by Keith A. Crutcher, PhD

On the nature versus nurture controversy, I once heard someone say that all behavior is 100% genetic and 100% environmental.  Although mathematicians might argue the point, the essential idea sounds right to me. There is no meaningful way to separate these two influences on development, and any approach to education that denies the contribution of either factor is, in my mind, incomplete.  As an educator, I have no control over the genetic part, but I can influence the environment. 

I have been teaching off and on over the past 30 years using various formats and technologies but only recently embarked on my first trial of Blackboard for a class I taught this past summer.  I found myself using an electronic version of the old-fashioned slate chalk board I used when applying for a faculty position at the University of Cincinnati twenty-one years ago.

Once class began, one thing became immediately obvious—these students have, for the most part, grown up in a digitized world with ready access to more information than any generation before them.  They are Facebook-savvy, Nintendo ninjas unphased by multiple-data streams bombarding them from all sides.  Need to find a recent paper on the internet?  No problem.  Assigned to generate a PowerPoint presentation in a couple of hours using images, and maybe ideas, “borrowed” from various web sites?  Just a few mouse clicks and then…voila! These are bright students, and, like all bright students before them, they have adapted to the current educational niche.  They can navigate a media ecosystem that would (and does) simply perplex their parents and grandparents (”Why is that little computer icon waving at me?”). So they are unphased by Blackboard or any other digital tools.

by Elissa Sonneberg, MSEd

Last week, in a moment of crystal clarity, I realized why it is that I love my job. Why it doesn’t seem like work so much as exploration—less duty, more wonder. I am a teacher. And so is Wynton Marsalis, who I watched lead a master class and talk music at the University of Cincinnati. I quickly moved him from the “superstar” to “real human” category as I sat within 10 feet of him and his meticulously tailored suit. He perched on a small stage where students who joined him sat in cheap folding chairs and wore flip flops and madras shorts.

At first, it was easy to read his quiet as disdain, or paper-thin tolerance, especially when he answered questions. But in his awkward glances, his almost-whispered replies, he seemed more restless than arrogant. The portion of the class that focused on him—the laundry list of jazz greats who hung out in his childhood kitchen, his feud with Miles Davis—just plain bored him.

by our experienced yet anonymous “Points of View” professor

I like to try new experiences in my classroom. Sometimes I ask students to work in groups to research questions and summarize their findings in oral presentations. Sometimes I use a canned talk with PowerPoint slides. Sometimes I come to class ill-prepared, and other times I’ve spent hours working on a lecture that maps everything to Bloom’s taxonomy and clearly identifies my learning objectives and rubrics for student assessment. But at the end of all of this experimentation, I’m still left wondering whether it’s pedagogy or charisma that results in my accolades as a teacher.

by  Barbara Macke, MSLS

It often feels like meeting someone in a bar. Not like a rendezvous with an old friend after work, but a chance encounter—a glance that accidentally catches a glance. You know what this is like. Eyes avert, then reconnect, a little glimmer of possibilities. You wonder—should we even be having this conversation? Will it be worth it? Should I slide down a couple of seats and say hello?

This is how the first day of college teaching feels to me. I look out at twenty plus pair of eyes, and I begin to think—will the entire quarter be like a giant, one-night stand? Will we ever really get to know each other? Does it even matter?

by Roger Wright, JD

My grandfather and my father were storytellers.  They used the “story” to tell jokes, share the events of the day, and to teach.  When listening to their illustrative ramblings, I could visualize how to fish or how to rebuild a carburetor.  Then in 1974, I became a Memphis, Tennessee police officer and was surrounded by storytellers.  They all wore dark blue uniforms, carried guns, and spoke with soft southern growls.  And they all shared the commitment to teach their colleagues the constant lessons they learned from the tough streets of Memphis.  Some folks may have viewed these just as war stories, but this young officer enthusiastically absorbed every detail.  It was free education that was often more valuable than the lessons offered  at my beloved Memphis State University.   I learned about law and procedure in my college classrooms, but I learned how to manage behaviors, negotiate, and even teach from these crusty law-enforcement veterans.

 There is, and always has been, a problem in higher education.  We select and hire our faculty primarily on their achievements in their specific disciplines, often with little or no concern about their teaching skills.  While that provides us with some of the best research scholars on the planet, it can occasionally create a disservice to our students.  Anyone who has ever attended college in the United States has complained about some egghead professor who is probably a genius but can’t teach.  The dude may understand quantitative analysis but isn’t able to transfer that knowledge to his students.  When this occurs, the students block him out and all the wonderful knowledge that comes with him.  And worse yet, they sometimes decide that the professor does not care about them.  Now they have wasted their money and time and have added no value to their educational process.  My initiation into academia was no different.  UC found an ex-cop with a law degree.  Other than teaching a few guitar lessons now and then, I had no teaching experience. Fortunately, I had studied teaching techniques on the streets of Memphis.

by our new yet anonymous “Points of View” professor

Intimidating. Frightening. Scary. These are not the words I ever expected to receive on any evaluations, but in all their varying forms and phrases, they were a constant refrain in my first UC student evaluations. When I started at UC in the fall of 2006 (I had taught previously while I completed my PhD), I had grown accustomed to seeing words like “hard,” “demanding,” and “rigorous.” Prior to graduate school, I taught in the Army, and later, as a professional consultant, I led a myriad of training sessions. In all of these situations, I had never once been called intimidating or frightening or scary.

I tried to replay in my mind my teaching persona at UC compared to my previous personas. I could not for the life of me come up with a substantial difference that would account for the students’ new perceptions of me. I told myself I would wait and see what the next quarter’s evaluations showed. Alas, the same thing. In the third quarter, I tried a new tactic and asked a colleague to visit my class. And guess what? Yep, she used the word “intimidating,” too. Even though I had a detailed conversation with my colleague, she couldn’t specify why or how she felt that way. She attributed it to a combination of factors. It was, simply, my presence in the classroom.

by the anonymous author of “The Raised Hand”

Question:

I’m beginning to think I should have become a corrections officer rather than a teacher. I’ve been a faculty member at UC for 14 years and recently have encountered student behaviors unlike anything experienced during the early part of my career.