On (not) accounting for “intensities” in student learning

Like most liberal arts and sciences faculty at most American colleges and universities right now, I am asked, seemingly constantly, to justify and account for what I do in languages and metrics acceptable to administrators and, indirectly, to external constituencies like state legislators and members of governing boards. Typically, the preferred measurements are quantitative and extensive: number of students enrolled at the university, number of students enrolled in course sections, number of students enrolled in a major. Assessment of student learning is sometimes more nuanced than that, but still revolves around collective measurements and on drawing out generalizations regarding what is happening in the classroom (not to mention keyed to pre-determined priorities which may or may not have been articulated by teaching faculty).

As someone who works in the qualitative and interpretive areas of the social sciences, I am troubled by the biases in how my “success” or “failure”, or my field’s worth to the university, is most commonly measured. In one sense I am frustrated because by these measures, I often end up lacking, and this, of course, fosters anxiety about my position at the university. Most terms I have at least one upper division course that falls short of enrollment targets and I then have to spend time and energy justifying the offering. Similarly, while, historically, the geography faculty teach a significant number of students as part of the general education curriculum and play an important service function for a number of other programs, we tend not to attract a large number of majors, and there are very few students who would report that they decide to attend Western specifically for the geography department. So, yes, on one level, I have a material interest in how and what the university defines what matters and what doesn’t.

On the other hand, I am troubled by the nature of these choices because I think that there are crucial aspects of the college experience for students, in particular, that are missed by the focus on numbers and generalization.

To provide on example, I have a student this term from my introductory cultural geography course who clearly found our discussion of the body, sex, and gender to be revelatory, maybe even life-changing. I base this judgment on what I’ve seen from this individual in their writing and in their responses to routine learning assessments in class.

Maybe this student will take this experience to mean that they should major in geography or, at least, that they should take more geography courses. As much as I would love for either of these eventualities to come true, my experience tells me that the former is highly unlikely and the latter, while more likely, will largely depend on what the student’s program of study ends up being rather than on what they find natively interesting. The salient point here is that this student’s experience is unlikely to be captured by two of the most commonly referenced measures of success or worth at my university, namely, number of majors and course enrollments.

Furthermore, this student’s experience in my class may, from an institutional perspective, actually benefit programs other than my own. Maybe they become a gender studies minor or choose to focus their studies in their major on the body. Maybe they connect what they learned in my class to a class in some other department and for whatever reason choose that field as their major. Maybe this student defines their future education, job and career paths around these kinds of topics. Or maybe this experience simply enriches their understanding of who they are what they do in the world. I’d be happy with any of these outcomes, but the way success and worth are counted at my university, faculty are actually given an interest to compete with each other over students like this rather than encouraging the student to pursue their interests and passions in ways that make the most sense or appeal to them.

There is a chance that some part of this student’s experience could be captured by assessment of departmental learning outcomes, but as chance would have it, we were looking at an outcome this year that prompted me to pick a different area of the course for my contribution. In any case, even if that had not been the case, what I am writing about here is not whether or what students learn, but what’s meaningful about that learning. This student doesn’t stand out for how well they learned what I intended, but for the intensity of their response to the material.

Students are affected in different ways by what they do in their classes. Because so many enroll in my courses without really understanding what they are going to be learning, I frequently have students who report some kind of transformative experience as a result of having taken a course. Sometimes this stops at, “Wow, I had no idea that this is what geographers do,” but in other cases, more rare, but still notable, the response is more profound. I also often have students leave my courses having discovered a love of comics or a new appreciation of film. Needless to say, our departmental learning outcomes aren’t designed to anticipate these kinds of individual responses to material.

More to the point, no one in university administration is asking me or my colleagues to try to gauge these kinds of intensities, or to “count” these qualitative aspects of student learning when demonstrating what we do and why we matter. Fill slots. Acquire majors. Demonstrate what students, in aggregate, are learning. These, and especially the first two, are what drives decisions about faculty lines and non-tenure track hires. I’m not going to suggest that this will be true for everyone, but I would not be surprised if, for many students at schools like mine (smaller state schools with an undergraduate teaching focus and, nominally at least, a liberal arts mission), the most significant course or courses they take, over the course of their lifetimes, are just as likely to be from the general education offerings they took as from the more specialized coursework in their majors. Service like that to the university is seemingly discounted by every measure that matters in terms of material resource allocation.

Fundamentally, students are no longer being treated as students, but as tuition checks, and higher education has been reduced to a product. Departmental faculty are valued according to how much product they produce in the form of degrees conferred. Any other reason or value for what a university does is treated as frippery by just about anyone with immediate power to shape the institution.

(On tech & teaching) Early adopting faculty, late adopting institutions

This coming Winter I will be teaching my first fully online course. To prepare, I decided to attend some of the Moodle workshops during Fall in-service at my university. While my initial purpose was narrowly drawn to learning how to get my course up and running, this orientation also introduced me to a parallel digital institution which I had only vaguely been aware of before.

Ironically, I think my lack of awareness is not due to a lack of interest in or resistance to online communication and social media, but because, relatively at least, I have been an early user of such tools for my classes. I have, for over a decade now, been trying out, and putting into practice, a variety of resources on the public web, from my server space at the university to blogging services and sites like Pinterest, in support of my courses. I haven’t needed prompting or significant investments in support and infrastructure from my university to engage with students digitally.

After the introductory workshop I attended I immediately began thinking about whether I should be making use of my university’s official digital spaces. I did, immediately, fill out my online profile pages, which, too, I did not know about. For whatever reason and to whatever effect, administrators at Western have encouraged faculty to go online, and have slowly built an architecture that makes it relatively easy to do so, but use of these resources has largely been left to individual faculty, or faculties, to decide. Not surprisingly, this has clearly resulted in an unevenness to what, notably, students will find from professors when directed to sanctioned spaces online.

Beyond populating my profile pages with information, I have, for the moment, decided that, I will use the formal online infrastructure primarily to direct students to my more public presences, and not in place of those resources.

I would be lying if I claimed that inertia and my sunk investment in my existing workflow had no role in this decision, but I have more substantive reasons for this choice as well.

As I’ve already implied, “WOU Online” and the university “Portal” system are both variations on walled gardens, with the former being more open than the latter, but still fundamentally designed to be accessed by those with WOU ids. There’s a philosophical aspect to this, I prefer not to treat my teaching materials as proprietary, even in a de facto way, but also a practical dimension.

One of the tools in Moodle I’ve thought most seriously about trying to use right away is its functionality for assignments and grades, which can allow for an essentially seamless process of submission, assessment and feedback, and posting of grades. After giving this some thought, I decided that my current system for electronic submission, which involves students sending me their work via e-mail attachment and me uploading assignments into Google Drive, had at least the advantage of not requiring students to login to Moodle before submitting their work.

This would not be an issue if my course resources were all being collected and distributed via WOU Online, but they are not, and that’s where the walled garden concern matters. I don’t want my syllabi and other materials behind a wall and I can’t see sending my students behind the wall to perform certain operations when everything else we do is located somewhere else on the public web. Some of my students have a hard enough time tracking the online syllabus and the class blog. I can’t see asking them to also go to this other, largely disconnected, space, too. More broadly, it is now easy for students who are inclined to do so to find me and my courses online, and equally so for those already at Western and those thinking of attending, not to mention having my materials accessible by others more generally. It is a small matter, but right now my course resources also serve a public service function that would be largely lost by moving my materials into the more “secure” spaces at my university.

I don’t want to give up the resources I’ve cultivated on my own, not only because of their open and public natures, but also because I have more control over the look and feel, content, and structure of what I currently use online than I would if I were to shift to places like WOU Online for communicating and interacting with students. This is most true for my faculty website, which I built from the ground up with the help of Anne-Marie, but even services like Pinterest and Vimeo are more “design rich” than are the institutional alternatives.

I know that Moodle is more flexible than the basic set up available in WOU Online and that if I wanted to I could dig deep into how to customize, but I also think that, ultimately, I would still have to work in an institutional frame and that there are inherent limitations to using a set of tools envisioned specifically for “course management” and not more broadly for communicative purposes.

A very small minority of students the past few years have assumed my courses would be “in Moodle” and some have been critical of my not being there. Now I have course shells set up to reach those students, as well as an active profile in WOU Online. It may be that at some point I will be compelled by student expectation to move more of my course resources into Moodle – the leader of the orientation I attended told another attendee that he thought that students would soon expect to be able to track their grades online via Moodle – but until I know more about what I might be able to do in these kinds of institutionally managed spaces, and am persuaded by their advantages, I am inclined to keep communicating via the public web. I can see where Portal and WOU Online would appeal to faculty who have been reluctant to move their course resources online, at base, all you have to do is fill out forms to use these tools, but for someone like me, these UIs compel compromises that I’m not prepared to make until I can see clearer advantages to doing so, both for myself and my students.

Fall is coming

Well, it’s actually already kind of here for faculty in the OUS. Classes don’t begin until next week, hence the title, but this week faculty were called back to campus for rituals (e.g., state of the university and college addresses), welcoming and orientating new students, administrative functions (e.g., committee meetings), and, finally, class prep.

I’ve been in a tenure-track/tenured position at Western Oregon for just over ten years now, and it has taken this long to have a fall where I’ve felt as if I’ve been able construct my courses in an efficient and minimally stressful way (most of the stress this week has come from having to work course prep in between other responsibilities, not from my upcoming classes).

One reason why I often start Fall term behind the curve, or at least feeling that way, is that summers are usually the only time I have for sustained progress on research and scholarship. I imagine that this is true for most who work at undergraduate teaching focused institutions like mine. This summer, though, I was at the dissemination stage of my current project, and while I had a book chapter to write, that was, more or less, a digest of the same project. Dealing with getting work out into the world has been its own thing, of course, but nothing like being in the field or at the editing station.

When I write above about ‘constructing my courses’, I mean mainly drafting the syllabi. Summers are also time to read and look for resources. Typically, I will defer this kind of work to attend to non-course related scholarship, which leaves me having to those tasks while teaching my courses. This year I had the luxury not to have to do that and was able to get my deeper prep done a week or so before reporting back to campus.

I am an impossible tinkerer when it comes to my courses. This year I was overhauling two of the three I am scheduled to teach in the Fall (one, I’ve already written about). What saved me this summer was not making any major changes to my introductory cultural geography course. That is an offering that I have been perpetually dissatisfied with, but for which I have finally found an approach that works for me, and seems to work for students, too, at least in the ways I would like it to.

One image that non-teachers have of teachers, at whatever level, but maybe particularly of professors, is that of someone who essentially coasts, working off of the same set of notes decade after decade, freeing them from actually having to work in their courses.

I’ve never met that person.

There’s no question that my current colleagues work harder at making their courses approachable, interesting, and appropriately challenging for undergraduates than did most, if not all, of the professors in my graduate department, but I think that’s understandable. Faculty who work primarily with graduate students and undergraduate majors can, and should, see teaching differently than should faculty, like myself and most of my social science and humanities colleagues, who teach primarily undergraduates and a significant number of non-majors. However, that difference hardly becomes the equivalent of ‘dead wood’. On the contrary, while, pedagogically, a graduate seminar is a graduate seminar, readings are always in flux. I imagine that this is also true for the advanced undergraduate courses tied to professor interests.

At present, I’ve observed that some of my more senior colleagues seem to have certain courses, ones that they’ve been teaching consistently for more than a decade or two, ‘down’, but there are also irregular courses, or newly developed courses, that require substantial preparation to work.

In short, I don’t think I personally know any college or university faculty whose courses are entirely static, which is why I find some of the other functions of the opening week to Fall, many of the administrative functions, to be frustrating or stressful.

One primary administrative concern right now is “assessment” and getting faculty to do it, but I think that it is fair to say, given that no one’s courses stay exactly the same, that class prep necessarily entails assessment and the kind of assessment that everyone is supposed to want: the kind that leads to improvements in the classroom.

The problem I’m not sure that anyone has figured out entirely is how to articulate the kinds of assessment that lead to actual changes in the way courses are taught and that also satisfy administrative imperatives for data that can be used in accreditation, or in taking to boards and legislators.

The data that I use to change and improve my courses are rarely the kinds of things that are captured in institutional evaluations or templates for reporting on assessment. The data is scattered, sometimes impressionistic, often open-ended and come from my experience of being in the classroom with students. Administratively, faculty are expected to make discrete a process that is almost necessarily ongoing and messy, rarely mapping neatly onto formulaic statements of outcomes or ‘themes’ (‘core themes’ are a recent turn in jargon, at least for our accreditation).

Our college’s administrators seem to have finally settled on a set of procedures and forms, so maybe there is an opening to establish a departmental routine that suffices for everyone, instead of having, essentially, two separate processes, one for real work in the classroom and one for bookkeeping. I’ve been told that this is possible, but I have yet to see it in action (nothing makes me more skeptical about the push for assessment than being given models from other departments that entail, essentially, standardized testing, not only because it puts a lie to all of the assurances faculty are given regarding autonomy and what kinds of instruments or data are acceptable, but also because I have a hard time thinking that the results of such tests are at all effective in suggesting what might work better in the classroom. Identifying knowledge gaps is one thing; figuring out what to do about those gaps is another).

Struggling to launch a qualitative methods course

For the past few years, I have been alternating a course in qualitative research methods (even years) with one in making digital video for the social sciences (odd years). The latter has started well in terms of enrollment, and, I think, is steadily improving. Significantly, I think that the good enrollment is related to the improvement in that having an adequate number of students gives me a clearer, and more reliable, way to see what’s working and what’s not, what’s an individual problem and what’s more systemic, and where I need to find more resources or better patches for what the university lacks in capacity to support the course.

The qualitative methods course has been a different story.

The first year I voluntarily pulled it from the schedule, early, when it failed to attract any students during initial registration. The next time I offered the course, I netted three students. So far this year I am looking at four (progress!).

In the earlier cases, I was working in a context where university administrators were at least playing at waging war on “low enrollment” sections. I volunteered to pull the course the first time in part to earn some credit to use later, and in part because the only person affected would be me. I imagine that this choice paid off the next time when I only had three students, but wanted the course to go (I don’t pretend to understand the economics of closing “low enrolling” sections, particularly in the case of my department where all of our courses are taught by full-time, tenure track faculty; the only adjuncts we’ve used in the last ten years have been to cover sabbaticals and course releases).

I’m not being pre-emptive this year because administrative discourse has shifted from being concerned primarily with individual sections to being concerned with numbers of majors. This isn’t “better”, especially from the perspective of the geography faculty where we typically graduate between nine and twelve majors each year. But it does mean that there is less pressure to account for every section.

Both the digital video course and qualitative methods course were added to the catalog as part of a revision to the geography major that instituted a capstone requirement and reorganized the elective part of the program into different streams or concentrations, e..g, “Cultural & Political”, “Physical Environment”. All majors are required to take a certain number of credits in “geographic thought and practice”, ideally from courses that make sense from the perspective of their chosen concentration and capstone plans. The changes to the geography major prefigured similar changes to the social science major at Western Oregon, which now requires students to complete a “theory and methods” requirement as well as take at least half of their credits in one field.

And yet while the DV course has met or exceeded the cap each time I’ve taught it, the qualitative methods course does not seem to be getting any traction with students.

While frustrating, this isn’t too difficult to understand. It isn’t the kind of course that presents as an exciting elective for non-majors. Furthermore, not only is the geography major relatively small, but the majority of those students concentrate in areas other than cultural and political geography, for which this course is primarily designed and most appropriate. In fact, I suspect that the students I currently have will turn out to be social science, and not geography, majors (one reason I know this is that none of the students on my list are currently my advisees).

Being able to understand why my numbers are so low is one thing. Trying to build a course while teaching such small numbers is another. I did get some good feedback from the last (small) group I taught, but all of those students were novices when it came to social science research methods, and none were especially sophisticated or grounded in social theory before starting the course. Based on my experience with other courses, including the DV course, if I had had at least nine to twelve students instead of three I would have had a wider range of individuals to work with in terms of experience and aptitude and would have ended with a more refined picture of how the course works for students.

As it is, assuming I end up teaching small numbers every time, it may take years to get a better idea of how to run the course. Right now I feel like I am stabbing in the dark and having to rely on my own impressions, which I do anyway, but I prefer to have more input from students in assessing my own thoughts than I have for this course so far.

Courses that involve scientific practice are challenging to teach in any case, particularly, I think, in a quarters system where you only get ten weeks to work with students.

I made the case for the class to go last time with three students because it seems obvious that in order to develop the course I need to teach it. I tried to split the difference between reading and field/project work. That worked ok, but the students, all three of them, told me that the one thing they wanted was more time in the field. So, this year I’m going to experiment with making individual projects the focus of student work, including what reading different students do. In effect, I decided, if the class is going to be this small, I might as well leverage that smallness into highly individualized instruction. There will be a few common readings, but mostly I will be working with students on different methods according to their interests and what they want to, or should, be practicing.

What I need, what I hope, is that somehow, in this group of four, I have at least one student who is fully invested and engaged by the material. There’s a risk of overvaluing what you observe or hear from those students, but I also think that there is value in a perspective that is above the common denominator. When I proposed the course I certainly envisioned, ultimately, having students who are prepared to dig deep into the doing of geography, both during the term and into their capstone work.

Interesting, and interested, students make for interesting teaching, and, on the whole, I think that the less engaged students benefit from the ways in which the more engaged push me to think more seriously about the material. This is one thing I think I’m missing with the methods course. On the other hand, I also don’t think I have a good sense even of “the students I have” as opposed to the “students I want”. Maybe that will become more clear this term. And maybe I’ll just keep adding one student each time I offer the course. At that rate, I can look forward to having the course take shape around the time I begin thinking about retirement.

Teaching introductory cultural geography with film analysis

For the past two or three years (I change my syllabi too frequently) I’ve been teaching my introductory cultural geography course so as to emphasize how cultural geography is done over surveying content. I use Jon Anderson’s Understanding Cultural Geography (Routledge, 2009) as the primary text.

What I appreciate about this text is that it gives students a simple, but still sophisticated, theoretical framework for thinking about the world in cultural geographic terms. The key concepts are “places” and “traces”, where “places” are broadly defined as the contexts for culture, defined as “what people do”, and “traces” are “cultural remnants” that are left in place by people doing what they do (whatever that is; obviously varies by context). Places simultaneous frame what people do, the traces they make, and are the outcomes of those practices. In making traces, people also make places.

The primary nuances within this framework come from the book’s discussion of power, and how different forms of power shapes what people do, the traces that they make on a daily basis and how those practices do, or do not, accommodate difference or variations in what people do in different places. Similarly, Anderson argues that traces can be “material” or “non-material”, and can come from both human and non-human agents, in the sense that what plants, animals, objects, and natural/physical forces do are necessarily incorporated into culture.

After establishing this framework, the text goes onto to explore a variety of topical areas, such as capitalism and anti-capitalism, nature, and the body, and, in the next to last chapter, introduces students to the primary formal research methods used by cultural geographers: interviewing, textual analysis, and ethnography.

During the course of the term, I have students perform a variety of exercises, some in-class, some out-of-class, some for credit, some just as part of being in class, wherein students do work that plays at or approximates cultural geographic research. So, for example, in one exercise I ask students to choose a place to observe in order to draw conclusions about what people are expected to do in that place, how to comport themselves, what kinds of activities are appropriate or inappropriate, what kinds of identities are welcome or unwelcome (Anderson writes about places being “ordered” and “bordered” so as to specify what is “natural, normal, or novel” for people to do in a given location).

For the last three to four weeks of the quarter I move students from doing short exercises around specific questions to a broader and more formal attempt at practicing textual analysis. For this, I assign an additional text, and have used Kim Stanley Robinson’s Red Mars (Spectra, 1993), Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis (Pantheon, 2007), and Brian Wood’s and Ryan Kelly’s Local (Oni Press, 2008). Anderson’s discussion of methodology gives students a starting point for reading critically, and I construct an assignment that poses a number of prompts for seeing the assigned text as a creative exploration of “places and traces”. I use Anderson’s methodological discussion as a starting point for thinking about form as well as content when doing textual analysis.

In the term just ended, for the first time, I chose a film instead of a book to cap the course. The film I used is Run Lola Run (1998). I made this choice for a number of reasons:

  • The running time, 80 minutes, is close to perfect for a 110 minute period in terms of having time for set up, viewing, and discussion in one class session.
  • The narrative structure of the film is easy to break down and reconsider on additional viewing in subsequent sessions.
  • The style of the film makes it easy to talk about form; the use of slow motion, split screens, alternate versions of the story, an evolving soundtrack, are all devices that draw attention to how the film is made.
  • The movie also has clearly announced philosophical intentions that relate directly to the kinds of questions we talk about during the term, and specifically questions about what people do, how that is affected by context, and how people exercise power in relation to others on a daily basis.
  • I also anticipated that the film’s strangeness, in being in German, in being so obviously of its era, and in its style, would facilitate critical engagement more readily than a more conventional or familiar choice.

I took time in a couple of class sessions to prepare students for viewing. I used excerpts from Timothy Corrigan’s A Short Guide to Writing about Film (Longman, 2006), notably the chapter on getting ready to write and the chapter on film language, to provide students with background and a reference for doing textual analysis on a film. I spent an entire period introducing key concepts in film study, miss-en-scene, the frame, the shot, editing, and compiled online resources for additional guidance. I used a single frame grab from Lola to open up discussion of the concepts (I pulled additional frames for further discussion after viewing the film in class).

After watching the film once through, we devoted class meetings to re-watching each ‘run’, and also for revisiting the prologue, the credits, and the background scene. I used fan art and paratexts like tag lines to demonstrate different ways of framing, thinking about, and relating to the movie.

Based on the final assignments, and course assessments, I got from students, this experiment worked pretty well. Many students were strongly engaged by film study, particularly in the formal aspect, much more so than with the novel or the comics. Indeed, one lesson I took from this experience is to devote more time to preparing students for thinking about the form of texts, whatever I choose to use. The film also seemed to work in the way that I had hoped in prompting reflection on Anderson’s framework at its most basic assumptions.

For the final paper, students were asked to write about Lola and philosophy of place, that is, whether students are persuaded by the film’s suggestion that being in place with others can have profound consequences even where what we do seems trivial on the surface, such as, for example, when Lola brushes, runs into, or avoids, “Doris”, the woman with baby carriage who Lola encounters shortly after leaving her apartment building, or to write about the film and Anderson’s way of defining places as “ongoing compositions of traces”, that is, in each version of the story different locations are shown to take on different meanings depending on what people do.

I was gratified to see that students were provoked both to think about these questions in a universalistic, “what it means to be human”, kind of way and also in ways that were more sensitive to difference, considering, for example, the ways in which Lola appears out of place, as in her father’s bank or at the casino. More students than I expected were able to make interesting connections to the form of the text and their discussions of cultural geographic themes.

One of the reasons I chose Anderson’s text to ground this course is that I think it gives students a more contemporary and clearly disciplinary view on cultural geography than do most survey-level books. Having different options for students to practice at becoming cultural geographers helps to further this goal of learning in a discipline and doing so in way that is actually relevant to what I do as a professional in the field. Intro courses, at least in geography, can often seem pretty far removed from faculty research and disciplinary practice, which is why these classes can often be a drag to teach. I think I am finding ways for that not to be the case, and it is making me a better teacher.

Storify in the classroom update

At the end of Winter 2011, I began experimenting with using Storify as a way to supplement class material and discussions. My thought was that, compared to use of course blogs, this would be a more efficient and visually appealing way to share content with students. My last update on this practice is from July of last year.

Here are thoughts and observations from this year.

  • The one class in which I consistently use Storify is GEOG 107, which is introductory cultural geography. I “reset” the timeline each term, meaning I strip the content out and rebuild it each quarter depending on what class discussion is like. I’ve noticed that with some sections I end up with a lengthy timeline and for others I only make a few additions. What’s interesting is that this does not seem to correlate with how often students seem to reference or read the narrative, or even, to how active and engaged a class is otherwise. For example, my current group of students includes a number of individuals who went to Storify from the class blog to read the faculty page for our textbook author, but, despite that early interest, I haven’t added anything new, and class discussions are, lively and interesting.
  • I suspect that my choice to use the service here is more dependent on what students are interested in than if they are. Some topics lend themselves better to further exploration and discussion online than others. I’ve noticed, for example, that I am most likely to use Storify in my intro course for follow-up to discussions about youth culture and the body, both of which are visually-oriented, at least in the way I teach them in this course. With other topics, whether I add material to Storify or not seems more dependent on what kinds of questions students ask or where I end up with loose ends than it does on the topic itself or levels of student engagement.
  • In Fall I taught a course on using digital video in the social sciences and made extensive use of Storify to share resources on filmmaking, but, based on class questions and use of the course blog, I’m not sure that very many students made use of that timeline, despite needing the help. I do see that I have 68 views of that page, which suggests that it got some use, but maybe not of the right kind. It did not seem as if students got into the habit of using that page as a reference for problem solving. It could be that the “timeline” format is not conducive to providing a ready reference for guidance, even though it does allow me to be responsive to questions as they arise in class. Or maybe students just preferred to be told what to do as opposed to working through problems themselves. I’m sure that someone in the class must have found those resources useful and I don’t know about it because they were successful on their own. In the future, I should think about asking students directly about their use of the site.
  • This term I am looking for supplemental material on a regular basis for my upper-division course in political geography, but I am relying on Pinterest (I even started two new boards to support the class, Geography graphics & Geopolitics) rather than Storify. This is something I noticed the other day, and have only begun to think about. I think one reason for this habit might be that I do not have a primary text assigned and, therefore, a less obvious “narrative spine” for the class on which to build a Storify page. It may also be that, for whatever reason, the convenience of “pinning” has made more sense for me when I have begun to look for material for this class than has working from my page on Storify.

Whether Storify or Pinterest, these resources have been valuable ways for me to share, especially, images, graphics, and videos with students, and are far preferable, and less time-consuming, than building Power Point slides or constantly embedding content on a blog.

Tension in the classroom

This week in learning assessments, there seem to be some odd tensions roiling under the surface of one of my classes, with students expressing frustration with:

  • Students who don’t show up to class.
  • Students who don’t contribute to class.
  • Students who contribute too much in class.
  • Students who show up not having done the reading.

In the case of the third point, at least one student noted my efforts to elicit participation from others as something they found helpful.

In the past, I have opened discussion of these kinds of issues on the class blog, but I think that the second week is too early for that. For now, I’ll wait-and-see how the culture of the class develops. These frustrations do suggest that I have a number students who feel invested in the course, and that is a good thing, but these kinds of expressions also seem to represent feelings that could turn toxic if not managed well.