Tag Archives: pedagogy

Timing

  By laurelfelt | August 10, 2011 - 10:44 pm | , , ,
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The clock and the calendar.

Are they the toughs, the bruiser henchmen, harassing on behalf of Big Bossman Life? Are they the It Couple, dominating our reality, occupying our fantasy, engaging our discourse? Do they deserve to be less — the lighting fixtures that came with the apartment? Simply the horsepower that each engine’s got?

At 1:55 am, Mom texted from Ireland that she and Dad could feel their 6-hour jetlag. 6 am, snooze. 6:09, snooze. 6:14… At 6:37 am, Vanessa texted that if she arrived after 7:30 am, I should ask Jackie for the keys. At 7:55 am, only three teachers had arrived. We started at 8:19 am, even though we’d planned to begin at 8. We decided at 10 am, which had been the session’s original stopping point, that we should continue until noon. At noon, Vanessa announced that our lunch break would be 30 minutes (originally 60 minutes, reduced at our 10 am powwow to 45, so where had she gotten 30?). After 40 minutes had passed, we decided to give it 60. The next activity took 15 minutes to explain — an unforeseen expenditure — and participants were to complete the bulk of the activity in 35 minutes, then present in the final 10. That didn’t happen.

As they collaborated to integrate various tools and toys into a new lesson plan for their discipline, I scuttled around the kitchen, covering food before it spoiled, cleaning to avoid staying (too) late. I didn’t address the revisions due on Monday.

I scheduled a conference call. If I can’t talk before 5, and Pat can’t Skype before 6, and Erin can’t talk after 6:30, and Pat is on vacation next week, and we have to know by next Friday, then when do we talk, observe, and do, since I’ll be driving to and from campus 30 minutes each way M-Th for appointments of 50-120 minutes daily (a fact I learned Monday night), as well as prepping for these obligations, and so cannot dedicate this time to the project?

In the car, Vanessa and I re-designed activities and time slots. If they start at 8:15, and each gives a five-minute overview, and we account for transition time, and then they give three 20-minute presentations, and then there’s a break and flex time for things going wrong, then we’ll have an hour before lunch…

I talked to Jenn, who uncannily brought our conversation to a close at precisely the right minute. I called Erin, who began talking about the week. “It’s 6:03,” I said. “Should I call Pat?” We talked past the appointed cut-off, discussing the nature of the commitment in terms of task and time, constructing a deadline by which to communicate.

Calling back Gramma (who had left a message while I’d been on the other line), I stepped outside to switch my laundry (well past the wash cycle’s culmination) at the exact same moment (7:19 pm) that the FedEx man wandered up, looking for apartment number-less me. What are the odds?

Gramma wished me a safe trip to New York, although I’m not leaving for another two weeks. She told me to ask Mom (Gramma would ask her herself but hasn’t the means since she’s “stuck in the 18th century”) whether Mom’s picked up an Irish brogue yet (Mom has been in-country for less than 24 hours). Finally, Gramma recommended that I let my hair return to its native state. Don’t you like curly hair? “Sure I do, Gramma. But it’s been 20 years. It’s time for a change.”

Malcolm Gladwell made much of hockey players’ birthdays. They’re self-fulfilling prophecies, you know. Tonight is Suzanne’s 30th. His is over the weekend. I am 31 and a half.

So many things to count; respectively: six months, a week and a half, 3 days, 30%.

10:43 pm. So much for going to sleep early.

Process and products

  By laurelfelt | July 3, 2011 - 6:51 am | ,
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This past week of Art Detectives encouraged participants to examine an artifact and consider, “How was this made? Where was this made? When was this made? Why was it made? What does it tell you about the people and culture who produced it?”

As we spent the past few days presenting the children’s process and products at Open House, scavenging tourist-hungry avenues for souvenirs, rejiggering next week’s curriculum, and visiting ancient temples, the significance of these questions loomed large…

How does a well-to-do Indian parent discern the magnitude and value of a child’s learning from a: (hieroglyphically) carved bar of soap, (rose petal and) watercolored picture, (papyrus-inspired) weaving of paper bag strips, (ancient Greek-inspired) painted clay pot, (Roman mosaic-inspired) arrangement of construction paper pieces? Our EMP Art Gallery offered parents a chance to explore the means of production, experimenting with the materials that made each piece. And the sheer quantity of *stuff* was convincing for this audience.

So how does a well-to-do Indian parent discern the magnitude and value of a child’s learning from: a child-invented toy pieced together from recycle materials? What if this artifact looks unpolished? What if this is the only tangible product of the week? How does this parent see the process, and how worthwhile is the process if the product fails to impress? Our teaching team hatched schemes to unveil process and multiply products, but it was somewhat of a struggle. Were we hired to: a) deliver process to privileged children; b) deliver process and teach their well-to-do Indian parents about the value of process; or c) deliver process, teach about process, and still deliver product? C, I think, is the correct answer. And is that bad? Are progressive Americans too prone to err on the other side, saying that incorrect information and/or poor quality output is okay if someone was “trying their best” or “expressing themself”? Where do we draw the line?

Haggling over products — dime-a-dozen knickknacks clogging Colaba Causeway, I thought about process. How were these scarves and nesting dolls and wall hangings and sandals and bindis and bangles and everything made, in terms of quality and labor conditions? Why were they made? To what extent do they express anything genuine about the culture, save its need to satisfy tourists? On my travels, I’ve often wondered whether the products hawkers vend embody caricaturized versions of their own culture, manufactured to reify foreigners’ (mis)conceptions of their temporary hosts… After all, how many French people wear berets? And yet, how many embroidered berets are sold at gift shops facing the Louvre? How many Senegalese people own carved giraffes? How many Indians carry elephant-mirrored handbags? And yet, back in the States, what joy will these representations of the fantastical Other bring?

Exploring product — the cavernous temples on Elephanta Island, rock-cut shrines to Shiva dating back to the 5th-8th century, I wondered about the who in the process. Who were the people involved in the construction of this work — the visionaries, the models, the carvers, the apprentices, the clergy, the worshippers? I’ve had the privilege of touching ancient stone all over the world, from Jerusalem to Tours, Athens to Bergen. I used to wonder about the hustle and bustle of long-gone marketplaces, wished I could touch the remnant and be hurtled magically back through time. On Sunday, though, despite my recent engagements with commerce, I didn’t think about marketplaces. I thought about women. What role(s), if any, were women given back then? Were they allowed to touch tools, carve stone, pray in the holy of holies? Did they collude in art and religion’s exaltation of the phallus? Outside the temple, two nursing mothers — monkey and dog — tended to their clingy young. Was that the lot of ancient women as well, kept from the high-profile artistic and spiritual by the down-to-earth artistic and spiritual — child-rearing?

This week of EMP is dedicated to toys — creating new products from recycled products (e.g., used waterbottles and containers, bottle caps and bits of fabric and packing foam, etc). So much stuff. Our objective is to focus on the process, the development of ideas, blueprints, and prototypes, the iterative processes of building, testing, and modifying constructions and blueprints… And yet, our questions were about the product children love best — “What is your favorite toy?”, and our process includes selling the product — writing promotional copy, designing a graphic, even shooting a commercial for the ambitious elders. Consumerism. Of course, creating one’s own advertisement raises consciousness to the constructed nature of advertisements in general, their objectives and methods, and so a case can be made for its immunizing, media literate influence upon consumerism… It’s complicated, especially since we’re beholden to pleasing our cultural community by delivering a certain quantity of product that boasts a certain quality.

Still I mull which god to worship, the god of process or the god of product… and I wonder to what extent they’re both false idols. Or vessels…

I’ve decided that I want the theme for this upcoming year to be Joy. So maybe we shouldn’t fixate on the how or the what, the process or the product, but how they make us feel. Isn’t that largely what motivates creation and acquisition — a deep-seated craving for satisfaction? So whatever floats your boat, perhaps…

To hedonism?

Realization

  By admin | May 26, 2011 - 3:48 pm | , , , , , , ,
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I am now four days post-quals and the whole experience seems like a dream, a Dali-esque portrait of vibrant images stitched together crazily… The scene it describes is of a Western/technologized rite of passage whose equivalent is stripping you naked, feeding you peyote, and sending you out in the desert to channel strange visions and, hopefully, survive.

I’m still sleep-deprived but for different reasons: play, travel, and circadian rhythm compromise. I’m energized, though, to be among smart and friendly scholars in familiar Boston. Maybe this PhD is a bit like my 2003-2006 Boston experience — exciting in anticipation, surprisingly challenging in acclimation, depressing and identity-rocking at times, and ultimately, home.

Below, you’ll find what I wrote yesterday and perhaps appreciate, as I do now, how feelings can be ephemeral and how meaning-making is a continuous process…
__________________

I did it.

The thing is, I’m not sure what “it” is. Just what did I do? Here is an itemized list:

-worked from the moment I woke up until the time I went to sleep;
(-except for when I watched Top Chef: Season 4 – Chicago during my breakfast, lunch, and dinner + dishwashing breaks;)
-wrote a paper for two solid days*, then moved on to the next, despite the fact that the last section of the previous paper was unfinished and I hate leaving things unfinished, because I couldn’t risk getting bogged down and figured a slapdash last section to one (or several) papers was better than a non-existent or mostly inadequate paper in its entirety;
-went for a daily, two block walk for a cup of coffee to go;
-experienced two of the 10 days feeling cloudy-brained due to sleep deprivation, sympathizing with the concussed, strategizing work-arounds – making detailed notes since my silly cerebrum couldn’t hold a thought, going for a walk to the mailbox (can’t trust my postal carrier and your lack of Valentines is the reason – I mailed em, people), catching quick semi-naps, re-jiggering my 10-day plan;
-communicated with my beloved mother, my champion, daily;
-compromised my body’s structural integrity, perhaps (by the end of the experience, got the distinct impression that my posture kept tilting to the right – that ain’t ergonomic, and neither is my Ikea couch);
-rubbed the ends of my hair to frayed, eroded stumps;
-opted for loose dresses and my most generous jeans;
-managed to make it to yoga on both Sundays;
-got bites across my infernally expanding belly from some critter (a flea?) that I hope doesn’t live in my furniture;
-surprised myself by some of the routes that the papers took – hadn’t anticipated needing to get into X or Y topic, but realized I couldn’t speak about Z without foregrounding X and Y;
-cursed myself for these deviations from the plan because they necessitated searching for literature and adding the new citations to my stupid reference section;
-marveled at the sheer length of these documents, born of my ignorance that it would take so many pages to explain some fundamentals before I could even get into more of the “meat”;
-wondered…………..

Here’s the philosophical part and I’m warning you now, it’s not pretty. I wondered:

-if the fundamentals are the meat, if the point is to prove one’s mastery of theory and research methods;
-if the fundamentals aren’t the meat, if the point is to explore something novel, synthesize, make more of a contribution;
-who decides the point anyway – who is this for? While my professors may read these papers (I say “may” intentionally – I take nothing for granted, especially since I forked over behemoths), I’m not driven to please them necessarily, or other people in general, and doubt that honoring my own agenda will dissatisfy them, or anyone (and if it does cause dissatisfaction, tend to think that the refuseniks are in the wrong);
-then, if this is for me, how am I benefiting again? Where is the value in writing a paper in two days, on the back of another two day paper, another two day paper, another two day paper? Does that generate products of value? Are my papers any good?
-if it’s not about the product, it’s about the process, then is this nose-to-the-grindstone process one that confers any take-aways? Do I want to practice this, get better at this, this process of masochism and social disconnect? That doesn’t sound sustainable or qualify-of-life-y…
-if there’s something to be said about learning how to write on demand? Maaaaaaaybe, because procrastination and overcommitment can and has and will inspire two-day paper writing (I have a book chapter due next week, for example, and a conference and another deadline in the interim). But. Ugh. And that’s still just one or maybe two two-day papers, not four. And one or maybe two two-day papers, that I’ve done. I like to call that “finals.” So does doing four build up a muscle that makes two seem like cake? Like after a marathon, a 15-mile run is a breeze? If so, how long does that muscle last? It can’t be permanent – nothing is permanent. What will I have to do to maintain it? Is whatever that is worth it?
-if this is less of a body and muscle game, more of a brain and story game – maybe this builds up confidence or stokes a sense of self-image, as in “I can, I am — I can put something scholarly together, I am a scholar.” But can I, am I? What does middling performance prove? Whose standard are we using? Do I compare myself to professionals or am I still just a student? At the age of 31, when is my work legitimate? What is my work? Who defines legitimacy?
-Will any of these papers make a difference for me or anyone?
-Will any of my work make a difference for me or anyone? Does anyone know anything, or are we all just feeling around in the dark? If it’s the latter, then that would make my darkness-groping okay, or normative at least… But then how can we ever get anywhere? Stroke of luck? This isn’t about luck, this is about science. To what extent is it naïve to impose science’s order on the complexity of real life — dynamic systems, flesh-and-blood-and-mind-and-spirit people?
HOW DO I HELP PEOPLE?
How do I help myself? What am I doing?

To be honest, most of this emerged amorphously, intuitively, as it dawned on me that I couldn’t muster the energy to proof my papers and wondered what was the point of having worked so hard to perfect the reference sections (which no one will read) if the content is grammatically-challenged and flabby? This led me down the recrimination highway (Why hadn’t I uploaded everything to Zotero way back when and anytime since? (I know why. Time. (Why don’t I have any time? What am I doing wrong?))) and, sending the papers anyway, smashed headfirst into an existential crisis.

I cried.

Sobbing, I called my parents (as they kept running into neighbors at the Jewel, bless em), who sagely determined that I was overtired and would benefit from a good night’s sleep. True. Good point. But it was 7 pm. And I had grown accustomed to staying up until 2.

I took a walk down to the mailbox, downing seltzer from a travel mug because I thought maybe the sharp pain in my stomach that had been troubling me for hours was due to the fact that all I’d drank all day was that single cup of coffee to go… I continued on to Bricks & Scones, where there were no sesame chewy rolls, and maybe it was just as well. I trudged back home, wishing I felt better in every way, brainstorming…

The story ends well. Basically. I ended up dashing to an 8:10 pm show of Bridesmaids, where I ate an embezzled rice cake and granola bar in the dark and drank in the (synthesized?) Midwest, laughing at the broad comedy and recognizing another seasoned woman’s search for it all.

But we weren’t exactly the same, this character and me. I wear longer dresses, for starters, and I hadn’t hit rock bottom… right? I had finished my exams. I’m sure I’ll pass the defense. I wrote scads more than was expected (to our collective detriment?). I have read more than I cited (a mistake?) and still cited up a storm (the less interesting things?). I rediscovered pdf’s and hard copies of articles and books with my underlining + margin scribbling + Post It flagging, like gifts from a fairy godmother who was me, me, me leaving myself presents, Past Me to Future Me, taking care of me, three years in the making…

I don’t know. I don’t know what it was for. At least I can keep going on in this program. That’s good, to not be stranded along the PhD highway, surviving humiliation and a six-month waiting period before being permitted to sit for quals again. It’s good not to fail (although we’re supposed to celebrate mistakes, right, “teachable moments,” risk failure, seek failure, isn’t that part of the value-added in learning through gaming? – but failure feels different outside of games, it just does, and I know people who regret losing games anyway. This was a good bullet-dodge for my ego, not failing. (Am I being presumptuous? I haven’t passed the defense yet!)). I know, at least, that when it comes time to hunker down and focus and do, I can. I did. (What did I do again?)

My friends made me laugh. ☺ Via IM, email, telephone, text, postcard, face-to-face… Old friends, dear friends, good friends who I’ve been through the war with, even who I’ve warred with, busy but still finding the time to care, not just to show up in whichever mode availed but to bring their hearts with them and connect…

My family. My family is so generous, and I am so privileged, in every way.

The hell in my head, I created. I create. I know. It consists of phantasms and tricks of light. It can be blown away, like spun sugar, with a single burst of optimism, or humor, or gratitude. It can be transformed by looking at it from a different angle, a perspective shift. I know. I know.

You believe in me. I should believe in your good judgment. I deserve some slack, I guess. And a little more faith…

My intentions are pure. I just want it to matter. I don’t know about all of this work business. But I do know about all of you. You matter. I love you.

*note, I qualified the days as solid, not the papers… but if anyone would like to read one or any of the papers, here are the links:

Participation and play: Modes of learning for today and tomorrow
“Almost as necessary as bread”: Why we need narrative and what makes it work
The origin of everything?: Empathy in theory and practice
Present promise, future potential: Positive Deviance and complementary theory