Seth Godin is an individual of whom I’ve never heard. I felt uncertain about delving into his
manifesto without knowing a little bit about who he is, and after reading his
bio on his website, I became more assured that he is someone worth
reading. After reading/skimming his
entire manifesto, I became completely sure that his ideas are valuable, not
only to the world, but to me.
One of the main ideas that influences Godin’s “Stop Stealing
Dreams” is that schools were designed to fit into and feed into an industrial
economy. This view of education from an
economic standpoint fascinated me because I am not knowledgeable about economics,
so I felt the excitement of exposure to new information while reading the
manifesto. I have never thought of
schools in this way. I have seldom asked
the extremely broad, philosophical questions Godin poses, such as, “What are
schools for?” (#4). When I think about
it, I have become a somewhat passive piece in the gigantic puzzle of education
in the twenty-first century; I come to school each day doing what I believe is
best for my students but rarely questioning or challenging my practices and
philosophies. This is not to say that I
ignore technological innovations or creative methods, but I can’t say I employ
them to the fullest extent that I could, or to the extent that Godin or
teachers at schools like the Harlem Village Academy would advocate. Godin, in #54, suggests that we should ask, “Is
this class/lecture/program/task/test/policy designed to help our students do
the old thing a little more efficiently, or are we opening a new door to enable
our students to do something that’s new and different?” Although I can use this
question to guide and improve my teaching practice, the portion of this question
that concerns me is “this policy.”
The policies, laws, standards, and testing schedules are enormous, influential aspects
my profession that I have little control over, and I doubt that most of the
legislators making these policies have read Godin’s manifesto. Many of these policies seem to continue to
confine schools to industrialized institutions that stifle students’ and
teachers’ passions. The changes Godin
proposes would require a massive philosophical shift from the top (the
government) down, and I wonder if this shift will occur during my career?
Godin’s manifesto reinforced a quandary I have had since
starting the Connected Journey: What does a school, a teacher, a student look
like in this new era of technological innovation/connectedness? Though I have
some visions of the twenty-first century (and beyond) educational system, my
answer to this question still continues to be “I’m not sure.” It seems that the nouns “school,” “student,”
and “teacher” should be renamed: school to place of innovative learning; student
to learner; teacher to coach. Godin
certainly convinced me that it is necessary to redefine these concepts. However, Godin’s writing reassured me that
two aspects of teaching that are dear to me will not become obsolete and will perhaps
become more valuable: writing (#90) and “emotional labor in the work of
teachers” (#76).
Advocating that a
teacher be more of a coach, a motivator, and a fellow learner, Godin writes, in
#44, “Defining the role of a teacher”: “What we do need is someone to persuade
us that we want to learn those things, and someone to push us or encourage us
to create a space where we want to learn to do them better.” The motivator role is a part of teaching that
I don’t think any of us were ever formally taught how to do. We “motivate” students through extrinsic
rewards that have become highly valued in our schools and in our society: test
scores, grades, class rank. We also “motivate”
students by threatening them with punishments: detention, summer school, failure. I always try to express to my students how
reading and writing skills will be relevant and necessary in the “real world,”
but how do I motivate them to want to be better readers and writers because it’s
valuable and important to them?
Godin writes: “Teach a kid to write without fear and you
have given her a powerful tool for the rest of her life. Teach a kid to write boring book reports and
standard drivel and you’ve taken something precious away from a student who
deserves better” (#90). Sadly, I would
say that most of my students write with a great deal of fear, anxiety, and trepidation,
as well as disdain, reluctance, and frustration. Even students who are naturally gifted in
writing have become so concerned with getting it exactly “right” to get the
highest grade possible that my students are anything but fearless writers. Coaching, teaching, and guiding students with writing
has led me to many moments of profound, as Godin calls it, “emotional labor”:
“Labor, particularly emotional
labor, is the difficult task of digging deep to engage at a personal level.
Emotional labor looks like patience and kindness and respect. . . Every great
teacher you have ever had the good luck of learning form is doing the
irreplaceable labor of real teaching. They are communicating emotion, engaging,
and learning from the student in return. Emotional labor is difficult and exhausting,
and it cannot be tweaked or commanded by management” (#76).
When our principal had us, during a book study this fall,
take a strengths finder assessment, one of my greatest strengths was
reinforced: empathy. “Emotional labor” requires empathy, and empathy, to a
degree, cannot be explicitly taught. Sometimes
I worry that the time I spend engaging in “emotional labor” with my students
(consoling a crying student, giving a dejected student a pep talk, persuading
an unconfident student that they can be successful) is taking away time I could
be doing something more productive, like grading their papers. Godin assured me that this new age of technology
is not going to make these human connections disappear and that the “emotional
labor” is always worth it.
Now I know who Seth Godin is. Hopefully I can help my students become
learners like him.
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