Crunching Numbers

I teach at a school with over 1600 students.

There are 13-15 full/part time English teachers at my school.

In the New York City Department of Education, the maximum number of students that can be enrolled in a class is 34.

I teach 5 classes.

All 5 classes have 34 students in them.

In total, I teach 170 students.

I give a minimum of 1 major essay every 6 weeks.

That means I grade at least 170 major essays every six weeks.

I give a minimum of 1 project every 6 weeks.

That means I grade at least 170 projects every six weeks.

I give around 10 homework assignments every six weeks.

That means I grade around 1700 homework assignments every six weeks.

There is an attempt at our school to require teachers to contact parents via phone 2 times per semester, or 4 times per year.

That means I would have to make 680 phone calls per year.

For years, educators have been pushing for reduced class size in public schools; lobbyists have long considered it a key to education reform. Administrators and public officials have long promised to use funds to help achieve it, and yet here I am, teaching 170 wonderful kids who I can't give enough individual attention to because of the sheer enormity of my workload. The NYC DOE is being sued by the UFT for promising (and failing) to spend money towards reducing class size.

Instead, the money is spent on just about everything BUT reducing class sizes. The closest we get are charter schools, which are given smaller class sizes (23, on average), greater selectivity of students, updated facilities, and greater autonomy. OF COURSE they are outperforming public schools- they have had four of the public system's greatest challenges removed.

Teachers and students alike are hurt by large class sizes. The only thing that seems to benefit is the school budget, which gets more money if more students are crammed in.

The Scientist and the Storyteller

Science captivates me. Or, I should say, certain areas of science captivate me. Put a television show or book about space, evolution, wildlife, emerging technology, scientific ethics, etc., in front of me and I can be entertained for hours. Something about the vastness of space, the complexity of life, the processes of evolution, the possibilities of scientific advancement, spark my neural nets something fierce.

And yet, I realize, my brain is not wired for real science. Real science is tedious and slow. The broad strokes of science that I love are built on lifetimes of small, incremental movements. Cataloging, digging, entering data, cleaning equipment, carefully attempting to remove as many variables as possible, scrapping hypotheses in the face of contradictory data. The ideas, breakthroughs, and discoveries that I learn about are distilled from so much rigorous, uneventful day-to-day work that make the field truly admirable, albeit less sexy. In education, which occasionally attempts to guise itself as a science, action research involves much the same process. I find myself far more interested in ideas than in the tedium of action research itself, even if the "action" label is supposed to convince me to feel otherwise.

An idea without methodical, empirical support is much more likely to turn out false. And yet, without someone to tell its story in a persuasive and relevant fashion, to give it a reason for existence, methodically acquired empirical data will languish uselessly in some hall of records.

The scientist and the storyteller are a necessary team for improving the lot of mankind, but for too long they've been forced to live in separate houses, not only in society, but in the mind as well. This division starts in primary and secondary education. How do educators begin to change the notion that these two roles are a forked road, an either/or choice? Each one fulfills the other, gives it purpose, gives it voice.

Part of the Cloud Crowd

As communication technology continues to develop and change, so do I. During the decade of the Internet 2.0 Renaissance, I've collected quite a few ways to spread ideas: email, blogs, Facebook, text messaging, Twitter, Forums, instant messaging, Skype, Google Wave... they combine to become this semi-chaotic swirl of information, blowing briefly worded ideas around like leaves in an updraft.

I step into this world often, the text moving above, around, and through me. I grasp at intriguing threads that float by and I pull at them, seeing where they lead. At this speed, you don't so much read as absorb. You don't so much seek out information as roll around in it and wait for something to come in handy later.

In many ways, I am thrilled by it. I am more up to date with friends, news, Education, Sports, Weather, etc. than ever before. The Web can now be both an extension of my mind and an almost frighteningly constant connection of my mind to others. Our intellects are being uploaded into the Cloud, and we are solving problems with the wisdom of the Crowd.

And yet, ambivalence rains on me like a lukewarm shower. As we contribute to and become part of the Cloud, what becomes of the rich internal lives we lead? If intimacy and immediacy can be more and more achieved through the Web, what then of those loved ones who we had specially chosen to be more intimate and immediate with than anyone else?

Ironically, I know that what I think is my rich internal life has become so despite my growing up with technologies that previous generations fretted about in the same way I am fretting about Social Networking. Within ten years, I will probably wonder why I even questioned it, as there will certainly be newer, even more socially innovative technologies pushing the envelope even further.

But I don't care. Everything may be speeding up, and in this I feel I have to try and take my time.