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.