Wiki-phobia

My apologies for not posting during our off week last week, as I said I would.  I fully intended to, but have been enmired in what could only be described as a Crisis of Educational Faith and it has tended to completely throw off my scholarly stride.  More on that later, if it ever seems appropriate for me to delve into it in this public forum.  Some who read this may know what I'm referring to. 

Anyway!  I'm writing here again, and this time, I will do my best to not wind up careening off on some semi-fictional tangent this week, and make it read like a real blog entry.  Promise.  Well, I'll at least try...

David Warlick!  A wonderful and lively talk is given here:  We saw a brief clip of him a couple weeks ago, but I tended to focus on discussing the Alan November video.  I love listening to Warlick speak, and not just because of his buttery smooth accent, which drawls through his 'ya'lls' like honey on tobacco leaves.  I'm thinking he must be from one of the Carolinas.  Anyway!  I love his ideas about flattening education, and removing it from the old, tired model of "teacher on high."  It seems clear to me that the old style classroom doesn't work anymore, if it ever did at all.  His take on Wikipedia stands out, and as you may have gathered from my last post, I feel strongly about it. 

I know and have interacted with teachers who ban Wikipedia and similar online resources outright, and I just can't get over what a crying shame this seems to be.  I for one have spent hours poring over Wikipedia, finding myself spinning into what I think of as 'Wiki-whirls': reading intently on some interesting subject, finding a reference within the article you are reading to something else you are curious about, clicking the link, reading another article in which you find another link, clicking that, and so on and so forth.  You start out looking up the entry on Marvel Comic's 'Amazing Spider Man' to see who the villain was that Spidey defeated in Issue #347, only to click through to one of the contributing writers, which leads you to click on an article on Nuclear Fission, which makes you wonder what happened at Chernobyl, because you heard about it on All Things Considered the other day, which reminds you that you're curious what Scott Simon actually looks like, and you wonder where he's from, because his accent is hard to place, but you think he's from the Midwest somewhere, so you look him up, and it turns out his parents were in Vaudeville of all things, so then you start reading about old Vaudeville in Pittsburgh, and it turns out that one of the theatres you used to work in used to be a Burlesque House.  Wow!*  Now wait, what was I looking for in the first place??

It reminds me of the problem with the way drinking laws work in this country.  By banning something outright, you make it powerful.  You lend it mystery, you give it a forbidden air, you tempt and bait young, curious people to seek it out, if only to find out what the big deal is.  Like in the Christian Mythology: "Hey, Eve, Adam!  Check out this Apple!  Looks, pretty good right?  All shiny, delicious, hanging there, right within reach, lookin' all juicy and tempting?  DON'T EAT IT!  Seriously, don't even look at it.  Just pretend it's not there."

No wonder Eve caved!  God was totally messing with her!  We do the same thing with people under 21 in this country.  We say 'NO!  You shall not drink!' and then we stand right in front of them and do it ourselves, or we show them funny, flashy advertisements lauding how cool and hip and sexy people are while drinking shitty beer, and then we wonder why kids steal off and binge drink at their first opportunity.  We have created our own forbidden fruit, and paraded it around in front of young adults who are by nature curious, experience-hungry beings, and we have the gall to act surprised when they finally go off to college and turn into binge-drinking idiots.  But I suppose that is a rant of a different flavor.  Back to the subject at hand.

We perform a similar disservice by banning things like Wikipedia outright.  If we tell students in a classroom that anything that is 'Wiki' by nature is untrustworthy, and must therefore be shunned, we are LYING to them.  And lying is the death-knell of learning, and one of the fastest ways to lose the faith and respect of the people that are looking to you for instruction and wisdom.  Yes, the Wikipedia is potentially unreliable, partially because it is a wiki, which means it is open to be edited by anyone.  But it is also unreliable just by virtue of being written by a human being, JUST LIKE THE ENCYCLOPEDIA BRITANNICA.  Warlick makes the incredibly salient point that the Wikipedia is at least honest about its potential for errors, which is more than we can say about virtually any text book. 

Furthermore, I firmly believe that any potential for errors in Wikipedia is out-weighed by the jaw-dropping and mind-numbing scope  and breadth of it all.  The Encyclopedia Britannica would NEVER have been able to tell me the name of the villain in Amazing Spider-Man #347.  Should Wikipedia be the end-all be-all of scholarly research?  Of course not.  But it is a great place to start (As Mark Peplow says toward the end of the NPR piece I link to below), and it has a very good chance of having at least some information on damn near everything.  Being savvy about how to use that information, and when to trust it is precisely the skill that Warlick wants us to impart into our students, and I wholeheartedly agree with him.

Ok, I've gone off on my own little Wiki-whirlwind, so I should just end with a note to listen to this story, which, surprising to nobody, is from NPR:  Assessing Wikipedia's Accuracy

* That was a totally fictionalized account of a Wikipedia tangent, but it's certainly not outside the realm of possibility for things I might wind up looking at in one session.  I just say this so you don't go looking for Amazing Spider-Man #347, only to find it doesn't exist, then come back to me and call me a liar. 

Alan November

     It's refreshing to hear people like Alan November talk about the methods of teaching that could most effectively make use of the modern technological age. Much like last week's video, here is a man who sees nothing right about the industrialist model of education that is a holdover from hundreds of years ago.  He seems to think of it as a stale, out-dated means of going about the education process. Hear, hear, I say.

     I think one thing that is important to take from this very thoughtful, interestingly put together chat with a smart man is that he is pointing out that the old-fashioned notions that drive teaching methods also manage to color a great majority of teacher's views of the internet. I would be willing to be that if you really got down to it with the vast majority of the teachers out there, you would find that they viewed the internet and it's resources as little more than a faster, sleeker, much less reputable set of encylcopedias. I can hear the exchange between student and teacher now:

     "Everyone is going to write a 5 page research paper. I will assign you topics, and you must research and site at least 5 sources for your paper."

     Mrs. Crabapple finishes writing 'Research papers' on the board, and turns around to look at the class over the reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. She scowls at them as the groan their dismay. One of the bolder, more troublesome students raises his hand.

     “Can we use the internet?” John asks the question, but his tone suggests that he already knows that he's not going to like the answer. Mrs. Crabapple narrows her eyes, and John knows what is coming next.

     “I don't know, CAN you use the Internet?” By John's estimation, the little smirk that counts as a smile for Old Crabapple only makes an appearance when she's really trounced someone with a grammatical correction. She really liked burning a student with the 'Can/May' exchange, and John had dug in his heels a long time ago and decided that it was the damn modern parlance, and the whole correction was useless anyway, that the English Language had evolved, and she just did it to make herself right and the kid who just spoke the way that came naturally wrong. John knew the “proper” way to ask permission for things, but very consciously opted not to in Old Crabapple's class, because he could tell it irked her. As she saw it, he was a problem kid. As he saw it, he had learned the rule, he just chose not to heed it.

     “Yes, actually I can, Mrs. Crabapple. I'm quite capable of using it. I guess what I was asking you was, 'Are we permitted to use the internet, please, Mrs. Crabapple?” This sparks of a few titters and giggles from some of the other kids in class, and John smiles. Mrs. Crabapple's eyes narrow even further, and her tiny eyeglasses seemed to defy gravity and stay on the end of her nose as she looks down it at the troublesome child in the back of the classroom. The bad ones always sit in the back, she thinks, always have, always will. 

     “You may use the 'internet' for your research sources, yes.” The students can hear the air-quotes in her tone as she speaks; Old Crabapple's disdain for all things technological was well known throughout the school. Rumor around the lunch table was that she still wrote paper checks for god's sake. Most of the kids below 9^th grade didn't even know what a check was, since they hadn't had Home Ec yet, which is when they taught you about archaic things like that. The students sigh a collective breath of relief to hear that she would not restrict their use of computers outright.

     “But,” Mrs Crabapple continues, “You may only use 'The Internet' for two of your sources.” Another class-wide groan escapes. “And they must be sources that appear on this list of approved academic sites.”

     The sense of relief at being allowed to use anything more technologically advanced than an electric pencil sharpener is squelched quickly enough at hearing such a limitation clamped down at the outset. The students look at one another furtively, and when John gets the list of approved sources passed back to him through the rows of desks, his hand shoots up.

     “Mrs. Crabapple, Wikipedia's not even on here!” John's tone of frustration is matched by some reserved cries of outrage from some of the other students.

     “That's right! And with good reason!” Old Crabapple takes her spectacles off her nose and lets them dangle from the beaded chain that hangs around her neck. John watches mutely as her index finger starts to wag up and and down as she lectures. The old finger-wag was a surefire sign that they were in for a long, angry tirade about some new-fangled thing that would only make them dumber than they already were. Usually after ten minutes of berating, it was all wrapped up with a standard 'When-I-was-your-age' chestnut, and some general guilt-tripping. The class sits mutely, taking it in.

     “You kids think anything out there on the internet is true. There is information out there, yes, but it is ALL suspect! They let absolutely anyone put information up on that “Wiki-pedia”, and that means it can't be trusted! These papers need to be reputable, and that means your research does too. I don't want to see any of that crap from wiki-anything, or anywhere else for that matter, unless it comes from these particular approved sources. You MAY site certain web pages and articles for research, but you must also procure source material from some reputable sources as well.  Meaning books.”  None of the students dares to mention how tiny, under-funded, and out-of-date the resources available in the school library are. 

     John raises his hand one more time, knowing he was only buying trouble, but desperate enough to give it a shot.

     “Mrs. Crabapple?” John says, his voice serious now, knowing that if he is to broach the subject, he needs to be as respectful as possible. “If we do all of the research like you ask, and use reputable sources, could some of us maybe do something like a documentary movie? Like a research paper, but filmed, and edited together?”

     Her derisive snort of laughter splashes cold, harsh water on the tiny flicker of hope that the idea had lit in John.

     “Dont' be ridiculous. I told you I want you to write me a paper. Not make some stupid movie.”

      John sighs quietly to himself, and gives up, again.  He quickly and quietly resigns himself to another low grade, and another frustrated lecture from his parents.  He can already see how the next few weeks will play out, because the whole year in Crabapple's class had been that way so far.   Fall behind, tune out, cobble something together at the last minute, get a low C if he's lucky.  Same old story.

     “Now no more stupid questions,” Mrs. Crabapple stalks over to the podium, which signaled the start of another monotone lecture. “Now be quiet and open your books.”

     John sighs, opens his book, and tries not to think about 5 pages of blank white paper that he will soon have to fill with words. As Old Crabapple begins reading from the text book in her dry, flat voice, he squints his eyes and tries to listen, but her voice is like old nails on a chalkboard.  He tries to ignore her voice and read it himself, but the words on the page swirl and shift as he looks at them.  They flip backwards, they change order, and his eyes start to water.  He feels the frustration well up in his throat.  Five more months, he thinks.

“Original ideas that have value.”

Firstly, I think that this guy is absolutely awesome. Aside from his brilliant, cogent points about education, the state of the world, and life in general, his delivery is brilliant, and honestly, all heavy subjects aside, this is good, solid, stand up comedy.  His jokes are great, and I love his delivery.  But on to the heavy stuff. 

“If you think about it, the whole system of public education around the world is a protracted process of University entrance. And the consequence is that many highly talented, brilliant, creative people think they're not. Because the thing they were good at at school wasn't valued, or was actually stigmatized.”

Coming from an artistic and somewhat oddball family, I think that precise feeling, as Sir Ken so succinctly puts it, is really what has driven me, in one way or another, to struggle so mightily with various educational endeavors throughout my life. Both of my parents are creative, artsy people, both manage to survive without really going fully onto the grid, and it was long after I was well ensconced in the public education system before I realized that I was already one of the oddball kids in class, and that I was going to stay that way. Not because of money, social class, or some childish notion like popularity or clique or status. I didn't fit in with most of the other kids because I thought about everything I saw in quite a different way.

It probably didn't help my social standing that I was fairly vocal about all of the weirdness that I saw, or that I tended to do things that made people laugh and pay attention to me, whether intentional or not. I would imitate funny things I saw, in class, or from movies or TV, and I found that the more I could make people laugh, the less I would be shunned or picked on for being "the weird kid." It turned out to be a useful survival tactic, because in the trenches of elementary and high school, "weird kids" needed all the help they could get. If you didn't fit in, the pack descended on you, mercilessly.  But if you made them laugh, you either de-fanged their attacks, or made them your friends. Strictly speaking, it might not have earned me the greatest social standing a young person could hope for, but it got me by, and it reduced the beatings, at least a bit.

I don't delve into this to garner a bunch of pity or attention for trials and tribulations through my school years. Rather, I bring this up because being creative, funny, and sharp-witted worked wonders with the children my age, but sadly, with all but a few rare teachers, it was a lost cause in the fight toward changing how the actual "school" part of school happened for me. Whatever the subject, the approach was all the same, largely. Generally, it went something like this: "Sit, and drill this exercise endlessly, the way we tell you to, and even if it makes no sense, eventually it will be beaten into your head. I don't care if it makes no sense, or if you hate it, or if you're lost. Do the worksheets.  Do them all.  Do them on time.  Do it over and over and over, no matter how miserable you are.  Do it enough, and you will understand.  This is your education."

One piece of one subject really stands out. Like so many, I was hopeless with certain parts of my math classes, and fought tooth and nail not to have to do it, hated every assignment, and just suffered in general. It started in grade school, and continued for many years.  For whatever reason, subtraction was the bug. I was good with multiplication, added like a champ, even caught on to that tricky bugger division when we got there, but certain pieces of subtraction always tripped me up. Stupid mistakes ground themselves into my consciousness, and once firmly entrenched there, I found myself tripping over the same problems over and over. The conversations still ring in my head.

"Nathan is such a bright boy, I don't know why his arithmetic grade is suffering," My teacher would tell my parents.

"We work with him on his homework every night. Is there another way for us to help him? Is there some approach that might work better?" I imagine my mother sitting in a chair made for an 8 year-olds butt, at a parent teacher conference in a dimly lit third grade classroom, with cut-outs of apples and pumpkins on the walls. In the movie version, I think she'd probably be wringing a handkerchief in her hands, but I doubt that really happened. Either way, the teacher's response was, without doubt, something like this:

"I've tried everything. He just needs to practice more. Here, give him this worksheet of fifty extra problems. Make sure he does them over the weekend."

Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. I realized the injustice and horrendous missed chance about 15 years later, when I was working as a waiter. I'd spent a lifetime, or at least a good part of one, silently fumbling over simple subtraction when it would come up in day-to-day situations, and it always nagged at me, a silly, mis-learned splinter in my brain, always bringing up that formative frustration I'd have, feeling stupid, and inadequate, and hopelessly at sea, floundering in the land of C's, when I was continually reminded, with no shortage of guilt and shame, "You're a gifted boy. There's no reason you should get anything less than an A."

And then I got a job as a waiter, and some co-worker, who obviously had a much cooler math teacher than I did, looked at me struggling with the change I needed to make for a table.  I believe she said something like:

"What are you, retarded? You add up, and make the change. What's the tab? $37.50? Count up, fifty cents makes thirty eight, two bucks makes forty, ten bucks makes fifty. Twelve fifty. What are, stupid or something, I learned that in like third grade. Now go bus table twenty-two, or Alex is liable to tear you a new asshole."

If only someone had taught me to subtract in the other direction, instead of all that bullshit of borrowing and neat little rows and columns, I could have been spared such chastisement in my early working years, and perhaps not felt so dumb in school. But at the time, you learned the way they told you to learn, or you didn't learn at all.

I think Sir Ken Robinson is right. It all has to change.