A teacher tries a classroom management experiment thinking it will fail.
Years later, he’s still at it.
By David Tow
October 11, 2017
When I started teaching, I was incredibly traditional in terms of
classroom management and discipline. In those early years, a clear code of
conduct was reassuring. For infraction X, there was always consequence Y. It
gave me a simple if inflexible rubric through which to discover my position in
the class and develop a degree of comfort and ease as captain of the ship. As a
new teacher, I was thankful for the clarity and certainty this approach
offered—and I am sure other new educators feel the same.
However, while I was clearing my credential, working with mentor
teachers to reflect on my practice, and finding out how real students differed
from theoretical ones, I also spent long hours after school with the speech and
debate team reading philosophy and theory and talking about innovative
alternatives for national defense, natural resource allocation, and, of course,
education.
Getting Started
So I gradually abolished formal management protocols. Away went the
rules about bathroom policies, eating in the classroom, and what defines
appropriate behavior in a traditional classroom. Instead, I theorized about the
broad, underlying principles that would define the field within which we could
have a productive learning community.
To be honest, I was terrified. I was worried that if I started to
dismantle my power, the class would devolve into chaos.
But I also knew my students: They were thoughtful and reflective, kind
and observant, willing to take intellectual risks when they felt supported and
safe.
So we started with first principles—it’s wise to start with a simple
framework—identifying core premises from which we could build a classroom
community. These depend on the teacher’s values, the school culture, and the
needs of the students. In my case, I derived them from ideas of agency and
social equity, and let the students extrapolate from there.
Next, we proceeded to norm that behavior. I simply took the time to
comment on how particular contributions, habits, and behaviors were either in
concert with or contrary to the core principles, with the idea that students
would begin to mirror that level of depth and awareness. I made sure to offer
opportunities, usually at the end of class, to reflect not just on what
learning took place, but on what community standards were missing, newly
established, or reaffirmed. For example, without a school-wide policy about
bathroom usage during class, and after I expressed my own disinterest in
regulating bodily functions, we started a conversation about how to solve the
problem, deriving community standards from it. Students recognized that that if
they weren’t in the room, they couldn’t be engaged or prepared, and staying in
the bathroom wasn’t really respectful if other students needed to go as well.
One student suggested that it was impossible to take intellectual risks if you
were in the bathroom all the time.
The same approach applies to homework, often considered a non-negotiable
in high school classrooms. In my class, it’s a chance to demonstrate student
agency and experiment with what we’ve learned in class. If a student fails to
do it, the absence is its own punishment—I don’t need to double down with teacher-driven
shame. If a student tells me they haven’t done their homework, my response is,
“That’s fine, you’re all right, but why not?” From there, I can respond in a
more personalized way and unearth how to best help.
Metacognition and Student Responsibility
The big insight here is that using this model, every class starts to
operate at two levels simultaneously. In the foreground, class proceeds as
usual, with the teacher and students engaging in productive work. In the
background, there is a kind of running metacognitive discussion that is always
evaluating behavior based on these underlying principles. Sometimes, this
underlying dynamic breaks through to the surface, and we dedicate valuable
class time to equally worthwhile conversations about, for example, the
difference between a compliant student and a respectful one, or about how
teacher-student relationships ought to be reciprocal.
I have four of our foundational classroom principles posted on the
walls:
- Be respectful to yourself because
it sets the context for being able to participate in a community; to others because
it is hard to be a student and everyone’s struggles merit your respect;
and to the teacher because although it is a position of
authority, the teacher should also be vulnerable and learning.
- Be engaged, because merely being present in the
classroom does not necessarily qualify as participation, and a truly
pluralistic community requires all voices.
- Be prepared, because informed conversation
requires prepared members, and preparation transcends just the work that
is assigned—and is closer to deep thought, sincere skepticism, and a
general willingness to interrogate assumptions.
- Be courageous, because learning requires
acknowledging that there are things we don’t know, skills we lack, and
ways in which we might still be foolish—which is a scary prospect for
everyone in the class, teacher included.
Of course, these are only my principles. A case can be made for any
number of others, provided they focus on the conditions for learning, rather
than on controlling the minutiae of student behavior.
The reason I find this strategy better than rules is because it teaches
students to become active participants in the formation of a community. Rules
alone tend to condition the students to become dogmatic followers, while
broader imperatives guide them to be critical and reflective participants.
A concession, though: This approach is expensive in terms of time. It
requires space and resources and lots of student-teacher conversations. When a
student violates the underlying principles or acts in a way that is either
self-destructive or hurtful to others, time must be taken to unpack the
behavior in a way that respects the community and its principles and doesn’t
alienate the individual. That’s a very sophisticated conversation for a high
school student to have.
And an admission, too: When I first opted for this method, I didn’t
really think it would work. I imagined it as an interesting experiment. But it
did work. Not just with my high-performing debate kids or my AP English
classes, but with all of them. My students who were burned out and checked out.
Those who coasted by with Cs. Freshmen and seniors. Even my English language
development students, many of whom have been in the country for less than six
months, bought in to the method and grew. They all wanted to feel that their
contributions mattered to the community. And if this alternative approach can
at least prepare them for a more open, more pluralistic society, then I will take
the time and energy it requires from me. That would be a worthy return on
investment.
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