By Mark
I've managed to have a pretty successful career so far. I've earned some awards, National Certification, recognition. Like many of us, I have those kids that come back and call me their favorite teacher, sometimes offering unfair or unkind comparisons to subsequent teachers who the student disliked. But I've had an internal struggle about where my success is rooted, mainly because I am, without contest, the least well-read English teacher (let alone department chair) to ever hold the title. In lofty discussions on the fringes of department meetings or around the lunch table, when the topic turns to high literature, grand philosophy, or big names, if I don't physically retreat, I do so into my own little mind hoping and praying no one asks for my ideas on the Bacon/Shakespeare authorship debate or what I think about hermeneutics or philology.
Sure, I managed to get a degree in English from a university. But I only read what was assigned–and though I did so with dedication and interest–I've never really been a bookworm, even though I am a strong proponent of helping my students channel their inner bookworm. What I do think makes me an effective teacher seems to appear nowhere on any of the rubrics or standards for effective teaching. When I did my National Boards, it wasn't there. When I look at models of merit pay, its not there. Aside form the rubrics by which my recent student-teacher was assessed (and even there it was vague), I've not seen it anywhere.
That's why I was pleased to read Nancy Flanagan's discussion of classroom management at Teacher in a Strange Land. For a long time, I have thought that my greatest strength as a teacher is classroom management. I can have a heavy hand, but wield it with a smile, a wink, and clear expectations. I approach the first student misbehavior as an opportunity for them to learn, the second as a chance to reflect, and the third as a chance to repent. If there's a fourth–which there rarely is–those become the moments of hallway legend (I still hear whispers about the time I supposedly threw the overhead projector at a kid–though I'd have loved to do so a times, it has never happened). It doesn't hurt when former students drop into my room and ask my kids "Have you seen him blow up yet? It's terrifying!" I'm not above raising my voice, but a reputation like that means I hardly ever have to.
And don't get me wrong, screaming is not my go-to classroom management approach. That's kind of my point–in some classrooms screaming, shouting, and referrals are the entire classroom management plan. I've learned through trial and error the best ways to get a classroom quiet in 15 seconds without having to raise my voice, how to use my eyebrows to shame a student into sincerely apologizing for what he just said, and how to use a properly executed clear of the throat to instantly get six groups of five freshmen each to get back on task. I've learned that the best thing I can do when I send a kid to the hall is to begin by asking them how their day is going and if everything is okay rather than to launch into a tirade about their misbehavior, and I've learned that helping a kid learn about nonverbal communication and tone of voice is the best way to de-escalate teacher-student conflicts. I'm far from perfect, but if anyone were to ask me the root of my effectiveness, the single answer overriding all is that I am an effective classroom manager–and I'm done being ashamed to say so. (Nope, those courses on British Cavalier Poetry I took for my BA don't help me with 9th graders.)
When we talk about assessing effective teaching, whether for National Certification, state certification, or merit pay, classroom management ought to be front and center alongside content knowledge, assessment strategies–and it ought to get a place or two ahead in line before test scores. I've worked with other teachers who clearly knew their content–some even with PhD's in their field–who have yet to be able to notice when students are having full-voice conversations in the back row during their lectures. I've been observed by teachers who genuinely conclude about my teaching: "You wait to give directions until they are all quiet and listening, I'm going to have to try that!" I've even worked with NBPTS candidates who were able to write beautifully about their practice (and certify) but whose classrooms are utter chaos and disarray–students getting up and walking out, students shouting profanities at one another with no response from the teacher, students literally begging the teacher to get the class under control.
We all teach different grades, ages, content, and in different contexts. However, I believe that effective classroom management is vital for truly effective teaching. Why is it ignored in so many of our measures of teacher success and effectiveness?
Brian, I totally agree. Silence and “order” does not mean learning is happening. But silence and order does not necessarily mean good management. Management, to me, is not really about control, it is about relationship. Without relationship, my raise of the eyebrow would not get kids back on task like it does.
However, I do think that learning is not maximized when disorder rules. Kids then learn on their own or in spite of their teacher, not because of him/her. Tom hits it on the head: there are brilliant lesson-designers and planners out there who cannot communicate because they are utterly unaware of their learners.
You’re right Brian; you can’t teach without effective management, but that’s not the end of the story. This is a clear example of when you need a “skill set” to be a good teacher. One skill alone won’t cut it, no matter how good you are at that skill. More frustrating than the good manager that can’t teach is the teacher who has brilliant lesson plans but no one’s listening.
There are classrooms where students are not really learning much that are models of decorum. The students are quiet and in their seats, but it’s more from fear than a good relationship with the teacher. Good classroom management is necessary but not sufficient for a quality learning environment. You can’t teach without it, but it’s what you do after you have their respect and attention that matters more.
There is such a clear correlation between a teacher’s ability to manage and a student’s ability to learn. It’s so true that a big part of classroom management is teaching students about those nonverbal cues – how they project themselves and how it might be perceived by others.
I guess it’s assumed that if a teacher is able to raise test scores between September and June she has good classroom mangement. Unfortunately, that assumption completely ignores the reality that some students live in homes that raise their test scores regardless of the teacher. Other kids – the ones who turn a routine traffic stop into an argument and then get hauled off to jail because they confuse belligerence with pride -are the kids who need a teacher with superb management. And really, it’s about being a life coach. It’s about teaching kids how to deal with conflict, how to separate their anger at person X from their reaction towards situation Y, it’s about teaching them to have the confidence required to handle problems.
The push to put all kids in college, the push to eliminate every support person from schools and put all the resources towards academics, is going to backfire. We’ll have more kids cut, more kids get addicted, more kids get pregnant, more kids in jail, and more kids who can’t navigate the system because mom and dad aren’t there and their teacher is busy with test prep in order to keep her job.
Maybe it’s because we’re afraid to scold. When I was in school, having a teacher scold me was punishment enough. I was never sent to the principal’s office, never given “choices” or “time-outs.” I got chewed out, and it was unpleasant enough to make a difference. Like you, Mark, I run a tight ship, and I’m not afraid to let my students know when they’ve done something amiss. Yes, I scold children every now and then. And it works.