On Trying To Teach

The Mind in Correspondence

M. Robert Gardner

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2013
• ISBN:
  9781135890315
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Psychology
• Subtopic: Applied Psychology
• Index: Psychology

In an era in which the teaching enterprise is freighted with tactics, techniques, and methods, M. Robert Gardner guides us back to the spirit of teaching. He writes especially about the dilemmas and challenges of teaching, about how it feels to be trying to teach. Gardner's provocative, often iconoclastic musings will goad teachers of allsubjects to reflect anew on their calling. Clinical readers will take special pleasure in the humane psychoanalytic sensibility that not only infuses Gardner's own teaching, but shapes his approach to the most basic questions about teaching and learning in general.

BOOK II

A GENTLE SYMBIOSIS

THE STUDENT AND THE TEACHER

On New and Old Beginnings

1

True teachers are avid students of the statistically insignificant. Through small windows we struggle to see large worlds. And this habit is not simply the consequence of how our schools are built. We work the same in school and out.

When one of my grandchildren was three going on four, my daughter brought him to Cape Cod to visit his grandmother and me. There, my daughter was inspired to help him to become a painter, a Sunday painter, like me. And though I have long questioned the wisdom of commissioning artists to paint specific paintings for specific occasions, on this occasion I did not.

My daughter set table and chairs, paper, saucers, water, colors, and brushes so that my grandson and I could paint side by side in a shady nook looking off through a gap between the tall surrounding pines toward the pond beyond, and toward the low-lying hills beyond that, and, above all, toward a cobalt blue sky with a nicely arranged clump of cumulus clouds: a scene designed to appeal to any painter, old or new. My grandson, however, had other ideas. He took one look at the arrangement, shook his head in dissent, retreated, or advanced, some twenty feet away and said, “I want to paint here.”

His accents were on “I” and “here,” the way only a small child, and a few gifted adults, can manage convincingly. In response, my daughter tried to persuade him that painting where the materials had been placed would be advantageous in that it would put him closer to me. But even that appeal proved insufficient.

After hearing several rounds of such negotiation, I concluded that the situation was unlikely to proceed to an amicable end. I launched into a commentary something like this:

“He’s a painter,” I said, “and only the painter can decide what and where he should paint.” Then, moved by that worthy though not entirely original declaration of the rights of painters (later I realized I had patterned my remarks on Whistler’s grand stand in his suit against Ruskin) I added, “A painter looks around. A painter chooses the place where he wants to paint. A painter says, ‘Here is the place where I want to paint.’ And once he’s made up his mind, no one can change it. That’s what makes a painter. A painter paints what he wants to paint, how he wants to paint, with whom he wants to paint, and where he wants to paint.”

For a moment, my grandson stared at me from afar. Then he came over to my side, looked at me carefully, and said quietly, “I’ll paint with you, Pa.”

2

Some might say this incident merely illustrates the familiar principle, “You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink.” Others might say it illustrates the corollary, “If you don’t lead a horse to water, he might drink.” Psychologists would probably ponder the three-generational complexities. I concluded that my grandson was trying to teach me how to teach.

Skillfully disrupting the pastoral tranquility, he showed right off that he was in no mood to learn painting, compromise, congeniality, or other faculties and virtues I was eager to teach. At the same time, he showed me unmistakably how much I am driven, even on holiday, by the furor to teach. In addition, with elegant simplicity, he drove home the necessity of my putting in the background my agenda of teaching and putting in the foreground his agenda of learning.

Stirred by these lessons, and guided by an image of myself in a similar state of childhood obstinacy, and by others more contemporary, I realized that what my grandson was trying most to learn was not how to paint but how to take a stand against the tyranny of well-meaning others. Which was a project far grander than his mother and I had contemplated. I then put myself in what I imagined to be his place and was inspired to put into words the outlook he might have had, had he had the words, and had he, outnumbered and outsized, had the freedom to voice them.

As a by-product, or perhaps a precursor (in teaching, it’s exceedingly hard to tell a by-product from a pre-cursor), I found myself less driven to teach what a few minutes earlier I had felt so driven to teach. Moreover, I began to see that my grandson was trying not only to assert his independence but to find a tolerable way to accept his mother’s and my invitation to join in parallel painting. That is, I began to see that his insistence on painting at a twenty-foot remove was an ingenious effort to bridge between his needs for autonomy and his needs for reciprocity.

The trick in the approach to which my grandson moved me was that it was not a trick. I said what I meant and I meant what I said: only the painter can decide where, how, what, when, and with whom he should paint. And having said it, I saw that I also meant to say that a painter can sometimes be more of a painter in deciding not to, than deciding to, paint. And so, while I was pleased that my grandson chose at last to paint, and particularly that he chose to paint with me, I had, with my grandson’s assistance, arrived at a state in which I would have been almost as pleased if he had gone on insisting on painting afar or even chosen not to paint. What he helped me to wish was not for him to come to particular conclusions but to advance his existing questions of whether, when, where, how, and with whom to paint. And I’m sure I would never have been able to attain that position if my grandson had not made it so abundantly clear that he was seeking creative ends for what at first had seemed solely contrarian aims.

Several months later I mentioned this incident to a colleague, who declared that my grandson, at his tender age, could not possibly have understood what I said. And he added the opinion–it sounded more like a conviction–that I had completely misunderstood the events that had taken place.

It’s extraordinary how much the teacher’s job predisposes teachers to unseemly skepticism and how much it therefore predisposes other persons to become the target of that skepticism. Having long ago learned of this peculiarity of teachers, I’m seldom fazed by low marks from teachers. Furthermore, behavior like my colleague’s has taught me never to kick a person when he or she is up. Nevertheless, at the time of this conversation, I could do no more than attempt a feeble joke about forgiving my colleague because he was obviously unacquainted with my grandson. Now, several years later, however, I want to address my colleague’s objections.

I concede that my grandson may not have understood all I said. I concede that he may have understood little I said. But I do not concede that my grandson understood nothing I said. Rather, I believe my colleague paid entirely too much attention to the words and not enough to the music. And I consider it evident that my grandson, whether or not he understood all the words, understood most of the music, and on a level that lacks, defies, and transcends words, grasped that I wouldn’t and couldn’t have gone on as I did if I had not had within me the same tensions he had within him. Besides, I feel certain that when he said what he said, and I said what I said, we were already painting together. Which is, in my opinion, the reason he replied, “I’ll paint with you, Pa.”

I don’t think my grandson and I misunderstood each other any more than any two talking persons inevitably do. This and similar experiences have taught me that a teacher, whether of children or adults, can ill afford to exaggerate the weight of the lexical or underrate the weight of the musical. Therefore, if I could rerun the conversation with my colleague–true teachers are always big on reruns–I would say, “If one person when talking or listening to another fails to understand the other entirely rightly, how wrongly is too wrongly? And might not a little wrongly be a little rightly for learning and teaching?”

3

It’s hard to find good-enough ways to talk of good-enough states of reciprocity. The language of mutuality is full of sloppy sentimentality. Similarly, it’s hard to find good-enough words for the principle of teaching that my grandson taught me. At first, I thought the principle might properly be named, after my grandson, the Matty principle. But for greater clarity, profundity, and generally good-enough applicability I decided to name it the grandparental principle and to explicate it: “Teach as a grandparent, not as a parent.”

The difference is sizable between parental and grandparental teaching. In my daughter’s parental place, I doubt very much that I could have resisted teaching the portentous parental agendas I would have felt obliged to teach. That is, if my grandson had been my son, I doubt I could have resisted overriding his agendas of learning with my agendas of teaching.

Though a grandparent cannot resist teaching a grandchild something, a grandparent has the good fortune to be possessed by inclinations and obligations somewhat different from a parent’s. A grandparent is generally inclined, obliged, and happy to leave parenting to a grandchild’s parents, and a grandparent is generally more inclined, more obliged, and happier than a parent to play between a child’s agenda of play and his or her own. And to that properly playful end, it’s fortunate that the persons who do the grandparenting are usually considerably older than those who do the parenting, since persons in a second childhood usually find it easier than young adults to meet and mingle unhesitatingly with a first.

Accordingly, it follows inescapably that the time-honored view that teachers should occupy a position “in loco parentis,” is flat out wrong. My grandson brought home to me that the expression should be, “in loco grandparentis.” Isn’t it remarkable how so small a revelation can bring so large a clarification?

Still, in claiming that a grandparent should leave the parenting to the child’s parents and stick to grandparenting, I do not mean that a parent should leave all grandparenting to the grandparents and stick entirely to parenting. Far from it. Grandparenting is not a matter for monopoly, and the grandparental principle has little to do with age or biology. Besides, though grandparental teaching comes easier in those half-asleep states that come easier if the teacher has achieved “a certain age,” any teacher, whether parent or other, if willing to undertake the necessary preparation and practice, can from time to time attain the right state for teaching. That is, any would-be teacher, with the proper intention, preparation, and practice, can act as, and would do well to act as, a grandparent.

In a letter to his editor Edward Garnett, expressing gratitude for what Garnett has done for him, Joseph Conrad says, “You can detect the shape of a mangled idea and the shadow of an intention in the worst of one’s work and then make the best of it.” Conrad also speaks glowingly of Garnett’s “putting a good face on it” (i.e., of a mangled idea and the shadow of an intention).

I believe that Conrad got something right here and something wrong. An editor, like any other teacher, when following the grandparental principle, can sometimes detect “the shape of a mangled idea and the shadow of an intention.” But this is by no means simply a matter of “putting a good face on it.” It’s a matter, rather, of the editor, or other grandparent-like teacher, trying to help the writer, student, child, or other to bring a good idea or a good intention to fruition. It’s a matter of the editor, or other teacher, trying to help the other to bring a preexisting but not yet fully recognized good idea or good intention to fruition. And that, I believe, is what my grandson did for me, and I, for him, and Garnett for Conrad, and Conrad for Garnett. It was probably only Conrad’s notoriously low self-esteem that led Conrad to credit Garnett so fully for what Garnett had taught him and to credit himself so insufficiently for what he had taught Garnett.

Gumbel’s Gambit

On the fourteenth of July, to cover the celebration of the two hundredth anniversary of the storming of the Bastille, Bryant Gumbel and crew were in Paris and I was at home watching TV. Gumbel was interviewing a young man who was preparing to perform a high-wire walk from the Eiffel Tower to an edifice I cannot remember. Encouraged by a few perfunctory questions, the imminent walker waxed lyrical about the freedom and exultation he experienced when engaged in high-wire walks. And he asserted with conspicuous pride that this particular walk was to be a tribute to the French revolution, the world-wide struggles for the rights of man, and similar lofty undertakings.

Gumbel seemed skeptical, both about the wisdom of the high walk and about its high rationale. In his studiously low-key fashion, Gumbel asked if a part of the high-wire walker’s excitement came from “breaking the rules.” Keeping a fit mix of solemnity and buoyancy, but betraying more than a trace of asperity, the young man replied, “Of course. Of course. I’m a bank robber at heart.”

Then, showing his consummate skill at keeping his balance, the high-wire walker turned the conversation back to the high aims and romance of his high-wire activities. Gumbel still seemed unimpressed. Then, apparently wanting to bring the endangered fellow back to earth, Gumbel asked what he planned to do “when all this is over.”

Gumbel was clearly referring to the time when the walker’s career would be over. But the walker responded as if he had been asked what he would do when the day’s walk was over. He said:

“When it’s over, I’ll be thinking of my next walk.”

Gumbel chose to ignore-he couldn’t possibly have failed to notice–that the daring young man was not about to imagine his career being over; he could scarcely stand the thought of a lull between his current walk and the next. It became increasingly apparent that Gumbel and the walker were not in balance. The walker wanted to avoid earthbound risks. Gumbel wanted him to avoid the aerial. The walker wanted to stay high in the air. Gumbel wanted him to set his feet firmly on the ground. The walker was determined. So was Gumbel.

Gumbel asked, “What will you do when you’re too old to perform your act?” There was no mistaking Gumbel’s curative intent. If the walker were “too old to perform,” he would surely be compelled to be reasonable. Gumbel was hell-bent on ridding the walker of his unremitting altophilia. The walker, however, was not so easily rid. “I’ll go on,” he replied, “till I’m in my nineties.”

And then, after a short pause, and with a brave toss of his head, he added, “HI go on till I die.”

Give Gumbel credit. He was still not about to admit defeat. In a last inspired if slightly embittered try, he asked, “Is your life insurance in order?”

To which, the walker, with a broad Gallic shrug of his shoulders, and a turn of both palms and one eyebrow upward, and the pitying look that Parisians reserve for American tourists, replied, ‘Taper means very little to me.”

Gumbel was pursuing admirable ends. The walker was pursuing admirable ends. Gumbel was trying to advance safety. The walker was trying to find links between his occupation on one hand and his own and national and international ideals on the other. (The French are very romantic, especially, though not exclusively, on Bastille day.) Mais quel domage! On this grand and glorious occasion, Gumbel and the aerial walker could find no common ground either on the ground or in the air. The walker stuck to liberte. Gumbel stuck to securite. And there was no possibility of fraternité.

I don’t know why Gumbel carried on as he did. Maybe he’s a would-be physician. Maybe he has a fear of heights. Maybe he’s just not a high flyer. Maybe he’s a different sort of high flyer. Maybe he was trying to turn this Bohemian into a solid, pied à terre citoyen. I don’t know.

I do know that Gumbel was not about to join this light-footed fellow, in fact or fancy, in his aerial walk. Maybe Gumbel had in mind his industry’s responsibility to discourage the irresponsible. Maybe he was imagining the uproar if one of TV’s best known anchoring persons had failed to make an effort to spread a safety net. Whatever Gumbel’s reasons for declining to address matters from the walker’s vantage point, he missed, in that decline, a chance to help the walker tell Gumbel, us, and the walker himself more about the joys and the risks of walking high wires on Bastille Day and others.

Having earlier had the benefit of my grandson’s teaching, I was able at once to perceive where Gumbel went astray. Gumbel acted too much in locum parentis and too little in locum grandparentis. He should have left the responsibility for the safety of the high-wire walker to the gendarmes, firefighters, and other qualified persons whose job and skill is to look after such matters, especially in Paris, where there’s no shortage of blue- and white-collar workers whose job and skill is to clip the wings of would-be high flyers.

Seeing the error of Gumbel’s Bastille Day ways, I was filled with Bastille Day sympathy. His position was quite familiar. True teachers each day, like Gumbel on the two hundredth anniversary of the storming of the Bastille, find themselves trying to urge high-walkers down. My grandson taught me how to teach. Gumbel taught me how not to. For those lessons, I’m most grateful to both; and I’m also grateful to the daring young man on the high wire from the Eiffel Tower to wherever it, and he, went.

Hidden Questions

1

Having learned from my grandson and Gumbel to pay attention to what students want to learn, I have found that learning what students want to learn helps me often to bridge to what I want to teach. And often what I want to teach turns out to be a piece of what m...