10 January 2014: LESSON FIVE: HISTORY IS A STORY. DON'T TEACH IT LIKE IT'S AN INSTRUCTION MANUAL FOR A TOOL THAT NO LONGER EXISTS

10 January 2014: DAY FIVE

LESSON FIVE: HISTORY IS A STORY. DON’T TEACH IT LIKE IT’S AN INSTRUCTION MANUAL FOR A TOOL THAT NO LONGER EXISTS.

Today was a repeat of yesterday with a different set of kids. I spent the day with students working in the computer lab, helping them find European countries. Some had already been studying at home and had the countries down; others had no clue at all and did only the easiest activities on the websites.

At lunch, before the 8^th graders, came, Allison asked me if I thought we should do two more mini-skits that were called for in the curriculum. I said no, because I believed that the ratio of information learned to time invested was pretty poor. She agreed. She then told me that she was going to have students working in groups for the second half of class, and that I could use that time to begin interviewing students.

Class began, and Allison told the 8^th graders (slightly less rowdy today from the time they arrived) that she and I had decided not to do the two skits. There were a few groans of disappointment, so she said that they had not behaved well while preparing for the previous skits, and therefore we didn't feel that it would be a good use of our classroom time. (It is nice that she includes me, not just in these decisions, but when she shares them with the students, so that they can see I am playing an active role).

She covered some points with them while I was busy updating my records and preparing for my interviews. But once again, she unexpectedly asked me (in front of the class) if I would come up and cover the information on another page in the history book. I quickly began to look over the information, which dealt with the war between the US (under Adams and Jefferson) and the Barbary pirates, and in particular with the actions of Stephen Decatur and the burning of the USS Philadelphia in 1804. It was boring and uninteresting, written in typical history-textbook style: no details, no drama, no narrative. I was not familiar with the story, so I quickly read the Wikipedia article on it, making notes on my laptop as I went. It turned out to be a pretty good story: a very young naval captain, a daring night raid, disguises, explosions, narrow escapes, etc. I had just finished making my notes when Allison asked me to come up and cover the page.

I decided I would not—acting like a student teacher --read the page with the class, as I had done before. Instead, I went up as myself, and taught the information I would have in my own classroom. The class was typically rowdy: perhaps 12 of the 31 kids present were facing me and paying attention; about 10 were standing, walking, actively disrupting other students, etc. I asked loudly for their attention and that they be nice to me. I quickly (30 seconds) reviewed the events that had led up to what I was about to cover. I then began telling the story of Stephen Decatur, mentioning his age when he went into the Navy, how he had disappointed his wealthy parents by dropping out of college, the reputation he quickly got for himself. I then told the story of the USS Philadelphia running aground, drawing on my own experiences running aground in a sailboat for details to make the story come alive.

Students began to quiet down and face me. The rowdiest group in the back even quieted, although at this point they were still talking to one another. I talked about what a victory it was for the pirates to have captured an American warship, even a damaged one. I then began to engage the students with questions: “What would you have done if you were Decatur? Could he steal the ship and sail it back, and why or why not? (No—because he didn’t have enough men). What did he need to do if he couldn’t take the ship back? (Destroy it.) I continued:

“Decatur hires Italians (because of their dark skin) who speak Arabic, and dresses them like pirates. He puts them on the deck of his warship, the Intrepid, and has his entire crew hide below decks, armed with axes, knives, swords, and boarding pikes—no guns, because they would have been too loud. He strips his boat of anything that might identify it as an American warship and decorates it to look like a pirate ship. He waits until a nearly-moonless night and sails into Tripoli harbor under the cover of descending darkness.”

At this point, the room is finally quiet. The rowdiest students are facing me and, although they are still moving and looking around in the way that ADD and ADHD students and children who have never learned discipline will do, the class is with me! Some of them are looking at the pictures in their textbook, trying to imagine the scene I am describing.

Another teacher with whom I will work, Paul Pinza, enters the room at that point. Allison is sitting in the back of the room, and for the first time I realize that she, too, is watching me intently, enjoying the story. She gestures Paul over and has him sit down, gesturing toward me and saying something. I continue:

He manages to pull alongside the anchored USS Philadelphia without the pirate crew stationed on her realizing what he was up to. His men leap from their hiding places and capture the ship in 10 minutes, killing over 20 pirates with only one, minor injury to an American sailor. Decatur orders his men back onto the Intrepid and they begin sailing away while he torches the ship on which he is standing. The fire quickly spreads to the cannons and battery, and the boat begins exploding under his feet. He races across the deck and dives into the Mediterranean waters. By now, the Tripoli pirates know what is happening and they are descending on the USS Philadelphia and the Intrepid as quickly as they can. But the burning USS Philadelphia’s cannons are shooting, and when the cannonballs fly past the pirates’ ships, they think they are under attack and slow their approach. This gives Decatur the chance to get back aboard the Intrepid. The black smoke from the burning Philadelphia fills the night air, and the Intrepid escapes under its cover.

I half expected the class to erupt in conversation afterward, talking about the story. They didn’t. They were almost silent. I finished the points in the chapter on the page in front of them, explaining that this led to the end of the Barbary wars; Decatur’s victory took the wind out of their sails. (Pun intended). I went immediately into a review, asking questions about every key point on the page, calling on any given student only once, and refusing to call on any student who always had their hand up. Every answer was correct; every question brought plenty of hands; no one shouted out.

Except me. In my head, I was shouting like a warrior at the end of a battle. They had learned, and they had enjoyed it.

I turned the class back over to Allison, who told the students that she had gotten so caught up in the story I was telling that she had forgotten what she was supposed to do next.

I then moved two chairs into the hallway and began to interview students. The interviews with this rowdy, undisciplined, rude group of 8^th graders were the best I had done so far. They were polite, respectful, open, and expressive. They wanted to tell me about themselves. They dreamed of being marine biologists, physical therapists, veterinarians, nurses, and lawyers. They like school, and had favorite classes besides PE. One very pretty young woman who seems to be the queen of her social circle turned out to work at a local dairy farm, loved animals, hated “drama” among her peers, and wanted to run a daycare when she grew up. The girl who seemed to rank closest to her on the social scale played five sports; her favorite class was history, and she wanted to be a vet because of how deeply she was affected by the suffering of animals, especially those who did not have human families to take care of them.

At the end of the day, Allison and I talked over the upcoming schedule. My first two weeks of Demonstration Teaching are supposed to be just observation—but I have already been in front of the class twice, and am scheduled to teach lessons three days of next week. The rest of my schedule is rapidly filling with other classes.

I told Allison how well the interviews were going, and shared some of the things I had learned about the students. She was surprised at some, pleasantly. Allison commented that when I took over the classes completely at the end of February, maybe she would begin interviewing her students.

For some reason, that comment made me happier than anything that had happened in the classroom.

LESSON FIVE: HISTORY IS A STORY. DON’T TEACH IT LIKE IT’S AN INSTRUCTION MANUAL FOR A TOOL THAT NO LONGER EXISTS.

It’s no wonder students hate history. Textbooks present it as a static set of facts, clearly established and universally accepted, with little or no relevance to their lives. They share information that is easily available from any smartphone—if a student ever actually needed to know it. It’s like asking students to get excited when you inform them that the current population of Sheboygan is 50,000.

But history is a story, and like any story it has heroes and villains, victories and defeats, comedy and tragedy. And it’s a story that it constantly changing! I was taught Columbus was a brave hero who challenged beliefs about a flat Earth, the first people arrived in North America via an ice bridge, the Founding Fathers were stiff-shirted intellectuals, Ponce de Leon searched for the Fountain of Youth, Pilgrims wore funny hats and celebrated Thanksgiving with the Indians, Paul Revere rode into Boston with a warning for colonial rebels, and Betsy Ross made the first American flag. Those are just a tiny handful of the American “stories” that we now know aren’t true. When students understand that they can examine history as an unfinished story, one that calls on them to draw their own conclusions, to examine evidence, and even to defy their parents’ beliefs—suddenly, it’s interesting. And when you show them that the only way to find out the truth is to read, and learn to read critically, and to study, and to research and figure out whom they can believe and whom they can’t, and to talk to smart people and be courageous enough to come up with new ideas—suddenly, it’s a challenge.

And when they realize that their rights, their job prospects, the cost of their clothes and food, their basic freedoms are all in a constant state of flux because of history—then it’s relevant. And that doesn’t even touch on the moral and character lessons available to them, or the entertainment factor.

Today, in history class, I told students a story. It was a story I liked, and I tried to show that to them. And they liked it to. More importantly, we liked it together, and we shared several moments of connection.

I am a teacher. I stand or fall, not on how my students do on some test, but on whether or not we genuinely care for each other. Because if I can convince them I care about them, they will listen to me. And if I truly care about them, I will do everything in my power to give them the knowledge, the assistance, the skills, and the character they need to succeed as themselves. To be whom they were meant to be.

If I can’t do that, or if I stop doing it, I need to get out of this job and make way for someone who can.