Things I’ve Stopped Doing After 20 Years of Teaching

I used to think that if students weren’t completing an assignment, the problem was they hadn’t listened, read the directions, or successfully managed their time. But, after more than 20 years of teaching, I challenge myself with this question: What obstacles have I unintentionally created?

If I ask them to write a compelling argument, I want their energy going toward developing it, not deciphering my directions, decoding the learning target, or trying to figure out what success is supposed to look like. It’s important for students to persevere, wrestle with a difficult text, struggle to articulate an idea, revise writing that isn’t working, or sit with a problem whose answer isn’t immediately obvious. I want students to develop grit, a growth mindset, and the gumption to keep going when the answer doesn’t come easily. I don’t want to remove challenges, but I do want to remove obstacles that have nothing to do with academic growth. I want students to spend their time on thinking instead of hunting down a tech tool or trying to figure out which of the seven URLs linked on the Canvas module they’re supposed to open.

I Stopped Making Students Hunt for Things

“Where do I find that?” “When is it due?” “What am I turning in?”

For years, these questions frustrated me: “It’s on our LMS. I showed you!” “We’ve reviewed the deadline many times. It’s right there.” 

Eventually, I started to realize how many steps “right there” actually required.

Now, I aim to put all resources in one place and provide steps in a checklist. I put reminders on the classroom whiteboard, via Canvas announcements, or a shared calendar.

I tell myself that my class is only one part of a student’s day. Every teacher has a different system for assigning, collecting, and returning work. Even within one class, a student might go to Canvas to find and submit an assignment, open Google Docs to receive feedback, and then check Infinite Campus to see the final score. Multiply that by seven or eight classes, and we’re asking students to manage a surprisingly complex system before they ever get to the learning.

Individually, no step is difficult. Collectively, they can become an obstacle, especially for a student who struggles with organization, time management, attention, or executive functioning, or for anyone whose Chromebook is moving at a glacial pace or whose Wi-Fi drops.

I’ve stopped assuming that because I can navigate my course efficiently, my students can too. I reduce the number of places students need to look. I put resources together. I use consistent naming conventions and predictable locations, and increasingly, I use paper. A paper checklist can give students a place to see what they need to do, where to find the resources in Canvas, and when and where to submit their work. They can keep it beside their computer and check off steps instead of repeatedly switching between the directions and the assignment. Sometimes having that physical reference makes a digital task easier to navigate.

I Stopped Writing Directions for Myself

I’ve created assignments that were clear, concise, and direct and then watched as my students interpreted them in different ways. Earlier in my career, I might have concluded that the students weren’t reading carefully enough. But now, I treat repeated questions as data and consider that maybe my directions weren’t clear.

I refocus the student with a visible path: Here’s what we’re doing; here’s why; and here’s what finished looks like.

At the same time, I’ve learned that clarity doesn’t have to be prescriptive. I want students to understand the learning goal and expectations but still be able to choose how best to demonstrate what they know. One student might write; another might create a visual, record a podcast, design an infographic, or build something on a 3D printer. If the medium isn’t what I’m assessing, I don’t need to dictate it.

I also show examples of what the work could look like, often a previous student’s work or an example I’ve created. These give students a sense of the expectations while leaving room for their own approach.

I Stopped Confusing Organization With Learning

Some students are exceptionally good at school. They color-code folders, record assessments in their Google Calendar, and remember that what I mentioned Tuesday is due on Friday. Other students make a brilliant observation about a novel and then lose the paper they wrote it on before the end of class. It’s easy to reward the first student and penalize the second, even when organization isn’t what is assessed. But if an assignment requires students to remember five deadlines, navigate multiple platforms, locate three separate documents, and independently sequence six steps, what am I measuring?

If the answer isn’t what I intended, I work backward from the learning target: What do I need students to know or do? What evidence demonstrates they can do it? Then, I look at what the assignment requires and remove what’s not necessary. This allows me to more accurately assess the learning. For example, if my goal is for students to explain how conflict develops in a story, I don’t necessarily need a full essay. A focused paragraph with textual evidence can show me whether or not students understand the concept and removes the organizational demands of a longer piece.

I Stopped Assuming Digital Is More Efficient

There was a point when moving something online felt like progress, but a paper assignment doesn’t have notifications. It doesn’t have another tab sitting one click away. On paper, students can write in the margins, draw arrows, circle something, cross it out, etc. Paper allows students to slow down and physically represent what they’re thinking.

Even videos have changed for me. I used to press play and students would identify what mattered. Now I’m more likely to give them a question to help them understand what they’re listening for or what they should be able to explain at the end.

The Questions I Ask Now

After more than two decades in education, I haven’t become interested in making school easier for students. If anything, I want them doing more difficult work: reading closely, thinking critically and originally, defending ideas, listening to perspectives they disagree with, creating something purposeful, revising, questioning, and trying again. That’s why I’ve become less tolerant of the difficulties that don’t matter. I use these questions to help me examine my own practice:

• What obstacles have I unintentionally created?
• Is the learning difficult, or are my directions?
• Does this assignment require perseverance or navigation?
• Am I asking students to think or to keep track of things?
• Is technology helping them learn?

Twenty years of teaching haven’t convinced me that students need everything made easier, but it has convinced me to be careful about what I make hard.