(originally published by Catapult Learning., LLC, at http://www.catapultlearning.com/2013/03/28/teaching-as-storytelling/)
The T-shirt said:
Episode IV comes first; it’s just good parenting.
I shared the picture on Facebook. Within an hour, I had a
ton of “likes” and comments. One friend posted a link to a blog
post explaining precisely how to order the six Star Wars movies for maximum enjoyment and minimum second-trilogy
annoyance. It was an exercise in hard-core geekdom, but it took the Star Wars story—and the whole idea of
story—more seriously than many English teachers I have known. When you’re a
fan, you care that the true identity of Darth Vader is a surprise and a shock. You care that watching the movies in
George Lucas’ approved order destroys that shock and surprise. Sometimes fans understand
a story better than its creator.
Stories matter. We spend millions of dollars and millions of
hours on stories—stories in books, stories in movies, stories on television
shows. We dissect them. We analyze them. We take sides. (Team Edward? No: Team
Jacob!) We get angry when someone messes with them. Our dreams, our folk tales,
our mythologies, our history—all of these things take the form of stories.
Stories are how our brains make sense of life.
What is it that makes some stories work, while others leave
us untouched? I think there are two very basic, essential pieces to the puzzle:
- We don’t know what is going to happen next, but
- We care what is going to happen next.
It doesn’t have to be any more complicated than that. Think
about this scene from Raiders of the Lost
Ark:
It’s very early in the movie. We don’t know who this man is. We don’t really know what he’s up to, or why he needs the thing in his hand. There have been very few words--we have to watch closely and pay attention to follow the action. But somehow, even though we don’t know the character, we’re completely connected to what he is doing, and we’re worried about what will happen to him. There is a sense of danger; the stakes are life-and-death, even though we may not understand them yet. Three minutes into the movie, we are hooked. We are engaged. We are invested.
The fact is, we are storytelling animals—story-making
animals. We can’t help ourselves. Put any series of events or situations in a
line and we will turn them into a story and ask what happens next. We will
force a pattern, even where none exists.
If you doubt me, take a look at this series of pictures and
see if you can avoid making connections that create a story:
Now, just for fun, see what happens if you rearrange the
pictures:
And, of course, when you remove certain elements, it affects
the story we imagine:
The title of this blog post is “Teaching as Storytelling,”
so obviously I’m trying to make a connection. Am I saying that our classes must
be as engaging and suspenseful as an Indiana Jones movie? Should our students
have to dodge giant, rolling boulders in order to get a good grade? No…though
it’s tempting, sometimes.
What we say in class, how we say it, the order we in which
we say it, and what we leave out…all of these things are enormously important because students are not simply receiving
information from us. They are engaged in a story with us, whether we intend
them to be or not.
Now, obviously, not all subjects lend themselves to
storytelling in a literal way. There are very few characters you can forge an
emotional connection with in math classes (unless you happen to be teaching Flatland).
However, there is intellectual
engagement to be had, and there is always at least one character who has
something at stake in the outcome. We say that learning should be an adventure
for our students, but do we really believe it? We say that learning should be a
journey, but do we talk to students in the language of travel? Do we make sure
they’ve packed properly, that they have a map, and that they’re ready for the
challenges that lie ahead? Do we spend time to get them excited about where
they’re going?
If we want our students to be personally and emotionally
connected to what we’re teaching, if we want them to feel like characters
engaged in an important story or journey, we should able to answer at least
some of the following questions for ourselves, even if students never think to
ask them:
- In what ways will this course connect me to the larger world?
- What do I need to understand about that world?
- How might that understanding change the way I think about things?
- How might that understanding change the way I think about myself?
- What’s the Big Payoff if I hang in till the end?
- What is at stake if I do not hang on till the end?
Every class has an arc to it, a shape. We start somewhere.
We end somewhere else. Students don’t always know where they are going—it has
to be revealed, moment by moment. That is what creates suspense.
Yes, I know, we’ve all been told to post our learning
objectives and talk about our learning objectives and write syllabi and lay
everything out for our students. We’ve been told to reveal everything and make
everything super-clear. But there is a benefit to withholding some information
and being purposeful about what you reveal and when you reveal it. There’s a
benefit to having students wonder what’s going to happen next.
Think about the classic model of storytelling we all learned
in school: the movement from exposition to rising action to climax and
denouement. Then think about the elements of good instructional technique and
curriculum writing. They’re not so very different. A great class has some of
the elements of a good mystery story. A question or mystery is posed. Clues are
discovered and analyzed. Pieces are put together. Conclusions are reached.
Thinking of curriculum as a mystery that gradually unfolds
and needs to be solved should lead us to think differently about what we say in
class and how we say it. If we want our students to be actively engaged in identifying
and solving problems, we have to stop spoon-feeding them information. We have
to stop putting all the pieces together and tying them up with a bow.
As the author of the Star
Wars blog said, it matters that you gasped in shock when you first discovered
that Darth Vader was Luke’s father. That shock—that emotional resonance—is a
major part of people’s love for the original movies. Why would you ever want to
deny new viewers that pleasure—that emotional engagement?
As teachers, we are people who love our subject matter.
Something engaged us, way back when we first encountered it. Something
connected with us, intrigued us, made us ask questions and want to know
more. Our job now, as teachers, is to give
students what was once given to us—those moments of engagement and excitement
that made us want to set off on our journey of learning. Our job is to be great
storytellers—to put students in the cave with Indy, leaning forward in their
chairs, pencils in hand, asking, “What happens next?”
Now, perhaps you’re snickering or rolling your eyes. Perhaps
you’re thinking, “Doing long division is not exactly as suspenseful as stealing
idols from a dark and dangerous cave.” And you’re right. It’s not. But the
stakes are just as high for our students…and the pathway is strewn with
booby-traps.
It’s not easy, what we’re asking students to do every day.
It’s not simple. Not everyone completes the journey. In some of our
neighborhoods, barely half of the kids make it to the end of their schooling
story. Not everyone comes out with an armload of treasure, either. That’s a
fact. So don’t tell me it’s not an adventure, or that the stakes aren’t life
and death. Every moment we have with our students matters. Every moment is a
chance to hand them the sword and say, “Go slay the dragon.”
Maybe we should stop plastering our walls with signs that
say things like, “All students will learn,” and start putting up signs that
say, “Heroes required.”
