First Draft: Narrative
of Digital Document
I have a confession to make: I've never been a good learner, especially
in school. This may seem at odds with all the degrees following my
name--Bachelor of Science, Master of Arts, Doctor of Philosophy--but it's true
nonetheless. I think there's a fundamental difference between being a good
learner and being a good
student. While I wasn't the very best
student through much of high school and my
first couple years of college, I was more than competent. I could read the
teacher and interpret his or her expectations well enough to satisfy the
requirements. But this doesn't mean I
learned anything lasting. It was closer to
a game I played in order to get acceptable grades. It wasn't until I switched
from Chemical Engineering to English as a major that I began to excel, and it
was because I loved to read, and wrote well (even if I didn't always love
writing). There was a clear intersection between my own interests and the
curricular goals of my coursework. So I did great in my major coursework, as
well as in my graduate programs. But what about all the other courses I took,
starting way back in junior high or even elementary school? Those courses when I
wasn't engaged with the subject matter? What did I get out of them, if anything?
What could have been done to make those experiences more fruitful?
I stopped this first draft at this point because I'm
not happy with the fact that I'm about a hundred words or more in, and I
haven't even started to talk about my real subject. So I need to be more
direct. But I like some elements here--the first sentence's start is nice, and
I think I'll want to bring in the contrast between being a learner and a
student, too--that will probably continue on.
Second Draft:
I have a confession to make: I am not as normal as I might at first glance
appear. Most people I meet see me as your basic middle-class academic
type. It's not like the stereotypical English professor isn't already saddled
with some pretty geeky attributes, but I'm afraid I go beyond far beyond even
the most ridiculous assumptions one might make. I can recite long memorized
passages from Shakespeare, yes, but longer ones from Monty Python and Star Trek.
I desperately enjoy computers, gadgets, and technological advances. I have four
times as many blogs as children. But the feather in my cap of geekiness would
have to be that I'm an avid mountain unicyclist. Yes, you heard right. Like
mountain biking, but minus one wheel.
I like this one better than the first--it's funnier
and has a little more personality. But now I don't have anything about
learning in it, so it's equally misleading about informing the audience about
the real topic: learning to mountain unicycle better. I'd better start again.
Third
Draft:
I have a confession to make: I am an avid mountain unicyclist. Yes, you heard
right. Picture a mountain bike, then divide by two. You get the picture. It's a
real sport. There are hundreds of us just in California.
But being an "avid" rider doesn't equate to being "accomplished." While I'm able
to ride a wide array of terrain competently, I'm not satisfied with my level of
accomplishment. I want to get better. In fact, I'm driven to improve. And that
drive to excel is something I want to think about carefully, so I'll return to
that idea in a moment. But first a little more on the actual riding.
Riding downhill sections--so long as they aren't outrageously steep--is probably
about the easiest terrain to tackle. Gravity gives the rider a boost that helps
the wheel roll over rocks and roots; the occasional step-downs and drops add a
little excitement to the ride.
Level sections are next easiest; it's not too tough to maintain the momentum
necessary to roll through rock gardens.
That leaves the uphill sections. These are tough. I'm able to climb quite a lot
of terrain; this section, at the bottom of Upper Bidwell Park's North Rim Trail,
for instance, is at the limits of my ability. I can roll my way nearly over the
ridge, but usually have to hop a little at the top to navigate some rocks right
at the top. In other spots, the same step-downs that are so fun to descend
become big obstacles when heading the other direction on the trail.
It's this navigating of difficult areas--called "technical" sections by those in
the muni community--that's captured my learning. I already knew how to hop on my
unicycle from way back in the mid-1970s, when I learned to ride. But hopping in
place is much different than trying to hop up a rock-strewn shelf that's set
right between where I am, and where I want to go. So what to do? In simple
terms: practice. But it's not so simple, really. If I practice by myself, I
might miraculously succeed and suddenly be able to traverse any technical uphill
that I face. I'm doubtful of such a plan's success, though. Instead, what has
actually helped me make some progress amounts to simple practice, but within a
context that's more complex.
I rarely practice by myself. There are a few other Chico area riders, and I'm
usually out with them. The social element of riding is important. We push each
other to excel and improve, and praise each others' accomplishments. We call
some as-yet unrideable parts of the trails we ride "whales"--after Moby Dick,
the white whale Captain Ahab was obsessed with conquering--and spend significant
time trying to master those sections each ride. If we continue to fail, we'll go
to the larger community for help.
In this case, that larger community is an online one--the "unicyclist.com"
discussion fora--where I may post a question about how to complete a particular
move. Usually within hours, if not a shorter period, I'll have several responses
from others who unicycle off road. Their advice is usually helpful, if peppered
with some vocabulary that needs a little interpretation. For instance, I once
posted a question about the feeling that my tire was sliding out from under me
when I was trying to hop up an incline. The responses suggested I might
"consider upgrading to a KH, K1, or LM and then slap on a gazz." These referred
to specific types of rims and tires other riders had tested and recommended for
a more stable wheel. My fellow riders and I will often discuss such advice
on our rides, and use the information on our next attempts at our "whales."
So the simple "practice" notion of learning isn't so straightforward. It happens
best when there's a real problem (like that whale section of the trail), and
when the learner is operating within what James Gee calls an affinity group--a
group of others who engage in similar practices, and who may share problems akin
to one's own. That group likely has experiences, ideas, and language that
separate it from other groups, but which allow it to operate successfully by
passing along knowledge and advice to others who care to learn it.
And this, it seems to me, is the crux of this learning issue. As an educator, I
care about how learning happens. When I think about my own ferocious engagement
with learning out on the muni trails, I want to see the same intrinsic
motivation in not just my own students, but students across age divides and
disciplinary boundaries. The challenge facing me, and others who teach, is how
to provide a structure for learning within which students become part of
affinity groups, willingly learn new concepts, master bewildering jargon, and
address authentic problems. I have no doubt that such a task will be fraught
with obstacles and challenges, but that success is possible.