When I became a teacher, I promised myself I'd prepare my students properly. As a result, for six years, I have favored teaching skills over content by encouraging students to engage with primary sources to inform highly analytical, well-written essays. This all seemed fine to me — until last fall.
The Dispassion of Dispassionate Voices
Last fall, many of my junior American history students struggled with effective structure, topic sentences, transitions, and analysis. So I upped the ante. I ran a series of writing workshops centered on William Strunk and E.B. White's The Elements of Style. Students repeatedly practiced refining their writing to employ the active voice, more effective analysis, and smoother transitions. I provided an onslaught of formal writing assignments, including many that required students to craft dispassionate responses to a slew of historical documents. Though tedious, this formulaic instruction had worked. By the end-of-year holidays, most of my students were writing beyond a college freshman level.
Still, I persisted by assigning yet another essay to really cement evidence of learning.
That's when the students spoke up.
"We're tired of writing such structured history essays," one of my strongest students told me. "Please, not another one."
Another student who had consistently performed well in class threw up her hands in despair. "We'll do anything else," she said. "Just please, not another major writing assignment. I can't do it again."
It was not so much what they were saying, but how they were saying it that got to me. These were not just students whining to get out of an assignment. They were dedicated students willing to push hard in school. But they were losing faith.
Listening to the students, I experienced an epiphany. Instead of trying to mold future award-winning historians, I should strive to help make young minds excited about the learning process. I had succeeded only in making them frustrated with learning, and bored with how they were asked to demonstrate understanding. They could write well, but they were not interested in writing for writing's sake.
It became instantly clear to me: If I wanted to prepare students to succeed in this young, complicated, and challenging century, I needed to inspire them to care about learning. To that end, I had to think more creatively about how young people develop and express ideas. I wanted to continue teaching effective writing, of course, but not at the expense of stifling creativity — and turning students off to learning.
Learning from Alternative Assessment
Last year, shortly before his retirement, then-NAIS President Patrick F. Bassett, said to me, "School is where creativity goes to die, because kids come to us as four- and five-year-olds, incredibly divergent in their thinking, incredibly imaginative and creative, and by the fourth grade, we kill it."1 Certainly, this isn't true of all schools or teachers, but I could see its truth in my own teaching. I needed to make a change.
In my research on alternative means of assessment that foster creativity, I learned about a number of schools and programs pushing for a better approach. One such program is the Workshop School in Philadelphia, an alternative education program that champions project-based learning to convey mastery of math and science. The mission of the school is "to create schools that unleash the creative and intellectual potential of young people to solve the world's toughest problems." Last spring, I spoke with cofounder Simon Hauger, an engineer turned math and science teacher.
"Very seldom, especially as we get older," Hauger said, "[do] you see the natural curiosity little kids have. For the most part, the education system squishes that out of them. They become much more proficient at giving the teacher what he or she wants, which is a shame. That clearly minimalizes our ability as human beings, all the great and wonderful things our minds are capable of, and the great feelings of satisfaction we get when we are using our minds in those ways."2
At the Workshop School, among other things, students used their creativity to build hybrid race cars that often outperformed those built by teams at major research institutions, including the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. To the best of my knowledge, no student essay, however great, has ever received public recognition from the president of the United States. But the Workshop School students have.
Macauley reinforced my belief that, now more than ever, students need to see the relevance of what they learn — and they want to see tangible and immediate results of their labor.
What impressed the president? "[The program] challenged them to solve problems and to work together, to learn and build and create," President Barack Obama noted. "And that's the kind of spirit and ingenuity we have to foster. That's the potential that we can harness all across America."3
Last April, I spoke with Stefon Gonzalez, who graduated from the school in 2012. He led a team that built a hybrid vehicle capable of traveling up to 150 mph on very little fuel. He spoke with sheer enthusiasm about his learning experience.
"Before high school, I used to read magazines, watch nerdy car TV shows, and tinker on cars with my brother Anton," he said. "But to actually be on a team that built a car from ground up and raced it — that was a whole different story. This is why I loved going to the Workshop. It felt like family."4
Gonzalez's comments reminded me of students at Brightworks, another forward-thinking school in San Francisco that opened in 2011. In this entirely project-based environment, students of varying ages work in teams, not by grade level, to explore a theme — or what Brightworks calls an "arc."
First, students learn from outside experts about a particular topic. Afterward, each student enjoys tremendous freedom to find an effective way to express understanding. In the final phase, students present their work and engage in self-reflection on their learning.
"You have to be on your toes a lot and be very creative in your approach to teaching and following a group's interest," Program Coordinator Justine Macauley says. "Maybe there's a math problem that a group is exploring but butting up against, and that's when you have to have a teaching moment and say, 'OK, so here's how we do probability.'"5
In other words, students learn content best when they are motivated to do so in order to excel on a project. The more I learned from Macauley, the more I wanted to give my students similar latitude in choosing how to demonstrate mastery. If a student encountered unexpected challenges, I might offer help or encourage her to find her own solution.
Macauley reinforced my belief that, now more than ever, students need to see the relevance of what they learn — and they want to see tangible and immediate results of their labor. Much of this, I believe, has to do with the immediacy the Internet provides, or possibly our pervasive culture of instant gratification. Whatever the reason, more and more students feel embittered by the current system, which, through traditional forms of assessment, fails to foster creativity and attempts to delay learning gratification for many years — if it delivers at all.
Recently, I spoke with Tony Wagner, author of numerous education books including, most recently, Creating Innovators: The Making of Young People Who Will Change the World. Like many other education reformers, Wagner champions project-based learning. "I think it takes time for some kids to rediscover their intrinsic motivation," Wagner says. "We're born with it. It's in human DNA to be curious, creative, and imaginative. That is often schooled out of us."6
Wagner also tells me that teachers should give students the sets of skills that enable them to create new opportunities — and to pursue areas of personal interest.
Combining the Best of Both
Instinctively, I bore all of this in mind last year when, instead of assigning another paper, I asked my history students to think of creative ways to convey their understanding of Jack London's "The Apostate," a short story about child labor in the 1890s. In whatever form students saw fit, they were to compose a sequel about Johnny, the main character, in order to convey a deeper understanding of issues at the turn of the last century.
One student, a talented artist, drew a large charcoal portrait of Johnny leaning against a wall in a New York City alley. Initially, I found it difficult to foresee how a portrait, however great, could convey a deeper understanding of a short story. I allowed her to continue — but on the condition that she would also provide an oral presentation about how Johnny found himself in New York. She spent hours perfecting her piece before, during, and after school. Upon seeing the final product, I was awed by the degree of raw emotion she had captured in Johnny's right eye, as hair covers the left part of the face. His boney figure also told a haunting story, which no amount of text could convey as well.
One student, a talented artist, drew a large charcoal portrait of Johnny leaning against a wall in a New York City alley.
Mostly quiet throughout the year during class discussions, a completely transformed student offered a passionate, detailed impression of her fictional Johnny's life. For the rest of the year, she also showed increased interest in history, raising her hand much more often to offer deep, valuable insight.
Another student, a supremely talented writer, created a fictional journal that Johnny could have kept throughout his life. Her elegant prose lit up the page, and she seamlessly integrated major historical events into her narrative — including World War I, the Great Depression, and the New Deal. I had always appreciated this student's exceptional ability to make objective, dispassionate historical observations, but this assignment really opened my eyes to her equally impressive creative achievement.
"It's important to hone the historian's craft, but I was growing tired of always trying to include succinct, objective analysis in formal essays," she recently told me. "This assignment encouraged me to express my emotions through Johnny, and it was an incredibly rewarding, relieving, and rejuvenating experience."
Despite her advanced skills, this student would often seek me out, stressed about meeting specific expectations for essays. This project, on the other hand, gave her renewed confidence not only in her intelligence but also in her ability to complete future assignments without frequent reassurance from me.
Yet another student, a talented actor, wrote a screenplay in which Johnny sneaks on a train to New York with several runaways. The characters exchange stories about their hardships, while expressing hope for a brighter future. The screenplay isn't jam-packed with historical references, nor does it offer a complete picture of the period. All the same, it's wholly authentic, capturing the moods, hopes, and dreams of a young man facing an uncertain future. Had I assigned an essay, it's unlikely that my student could have conveyed such insightful, creative understanding.
Previously, this student had performed poorly on several essays, and his grade had dropped significantly. He would eventually work hard to revise his work, but a break from formal writing afforded him a much-needed opportunity to reflect and recover. He finished the year exceptionally strong, earning an "A+" on the final exam.
"Thanks to you, I came out of your course with my head held high and full of new historical knowledge," he wrote me in a recent email. "You went above and beyond, and I really appreciate it."
This screenplay reminded me of a student for whom I recorded a "0" the year prior. He was also a talented actor who had starred in many school productions. I never gave him much of a chance to be creative, or use the skills he felt most passionate about tuning. Worse, by not supporting his creativity I didn't help make him excited about learning or expressing his understanding of history.
I should have investigated why he didn't complete the assignment. Was it because he didn't understand the material? Doubtful. He always scored well on quizzes and tests. Was it because life got in the way? Perhaps, but I didn't think to ask at the time. So I recently tracked him down and asked.
"I was juggling two AP classes, helping out with the middle school play, and studying for the SAT," he says now. "Between all of this and trying to have a life, I was overwhelmed."
Despite his busy schedule, had I asked him to demonstrate his mastery creatively, he would have found the time to produce something extraordinary.
"I would have really enjoyed writing a screenplay," he says. "I really didn't want to write another essay, and that way I could have demonstrated my understanding of the material while also doing something I am tremendously passionate about pursuing. Had that option been presented to me, it's definitely much more likely that I would have submitted something great."
Inspiring Lifelong Learning
Creative assessment can accomplish much more than simply helping students convey deeper understanding of relevant content; it can inspire lifelong aspirations. Just take it from the Workshop School graduate Stefon Gonzalez, who in addition to building energy-efficient cars helped create La Casa Verde, a program that repurposes old shipping containers into new homes erected on empty lots in Philadelphia — solving three problems at once. Gonzalez, who now serves as a vehicle and equipment mechanic for the Southeastern Pennsylvania Transportation Authority, was very clear about the value of his time on this project: "The Workshop has definitely prepared me for my life and chosen career."7
All of this isn't to say that teaching effective writing can't or shouldn't belong under creative assessment. I also teach online journalism, and I'm constantly reinforcing the importance of clear prose. To craft a good article, essay, or story, one needs to know how to craft a good sentence. One needs to understand structure and good transitions, and I still teach these skills. At the same time, I encourage my students to find their own connections to the subject matter and to think of various media — not just writing — to convey an interesting story. I revel in having students experiment with emerging technologies — from video to podcasts, photography, and more — to be engagingly creative.
"Very often, students leave high school without any idea of what they want to major in," says one of my students, whom I taught last year in journalism and government. "I had the chance to create my own assignments and cover my own stories — using similar tools that cutting-edge newsrooms use today. I wasn't just doing theory; I was doing real, practical work. As a result, it allowed me to be certain of my decision to pursue a career in journalism."
In thinking about effective teaching for the 21st century, teachers should augment their curriculum with creative methods of assessment — in age-appropriate ways at all academic levels. We must teach the fundamentals of writing, and every other subject, but we must also accommodate and support students' interests. We must understand the value of creativity in learning — and help each other, as teachers, develop new assessments that tap student creativity. In this way, we will help develop the smart, confident, engaged, happy, problem-solving citizens of the future that our mission statements say we'll develop. Equally important, we'll discover a greater sense of fulfillment as teachers. And what could be better than that?
Notes
1. Personal interview with Patrick F. Bassett, March 24, 2013.2. Personal interview with Simon Hauger, March 28, 2013.
3. PBS: Frontline, "Obama's Shout-Out to the West Philly EVX Team." Published July 18, 2012. www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/education/fast-times-at-west-philly-high/obamas-shout-out-to-the-west-philly-evx-team/.
4. Personal interview with Stefon Gonzalez, April 1, 2013.
5. Personal interview with Justine Macauley, March 17, 2013.
6. Personal interview with Tony Wagner, May 2, 2013.
7. Gonzalez interview.
