My son Jake, a rising high school senior, doesn’t have his “own” computer. Instead, he seems to have everyone’s. At school he moves from the computers in the computer lab to those in the student center to those in the film studio. He emails documents to himself or carries work on a flash drive. At home, well, at home no computer is safe. I’ll open my work laptop and find FirstClass open, my son’s Facebook page on the browser, and a couple of homework documents on the desktop. “Do you need any of this stuff?” I ask. “No, I got it.” My computer was handiest; he used it and pushed his work into the Internet cloud to be retrieved at the next available machine. When we travel Jake always manages to find someone or someplace with a computer, iPhone, or some other cloud-friendly device. He connects with friends, moves pictures to Facebook, and checks tennis scores. Welcome to the world of the digital nomad.
Don’t get me wrong, Jake wants his own laptop. He needs a base (we have an aging iMac at home that is “his” in general), but his ability to exist in the cloud frees him from that base (making anything “his” at any moment). And the shrinking size of computers and growing power of cell phones offer the promise that maybe the base can move with him as well. Or at least be available wherever he goes. For him, with the exception of a few specialized applications, school work has no boundaries. Any computer in our house, at school, at a public internet station, or anywhere will do.
As more and more work, student and teacher, exists in the cloud, the opportunity to do something really interesting with it grows because we can all access the cloud and what it contains. Despite my own experiences, direct and vicarious, with mash-ups and remixes, I’ve been slow to see the potential of the collaborative Web 2.0 promise. I’m finally beginning to see the light, but it’s fraught with questions and issues we still need to figure out.
Let me give a specific example: We are about to launch a new program, Timeliner XE. The original TimeLiner 1.0 in 1986 turned Apple IIs and early PC’s connected to dot matrix printers into simple systems for generating banner time lines with ease. Type in events in any order, and the software created a proportionally-spaced chronology that could be printed out sideways on the scrolled paper of those early printers. Simple and sweet. Over the years and releases, the program added the ability to print posters, save as html, create slide shows, and add graphics, links, and other media. This new version takes a huge leap forward. Timeliner XE, built with Adobe Flex and Air, contains a built in browser that enables users to gather, organize, and present information within the same application. In addition to time-related events, any sequential information -- like the life cycle, the steps in a research project, or the plot of a book -- can be managed in the program. It’s very cool.
So what happens to the time lines and sequences that students and teachers create? While having thousands of students create their family histories or story arcs for Tuck Everlasting each year is nice, can’t we take their efforts further by putting the work into the cloud? Imagine a Day-in-the-Life time line that students from around the world contribute to. Each contribution gets its own category and color code so that they can be distinguished and turned on and off. How about collaborative time lines highlighting the flow of information and technology around the world as it happens? What might it look like for users to stand on the shoulders of previous work rather than simply repeating what others have already done? We’re having fun imagining the possibilities.
We’re also straining to understand the implications. What student information is private? Is it okay to share a student’s day in the life in the cloud? Can other users change someone’s time line? What about ownership and attribution? How do we make sure that copyright is respected in what gets posted? It is exciting, but it’s also complicated.
Many of our students are already living in the cloud. It’s happening even as the rules are being created and understood. We’re working on it. I hope you’ll be part of the unfolding story.
Showing posts with label Jake Dockterman. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jake Dockterman. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Monday, May 12, 2008
Fewer is More, too
My son, Jake Dockterman (he likes it when I use his name; it raises his Google hit count), is a bit of a stickler when it comes to the use of the words “fewer” and “less”. He’s not alone, as a web search of “fewer vs less” will reveal. You see “fewer” refers to how many, and “less” refers to how much. If you can count it -- marbles, tortilla chips, brothers and sisters, or Manny Ramirez home runs -- you use the word fewer. If you can’t count it -- applesauce, happiness, sand, and milk -- you use the word less. You don’t say “I’m fewer happy” when something upsets your birthday. And you don’t say “I have less siblings than my friend.” At least, you shouldn’t say you have less siblings. One last note: the signs above the express line at the grocery store should read “10 items or fewer.”
I’m a big believer in the less is more philosophy, and I enthusiastically embrace the sentiments of the NCTM Curriculum Focal Points and the final report of the National Math Panel. Both documents advocate focusing instruction on the essential content, the core ideas that students need for success in math, Algebra in particular. A report from the National Research Council last year recommended a similar emphasis on big ideas in science. Taking Science to School offers a very accessible review of the research on science teaching and learning and recommends: “The next generation of standards and curricula at both the national and state levels should be structured to identify a few core ideas in a discipline and elaborate how those ideas can be cumulatively developed over grades K-8.” The trend (hopefully) in both math and science is a welcome targeting of the curriculum on what really matters.
So, are these reports calling for less or for fewer? The distinction is important. Fewer topics means dropping some of the content that’s crowding the curriculum. Maybe we don’t need to cover probability or tessellation or the orbits of the planets. Covering the lengthy lists of state content standards provides little time for depth of learning. Cutting the list in half doubles instructional time for each learning objective. Fewer instructional goals could mean more time for truly learning those that remain.
On the other hand, devoting less time to some of the items found in state curriculum guides could also lead to more time for other, more critical, items. The big ideas certainly merit more focus than the supporting skills or concepts. Maybe the issue is one of emphasis. Not all content objectives are equal. The NCTM Curriculum Focal Points document makes this case very clearly. NCTM recommends “areas to emphasize” rather than to slash. Focus on the core ideas and use the other objectives to support those crucial concepts.
From my perspective, I think we need both less and fewer. The list of learning objectives in some states has simply become too long and too atomized. The pressure to cover each standard has turned them into a checklist of disconnected items. It’s time for some judicious winnowing of the curriculum. We need fewer standards to give teachers tangible evidence that they have the freedom (maybe mandate is a better word) to focus on what matters. Even so, we still need a re-emphasis in the curriculum. We must identify the core ideas that merit more time and show how the remaining objectives can support them. Less time on some content can lead to more understanding overall. And fewer topics in the list can help make that re-emphasis possible. Less is more, and fewer is more too.
I’m a big believer in the less is more philosophy, and I enthusiastically embrace the sentiments of the NCTM Curriculum Focal Points and the final report of the National Math Panel. Both documents advocate focusing instruction on the essential content, the core ideas that students need for success in math, Algebra in particular. A report from the National Research Council last year recommended a similar emphasis on big ideas in science. Taking Science to School offers a very accessible review of the research on science teaching and learning and recommends: “The next generation of standards and curricula at both the national and state levels should be structured to identify a few core ideas in a discipline and elaborate how those ideas can be cumulatively developed over grades K-8.” The trend (hopefully) in both math and science is a welcome targeting of the curriculum on what really matters.
So, are these reports calling for less or for fewer? The distinction is important. Fewer topics means dropping some of the content that’s crowding the curriculum. Maybe we don’t need to cover probability or tessellation or the orbits of the planets. Covering the lengthy lists of state content standards provides little time for depth of learning. Cutting the list in half doubles instructional time for each learning objective. Fewer instructional goals could mean more time for truly learning those that remain.
On the other hand, devoting less time to some of the items found in state curriculum guides could also lead to more time for other, more critical, items. The big ideas certainly merit more focus than the supporting skills or concepts. Maybe the issue is one of emphasis. Not all content objectives are equal. The NCTM Curriculum Focal Points document makes this case very clearly. NCTM recommends “areas to emphasize” rather than to slash. Focus on the core ideas and use the other objectives to support those crucial concepts.
From my perspective, I think we need both less and fewer. The list of learning objectives in some states has simply become too long and too atomized. The pressure to cover each standard has turned them into a checklist of disconnected items. It’s time for some judicious winnowing of the curriculum. We need fewer standards to give teachers tangible evidence that they have the freedom (maybe mandate is a better word) to focus on what matters. Even so, we still need a re-emphasis in the curriculum. We must identify the core ideas that merit more time and show how the remaining objectives can support them. Less time on some content can lead to more understanding overall. And fewer topics in the list can help make that re-emphasis possible. Less is more, and fewer is more too.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Arts and Smarts
In March The Dana Consortium released a compilation of research dealing with the arts and cognition. How does studying music or dance or the visual arts affect brain development and learning? I’ve been fascinated with this topic ever since the governor of Georgia, Zell Miller at the time, proposed providing the parents of every newborn in the state with a CD of classical music to play for their infants. The Mozart effect promised to boost performance, particularly in math, simply by listening to classical music. Music could make you smarter.
Well, maybe not. A small study that showed improved performance on a paper folding task after some of the subjects had listened to Mozart became headline news in a media hungry for big stories. Other studies that showed temporary, but not lasting, boosts to IQ (which itself raises interesting questions about what IQ really measures) fueled the media flames. The fact that subsequent studies showed that similar increases in performance could be sparked by other relaxation techniques did little to dampen the media-whipped excitement around the Mozart effect. Naturally, those follow-up studies received fair exposure in academic journals, but the popular media had little interest. Bold stories sell papers (or clicks on the Internet). Nuance is too complicated.
But nuance is often the true story behind the research that makes headlines in the popular press (as opposed to the academic journals). Whenever I see a story, even in Education Week, about a dramatic research finding, I track down the source article in the academic journals. How was the research conducted? What do the results really tell us?
The Dana Consortium report does a wonderful job of describing the bits we know and the many questions we still need to answer about the arts and cognition. Learning music intensely, for instance, does seem to make a difference in academic performance. Just listening to music or the occasional weekend music lesson doesn’t reveal any meaningful differences. But serious music study does appear to have a positive spillover effect on academic tasks.
However, the report cautions that it isn’t clear that music is what makes the difference or just the intense study of a subject. Learning music teaches students how to focus their attention, and that habit may be the key underlying skill for success in other areas. Or maybe there is something about music in particular. Of all the activities studied by brain imaging techniques, performing music lights up the most parts of the brain. While the question lingers, there’s certainly no harm in encouraging music study among our children. It does seem to make a positive difference for whatever reason. I see it in my teenage son, who is a serious music student and a successful school student. Like chicken soup, it couldn’t hurt.
Well, maybe not. A small study that showed improved performance on a paper folding task after some of the subjects had listened to Mozart became headline news in a media hungry for big stories. Other studies that showed temporary, but not lasting, boosts to IQ (which itself raises interesting questions about what IQ really measures) fueled the media flames. The fact that subsequent studies showed that similar increases in performance could be sparked by other relaxation techniques did little to dampen the media-whipped excitement around the Mozart effect. Naturally, those follow-up studies received fair exposure in academic journals, but the popular media had little interest. Bold stories sell papers (or clicks on the Internet). Nuance is too complicated.
But nuance is often the true story behind the research that makes headlines in the popular press (as opposed to the academic journals). Whenever I see a story, even in Education Week, about a dramatic research finding, I track down the source article in the academic journals. How was the research conducted? What do the results really tell us?
The Dana Consortium report does a wonderful job of describing the bits we know and the many questions we still need to answer about the arts and cognition. Learning music intensely, for instance, does seem to make a difference in academic performance. Just listening to music or the occasional weekend music lesson doesn’t reveal any meaningful differences. But serious music study does appear to have a positive spillover effect on academic tasks.
However, the report cautions that it isn’t clear that music is what makes the difference or just the intense study of a subject. Learning music teaches students how to focus their attention, and that habit may be the key underlying skill for success in other areas. Or maybe there is something about music in particular. Of all the activities studied by brain imaging techniques, performing music lights up the most parts of the brain. While the question lingers, there’s certainly no harm in encouraging music study among our children. It does seem to make a positive difference for whatever reason. I see it in my teenage son, who is a serious music student and a successful school student. Like chicken soup, it couldn’t hurt.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Being a struggling learner
I received a helpful reminder at TSP’s annual holiday party about what it’s like to be a struggling learner. Our “holiday” party really needs a new name, unless the holidays we’re celebrating are Martin Luther King Day and Valentine’s Day. Each year we seem to edge the date closer to President’s Day. There are plenty of holidays to celebrate, but the traditional Christmas and New Year’s holidays are well-behind us by the time we party. Anyway, for the last couple of years, we’ve had dance instructors at the party. Last year the instructors taught salsa; this year they did swing. You get a sense where this struggling learner story is headed?
One of the party organizers came to me during the party and asked me to help get folks participating in the swing instruction. I long ago learned that you can’t ask people to do something that you’re not willing to do yourself. Fortunately, my wife likes to dance. Unfortunately, she married someone who doesn’t have a lot of natural rhythm or coordination. Nonetheless, we took center stage, and I loudly invited others to join us. The student-to-dance teacher ratio at the outset would have been the envy of even the most well-endowed private school. Gradually, though, we gathered a good-sized crew of dancing students. It was fun, but I clearly struggled. At one point I noticed people looking at me and realized that my lips were moving along with my feet -- 1, 2, 3...5, 6, 7. I’d like to think my awkwardness was endearing, but I felt embarrassed. At the end of the night the dance instructor told me, “Well, not quite, but you have something to work on.” Not exactly the kind of robust praise I prefer to hear.
Without the obligation of recruiting participants, I’m sure I would have abandoned the effort after just a few missteps (and I had many). The experience got me thinking about Carol Dweck’s work on motivation and self-efficacy. Dweck’s research has received a lot of attention and press in the past year, and her book Mindset has been well-received (for more about the book and links to relevant articles go to http://mindsetonline.com/). The basic premise is that those who view intelligence or other abilities as fixed -- I’m good at these things but bad at those -- tend to gravitate toward activities they’re already good at. Those who see intelligence as something malleable -- if I work hard, I can get better -- are more willing to try and stick with things that are initially difficult.
I was living the research during the party. Dancing doesn’t come easily to me. (Neither does skiing. I got the award for most perseverance after a week at ski school in Aspen.) I’ve never stuck with dance lessons for more than an evening. The initial failures to succeed have led me to believe that I just can’t dance. I prefer to avoid it so I don’t look foolish. For me to stick with it, I need to believe that eventually, with effort, I can succeed. And the instruction needs to be structured in a way that gives me a sense of progress, that reinforces my belief that I can get better.
While my story is about dancing, students everyday are experiencing similar senses of “I’m not good at this” in math, reading, history, science, music, physical education, and all the other school subjects. Why, they might think, should they even try if they’re just not good at it.
Recent neuroscience research has revealed that our abilities are not fixed at birth. With focused effort and attention, our brains can change. It’s called neuroplasticity, and we should help our students understand it. We also need to adjust our instruction to reward effort and help students see incremental progress. Adaptive technology that challenges students at the edge of their competence, that isn’t too easy or too difficult, can play an important role.
The morning after the party, I shared with my son that I was caught moving my lips with my feet while learning to swing dance. I told him that I’m not much of a dancer…yet. He said that he wasn’t much of a dancer either. I pointed my finger at him and said, “Yet.”
One of the party organizers came to me during the party and asked me to help get folks participating in the swing instruction. I long ago learned that you can’t ask people to do something that you’re not willing to do yourself. Fortunately, my wife likes to dance. Unfortunately, she married someone who doesn’t have a lot of natural rhythm or coordination. Nonetheless, we took center stage, and I loudly invited others to join us. The student-to-dance teacher ratio at the outset would have been the envy of even the most well-endowed private school. Gradually, though, we gathered a good-sized crew of dancing students. It was fun, but I clearly struggled. At one point I noticed people looking at me and realized that my lips were moving along with my feet -- 1, 2, 3...5, 6, 7. I’d like to think my awkwardness was endearing, but I felt embarrassed. At the end of the night the dance instructor told me, “Well, not quite, but you have something to work on.” Not exactly the kind of robust praise I prefer to hear.
Without the obligation of recruiting participants, I’m sure I would have abandoned the effort after just a few missteps (and I had many). The experience got me thinking about Carol Dweck’s work on motivation and self-efficacy. Dweck’s research has received a lot of attention and press in the past year, and her book Mindset has been well-received (for more about the book and links to relevant articles go to http://mindsetonline.com/). The basic premise is that those who view intelligence or other abilities as fixed -- I’m good at these things but bad at those -- tend to gravitate toward activities they’re already good at. Those who see intelligence as something malleable -- if I work hard, I can get better -- are more willing to try and stick with things that are initially difficult.
I was living the research during the party. Dancing doesn’t come easily to me. (Neither does skiing. I got the award for most perseverance after a week at ski school in Aspen.) I’ve never stuck with dance lessons for more than an evening. The initial failures to succeed have led me to believe that I just can’t dance. I prefer to avoid it so I don’t look foolish. For me to stick with it, I need to believe that eventually, with effort, I can succeed. And the instruction needs to be structured in a way that gives me a sense of progress, that reinforces my belief that I can get better.
While my story is about dancing, students everyday are experiencing similar senses of “I’m not good at this” in math, reading, history, science, music, physical education, and all the other school subjects. Why, they might think, should they even try if they’re just not good at it.
Recent neuroscience research has revealed that our abilities are not fixed at birth. With focused effort and attention, our brains can change. It’s called neuroplasticity, and we should help our students understand it. We also need to adjust our instruction to reward effort and help students see incremental progress. Adaptive technology that challenges students at the edge of their competence, that isn’t too easy or too difficult, can play an important role.
The morning after the party, I shared with my son that I was caught moving my lips with my feet while learning to swing dance. I told him that I’m not much of a dancer…yet. He said that he wasn’t much of a dancer either. I pointed my finger at him and said, “Yet.”
Friday, February 22, 2008
How different are kids today?
I’m writing this blog on the flight back from FETC, the Florida Educational Technology Conference. My visit was very brief. I flew down, cruised the exhibit floor, did a session, and flew back. In that day, though, I did feel a much higher energy level than I expected to find. With all the dire news about the economy and ongoing grumblings about NCLB, I anticipated a somewhat depressed sensibility among the conference attendees. Not so, at least around the Tom Snyder Productions booth. It was constantly crowded and full of enthusiasm. Participants were excited, curious, and scrambling to learn more about lots of products. It felt good. But that’s not what this blog is about.
Several of the sessions I breezed in and out of and a number of the informal conversations I had reflected the underlying assumption that today’s kids are different. And I often wonder what that really means. Certainly 21st century children are using tools and interacting with each other in ways that are completely alien to old folks (like yours truly). I can’t imagine as a teenager being willing to share my personal history and preferences for the world to see like my son does on Facebook. I remember in graduate school scoffing at the notion of computers and the Internet threatening the existence of libraries. How could you do research without wandering the stacks and feeling the heft and integrity of the books that contained the knowledge. Wow. What a drag it is now when a journal article isn’t online, and I actually have to open a book. Many kids never had that kind of old-fashioned library experience.
My son and graduate students text each other without a thought and flit from one computer to the next without a care. Their work and identities travel with them or wait patiently in the ether until accessed from whatever machine is at hand. I just didn’t grow up that way. I’ve had to relearn how to do some things, and the pieces of this emerging world that I have embraced don’t look the same as those growing up in it initially. (My son thinks it’s just wrong for me to be on Facebook.) So, yes, it’s clear that today’s kids look and behave in new ways; but didn’t I look strange to my parents?
My parents couldn’t understand how I could spend so much time on the phone. How could I do homework while watching TV? And that music on the stereo…. Yes, every generation is different from the preceding one, but isn’t the pace of technology outpacing our ability to keep up? These 21st century kids REALLY are different. I wonder.
I had a brief conversation with a year ago with the recently deceased Peter Lyman, a cultural anthropologist from Berkeley who had been studying digital youth culture. He gave me some sense that underneath the surface today’s kids are a lot like yesterday’s. They still value status and being part of a group. They still feel anxieties about who they are and will become. The venues for exploring those feelings have dramatically changed, but maybe the core remains familiar. Maybe. It's a good question. I’ll keep looking for the answer.
Several of the sessions I breezed in and out of and a number of the informal conversations I had reflected the underlying assumption that today’s kids are different. And I often wonder what that really means. Certainly 21st century children are using tools and interacting with each other in ways that are completely alien to old folks (like yours truly). I can’t imagine as a teenager being willing to share my personal history and preferences for the world to see like my son does on Facebook. I remember in graduate school scoffing at the notion of computers and the Internet threatening the existence of libraries. How could you do research without wandering the stacks and feeling the heft and integrity of the books that contained the knowledge. Wow. What a drag it is now when a journal article isn’t online, and I actually have to open a book. Many kids never had that kind of old-fashioned library experience.
My son and graduate students text each other without a thought and flit from one computer to the next without a care. Their work and identities travel with them or wait patiently in the ether until accessed from whatever machine is at hand. I just didn’t grow up that way. I’ve had to relearn how to do some things, and the pieces of this emerging world that I have embraced don’t look the same as those growing up in it initially. (My son thinks it’s just wrong for me to be on Facebook.) So, yes, it’s clear that today’s kids look and behave in new ways; but didn’t I look strange to my parents?
My parents couldn’t understand how I could spend so much time on the phone. How could I do homework while watching TV? And that music on the stereo…. Yes, every generation is different from the preceding one, but isn’t the pace of technology outpacing our ability to keep up? These 21st century kids REALLY are different. I wonder.
I had a brief conversation with a year ago with the recently deceased Peter Lyman, a cultural anthropologist from Berkeley who had been studying digital youth culture. He gave me some sense that underneath the surface today’s kids are a lot like yesterday’s. They still value status and being part of a group. They still feel anxieties about who they are and will become. The venues for exploring those feelings have dramatically changed, but maybe the core remains familiar. Maybe. It's a good question. I’ll keep looking for the answer.
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