to find my voice, and then in History class, I feel like there's no place for it if and when I find it."
Jordy brandishes his history paper. "I worked SO hard on this thing. And I got a really good mark (he points to the mark at the bottom of the last page, in red ink, 29/30). The thing is, I HAVE NO CLUE WHY I GOT THAT MARK! I also don't know why it's not a 100%. There are no written comments. Nothing. Just the mark."
We look through his paper together. There's one spelling mistake on page six, circled in red. Given the overwhelming body of evidence and thoughtful comments on the paper, we are forced to conclude that the difference between 29/30 and 30/30 is one small slip on a computer keyboard.

Another change that has taken place is that I'm finding time to journal my experiences interacting with students. Of one class I write:

My geography class today looks like utter chaos. Some groups are putting the finishing touches on written "formal" projects. Some groups are working on play scripts. Some groups are working on posters. One group has a giant 3-D map of New York City that they are piecing together on the floor. I have two visitors at my door, a few minutes apart. The geography teacher next door pokes his head in the door, "Could you guys maybe keep it down a bit?" His kids are in straight rows, trying to concentrate on the textbook and the chapter questions they have been assigned. The social studies curriculum leader walks in, ignoring me. She walks around and interacts with the kids, getting them to explain in English what they're doing, kind of shakes her head, and leaves. She stops me later and says "I left wondering how you'd done that, and where I was going wrong."

I had found the answers I needed. So, why didn't I feel satisfied that everything was going right? My relationship with most of my colleagues had deteriorated to the point of non-existence. What I was doing simply looked too different. I had been viciously attacked in the staff room by a group of people because I had dared to co-present a workshop on integration at the high school level. The one comment that I will NEVER forget is "Have you seen who's giving THIS workshop?" I felt as if people hadn't been listening to what I had been saying since I began working, and hadn't cared to look at the changes I was making in my teaching practice until I had forced them to. The worst part was that the thought underlying that comment was that my motivation for "doing all of this" was because "He's a ‘climber'."

I decide to leave. I have made substantial changes in my practice, yet still feel it's not quite right-even though my classes are almost entirely student-centred. I am extremely interested in moving toward an interdisciplinary studies model. My principal tells me that it's not going to work in Immersion--there simply aren't enough people who will support it--and that he doesn't think he can get me out of the Immersion program. Given what I now believe about teaching, and the point to which my relationships with colleagues has degenerated, I put in my application for transfer.
A week later, I'm at an in-service with the superintendent. We speak about my difficult decision. He speaks of the need for people like me to stay in our building, I speak of the horrendous personal cost that I'm faced with. If I have to teach under similar circumstances next year, I'll be gone by Christmas.

Things begin to happen around me. My principal calls me into the office. "We're working on it." A few days later, he calls me in again. "We'd like you to stay and work on a team with two other teachers." I draw a deep breath, knowing that this is not the solution to all of my concerns. "I need to think about this over the weekend." Monday morning…"I'll stay."

Now I'm busy planning for a new school year while still being involved in the current one. I wish I could just go away and forget about these classes. My geography class is still exciting, and is probably an example of my best teaching. The kids have kind of wandered all over the place this year. They've had a lot of say in what we've studied. Although I don't think we've "covered the curriculum", what we have studied has been studied deeply, and students seem to have taken on a real responsibility for their own learning. My computer class is basically an independent learning program where I act as the primary facilitator. One thing I have been careful to do this semester (I learnt my lesson last semester!) is to walk out of the room for extended periods of time. This seems to have forced the kids to become more interdependent, and less reliant on me to solve problems. The atmosphere in this class is charged with learning.

My French class is another matter. These students are in grade 11-is it just too late? One colleague, who teaches primarily through lecture, refers to students such as these as "toads", who sit there, mouths agape, waiting to be filled up with knowledge. My practice doesn't look like hers, yet I still feel like I'm in front of a bunch of toads. They seem to be operating on a passive resistance mode, not really defying what I'm trying to do, yet not really buying in. One father says his son considers my course a bit of a joke (this student chooses when to come and when not to come). Another student approaches me and says he sometimes wishes I would "just be a normal teacher and teach everything as if it's math." He is aware of what this means to himself as a learner, and follows up, "I don't know why I feel this way, and it scares me that I feel this way."

By now, I'm well into my first master's course with Judith Newman. I find this class and the students' response to it a real puzzle. As the school year draws to a close, I write:

Certainly, my students this year have learnt to "move beyond doing what they're told to do, to learning to reflect and question for themselves" (Newman, p.?). It's certainly not an easy shift for the students. School suddenly becomes a lot harder--and they wonder what they've learnt when they compare notes with people who are in transmission classes.

Then, a huge BUT:

As I was reading Interwoven Conversations, I beat up on myself a bit. I have studied a lot about writing and reading process. I can speak with some authority on Atwell, Calkins, Graves, Rief, and Sunstein. (I guess Newman fits in there as well). So, what did I do when I set up my Français class this year, after a year's leave to reflect and refine my practice? I didn't set it up as a process class. So, then, as I was reading about this stuff again, I thought, "Stupid fool! You were talking the talk, but you didn't walk the walk." Why not? I guess because I hadn't taught the course before, but mostly because I know that the next teacher these kids have has a very different teaching style and philosophy. So, there I am, beating myself up. I thought about it for a couple of days-there's Judith's voice again "Unpack it, unpack it." Then I got the other half of the whammy. What I had done was set up a very structured classroom, which functioned in very traditional ways, and then back out of the situation and attempt to "lead from behind." So, I was essentially asking the students to function in a "regular" classroom without being a "regular" teacher. No wonder the course seems to have come lurching to its conclusion…

So, I had "experimented" with a non-traditional teaching approach in a structure that remained traditional. And the experiment, in retrospect, failed. I did learn some things from it, useful groundwork for what was to follow. One of the important things that being in the Master's course taught, or retaught me, was the need to ask "Why?"--to try to uncover beliefs and assumptions, and make them explicit. I had moved away from that process as I had felt more and more isolated over the years. I thought that change needed to occur, and I changed. The fact that people didn't respect me for it was their problem. Now, I know that the fact that I couldn't speak about what I was doing with any authority of my own--stemming from an examination of my own beliefs, assumptions, and practices--was MY problem.

As I walked into the school in August,1996, it really hit me for the first time. What we were about to do would forever change the face of this school. Someone who walked in seven years after graduating this year, as I did in 1991, would probably not recognize the place. I felt confident, for the first time in a long time, that what we were going to do was right for the students. This wasn't only because I now had the support of two colleagues, although not having to "go it alone" anymore was certainly a huge help. A big part of creating a new structure that looked vastly different from the rest of the school was the knowledge that we were wide open to scrutiny, both from within the school and from the outside world.

"Why are we doing this?" becomes our favourite question. I am now part of a "we", which is a forum for uncovering what our beliefs and assumptions about learning are. Given the probing questions parents are asking over the phone, knowing "why" is probably the most important thing we need to know. I find that I need to relabel what I'm doing: I'm learning just as much as my students, often about the same subjects. We're teaching English, French, Math, Science, Social Studies, and Phys. Ed. I'm no longer the expert. Nor am I willing to back out and let students muddle through everything on their own. This really feels different-it is neither teacher-centred, nor student-centred; it is, rather, learning-centred, for all involved.

I really can't come to any conclusions, primarily because my understanding of education has drastically changed. Sure answers are no longer possible. I wonder what kind of teacher I would have become had I stuck with the easy answers I had when I began. I feel much less cynical as someone who trusts in learning now than I did as a beginning teacher who trusted in education. As I engage students and myself in ongoing inquiries, we hypothesize, explore, change and rehypothesize. Nothing ever feels completely finished. I now view education as an ongoing enterprise of learning. Our students are not afraid to challenge the boundaries. I certainly no longer feel like I'm faced with a bunch of "toads." On our best days, if you walk up to the area we all learn in, you can hear an electrical hum and feel the learning going on. Some days, of course, it's just loud.

A final story illustrates, I believe, just how much my understanding of learning and my own beliefs and assumptions have changed over the past six years.

Beth had waited patiently all period, last period Friday. I was busy conferencing with kids, putting out fires, making sure everyone had their work for the weekend planned out. Beth had asked for a few minutes of my time at the beginning of the period. At 3:27, we sat down together--"Better late than never", Beth said, happy that I had at least remembered.
Beth pulled out her Science I-Search sheets. "I have three questions. Actually, I only have two questions if you answer the first one the way I think you will."
"Shoot Beth."
"I was sitting and talking with my mom and dad about these science questions. I've picked out things in the first two sections no problem. I've been thinking about the third section--so here's the first question. How did you guys come up with these questions?"
"Well, Beth, they're based on the textbook--we brainstormed around the unit."
Beth's face falls. "You didn't answer that the way I expected you to." It's now 3:29. I'm aware of time passing. Weird. I feel as though I've shut Beth off completely, and she's not the kind of kid that does that.
"So, what was the second question?"
"Well…Are these things all about Canadian animals?"
"Yep"
"It won't work. You see, I'm seeing wolf packs, salmon schools, flocks of birds…"
"Yes?"
"I want to study our community--this grade nine team."
I hope the grin on my face really went from ear to ear.