FailSafely
  • Home
  • About
  • Home
  • About

Hedgehogs and Foxes: Student Adaptation to Change

11/15/2016

0 Comments

 
PictureSophomores work on strengthening different skills in an "open" class period.
πόλλ' οἶδ' ἀλώπηξ, ἀλλ' ἐχῖνος ἓν μέγα
(“A fox knows many things, but a hedgehog one important thing”)
Archilochus, 600 BCE

Greek poet and hirsute chap Archilochus coined the term; Isaiah Berlin framed his eloquent criticism of Tolstoy with it; even statistician-to-the-stars Nate Silver borrowed it for his site’s logo. We are, one way or another, foxes or hedgehogs. The criteria for these terms has changed to fit different philosophical scenarios, but ultimately the message is consistent: foxes approach new situations as unique and rely on fluid intelligence; hedgehogs approach new situations as familiar and rely on previous experience.

To put it even more bluntly: foxes rely on ingenuity; hedgehogs, instinct.


I’ve been fascinated by this thought since I read Berlin’s essay, despite my hesitation towards binary categorization. Could it be applied to the classroom? Of course, even the aforementioned scholars acknowledge that a “true” hedgehog or fox is rare; we all assume characteristics of both depending on the situation. However, I think it’s safe to say that we lean hard in one direction or another most of the time. 

This categorization also makes for a fun parlor game:
​

The 2016 Yankees, hedgehogs; the 2016 Cubs, foxes.

Beyonce: fox; Adele: hedgehog.

Luke is a hedgehog; Han is a fox.

Tyrion Lannister, Sansa Stark, and Daenerys "Mother of Dragons" Targaryen are foxes; Jon Snow, Jorah Mormont, and Brienne of Tarth are hedgehogs. Arya Stark wanted to be a fox but knew deep down she was a hedgehog. Cersei Lannister pretends to be a hedgehog but is clearly a fox. (How many more months??)

But what about the typical classroom today?

Before we can address that question, let’s establish, for the sake of this exercise, what foxes and hedgehogs look like in our student population. It's important to note that this is not an argument as to whether our students are naturally more inclined towards one side of the spectrum than the other; rather, this is a reflection on how out students have adjusted their approach to survive and succeed within the constructs of our educational system. Our students as people are almost certainly hybrids of both, but it is my belief that our students as students have developed an academic approach grounded in one of these two philosophical approaches. Again, as with the contemporary examples above, very few students would identify as extreme foxes or hedgehogs (although I was well-acquainted with a certain extreme hedgehog back in my day), but they would most likely subscribe to one of these two approaches.

The “Hedgehog” student…
  • Steadfastly applies a consistent game-plan that has worked in the past when facing new challenges. Believes that since their approach has worked for the majority of experiences thus far, it should continue to be applied to new experiences.
  • Is reluctant to adopt alternative approaches and is skeptical of change.
  • Has a “fixed mindset” ("I know what I’m good at and what I can’t do.")
  • Believes that others’ input usually distracts from the task at hand.
  • Adheres to the following mantras: “Trust your gut”; “Don’t fix what isn’t broken”; “Don’t reinvent the wheel”; “I know what I like”
  • Desires to maintain and reinforce established norms and hierarchies in education.
  • Often has a system that has been consistently applied in the academic setting.
  • Sees most learning as a means to an end.
  • Subscribes to a survival mentality.
  • Views failure as a weakness and avoids it at all cost.
  • Takes information at face value.
  • Tries to modify the new situation to fit their established approach.

​The “Fox” student…
  • Is an adaptive, resourceful, proactive, and reflective problem-solver. Their experiences in the past have taught them that every new challenge is dynamic and fraught with variables, so one must be flexible in one’s approach.
  • Approaches new challenges as a unique experience untethered from the past.
  • Has a “growth mindset” ("Even though I presently struggle, I can get better at this.")
  • Open to experimenting with new ideas and doesn’t align permanently with any one approach.
  • Believes that others’ input usually provides helpful perspectives.
  • Adheres to the following mantras: “I’ll give it a shot” “When in Rome...” “What got me here won’t get me there”; “If at first you don’t succeed…”
  • Craves new experiences and is relentlessly curious about the unknown.
  • Sees most learning as inherently valuable.
  • Subscribes to an aspirational mentality.
  • Views failure as an opportunity and embraces it when possible.
  • Approaches information with a critical eye.
  • Tries to modify their established approach to fit the new situation.

I don’t think it’s too much of a stretch to say that throughout the vast history of American public education, the system was designed for little hedgehogs: “This is what a classroom looks like; here is how to get a good grade; here is how to behave; keep your head down and follow directions.” The homogeneity of classroom experiences both within subject areas and throughout entire school buildings conditioned students to equate physical, philosophical, and curricular uniformity with How Learning Happens in a broader sense. “School”, as has been often discussed, was first and foremost a vessel for societal and economic conformity, and was designed as such. Either hedgehogs entered school and found a system that was conducive to their pre-existing mentality, or students were molded into hedgehogs through the experience.

But if you haven’t noticed, it’s hard out there for a hedgehog lately. Global economic flattening, a lethargic manufacturing economy, the evaporation or emigration of entire industrial sectors, and the allure of hiring labor from emerging markets has rendered many rule-following, hard-working hedgehogs unnecessary. As Glenn Reynolds writes in The New School: How the Information Age Will Save American Education from Itself, "How many 19th century business models do you see flourishing, here in the 21st?" The populist angst of this most recent election cycle--on both the left and right--is in large part a result of the betrayal of the promise educational institutions made to complicit students: "Do what we tell you, get good grades, and stay out of trouble, and you’ll have your American Dream."

Instead, foxes rule the realm. The sharing economy and rise of creative technology has created a boon for adaptive, nontraditional problem-solving. Entire industries, such as the livery and hotel sectors, have been upended seemingly overnight by a few lines of code. Robots invest your money, websites buy your groceries, and soon, drones will deliver your toothpaste. Schools that genuinely wish to prepare their students for post-academic success must recognize this fact and adjust accordingly.

Additionally, hedgehogs have never been more vulnerable. Fake news sites, near-subliminal product placement in television and film, and echo chambers on college campuses have reinforced the "hedgehogian" approach of receiving all statements as fact, especially when these statements confirm one's own biases. A recent Pew report found that 62% of American adults get their news primarily from social media; even more damning: 44% get their news primarily from Facebook, which has recently faced renewed criticism that its passivity with regard to bogus "news stories" has unfairly swayed its users' beliefs. By maintaining the belief that "since it looks like news, it must be true," individuals have allowed private interests to compromise their understanding of the world. 


The ubiquity and immediacy of the Internet cannot be understated as well, specifically with regard to its role in the contemporary classroom. The classroom teacher cannot fall back to his or her role as dispenser of information any longer; those that do are undoubtedly setting themselves up for irrelevancy. As the late, great comedian Mitch Hedberg once quipped, “The depressing thing about tennis is that no matter how good I get, I'll never be as good as a wall.”

Veteran high-school English teacher Michael Godsey recently reflected on his advice to an aspiring educator in his powerful Atlantic article, “The Deconstruction of the K-12 Teacher”, saying "[I]f you want to be a teacher, you better be a super-teacher."

He continues:

“When I did some research to see if it was just me sensing this transformation taking place, I was overwhelmed by the number of articles all confirming what I had suspected: The relatively recent emergence of the Internet, and the ever-increasing ease of access to web, has unmistakably usurped the teacher from the former role as dictator of subject content. These days, teachers are expected to concentrate on the "facilitation" of factual knowledge that is suddenly widely accessible.

In 2012, for example, MindShift’s Aran Levasseur wrote that ‘all computing devices—from laptops to tablets to smartphones—are dismantling knowledge silos and are therefore transforming the role of a teacher into something that is more of a facilitator and coach.’ Joshua Starr, a nationally prominent superintendent, recently told NPR, ‘I ask teachers all the time, if you can Google it, why teach it?" And it’s already become a cliche that the teacher should transfer from being a "sage on the stage" to being ‘a guide on the side.’”
​
Picture
To be clear: there is nothing “wrong” or “bad” about being a hedgehog. I am a hedgehog about a lot of things, most glaringly when I’m driving. No, Google, I don’t care if that route shaves seven minutes off of my trip; I don’t want to take a different exit. Accordingly, there is nothing inherently “right” or “good” about foxiness; it is simply a different way of looking at the world. What is undeniable is that our world is following an accelerating trajectory towards a fox-centric viewpoint, and we as educators should be in the business of preparing our students for a world that exists and will exist, not one that has been supplanted by innovation. Effective instruction is predictive, not nostalgic.

In my class, there are no letter grades; there are no assigned seats (but there is a sofa); you can read the books in any order you’d like; I don’t teach every student at the same time; you don’t “do assignments”, you “demonstrate skills”; you assign yourself homework (if you want); there are no deadlines, other than the last day of the school year (and even that is philosophically problematic...*another post for another day*); you can write about whatever you want; you can read whatever you want; there is no extra credit; you set your own schedules; you choose when and how to show me that you learned something; you are allowed to submit work as many times as you’d like, and only the strongest work counts.

As you would imagine, hedgehogs struggled mightily with this approach. Gone were the familiar, comforting structures of a “typical” English class. No longer was there the promise that the approach that got students to this point would translate to the new environment. In fact, I made this explicit on day one: we are doing something different here.

The few foxes in the room ran with it, grabbing books from the shelves and crafting personal narratives within the first few weeks. The more adaptive hedgehogs soon followed suit, albeit with a healthy (and welcome) dose of skepticism. But still, months in, there were several hedgehogs who refused to budge. In a deep way, I admired their persistence: witnessing a student so adamant about anything is something to celebrate; however, I knew (and perhaps they did as well), that this refusal of and reluctance towards authentic, flexible, adaptive learning would not only hurt them in this school year, it could potentially compromise their future scholarship, employment, and overall happiness as well.

This new classroom approach was, to these hedgehogs, an affront to the assumed dynamic between teacher and student. It placed new demands of transparency and measurable growth on students. It eliminated the grade inflation often present in environments with class participation and communal group work grades. In short, this class defines student success differently: not as one who “does school” but as one who demonstrates growth in learning.

It's entirely expected that most students would resist this approach; when we design our classrooms in the mold of our inherited educational system--that of conformity, uniformity, and subordinance--any variation invokes the anxiety of the unknown. I was a textbook hedgehog student: I wanted to know what to do to get the A, exactly how long my paper should be, and which topics would be on the test. Nothing gave me more trepidation than walking into an English class to see the desks arranged in a giant circle. This fear was borne not out of a biological resistance to the philosophy but an entirely understandable sense of unease. Without belaboring the point, we are presently seeing a resistance to immediate and comprehensive societal change playing out at the national and global level. While the specifics may be different, this is behaviorally very similar to the response to fundamentally changing the classroom dynamic. 

English teachers are especially guilty of this: often the "foxiest" lessons happen in their rooms. However, the only way to normalize this approach is to treat it not as a "fun thing we're trying out today" but as the "Way We Do Things Here." Regardless of whether our students are naturally more like the hedgehog or the fox, when a system historically presents one approach as implicitly correct, the individual has only two options: rebel and fail, or conform to survive (call it "institutional adaptation.") No wonder so many of our peers shudder when they reflect on their high school experiences: they barely made it out alive! 


Again, the takeaway of this should not be that foxy learning is in some way “better” or “more correct” than hedgy learning. Assigning a qualitative value to the two dimensions is irrelevant; ultimately, students should be able to adapt to and thrive in both types of environments. What is apparent, and becoming more and more evident every day, is that while there is no way to predict the future, we can infer based on myriad economic indices that the vast majority of the career paths that our students will want to follow prioritize an adaptive, flexible, and curious approach. Tragically, many of the careers we are implicitly and, in many cases, unconsciously preparing them for will by that time be automated, outsourced, or extinct. To deprive students of this exposure in the interest of familiarity is dangerous for both their short- and long-term success.

We want all of our little animals, the foxes and hedgehogs alike, to thrive in the wild; our practice should ensure that they are exposed to both environments and are given the tools and experiences necessary to succeed, now and throughout their lives.

Note: This post is the topic of my upcoming NCTE/CEL presentation "The Hedgehog and the Fox: Lessons Learned from a Year in the Open Classroom" on Sunday, November 20th, 2016 at 4:30 pm in the 
Georgia World Conference Center room A404. I encourage you to check out the entire conference program; hopefully I'll see you there!

0 Comments

First Draft Advice: Don't Be Great

11/8/2016

0 Comments

 
We’ve all seen it: the student staring at the blank GoogleDoc on their laptop, or the empty lined paper in front of them, desperately willing the words to arrive. One of my former students put it best:

“That must be why they call it a cursor; it feels like every time it blinks on the screen it’s cursing at me.”

Granted, there are some students who just flat-out refuse to write; those students to whom the act of writing anything for school has already been equated directly with pain and suffering. We will talk about those students in due time. Today, I’d like to address the students who have been crippled by the need for “first draft perfection.”

First Draft Perfection Syndrome (FDPS) is chronic among “high performing” and “ambitious” high schoolers, those tracked early into gifted and accelerated programs, but can appear within any student population. The causes of this ailment are manifold, but can ultimately be traced back to one root: frequent exposure to "high-stakes" writing environments.

This approach, unfortunately, often clashes with the philosophical rhetoric we espouse regarding writing in general. “Writing is a process of continual refinement and improvement,” we say, “all the greats went through countless drafts...do you think Shakespeare just sat down and wrote Hamlet?!” The message that’s conveyed with this approach, however, is that fearless drafting is something that’s done out there; in here those rules don’t apply.

I want to be clear: locking students into permanent grades on their first attempt at writing is contrary to the nature of recursive, reflective practice; it discourages a respect for and love of writing in general.

This is not to say, of course, that first drafts can’t or shouldn’t be assessed; in fact, taking a student’s pulse via their first attempt at a piece of writing is an essential formative assessment approach. But to treat a first draft as the be-all and end-all of the writing process establishes a dangerous mentality: don’t fly too close to the sun, young Icarus, or you will get burned. This approach tacitly encourages “safe” writing, and as a result, students are deprived of opportunities to attempt more advanced writing techniques.

I am of the rather unpopular belief that the top ten percent of our student population stagnates, on average, as much or more so than the bottom ten percent. The reason we don’t notice is because the evidence for this is in many ways obfuscated by arbitrary “ceilings” placed on high-performing students through the “far left” column of traditional writing rubrics. In short, “honors-level” students learn early in their academic careers what constitutes “A-level” writing, and in turn perpetually write to that level, rarely venturing outside the safety of that assumed paradigm. The fact that these students continue to receive high grades on their writing speaks less to their growth than it does to their systemic conformity and survival instincts. Why attempt something new, they rightfully rationalize, when this safe approach has garnered them the grades they desire?

By presenting and reinforcing an initial attempt at a piece of writing as just that: the first, awkward step in a long process, we not only contextualize the role of a writer but emphasize the metacognitive aspects of recursive writing as well. This cannot be done in a grading model that treats first (or any) drafts as final submissions; nor can it be accomplished in a classroom environment that shuttles students from point to point regardless of individual proficiency. Failure is not solely the domain of “weak” students-- it must be destigmatized and presented as a necessary step on the path to any skill development.

In giving students the opportunity to reflect on just how imperfect their first drafts are, and eliminating the negative reinforcement (or conversely, the misleading grade inflation) of first attempts in general, we provide students with a safe environment for candid self-awareness, acknowledgement of skill-deficit, and focused goal-setting for future drafts. This approach also untethers teachers from the inherent guilt in, and avoidance of, grading first submissions for what they actually are instead of what they will do to a student’s average. By supporting “conscious drafting”, we both make our students more aware of the writing process and give ourselves the freedom to assess more authentically.

My Ten Suggestions for Encouraging “Conscious Drafting” in the ELA Classroom
  1. Avoid high-stakes first drafts. While one could reasonably entertain the argument of a few exceptions here, namely timed-writing in AP or standardized test preparation (another post, Matt, another post for another day), presenting first-draft writing as a “high-stakes” assessment is, in both the short- and long-term, a dangerous and philosophically compromising practice. Safe writing is, more often than not, bad writing, as torturous to write as it is to grade. By presenting the concept of drafting as one of many steps along the way to quality writing, we encourage an attitude of risk-taking in an historically risk-averse approach. Tangentially, we reinforce several “soft skills” such as perseverance, pride in craft, and developing a growth mindset.
  2. Push the “90-percenters” to jump into the void. By this, I’m referring to the students who have about 90% of their paper written but refuse to finish and submit it to you. More often than not, this stems from a fear of failure developed throughout their school experience. This is one of the more overt indicators of FDPS, especially in a high-stakes writing environment. Thankfully, this can be mitigated by recognizing these patterns early and reminding students that their first draft is (to paraphrase and (erm...) sanitize the words of the great Anne Lamott in Bird by Bird) going to need significant work no matter what.
  3. Reward “Functional Failure.” Challenge “Fear of Failure.” And not just in a motivational poster, lip-service sort of way. Give substantial credit for attempting a skill. Operating under a skill-based model, I give a full seventy percent of the credit for attempting (and, essentially, failing at) a skill. The student’s worst (read: first) draft is only thirty percent away from full credit. Getting on the board with that “failure credit” can often serve as catalyst for genuine skill development.
  4. Conference on Every Draft. When students are held to this approach, they will read your comments and line edits; however, if your handwriting is anything like mine after a dozen papers, they’ll need to hear it from you. In a broader sense, though, conferencing provides opportunities for genuine differentiation, discussions of craft, and suggestions for next steps. In the fall, I call the conferences; by spring, they must seek me out. This brings to the fore the essential metacognitive aspect of recursive writing: if you aren’t thinking about your writing, you aren’t writing well. How could any well-meaning teacher have the time for this? Well, maybe...
  5. Assign Fewer Papers. If our goal is to improve our students’ writing abilities, it is counterintuitive to have them write ten different papers, one draft apiece. We know that writing instruction must be recursive and reflective, but we often feel beholden to the flipping of the school calendar. If you must assess a different strand of skills (reading comprehension, for example) through writing, try to do so without assessing the writing skills incorporated. The National Writing Project’s Kristen Hawley Turner refers to this as the difference between “tuxedo writing” and “pajama writing.” My sophomores only have three required papers: an argumentative paper, literary criticism, and personal/creative narrative paper; yet they’re doing as much (if not more) writing due to the expectation of multiple revisions than when I assigned a paper at the end of every class novel.
  6. Present Revision as an Essential Step, not a “Bonus Opportunity.” When I had subscribed to the one-and-done, high-stakes first submission approach, I often offered the opportunity of revision for a recovery of some points to those students who received low grades. I don’t do this anymore, for several reasons: it implies revision is a secondary path for poor writers; it assumes that high-scoring submissions cannot be improved; most tragically, it creates an even broader schism between “good” and “bad” students. Revision must be presented (at the very least) as a step as essential to the process as the initial writing itself, and for all students. To paraphrase English education guru Heather Rocco, genuine differentiation means that we meet every student where they are and push them to be a little better.
  7. Allow Students Genuine Choice in Topics. Not every (or, I’d make the argument, any) paper needs to be “superglued” to a course text; all argumentative papers need not focus on the same issue or event. Not to belabor the point, but if our goal is the development of writing skills that are applicable beyond the limits of our class content, it shouldn’t matter what topics students are writing about. From personal experience, grading a hundred papers on the significance of Holden’s red hunting hat wasn’t exactly a sublime experience, and I found myself frequently factoring the validity of their literary interpretations into their writing skills. This generates “fuzzy grades” (which will be discussed in a later post) and is in my opinion the primary cause of evaluative ambiguity in the English classroom. “Genuine choice” does not mean “choose from a list”; it suggests an organic decision framed by the student and potentially reinforced, narrowed, or clarified by the teacher. Providing too much in the way of prompting deprives students of the opportunity to develop their own claim, purpose, or mission for their writing.
  8. Discourage “Marrying” Drafts. As our students are used to submitting only one draft of their writing, there will understandably be some separation anxiety when they are encouraged to edit and revise for the next go-round. Students often “marry” their writing and are unwilling to even consider modifying their work for the greater good; some even get indignant that they did all of that work “for nothing.” Understandably, it can be quite the blow to a student’s ego when they hear that they’ll have to scrap some (or most) of their first draft; this underscores the importance of empathetic writer conferences. If this message is instilled early, however, drafts for future papers will be met with a more positive growth-mindset.
  9. Parallel Failure in Writing with Failure in Everything Else. The all-state high school football player sitting in your class didn’t get to where they are without practice. Neither did the award-winning cellist, the gamer sitting back by the door, nor the artist doodling in her notebook. All of these skills started as repeated, maddeningly frustrating, but ultimately essential bouts of failure. We celebrate the forging of growth through failure in all of those fields; we avoid it in education at all costs. There are many, many reasons for this, but the end result is often the same: students maintain the unconscious belief that some kids are just good at writing (or reading, presenting, etc.) and others are not. We have a responsibility to break down this cognitive barrier, early and often, and this connection between failure in other facets of life and failure in writing can go a long way in reconciling these disparate approaches. A nice entree into this could be sharing how long it took you to feel (somewhat) confident as a teacher, and how you still struggle today. And speaking of sharing...
  10. Share Your Own (Awful) First Drafts. If you think this post is bad, you should have seen it in its original state! By providing authentic glimpses into just how remarkably awful writing is when it falls out of our heads and onto the page, we not only build class trust through vulnerability, but we also demonstrate that all writing, from students, teachers, and published authors both renowned and unknown, starts as a disaster. It is our recognition of that unruly mess, and our willingness to constantly improve, that engenders true growth.

If we truly want our students to view writing as a continual exercise in improvement, we owe them the opportunity to actually demonstrate that skill in an environment that supports their efforts, both philosophically and systemically.

0 Comments

    Subscribe to FailSafely

    * indicates required

    Author

    Matt Morone (@MrMorone) is a high school English teacher,  NCTE/CEL  Member-at-Large & NJ state liaison, #CELchat organizer, faculty advisor to Outside/In literary magazine, 2016 Princeton Distinguished Secondary Teacher of the Year, constant reader, novice blogger, avid music fan, and sandwich aficionado. 

    Archives

    January 2019
    May 2017
    November 2016

    Categories

    All
    Philosophy
    Skill Based Grading
    Skill-Based Grading
    Writing

    RSS Feed

    Ed Blog Friends

    • Conference on English Leadership (CEL)
    • ​Brett Conrad
    • Gerard Dawson
    • Chris Bronke
    • ​Christopher Lehman
    ​​
    Creative Commons License
    This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
Proudly powered by Weebly