Some of the best classes for me as a K-12 student
were when my teachers told a story. Sometimes the story was meant to stand
alone, often emphasizing some point of a recent lesson; perhaps a reinforcement
of sorts. Other stories were told spur of the moment, usually at the teacher’s
discretion. However, there was a respected clique of “designated de-railers”
who were experts at getting the teachers off the subject.
Ruth Webb, my fourth-grade teacher, was an
“extreme” story-teller. The first day of the school year she shared with us in
great detail the trip that we’d be taking that year around the world. Somehow one of her sons had managed to move a
small wooden red fishing boat into one of the corners of the classroom. It was
in that boat where Mrs. Webb stood to prepare us for the upcoming trip that
would take us to at least 15 countries.
“Our boat, class,” she said, stretching her
hand out as if to look beyond the horizon, “is much, much larger than the boat
in which I’m standing. It’s a seaworthy
sailing ship with room for all of us and our provisions.”
To this day I can remember pulling into the port of Venice ,
Italy ,
in our imaginary vessel. We learned
about lire, spaghetti alla bologanese,
the museums, St. Mark’s Square, gondolas,
life along the Grand Canal, the turbulent history of the floating city, and its
relationship to the United
States . She told stories about common, ordinary
citizens such as Pietro Lombardi, the “Olive Man,” as well as more well-known
Venetians who banded together on the mudflats of the surrounding lagoons to
protect themselves from the Horrible Huns.
Ruth Webb made social studies come alive
with her stories, leaving us to believe that we’d actually been to those
places. The rich details she used, her
excitement in sharing her knowledge and discoveries, and her commitment to
having us “fish deep” helped us to learn in an engaging manner, which made
learning fun, easy, and all but guaranteed.
Betty Caldwell, my seventh-grade world
history teacher, was another superb story-teller. She made us take copious amounts of notes
from three separate blackboards. The drudgery! But the notes would become a
useful reference as she told stories that made us feel we were there, reliving
history.
“Do you know, students, the real story of Cleopatra?”
Silence
washed over us as we waited to find out what she had to say about one of the
most famous females in history. It was only then that the notes made sense.
They were the background of the characters that played such memorable roles in
the history of our world. Perhaps most
importantly the notes helped us to make connections to our own lives.
Unfortunately, the majority of my teachers didn't have the gift of story-telling. That didn't make them bad teachers; they
had their own methods. (OK, a few shouldn't have ever been issued a teaching
license). Looking back I can state with some certainty that I excelled in the
classes in which teachers engaged me with their background character scaffolds,
anecdotes, chronicles, and regular humorous asides.
As previously stated, a few of our
classmates were professionals at getting our teachers off the subject. Some teachers caved in, but others were aware
of the underlying motives and refused to deviate from their precious lesson
plans. “No time for that…we’ve got to cover these notes…”
Years later in my own high school science
classroom, I understood the value of story-telling and of letting students “get
me off the subject.” With a bit of practice and foresight, I could determine
where the side-tracking efforts were headed, and I could usually lead the
conversation back to the lesson. No one taught me how to do that; I simply
modeled what my story-telling teachers had done with me.
How writing tied in with story-telling…
I often used story-telling as a springboard
for writing. My first concern was whether the story (by student or teacher) was
unstructured or not. For example, if the story was instantaneous, told as a
personal anecdote, I often made a mental note or jotted a single word for
reference. Unprompted stories were generally more difficult to tie in with a
writing goal (i.e. - giving evidence to substantiate a main point) since it was
a chance occurrence.
An example is the story that Larry B. shared
about his motorcycle wreck in front of West Point High School one
morning.
“…I really wasn't speeding or
nothing, and suddenly a red truck…I think it was a Chevy… comes backing out
into the street…I had just looked over at the front door of the school for less
than a second and BAM! There was glass
and an awfully big crash of metal and glass shattering on the pavement…my body
stopped like really quick and I could see the back panel of the truck coming my
way. I swear, Mr. D., I was only going about 20 miles per hour. And it almost
caused my bike to be totaled…”
Since we had been studying Isaac Newton’s
work earlier in the week, Larry surprised us when he said, “Hey…when
my body and bike stopped so quickly, like on a dime, was that Newton ’s laws or what? Which of those laws was that, Mr. D?’’’
What a grand moment for a
teacher! Don’t get me wrong. I was sorry that it took an accident for Larry to
have such an epiphany, and I was happy that no one got hurt, but hearing his
story had served as a vehicle, in part, for him to make a connection of a
scientific principle to his everyday life.
I knew that all three of Newton ’s
Laws had played a part, but I felt a need for the students to make that discovery
for themselves. My mentor, Bob Tierney, an original member of the Bay Area
Writing Project at Berkeley ,
had spoken to thousands of teachers around the world about the “exhilaration of
discovery.” His articles and books (How to
Write to Learn Science, NSTA, 2014) mentioned
its importance as well.
To begin the discovery process, I instructed
my students to write a journal entry about Larry’s accident, focusing on, and
being aware of instances where forces of motion had come into play. My accommodations included a longer period
for writing and large pictures of motorcycles, trains, and cars taped on the
walls near the front of the room, to help establish a tone. I didn’t know if or
to what degree video clips might prejudice their writing, so I didn’t use any.
Fifteen minutes later after the buzzer
sounded, most of the students volunteered to read their entries about Larry’s
crash. It quickly became evident that most of them were discovering, through
Larry’s story and their own reflective
writing, that all three of Newton ’s
laws had played a part in Larry’s wreck that fateful Friday morning. Andre R.
wrote:
“…Larry is lucky! He could have been killed…I wonder what Mr.
Newton would have said about that?...Of course, Mr. Newton didn’t invent the
laws of nature, he just found a good way to describe their effects to the rest
of us…The first law says that things in motion stay in motion and things at
rest stay at rest. Well, everything was in motion, including Larry and his
motorbike…When he hit the truck, it stopped him like Larry said. Actually he
said that he saw the truck coming toward him!
The second law was something about momentum. Bigger things have more
force in motion, something like that…the truck had lots more of that than Larry
or his bike…and the third law is that all motion has an equal and opposite
reaction. I’m not sure how this ties in with Larry. Like I said, Larry is a
lucky dude. Keep your eyes on the road Larry!”
Although there were a few
misconceptions in their writing, we cleared these up with some “mild
conversation.”
More structure…
Often I used a more structured form of
combining story-telling with writing. For example, when we began a unit on
amphibians and reptiles in a biology class, I invited everyone to tell a
personal snake story. I hypothesized that everyone in the world who could walk
and talk had at least one snake story to share with anyone who’d listen.
To model a good snake story, I went first. I
used my facial expression, change in volume, and mannerisms to convey how
frightened I was the day I encountered a water moccasin floating on a piece of
lumber where some buddies and I were swimming. Everyone had had such
experiences and was willing to tell them to the class. When we were finished, I felt sorry for
snakes, who had received such a bad rap from us humans.
The readings were followed by our first
writing component, which was a short composition in which the students
recounted someone else’s snake story. I instructed them to interview that person
after writing 5-8 probing questions intended to draw out information about
their snake experience: Where did the
snake story take place – woods, backyard, lake, etc? What was the weather like
that day/night? Were there other animals in the vicinity?
After
interviewing their fellow classmates, we collaborated to prepare a large table
on chart paper that had headings on tops of the vertical columns: “Habitat”/ “Time
of Day” / “Description of Snake”/ etc.
That chart served as a basis for establishing a foundation for our studies on
reptiles. We referred back to the chart paper throughout the unit, adding additional
columns and data as we learned more information.
Good teachers, I believe, have been telling
stories for thousands of years. Aristotle, Socrates, Jesus, Dr. Seuss, and Ruth
Webb all used story-telling to convey main points of all sorts of lessons. With
a bit of effort and planning a mediocre lesson can become memorable for even less-sophisticated
students. Combining writing with the story-telling can make help your students
“go deeper” with the text and with their understanding of any discipline.