My Passion Not My Profession

Here is something I recently read on a fascinating new piece of research: (Parenthetical comments are mine)

" Apparently, teachers who are motivated mainly by intrinsic factors, so called "autonomous motivation," have a greater
sense of personal accomplishment and fewer feelings of exhaustion. (THIS, I MIGHT ADD IS CALLED, JOY)
Perhaps more importantly, they promote autonomy-supported teaching
which offers students choice and greater clarification of subject relevance.*(THIS MEANS THAT STUDENTS REALIZE THAT THE SUBSTANCE OF THEIR EDUCATION MATTERS, AND THAT THEY HAVE A SAY IN WHAT THEY CHOOSE TO LEARN)
This type of teaching then is reflected in students' more positive feelings
for the task at hand and greater behavioral engagement. (THIS MEANS THAT STUDENTS ARE BOTH LEARNING AND ENJOYING THEMSELVES)
The researchers for this study concluded with concern that the increase in high stakes testing would
have a detrimental effect on these highly effective teachers (THIS MEANS THAT WE MAY BE LOSING MANY OF THE BEST AND BRIGHTEST)
by making them feel "less autonomous and consequently act in more controlling ways toward
their students." Roth, G. et al. (2007). Journal of Educational Psychology. Vol 99(4), 761-774.
(THIS MEANS THAT NO CHILD LEFT BEHIND IS A HUGE FAILURE)

Comments

Mr. Greene v. Mr. Brown

I want to tell you about something. Something I've carried inside myself for a number of years now. Perhaps if I were a different kind of person I wouldn't need to talk about it. I'm not. My need to tell it is stronger than your need to hear it. Because, however, there are a number of teachers and former students of mine who may read these meanderings from time to time, I need to tell this story all the more. About 7 or 8 years ago I was asked if I would allow a university PhD. candidate to observe an English class. At first I decided against it because I was scheduled to have a student teacher placed with me the second half of the semester in question. After some urging, however, at the request of a respected colleague, I agreed. Soon I was committing to extra meetings, signing documents and explaining to the class in question who the young woman who thoughtfully pounded away on a laptop in the rear of the classroom three times a week was. I knew that the topic of ...

Illusory

What does it take to enrage you? That moment when your words fly on pure emotion because enough is enough. Is it a driver that cuts you off at high speed? What about being an eyewitness to blatant racism or on the receiving end of some obvious injustice? I know some people who never express rage. I admire them but know full well I am not capable of such distance from that which would bring about such a strong response. Another senseless shooting and 7 people die at the hands of a mentally ill gun owner. The father of the 20 year old college student lets it fly and somehow millions feel a new sense of relief. He calls the politicians bastards who do nothing, he wears his pain in public. The news media responds but we all know that nothing is going to change. We are the gun country. We are the place where anybody, anytime, can be cut down just for being there when somebody else snaps. Usually the perpetrators are delusional. ...

Body Language

I'm sitting there in a hospital gown, waiting for my doctor to complete my yearly physical. This is when I look at everything on the walls, read the medical posters, the instructions on any equipment in the room, look in every corner and behind every chair. I study the paper on the examination table, laugh out loud at the picture of a smiling child holding a bouquet of broccoli, and the note the placement of the computer in the room. Finally, wondering if the gown I'm wearing is on correctly, I focus on myself. At this point in my life I'm fairly comfortable in a doctor's office. But it always seems to take so long when waiting for the doc to enter. So I fidget. Then I begin a tour of myself. Scars are tattoos. I look at the one on my knee and see myself at 12. Whittling a piece of wood with my Boy Scout jack knife. The blade slips and I cut a crescent slash through my jeans and into my flesh for life. 50 years later ...

Daily Blues & Views

Search This Blog