This upcoming week I have an interview at this awesome company up in Providence, that uses design-thinking to innovate business modeling. At least that’s my interpretation of it. I’ve looked at a bunch of firms that do this sort of work but I’m incredibly drawn to this one in particular, and it’s because of their emphasis on social impact and transformative agency.
And–best of all–I’d be focusing on education!
Some of y’all know this, but a while ago I began part time work as a tutor at an alternative education program. A lot of our students require this program because of disciplinary/behavioral issues that have removed them from the high school, but many also require a systematic yet individualized mode of teaching in order to get their work done. For many of the students, it’s both.
I love it. I truly do. At first the atmosphere of the program itself was daunting: lots of yelling, swearing, attitude, indolence and obstinance. Threats, sass and an aggressive disregard for rules pervaded everything. But the moment I got to know a few of the students I quickly realized how awesome it was to work with them, and how gratifying it’d be to actually get some work done on their terms.
(And, I’ll have you know, I am now being personally requested by students who have otherwise refused all other help on assignments. And on subjects like math! Which, admittedly, I possess a tremulous grasp of at best. This, to me, is the hallmark of successful ingratiation.)
Administrators have many descriptors for my students. Pleasant descriptors and floral, vague adjectives that are said through clenched teeth to avoid outright derision. “Lively,” is a favorite. Or, “Spirited,” because it’s one of those words that is only ever used to describe something that can’t properly be described because of company, employment, or just general comfort.
Example: “Your daughter!” exclaims a mother after the school play (which was derailed when the child playing The Sun took it upon herself to jump into the audience and impart ‘sunburns’ on the first row). “She made a great Sun. She was so….spirited!”
So my kids are spirited. They are lively and vibrant and–perhaps–a bit gritty. But the more I work with them and the more I witness their energy (which, when applied to the right topic, is boundless), the more I’m captivated by the potential of capturing that energy and creating a classroom culture that is conducive to their type of learning. (Please excuse the alliteration, which I would describe as ‘concussive’ if I didn’t know better).
We monitor these students in every way possible. We gather data on their lessons, their progress, their behavior, their misbehavior, their rewards and their penalties. We mark attendance with a timestamp and we respond to good behavior with coupons that can be exchanged for snacks…which are also monitored. Because of their situation–whether through disadvantage, disobedience, or perhaps a simple disdain for schooling–these kids have found themselves attending class in a crucible of scrutiny and metrics. And us teachers have found ourselves in a quiet, papery maelstrom of not-really-quantifiable data, miscommunication, and tedium.
Now listen: I love data. I really do. But when the reporting of data is curbed by the sheer volume of the data that must be reported, somethings off with the way that the data is gathered. Additionally, the effectiveness of these metrics to describe these students seems scarce at best.
I’m still observing, but my mind is one that immediately fixates on micro-cultures when walking into a new environment. And this program certainly has a culture like none other. Authority is variable and closely resembles a turbulent friendship, and the difference between a quite lesson and a lesson wrought with chaos is something as small as a folder going missing, or an unexpected knock at the door, or a phone ring.
We barter with these students–who are mostly grownup in mind, if not in body–in a million different exchanges of power. We trade bans against electronics (or talking, or swearing) with proactive blitheness, knowing that the permission of these slights will gain us peace and productivity elsewhere. We give up our power over the minutiae of obedience so that we might foster a general authority. And it’s not an authority embedded in pious respect; it’s an authority embedded in trust.
We gather data on these students so that we might elucidate trends, but these are students that have defied trends and found themselves trapped in outlier territory. They blink from the periphery. Even the building is peripheral, connected to the main high school not by a hallway but by a bus ride.
In this culture of rapid social exchange, there’s no room for penalties that subvert a student’s self respect and turn the teacher into a utilitarian monster. In this culture, which is a political microeconomy of one thousand tiny concessions in exchange for eventual cooperation, there’s no room to wage war over a checked text message, or a bad mood.
Bristling and brittle armor is not allowed. Aloof authority and measured conversation aren’t allowed either. Pliancy has served me well–specifically the ability to transition between affable candor and stringent instruction in one seamless pivot. These students are incredibly smart and have an intense aptitude for observation, and so contradictions are also off limits. Consistency and mental agility are my offerings to them, and they’ve responded with admiration, jokes, and even compliancy when I turn them towards their work.
“I don’t know what that new teacher’s deal is,” said one girl to another tutor, unwilling to observe that I was probably a gay man. “But he knows how to dress. I like him.”
“You’re funny,” said another girl. Then she turns to her friends and, conspiratorially, inquires. “He’s funny, right? He’s funny.”
“I got to the end of the mastery test, but then the computer broke,” one student complained. “Ask Mr. La Sala. Ask him! We were doing so well! Isn’t that right?”
And my favorite: “You okay,” pronounced by a student after a lively, spirited debate over a comparison I drew between the vocals of British hip hop artist Rita Ora, and my beloved Beyonce. This debate isn’t over, but at least we both found common artistic taste in Iggy Azalea.
I’m lucky that my most off-putting quality, according to my students, is my peppiness. I’m also lucky that they’re comfortable asking me things like “Do you like white people music? Do you like violin?” and “What’s an astral projection?” because these questions are small allowances of vulnerability. And I answer the question when I can, and because I want to, and because an honest inquiry deserves an honest answer.
And if there’s one thing these kids can pick apart, it’s a bluff. So no bluffing allowed either.