In just a few months, the entire population of our building will be moving in to a brand new, state-of-the-art high school across town. I’m excited. We are told nothing will need to be taken besides our personal files and belongings because everything will be shiny and new there. Our current building was constructed decades ago and, while it is still a usable and safe place to be, it has its share of retrograde appeal.
There are janitorial closets between every three or four classrooms on the various wings, each of which are home to no less than a dozen talkative crickets, no doubt mulling over the hero’s journey and the apparent symbolism of Excalibur as they interpret it when staring at the giant mop handle before them. There’s something comical about the sound of crickets in a high school though; that’s exactly what you’d expect to hear in the new teacher’s classroom after quips like, “so what are you thoughts about this chapter?” “what did we discuss yesterday?” or “who can tell me what an adverb is?”.
“Chirp-chirp. Chirp-chirp.”
I think some people come to expect it after a while and just stop asking questions of the whole class. It’s hard, but allowing space for thought is exactly what most new teachers don’t do in their discussion. I know I had to make adjustments when I started running a class during my practica and student teaching. Even when we had read aloud as a class, I found that simple questions posed to the class could prove to be treacherous.
“What does Atticus Finch do for a living?”
you may ask during the beginning of a To Kill a Mockingbird unit. If you hear crickets, lead on and let the students tune in to what they are saying. Their immediate silence isn’t a sign of ignorance, idiocy, or academic impotence, it’s a sign they need something from you; it’s your cue, not theirs. I’ve noticed my second and third (prompting) questions are often answered slowly at first, but then built upon by an increasing torrent of details as student memories are jogged.
I forget what crickets sound like as the discussion mounts with energy and, by now, the sleepy kid is starting to open his book to figure out why he missed something so important that’s got the class in a ruckus. You’ve got to love ruckus to be a teacher. It’s ruckus that drives your energy, you have to conjure it, calm it, and then careen through it like Gandalf does the Woodland Realm.
To be a teacher is to be a wizard.
Here's my pal, Gandalf the Grey
