for all teachers, past, present, and future

The book itself–a teacher’s manual that accompanies a middle school reading series–weighed more than the collective weight of all of the paperback novels I read during my undergraduate and graduate English work. Too large for my computer bag, I had packed it under one arm and walked, lop-sided to my car. At home now, I cracked the crisp spine (no easy task itself) and opened it to survey the contents.

The heft alone could not have prepared me for the real weight before me. Each page was gleefully packed with as many notes, strategies, and general teacher-stuff as was logistically possible. I say gleefully because I can just imagine the contributors and editors pouring over each page spread, saying There’s space here for one more assessment recommendation! And look–if we edit this differentiation suggestion, we could add a multiple-intelligence note here! If you’re tempted to laugh at this point, most teachers who are required to use these manuals and texts won’t join you.

Educational, like political, pendulums swing wide. When an idea or practice falls out of favor, the pendulum swoops decisively to the other side. And those along for the ride are often directed not to look back. I remember visiting with a teacher during the whole language era. Her principal had sent a directive to box up all of the current reading texts and set them aside for the janitor, who would take them away. To the district storage unit? To the burn barrel? She said that she didn’t know. With fire in her eyes, though, she turned to me and whispered, But I hid one copy in the back of my file cabinet! Phonics out, whole language in. The violent swing of the reading pendulum left desperate teachers conspiring to save resources that had fueled the last decades of their professional lives.

When No Child Left Behind marched upon the educational scene, it presented lofty, but unrealistic, expectations that no child would be left behind their peers and below the standards by which we measure what is grade-level proficiency. Gone were the warm, fuzzy days of inventive spelling and if you think it, it must be so. There were new sheriffs in town, and they rode in on the backs of common assessments, wielding measuring sticks that were more formidable than any six-shooter.

I admit that the aims of NCLB were commendable. As a nation, we had become educationally flabby, resting on the laurels of past eras while the rest of the world–developed and developing–caught up. This law was a wake-up call that caught many schools unprepared. And just as schools were reeling in their attempts to meet new federal guidelines, along came the Common Core State Standards in 2010, the work of the National Governors Association for Best Practices and the Council of Chief State School Officers. These standards for English Language Arts and Mathematics identified grade-level skills and practices. Many states adopted these or modified forms of these standards, and assessment companies rushed to create new tests that aligned to them.

Again, I applauded–and continue to applaud–these standards’ design and intent. I have used them, have helped others use them, and still believe that for many (not all) students, they define the right work. They were never intended, however, to be the curriculum. Instead, they were intended to provide students with the skills and practices to learn a particular curriculum. The standards do not dictate what content I must teach or even how to teach it. They do identify the types of language and mathematical skills that students should use as a means of learning the essential ideas in a lesson or unit of study. That is, the standards were not intended to be ends in themselves, but rather a means to these ends.

But in an attempt to sell more books and to keep up with the times, text book companies have often been short-sighted. They have packed their texts with skill work, so much so that even for a veteran teacher like me, it’s difficult–if not downright impossible–to see the forest for the trees. Visiting a high school classroom, I once asked a student what she was learning in her lesson that day. She responded, We’re interpreting symbolism.

In another classroom, I asked the same question. A student pointed to his paper and said: We’re filling out this graphic organizer. When I followed up by conceding that I could see what they were doing but that I was interested in what they were learning (what they were to understand that day), I got sheepish looks and shoulder shrugs. They were clear on the means they were using but had absolutely no idea as to what end. They could name the skills but not the ideas they were to uncover.

So when I opened the hulking teacher’s manual I was given as a resource for my consulting work, I immediately felt sick, dizzied with all the text and text-boxes before me. I didn’t know where to look first. I couldn’t determine what was a priority. Or was everything a priority? Was I supposed to do it all in one lesson? Was this humanly possible, even if I put my nose to the grindstone?

When I could finally focus, I saw that each page was peppered with skill work. In this paragraph, students should draw this inference, while in this section, they should make predictions. Later, they should be able to identify point of view, and even later, interpret metaphor. After doing all these things, what were they supposed to understand about this short story? Sadly, there were no notes about this. Had these notes been edited out under the weight of so many skills or simply forgotten in this new age of skills?

Like most, I learn equations to solve problems, and I learn how to make inferences to uncover what authors want me to understand. Solving quadratic equations and making inferences are two of many, many tools in my learning tool belt. The tool is not the thing, though; what I create with it is the thing. But how are today’s students supposed to see that their work is not just to amass more tools? And how are teachers today supposed to help their students understand that it’s not either skills or ideas, but both? 

I once asked my father, an English professor, why he decided to become a literature teacher. He said this: Because teaching the greatest ideas from the greatest writers is the most moral thing I could ever do. My father taught me how to read closely and write critically so that I could understand, reflect upon, and challenge great ideas from great writers. He didn’t teach thesis writing in isolation; he taught it in the context of understanding great works. In his classrooms and around our supper table, I learned the lessons of both/and. From my father and through my own reading and reflection, I have learned how crucial it is to see the forest for the trees.

And so while I value the importance of skill work, I lament its current reality. In many classrooms, students are doing, but they are not understanding. And when legislators, educational specialists, text book companies, and well-meaning but misguided others champion such skill work, those of us who value understanding as well are often dismissed as old school.

World renown cellist, Yo Yo Ma, writes: Mastering music is more than learning technical skills. How right he is–about music and about much more. Learning technical skills is clearly important, but it is not, and never should be, everything. I’ve heard musicians play technically and fail to make me feel and understand a piece of music. And tragically, I’ve heard many students read, perfectly decoding each word, and fail to understand or appreciate what they’re reading. Learning, like mastering music, is so much more than learning technical skills.

I fear that schooling with skills will result in neither the type of students nor citizens we desire. And worse yet, when we put all of our eggs in the skills’ basket, we risk producing an entire generation of students who don’t aspire to more than mastering the skills required for passing grades. An African proverb warns: Not to know is bad; not to wish to know is worse.  Will our students wish to know? Or will they sleep well enough with their tool belts hanging from their bedposts?