Triumph!

No profound thoughts today, no musings. Just some pictures and some good moments.

Taking apart electronics

Sewing a "plushy"

Making a video game with Scratch

Today, one of my students literally cried with happiness because she finally was able to understand a concept she had been struggling with.

Today was a good day.

Struggling

Succeeding

Good fences

As our first full week of school draws to a close, I have this line from Robert Frost's "Mending Wall" running through my head, "Good fences make good neighbors." 

As an English teacher, it is my gift and my curse to frequently think in poetry. And as I watch my LII students wade through the expectations of the course, Frost's ambiguous words seem most appropriate. In creating the course, I wanted to give students the freedom to make and play. However, as I've learned through my work with little children (particularly my own), whether or not we want to admit it, boundaries often give us the freedom to explore and grow safely.

I think many of the kids who signed up for the class were drawn in by the promise of freedom. And they are struggling with the few constraints I have in place. While they are free to make what time, equipment, and safety allow, I am requiring them to show evidence of following a design process, to take the time to set strategic goals, to reflect on their progress. I believe this is chafing to some. As Frost's speaker ponders, "Something there is that doesn't love a wall..."

At the same time, some people get imprisoned by a lack of boundaries. People who don't have organizational structures or who don't have any pressure to be intentional about goals and processes can struggle to take risks and see things through to completion. In my own personal experience, I can attest to at least three unfinished novels lurking in my Google Drive because nothing is making me finish.

As I've walked students through my project submission process and my demands for the use of a design notebook and Maker blog, I've seen the glaze frosting over their eyes and felt like a bit of a soul crusher. But, on the other hand, my intentions are for my rules to set them free from some of the challenges that have prevented them from being successful creators in the past.

I think humans have a paradoxical relationship with boundaries. We hate that they are there, but at the same time, we need them. Without them what are we aiming for, how do we have a sense of direction? How do we exceed our limitations if they don't exist?

Path of totality

Today was The Great American Eclipse, and our high school lay in the path of totality. We set aside the normal school routine and learned about and celebrated this amazing demonstration of nature's power.

I was so excited to see the eclipse today. But I am a 35-year-old woman who is self-aware enough to own the fact that she is a tremendous nerd. What would the students think? Would they be too cool, too self-conscious? Would they be awe-filled or awful?

In her essay about a total eclipse she observed in 1979, Annie Dillard describes a terrifying, mystical experience: "There was no sound. The eyes dried, the arteries drained, the lungs hushed. There was no world. We were the world’s dead people rotating and orbiting around and around, embedded in the planet’s crust, while the Earth rolled down." I wondered if I would be terrified, too, along with 2,000 of my closest teenage friends. Dillard described people screaming as totality finally occurred, unhinged by a world that seemed to have been turned upside down. Would I need to solicitously comfort a distraught sophomore?  Would a sophomore need to solicitously comfort me?

In a demonstration almost as amazing as the eclipse itself, what I encountered today was a group of adolescents who still had a sense of wonder. Kids who unashamedly gawked at the sky with their eclipse glasses and carefully hole-punched eclipse viewers. Kids who excitedly pointed out to one another the dappled light and rippling shadows.

In the minutes before totality, clouds started passing over the previously clear sky. The football field was filled with groans and then shrieks of joy as the eclipse disappeared and reappeared from their eclipse glasses. Totality occurred and another cloud covered the sun. Unable to see the corona, the kids I was sitting with gloried instead in the sunset colors all around us and a flash of lightening far in the distance.

Finally, the cloud passed, and for a few seconds, we saw it: The flat black disk of the moon encircled by the thin, shimmering white light of the sun. The students gasped and cheered. There were no screams of horror, but a few boys close to my excitedly yelled together, "Totality!"

This is what I want to remember about today. However deeply buried (and for some kids, it's very deeply buried), our students still have a sense of wonder. How powerful would it be if we could find  a way to let it show, unobscured? A space to pause, a space to play, a space to ask questions, a space to marvel, and a space to be marvelous. Totality.

Day 1

After months of planning, yesterday was the first day of the new class, LEAP Innovators and Investigators. Throughout the summer months, from time to time, I'd think about what I wanted to say on the first day to the 12 brave souls who signed up for my brainchild. All along, I've been concerned about my "impostor" status, that is someone who is decidedly uncrafty and unhandy leading a Maker/Design class. 

Students working on a bridge design challenge. Did you know that a playing
card bridge easily can hold both a biology textbook and Midnight's Children?

Yesterday, I decided to be honest.

I told them that I don't know much about electronics. I told them that my only programming experience is using Scratch. Barely. I told them that I have a sewing machine but don't even know how to turn it on. I told them that I have a lot of great ideas for our class, but I don't know how they are going to work out in practice, and we might have to make changes throughout the year.

They were surprisingly unconcerned.

As I was going through the syllabus and course requirements, they starting asking me questions about what was allowable. Can we work in groups? Yes. Can our group be the whole class? Yes. Can we continue work on a project we've already started at home. Yes. Can we one project fulfill multiple requirements? Yes.

I imagine it was liberating to hear the word yes so many times at school.  It was even more liberating to say it.

At one point, a kid asked, "Why isn't all school like this?"

To which I suggested perhaps we shall wait to see how it all turns out before we start dismantling the status quo entirely. Because I still don't know how it will turn out. I still can't be sure that I will be a good enough teacher for this class. I still can't be sure that the kids will learn what I want them to learn, the things I want to learn myself--how to be more creative, how to be more confident, how to be accountable, how to take a risk, how to fail and survive. I'm not even sure if all of them will show up again today, or if some will make a hasty beeline for their counselor this morning. 

But for right now, I'm going to trust the words of e.e. cummings in the poem "love is a place":


yes is a world
& in this world of
yes live
(skilfully curled)
all worlds