The other day I came across this Tweet from Annie Forest. I thought to myself, “Yes, yes, yes! All of this!” I liked the Tweet, retweeted it with some thoughts of my own, and moved on. When I woke up this morning, a good friend in the United States had texted me that she saw my retweet and also resonated with Forest’s message, which prompted me to reflect further.
I initially saw Forest’s tweet and connected with it because I have recently realized how much I don’t know. I’m nearing the 9-month mark of my first year as a Ph.D. student, during which I’ve read an extensive amount on teaching mathematics. Currently, my Endnote sits at 293 references. I am curious how many I’ve actually read, though, as many seem to get lost in the mix. Each article I read is bound to stir up some sort of emotion. Excitement, confusion, frustration, exhaustion, hope. However, no matter how I feel after reading, I’ve always learned something.
As an instructional coach, I aimed to help teachers create mathematics lessons that would reach learners of all abilities. I wanted students to become engaged in high-level mathematics, see its connection to the real world, and truly enjoy learning. I also desired to help teachers find the joy of teaching mathematics. I encouraged collaboration, hands-on activities, problem-solving, and for teachers to embrace facilitating learning rather than being a gate-keeper of knowledge. I frowned upon the use of timed tests, memorization of procedures and steps, and reliance on workbook pages and textbooks. I relied on my own enthusiasm for teaching mathematics to encourage others to follow in my footsteps.
However, as I replayed my own experiences in my mind, I began to criticize my past self. During my time as a math coach, I hope I was able to make a positive impact on students’ and teachers’ lives in the mathematics world. However, a part of me wonders if I should have pushed more to build a culture of openness, collaboration, and trust. I wonder if I didn’t push my ideas of what a mathematics classroom should look like too often. Teaching is incredibly complex, and the problems teachers encounter daily are messy. A problem may have a different solution in one classroom than the next. Yet, we often try to make all teachers and students fit nicely into the same box.
If we fail to understand the experiences teachers are having, how can we begin to know what solutions will work? Yet, I’ve seen teachers afraid to share their failures in a meeting. Afraid to open their doors to show what their classroom actually looks like. Afraid to admit they don’t know.
What if education shifted and we began to foster a culture of openness? Asking, what worked in your classroom, and why do you think it was successful? What obstacles did you face? How did you or did you not overcome them? What are you considering trying and why? All teachers should feel their voices are being heard. Dismissing a teacher’s curiosity, experiences, or perspectives for any reason is unproductive.
In my own experiences, I’ve witnessed teachers who have the best test scores placed on pedestal. We look to them for answers and become frustrated if we cannot mimic their success. When we create “experts” whose opinions we value more than others, do we isolate everyone else? The teacher’s voice is unheard, but who ultimately suffers? I would suggest it’s the students. However, all teachers should have a seat at the table. The thoughts and opinions of each teacher have the potential to contribute invaluable information to understand how to best teach mathematics. Even if someone only had stories of failures to share, we could learn from them.
There is no perfect formula for teaching mathematics. Nor do I think there will ever be. The characteristics of a learning environment are simply too complex to offer a one-size-fits-all solution. I’m wary of anyone who offers one.
