In May 2011, as part of a division-wide effort to break out of our own classroom bubbles, I observed a high school history lesson at a different school. I later submitted this report to my division head.
This teacher's lesson had all the trappings of an interactive, student-centered lesson. But below the surface, it was really about manipulating the students' opinions, silencing dissent, and indoctrinating the class into a particular view of the subject matter.
The teacher had a lot of charisma. She gave the small groups of students three questions to focus on as they explored their texts for the first time. The questions were oddly worded, and consequently the students kept peppering her with questions about her questions—so much so that it took time and energy away from what otherwise could have been genuine explorations of the texts had there not been these pesky teacher-assigned questions to think about.
During the full-class discussion that followed, the teacher asked a number of very direct inference-based questions about the texts. When one student gave an answer that clearly was at odds with the teacher's own answer, she replied by asking, "Are you sure? Actually, how do we know for sure that's not right?" It felt like the student had gotten punched in the gut. And once the correct answer was provided by another student, the teacher did not follow through with helping the class to understand why one answer was correct and not the other.
A few minutes later, the teacher abruptly changed the direction of the discussion by saying, "I have an interesting question for you. At least I think it's an interesting question." Besides the fact that she redirected the conversation from the students' ideas to her own ideas, her question ended up being a classic leading question: It was "interesting" only because it revealed the teacher's own unique take on the topic.
Once the teacher had informed the class of her take on it, she asked, "Does anyone want to disagree with that?" Unsurprisingly, no one spoke up. If I were one of the students, even if I did disagree, I would never dare to voice my disagreement under these circumstances!
Another of her follow-up questions shortly afterward was, "Do you really think that? Honestly?" She asked it with such boisterousness that it seemed like an intellectually vibrant exchange, until I realized that the substance and tone of her question was actually cutting off intellectual inquiry. And another time, she checked in with the students by asking, "Yes?" Hard to say no!
Time and time again during the class period, one or more students displayed a lack of understanding about aspects of the texts. But instead of exploring the issues with them to get to the root of their misunderstandings and help them learn, she simply called on another student, and then another, until finally someone guessed the "right" answer, and then she moved on. How does this possibly help them learn?
Throughout the lesson, it was so clear what the teacher's answers were, and it was painful for me to watch her try to pull the students in her direction even (and especially) when they weren't headed there organically.
Yet more painful was my recognition that many observers would view this as a master lesson taught by a master teacher. She was full of enthusiasm, and the students were mostly engaged and talked a lot during the lesson. They talked a lot, but they had no voice.
My aspiration, of course, is to be a different kind of teacher. I don't aim for a different type of lesson plan or curriculum design as much as I aim for a different type of approach to facilitating inquiry-based conversations—one that trusts students to construct valid ideas and provides a safe space to test out those ideas, knowing they might ultimately be misguided. But I know I have a long way to go, because I saw myself in this teacher too often. My classroom visit this week will hopefully help me become more aware of the split-second decisions I make that seem like good teaching but in fact can get in the way of student learning and understanding.