Let me tell you a
story.
When
I was in third grade, there was a rough and beautiful little girl in my small,
underfunded class who was very hurt and who hurt others. She was being sexually
abused at home. We would learn that a year later, but at the time—in third
grade time—we didn’t know her hurt for what it was yet. All we saw was anger,
that superficial emotion that makes it so hard to respond with clarity and
care.
Her
rage was uncontainable. And to us (we were small, too, remember), we weren’t
sure what we were seeing. I suppose, with all of her hitting and belittling and
intimidation, she could have been called a bully or a bitch, but…no. It would
be so easy to be unkind to a girl like her. To let her boil in her own
unkindness. But, then, what lesson have we learned?
One
day, my third-grade teacher asked us all to sit in a circle on the floor, and
she sat with us. She asked the hurt and angry little girl to sit with us, too.
And my teacher said something that was bigger and kinder than any of us:
“WE have a problem. She gets angry
sometimes, and it makes US hurt. How can WE fix this, TOGETHER?”
With that, our
relationships changed. We became responsible for helping fix what we did not
break, and the angry and hurt little girl stopped seeming so…other. Hurt and
anger was no longer a problem to be solved by her. It was our job to help and
to use our hearts and minds—in a classroom—to figure out how we were going to
solve the human damage that is the result of a very big, very adult, very messy
world.
Did
we solve the problem completely? No. But we learned how to talk about hard
problems, and we learned that our solutions should be part of trying to solve
hard problems, and we learned that there are teachable strategies for dealing
with even overwhelmingly hard problems.
Most
importantly, though, we learned that we all mattered.
My teachers cared. So I cared. The reason I always wanted to
be a teacher was because I felt valued as a student. And it is difficult to
overestimate how much this instillation of expectations and ethical values has
been able to set my sails aright. This is my avocation, one I have maintained
despite inconvenient moves, a ridiculously low paycheck, and an
inability to succinctly describe my industry label in higher academia. It’s not
that these things don’t matter or don’t inform the material, social, and
emotional realities of what my life as a teacher is. It’s just that I know very clearly why I do what I do, and the why is rooted very deeply in my
experiences as a student. And, of
course, these experiences and relationships inform my unabashed love now for my
students. Because here’s the thing: I am oh-so-aware that all it ever really
would have taken along the way would have been one truly unethical, dismissive,
oppressive, or low-balling teacher (or a series of uninterested, indifferent,
and uninvolved teachers) to have utterly destroyed not only my student-hood and
the possibilities, therein—but the joy, resilience, and purpose that would be
part of my future trajectory.
Yet… I often wonder how I got so lucky. I know the greater
state of systemic academia. And I am hurt. Angry.
This week I have been reading Richard Arum and JosipaRoksa’s Academically Adrift: LimitedLearning on College Campuses (2011). My first reaction to much of the book
is, “Please tell me this isn’t true….” Sadly, I fear much of it is. Arum and
Roksa’s discussion presents the landscape of academic “adriftness” primarily
through a matrix of contrast:
1) Institutions place mission-statement and labor-market
value on “critical thinking”: “But what if increased educational attainment is
not equivalent to enhanced individual capacity for critical thinking and
complex reasoning?” (p. 2).
2) “The commercialization of university-based knowledge signals
the university’s role as a driver of the economy” (p. 10).
3) “U.S. higher education does not have an adequate basis
for establishing a consensus of moral values…” (p. 14), often leading to an
ambiguously defined role of the university as a moral educator/partner.
4) “Patterns of Inequality in CLA Performance” (p. 37)
suggesting a “pattern of persistent class [and racial/ethnic] inequality” (p.
39): “When students enter higher education academically disadvantaged, they
remain unequal, or in some instances grow even further apart. […] This pattern
suggests that higher education in general reproduces social inequality” (40).
With such a depressing “state of affairs,” it is easy to
begin pointing fingers. The major claim seems to be that students don’t care
about the “right things” because teachers, administrators, and the entire
academic system doesn’t care about the “right things” in the right way. While Arum and Roksa are careful to
note distinct variations on this general theme (for example, ways in which some
sociodemographics are more/less likely to succeed on standardized tests and,
therefore, be granted tiered access to specific colleges), the overarching
theme is one of disconnect and missed opportunities.
Let me be clear, Academically
Adrift is insightful, if brutally so. But… adrift? This word seems
hopeless, almost as if everyone has just given up because the problem is too
big. I must ask (if only in my small way): can we try solving this problem
together? Not to oversimplify, but I think my third grade teacher might have had it right.
*****
Beautiful and Nature-Wonderful: "Adrift"
*****
In their discussion of student-centered learning, Arum and
Roksa note:
While students may view peers as
virtually all-important, social activities do not constitute the totality of
college experiences. […] It is faculty, within classrooms and beyond, who shape
not only students’ overall development but also their commitment to continuing
their education…. What faculty members do, and in particular whether they facilitate
academic integration of students, is crucial for student development and
persistence. (p.60)
I have long been a proponent of student-teacher integrated
solutions, especially in higher academia. These students are old enough to vote and go to war? Why aren't we trusting them to help inform their own education? Our students have needs,
problems, and minds of their own, and, if we fail to include them in designing
the pedagogical framework that structures their own education, how can we ever
expect them to feel fully invested in their academic success?
It’s time to stop asking them to work with us: let’s try
working with them. Together. Tell them they matter. Tell them we can’t do this
without them. Because we can’t. Let’s get on the floor if we have to, take
responsibility, and try to fix some of this mess. Stop looking for a perfect solution for our students' problems and start letting our students know WE have a problem, and they are part of the solution.
We're all in this together,
Rachael
P.S. An afterthought on the word "adrift." It implies a loss at sea. Why would any student do this to him or herself--float away and drown with carelessness? Isn't it more likely that we struggle to breathe, to find land, and to survive? Struggle to find our way? Here is the more important question to me: if we lost a fellow shipmate at sea, wouldn't we search and rescue? If we cared for his/her body and soul, wouldn't we do our absolute best to find him/her? Wouldn't we expect him/her to be engaging in self-rescue at the same time? And wouldn't something have gone terribly, terribly wrong if either searcher or soul-adrift failed to fight to be found? What sadness and loss.
Why do we resign ourselves to calling students academically "adrift" when they are within our reach?
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