“Jeremy? Why don’t we catch up with our friends now?” I asked as delicately as I could muster. A colleague and I were walking a small group of 3-4 year olds from our temporary preschool building to the neighborhood playground, a daily adventure. I was bringing up the rear to redirect any stragglers. Jeremy was walking slower than the other students who were excitedly hurrying to get to the playground. I waved my colleague on so she knew Jeremy and I would be along momentarily. Jeremy still hadn’t responded, just continued his snail’s pace, staring at the ground around him, and refusing to make eye contact with me. I tried again. “Hey Jeremy! Check it out, our friends are at the playground. Why don’t we join them!” Still no response, no eye contact. After a couple more times of me trying different approaches (“Look at how much fun our friends are having!!”) I was out of ideas. I got down on my knees in front of Jeremy. “Jeremy…please…” I was unable to hide my exasperation. “Can we go ahead and join our friends now?” Jeremy looked up and locked eyes with me, smiling, “Miss, sometimes you just have to stop and look at the poop.” [Story in honor of Ellen Hall]
As a designer and facilitator of learning opportunities for others, stories are the life-force of my work. Experience is essential for learning and change, and stories are how we make meaning from our experience. Never a lecturer, I use stories to liberate and articulate my experience in ways that have potential value to students. When told well stories have the power to arouse students’ emotions; given that people generally don’t pay attention to boring things, holding students’ attention is important for learning and memory (Heath & Heath, 2007; Medina, 2008). As my work moves increasingly into the digital space, stories help bridge the transactional distance between my students and I; stories — my stories and their stories — have helped us develop relationships that allowed us to better work together in our community of inquiry (Dunlap & Lowenthal, 2014; Lowenthal & Dunlap, 2010). The telling of stories has always helped me feel human in the digital space. “We cannot live for ourselves alone. Our lives are connected by a thousand invisible threads, and along these sympathetic fibers, our actions run as causes and return to us as results” (Herman Melville quote). Shared stories in the digital space have helped me experience those invisible threads as more tangible, more weighty, more undeniable.
But not all of my stories.
I’ve held onto Jeremy for years, carried him around in my back pocket and shared him in different ways multiple times with a variety of individuals and groups. Often for different reasons, with different points to illustrate.
I was in my first trimester and, as they say, sick as a dog. The results of your test came back. You had cancer. Inoperable. No cure. Three months…if we were “lucky”. You felt pretty good during the day, but in the evening you’d crawl up into my ever-diminishing lap for comfort. Each night I’d whisper in your ear, “You’re such a good dog at fighting this cancer. So brave.” And then would wish to myself, “Please hang in there long enough to see the baby…” Gillian was born on July 11th. To get used to her, we let you smell the blanket she was first swaddled in. You slowly crawled onto her blanket, and fell asleep. Although you didn’t feel well and were increasingly weak, you didn’t leave her side for a moment. You died at home on October 20th. You got to see the baby. And she got to be with you.
Her first word was — dog.
I carry several stories around in my back pocket because of their utility. Some of the stories I share with students are about teaching and learning events in more formal instructional spaces, such as university courses. Others are about ordinary moments in my life that have happened outside of a classroom but nevertheless speak to valued aspects of teaching and learning. My collection of stories reminds me of an exchange in the film The Bill Chill —
Michael: I don’t know anyone who could get through the day without two or three juicy rationalizations. They’re more important than sex.
Sam: Ah, come on. Nothing’s more important than sex.
Michael: Oh yeah? Ever gone a week without a rationalization?
Replace “rationalization” with “story” — storytelling is ubiquitous. I’m quite sure I’ve never gone a week without telling a story. With intention — to share, to connect, to stimulate an exchange. But why have I kept some stories at the ready when I’ve allowed others to dissipate? Why are some of my stories enduring, and others fleeting?
We were in a queue at the grocery store, waiting our turn to check out. With a three-year old’s enthusiasm she was reliving our earlier puddle-splashing. The woman in front of us turned and smiled at her. Asked her a couple of questions about the puddle-splashing. She then looked at me and said, “She’s beautiful.” I thanked her and she turned away to make her purchases. When we were done with our own purchases, she tugged on me, “Mommy?” I bent down so I could hear her whisper, “How did she know I was beautiful?”
Looking at my pocketful of stories, the enduring ones have an aesthetic that allows them to transcend a moment or a situation. Like a symphony, a painting, a film, a book, some stories have relevance and value beyond what the storyteller or author conceived. They are their own, breathe on their own — without rigid, calcified boundaries of definition and meaning. They are expansive. They are sticky. They are the boss of themselves. An enduring story is itself an aesthetic learning experience for those hearing the story and those who tell the story. Reflecting on my stories, they seem to have an enduring aesthetic because they possess four qualities: malleability, immediacy, compellingness, and resonance (Parrish, 2009; Parrish, Wilson, & Dunlap, 2011).
When I was a freshman at university, I had a course on the influential literature of the 1960s. On the Road, The Autobiography of Malcolm X, Soul on Ice, Franny and Zooey, Blues for Mister Charlie, Electric Koolaid Acid Test, The Teachings of Don Juan… For a punk-era (albeit neo-hippy) kid, these readings were magical. I felt enlightened, and was convinced I should have been a child of the sixties — I *was* stardust, I *was* golden, and I needed to get back to the garden! However, the professor of this course created such a disconnect. Did he even live — really LIVE — through the sixties?!? He was absent-minded, dispassionate, unrelatable on every level. I disliked him, and he was sullying my experience of a literature that belonged to ME. The class started as usual. I was doodling in my notebook, the low rumble of his voice as innocuous as the constant hum of the building’s generator. Suddenly the energy in the room changed… His voice sounded different. I looked up from my notebook, and he looked different. He began slowly, and then…he told us about a trip he’d taken to Dallas in which he went to the grassy knoll across from the schoolbook repository in order to experience that space. He described how he lined himself up on the knoll until he was in the spot he thought the President’s car was when the first shot was fired. With tears streaming down his face he said, “When I finally looked down at my feet to see where I was, I saw that the grass was worn away. I then realized that hundreds, maybe even thousands, of people pilgrimaged to this same spot and did exactly what I’d done. Lined themselves up in the same way. They were drawn…drawn to *this* spot…because they needed to be there.”
I’ve shared the Dallas pilgrimage story to open conversations with students on topics such as social presence in online courses, teaching with passion, being vulnerable as an educator, getting out from behind the podium, student engagement, and storytelling. In the hands of someone else, the Dallas pilgrimage story might be used to stimulate conversations about the tensions of the Cold War, the Baby Boomer generation, the making of a president, and gun control. In this way, enduring stories are malleable — allowing those who hear the story to determine personal meaning and relevance, and to be a co-owner or co-creator of the experience.
Not too long ago I *caught* breast cancer. As an educator I wanted to talk about my experience, using the social context to help me process. I quickly discovered how uncomfortable people are with talking about cancer — and breasts with cancer — in-person. The silence isolated me, made the diagnosis more ominous. I felt alone, but knew my situation wasn’t unique. I needed to talk about it or I’d be paralyzed by the unknown. In the quiet of my room, I stared at the glowing screen of my laptop. I started with a simple “breast cancer” search. Then “breast cancer surgery”, “bilateral mastectomy”, and “breast cancer treatment”. I connected with social-networking groups devoted to breast cancer: treatment, surgical options, recovery, “communicating with your children”, finding doctors, and so on. YouTube provided me with video diaries of women facing breast cancer. I shared my diagnosis via Facebook. My silence was broken, and with it everyone else’s. I received well-wishes, jokes, songs, “fuck cancer” memes — all to bring a smile to my face. And learned of friends’ cancer experiences. When my in-person community fell silent, my online community helped me with my process. They celebrated when I received the all-clear after treatment, and at every subsequent “ding dong the cancer’s dead” anniversary. And…surprisingly…being my online support network during my breast cancer seemed to help friends and family with their own experiences of cancer — past and present. The reciprocity helped to heal me — inside and out.
Enduring stories have a quality of immediacy. They create a sense of urgency and excitement; they capture the emotional authenticity of the situation described. My story about catching breast cancer is very personal as it involves a family facing the decision-making involved in disease treatment and management. And mom’s — i.e., my — now-questionable immortality, and my fear of dying or at least being forever marred by the experience. Those hearing the story are drawn in because of the vulnerability expressed, and the vulnerability is so intimate, immediate, present. So human as it describes core feelings that are shared between and among my students and I.
After spending months on the design and development of a new online course, applying theoretically and empirically sound instructional and community-building strategies to support student engagement and learning, I launched my new course without a hitch. The projects were relevant, involving students in real-world activities. The instructional materials were well designed, and students were encouraged to participate in the bounded course community and the professional community of practice for which they were preparing. A slam dunk, the course was a great success! I felt like I was a great success! Midway through the semester, a student emailed me, “Thank you for a great course. The materials are so useful, and the projects really have me applying what I’ve learned in the program. But, where are you?”
The stories I hang onto also have a narrative structure and sequence that makes them compelling, because those hearing the story want to find out what happens next. Often there’s a provocation or novelty that surprises those hearing the story, and that unknown or unexpected element drives them to listen intently. When I tell the story about the “slam dunk” course, the failure of “But, where are you?” is a surprise, creating an opportunity to evoke attention and interest.
When I was getting my MBA, Professor Brown came to class every day in the same frayed-at-the-elbow corduroy jacket and messy hair. He’d rush in, always late, and immediately start his lecture…without even looking at us. His lectures were monotone. He used hand-drawn and hand-smeared transparencies to reinforce important points…points that never seemed important.
When we arrived one Thursday, the classroom was the same, except there was a phone, a lamp, and a nameplate on the desk at the front of the room. At 9am sharp, a man entered. Pin-stripped suit; red silk tie and wing tips. I couldn’t believe it was Professor Brown. He looked directly at us and said, “Good morning. I’m glad you got set up in the conference room. As you know from my memo, I’ve got a mess on my hands and need your help. Look at these files, and brainstorm next steps. If you have any questions, just page me.”
Then, Professor Brown left the room.
We looked at each other and didn’t know what to do. Finally, we grabbed the files he’d left, and moved our desks closer together to start figuring it out. We kept an eye on the door waiting for him to come back. He didn’t.
From that point on, each time we came to class we found different files left for us, or a memo from the CEO informing us to expect a phone call from the personnel manager or the assembly line supervisor. Or that we had a meeting in 15 minutes with the evasive operations manager. Or, that the board needed an update on our progress in an hour. And, sure enough, these individuals – all role-played by Professor Brown – would call or show up. Over six weeks we collected the information we needed to complete our report and present our findings to the board.
I was toying with the idea of being a systems analyst before taking Professor Brown’s course. That didn’t happen. Instead, I’m a professor…hoping that I’m half the teacher Professor Brown was. This is not only a story I’ve shared with others many times to invite exploration and conversation on a variety of instructional topics, it’s a story I tell myself at the start of every new semester, whenever I create a new learning opportunity for students, whenever I think I’ve got nothing left to give my students. It reverberates through me, on a constant loop, on my own professional-life mixtape.
I was explaining something about the dynamics in her kindergarten class that she clearly didn’t appreciate. I watched her as she rolled her eyes. I kept going, hoping my point would eventually resonate. Again she rolled her eyes. I was summarizing when she rolled her eyes again. “Did you just roll your eyes at me?!?” Without missing a beat, “No. I was just practicing doing this,” as she rolled her eyes again.
Resonance is about reverberation. And I so want my stories to reverberate for my students. I hope my stories endure because they kindle — even amplify — images, emotions, and memories that are unique to each student hearing the story. That reverberation creates connection — connection to the story, connection to past stories, connection to future actions and new stories. Connection between and among us. Connection to our shared humanness.
References:
Dunlap, J. C., & Lowenthal, P. R. (2014). The Power of presence: Our quest for the right mix of social presence in online courses. In A. A. Piña & A. P. Mizell (Eds.) Real life distance education: Case studies in practice (pp. 41-66). Greenwich, CT: Information Age Publishers.
Heath, C., & Heath, D. (2007). Made to stick: Why some ideas survive and others die. New York: Random House.
Lowenthal, P.R., & Dunlap, J.C. (2010). From pixel on a screen to real person in your students’ lives: Establishing social presence using digital storytelling. Internet and Higher Education,13(1-2), 70-72.
Medina, J. (2008). Brain rules: 12 principles for surviving and thriving at work, home, and school. Seattle, WA: Pear Press.
Parrish, P. (2009). Aesthetic principles for instructional design. Educational Technology Research & Development, 57, 511–528.
Parrish, P., Wilson, B. G., & Dunlap, J. C. (2011). Learning experience as transaction: A framework for instructional design. Educational Technology, 51(2), 15-22.