Teaching Without a Script

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

About Lesson Plans

In an age of charter schools, home schools, No Child Left Behind, standardized testing, overstretched public schools, the battle for resources, voucher plans and evolving notions about special education and special needs, the act of teaching has never been more complicated. In Lesson Plans, a group of teachers chronicle their experiences during the first weeks of the school, offering first hand accounts of today's classroom challenges from diverse perspectives.

 

 

Teaching Without a Script

By Matthew Kay

 

Three weeks ago, when my school asked 20 upperclassmen to help with a summer institute for freshmen, 80 showed up. At the end of August, our technology coordinator asked students to help her configure our laptops. Many kids spent the last free Saturday of summer vacation dragging icons across a screen. The school year at Science Leadership Academy here in Philadelphia has now begun, and our freshmen are noticing that the end of our school day stretches much longer than the end of the teachers’ paid instructional time. They are asking the same question that regularly stirs up our visitors. “Why do they stay?” Even as I write this, student laughter is floating up from our café — late on a Friday afternoon. Some have stepped out to get Chinese, and now they are back — to hang out with teachers in the principal’s office. Given every opportunity to leave, both our educators and students regularly decide to stay.

 

All sides of every education debate agree that quality learning happens when knowledgeable, caring teachers use sound pedagogy. While theorists and politicians quibble over the definitions within this definition, most know that once a quality teacher is in an urban classroom, the biggest challenge is keeping them there. What keeps dynamic, intelligent, young teachers in an urban classroom after they’ve built up enough experience to skip off to higher paying suburban pastures? How do you encourage them to build 30-year careers where many natives measure success by the ability to escape?

Many say the answer is money. And every election season candidates promise more of it. Whether they want to give it unilaterally, or only to teachers who somehow “merit” it, the theory is that you make the best stay by paying them more. (I treat this debate like so many barber shop disputes over slavery reparations. I don’t expect a dime, but should the checks come, I’ll be first in line.)

I am a good case study for this issue. I’m one of those young, dynamic teachers, and I want nothing more than to stay in Philadelphia’s public schools for the rest of my career. And as my third teaching year begins, I’m wondering what this little downtown academy with big ideas has done to squelch my innate desire to move on. And I wonder why young teachers from all over the country are treating this Philly school like the Mecca of their craft. Why did they come, and why do they seem, like me, to want to stay around for a bit?

 

It’s not money. Great teachers are deft managers, thirsty scholars, and empathetic people — and we would excel in careers that pay a whole lot more if cash was our driving ambition. The reason that the young teachers at S.L.A. are so excited to be here most likely mirrors my own — we are all treated like artists.

 

I’ve been a performance poet for the past three years, and though I enjoy the rush and buzz of a packed show, my favorite moments are the dark ones. The times that I spend in “the lab,” reading, journaling, and spitting random punch lines to my reflection in the mirror. I give voice to real characters that I have recently been exposed to: an ill, pregnant woman, a Holocaust survivor, a drug runner from our local badlands. These people’s scattered experiences are filtered through my brain and turned into something coherent, catchy, and meaningful to a larger audience.

 

So it is with the inquiry based learning that we model for the other schools in Philadelphia. Our ninth graders come to us shy about asking questions that are often scattered and incoherent. When encouraged, they open up, and then incessantly offer their ideas. (I illustrate this for all classes on the first full day of every year, when I put a big rubber ball under my shirt and pretend to give laborious birth to it. We name this child “my idea.” I pass it around nervously, and when someone drops it, I snatch it up and curl into the fetal position. They laugh. I eventually get over my shock and learn to trust again, slowly passing it, then throwing it around the room for everyone to touch. There are two morals: first, you can’t protect your idea forever, and second, our ideas grow when, by dialogue and debate, others are allowed to get their fingerprints on them.)

 

This is when the S.L.A. teacher-artists go into the “lab.” We show 32 young urban voices how to ask probing questions about a text, a formula, or a problem in their communities. We use those questions to flavor each unit plan that we prepare. The end product works much like that call-and-response piece that shouts “Listen!” and quiets all sidebar conversation. The audience owns the words too. The kids are more inspired to pay attention. The artist is more inspired to bring the noise.

 

I end each year with a speech unit. The kids dream up an injustice, question why it exists, and then seek to change some minds. They read powerful, controversial examples of oratory spanning from Frederick Douglass to Hitler to J.F.K. The idea for it came when, during a “To Kill a Mockingbird” unit two years ago, students got a little excited during a mock jury deliberation. They did such a good job playing the relentlessly racist townspeople of Maycomb that I wondered aloud how such ignorance could be reasoned with. I challenged them to do so. With each child’s fingerprint, the idea grew.

 

Last year, one of my students began her piece with, “I want an Iranian for president. I want a gay person for president. I want a person who has been stopped by the cops so many times because of the color of their skin that it’s become a routine.” Another student found herself frustrated by her community’s nonchalance about its history. She implored residents to “remember those who fought to be remembered, respect those who demanded respect for you.” She added, “And if you want to be remembered, make yourself worth remembering. The key to all of this is understanding our history. once you have it, use it as a weapon, and then there is nothing, absolutely nothing, that can stop us.” This 9th grader exuded confidence.

 

If I hadn’t been allowed to be an artist in the classroom, if my curriculum had been some stranger’s standardized script, these girls may not have found their voices. To educate like this, a teacher shouldn’t have to break the rules. Experiences like this should be the rule of any curriculum meant to engage this generation. If we want to convince dynamic, young educators to choose the inner city as the place to master their craft — we’ve got to remember that the best are artists. They like to create. And if they aren’t allowed to do so, they will rebel — or they will leave. The chance to be an artist has convinced me to stay — “merit pay” not withstanding.

 

[Editor's note: An earlier version of this posting omitted the original source of a quotation. The language "The alarms have been relentless, but our response, again and again, has been to hit the snooze button. But there is no more need for a wake-up call. The need now is for action!" used by a student in a speech was taken from a 2007 speech by Paul Helmke, president of the Brady Campaign to Prevent Gun Violence.]

 

 

Matthew Kay is a third year English and Drama teacher at the Science Leadership Academy, a progressive magnet school in Center City Philadelphia, where he is also athletic director, boys head basketball coach, and proud leader of the slam poetry team.

 

 

 

 

 

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