Who's In My Classroom?. Tim Fredrick

Who's In My Classroom? - Tim Fredrick


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current value of the Haitian dollar and calculated what we already knew—that most Haitians are living below the poverty line. Ms. Casey explained Maslow's “hierarchy of needs” principle—which holds that people will only worry about higher order concerns once their basic needs have been met—and we discussed how the inability to meet the first level in Maslow's hierarchy could affect everything else in Haitian society, like literacy rates and civil and political unrest. This lesson on interrelatedness made our subject matter seem more relevant and important.

      Although she demanded a lot of us, Ms. Casey was also compassionate. She told us that she was our second mother, the one who gave us life, not in the physical form, but in the mental form.

      For Angelica Petela, 17, connections to her home culture and her teen culture were meaningful:

      My global history teacher used to read us ethnic folk tales and make us illustrate them as though things might look back then. He made us create a social media page for an ancient person, like Cleopatra.

      Ebony Coleman's English teacher made a 1957 film feel relevant to today's students:

      We studied 12 Angry Men, and we had to write essays on what we'd do if we were in the characters’ shoes. It was almost as if we were in the story, and it actually led to a huge discussion.

      Evin Cruz felt no connection to poetry. In fact, he “scoffed” at it, so his teacher had to scramble to find points of connection. But Evin was a New York teen who listened to rap and no doubt had elders in his extended family:

      [My poetry teacher] got a spoken word poet to come to class and perform, and listening to his poem, I could visualize what he was talking about—Manhattan collapsing in on itself. He also showed us a YouTube video of a reading of Dylan Thomas's poem, “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night,” about the poet's father dying—and it was like, whoa, that's dark, that's deep.

      Several years ago, I observed a middle school science class. The teacher projected a picture of a flower on the SmartBoard and then went on to discuss the different parts of the flower. While discussing one part of the flower, he mentioned the feel. “It's extremely soft and feels almost like suede,” he said. He then discussed its smell by describing it as “sweet smelling” and “like perfume.” As I watched the students, I noticed that they were having a hard time focusing on the lesson.

      A solution was directly across the street: a park with flowers in full bloom. Yet, rather than have the students touch and feel actual flowers, he designed an abstract lesson about flowers that the students had a hard time understanding. Frustrated by what I observed, I asked him why he didn't simply take his class across the street to the park. “My students can't handle that. It'll be a huge behavioral issue if I take them.”

      “Oh, so they had a hard time the last time you tried to take them?” I asked.

      “No, I mean, I've never taken them over there, but based on their behavior in here, I know what to expect.”

      “So do they get to go outside in their other classes?” I asked.

      “I really don't know. I never asked them before.”

      Having low expectations about his students’ abilities to behave led the teacher to limit how he taught and limit his students’ opportunities to explore actual flowers. Of course, the teacher could have been right. They could have gone outside and behaved exactly as he had predicted. Or, he could have discovered that by making connections to things outside of his classroom and giving his students the opportunity to explore and be immersed in nature, they might have demonstrated a higher level of interest and engagement. The point is that by having low expectations of them, he ensured those were the only ones they had a chance to meet.

      Last fall, I was looking for an internship that would give me some science credits, but I wanted something in the Bronx, which is where I live. The only internship was at the Botanical Garden, which is a place in the Bronx that has plants and flowers from all over the world that people can come look at.

      Now, you know if they tell you that you are going to work with plants, you probably think it's going to be boring. Well, this internship became one of the best experiences of my life.

      The Botanical Garden has “discover carts.” These carts tell you about a certain type of plant in a particular area of the garden. For example, in the desert there is a desert cart that has cacti. (That's plural for cactus.)

      One day during training, Karl, my program director, told me I would be working at the orchid cart in the tropical rainforest and giving talks to visitors on orchids. My talks would involve telling visitors about the parts of an orchid, showing them the inside of the flower, and explaining how it is pollinated. (I learned all of this during training.)

      At first I thought to myself, I am not going to be able to handle this.

      My first day at the orchid cart was scary. My hands were wet from the fear of messing up. A man named Norman came over to my cart. He worked in the Botanical Garden and knew a lot more than I did. I gave my first talk to him. But he was a pain because he kept correcting me.

      After that experience with Norman, I decided I needed to do a lot of research on orchids so I wouldn't make those mistakes again. I went to the library in the Botanical Garden and looked up orchids. I found out that I had much to learn. As I began to learn more and more about orchids, I started to love them, and my program director couldn't get me away from them.

      Before I started working at the Botanical Garden, I couldn't understand why people would want to look at trees and plants. Now I realize that trees are not just trees. What I mean is that trees don't look the same to me anymore. I can walk up to a turkey oak tree and know what it is because of the nuts. I didn't even know there was such a tree called turkey oak before.

      One of the core beliefs of DCRT is that schools shape how students feel about themselves and what's possible for their lives. In Sylinda's case, her internship provided her with the opportunity to see her Bronx neighborhood as a place where science actually happens and a place where people from around the world come to learn about plants. Her internship also provided her with the opportunity to help others learn as she taught them about orchids. Ultimately, these connections between the science she learned in her classroom and her application of her scientific knowledge in the real world increased her interest in science and helped her to see trees in new ways—as a scientist would.


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