Great Teachers Build Bridges
When we receive information, we're almost always asking ourselves one question: "Why should I care?"
When you're sitting in class listening a professor drone on about the book you were supposed to read the day before, but didn't, you're asking yourself that question. In an era of infinite media and a shortage of attention spans, we all have a "relevancy index" that acts as a barometer to determine how closely we need to listen to what we're hearing, and whether or not you can ignore it. You're probably pretty good at zoning out during commercial breaks on television and then tuning back in when the show you're watching comes back on.
Even now, as you're reading these words I'm writing, you're asking yourself why you should care and, if my analytics are telling me anything, it's that I've got a precious few seconds to answer that question for you, or else you'll click the "Back" button and I'll never see you again.
Think of a teacher or a professor you've had in the past that you really, really liked. You might not have even liked the subject matter they were teaching about, but you really enjoyed their class. Chances are good it's because they did a good job of answering that question for you before you even had the chance to ask it of yourself. I had a Biology class in college that was absolutely a delight to go to. I would sit there, transfixed by what the professor was saying, hanging on to his every word. I even looked forward to it, and let me tell you, I couldn't care less about Biology.
It worked because my professor led off each class period by answering the question: "Why should I care?" Once you've answered that question, you've got my attention. If you reinforce the answer periodically, throughout the lecture, I'll gladly listen attentively without any objections.
Great teachers build bridges. There's a chasm between what you're trying to teach me and the little narrative that's going on inside of my head all day. Students, on average, are probably worried about dozens of other little things that have nothing to do with what you're trying to teach them. I'm not saying you should outright start each lecture by blatantly answering that question; the correct approach is much more subtle. It's making an authentic connection by generating interest.
If you're a mediocre teacher, then you're more than likely coasting on the fear that most students have of failing the class. You're falling back on the fact that you're students have to care, because if they don't, you'll fail them and they'll flunk out of college and then they'll have to work at Jiffy Lube for the rest of their lives. If that's what you're doing, they'll try only hard enough to succeed, but they won't be happy about it, and you haven't actually helped them much. It's a lousy bridge, but one a lot of teachers build. If you're this kind of teacher, the best you can hope for is to get tenure, and spend the rest of your days with job security and ignoring the fact that your students are banging their heads against their desks as soon as you leave the room.
Really being good at building strong bridges is a very difficult thing to do, and it's the reason I can only think of three or four teachers who really excelled at doing this from my eight years of high school and college. The best example was Mr. Schmidt, the teacher that I had for World History twice during high school. The man was brilliant. I can't think of a single moment during his classes that I ever asked myself why I was listening to him, because he always told us. His lectures were more than him reciting dates and facts to us with the expectation that we would spew them back to him on test day. Mr. Schmidt made World History relevant to teenage minds. I'm not even sure that he really had a passion for the subject of World History itself...he was just really, really good at building the bridge.
When you're sitting in class listening a professor drone on about the book you were supposed to read the day before, but didn't, you're asking yourself that question. In an era of infinite media and a shortage of attention spans, we all have a "relevancy index" that acts as a barometer to determine how closely we need to listen to what we're hearing, and whether or not you can ignore it. You're probably pretty good at zoning out during commercial breaks on television and then tuning back in when the show you're watching comes back on.
Even now, as you're reading these words I'm writing, you're asking yourself why you should care and, if my analytics are telling me anything, it's that I've got a precious few seconds to answer that question for you, or else you'll click the "Back" button and I'll never see you again.
Think of a teacher or a professor you've had in the past that you really, really liked. You might not have even liked the subject matter they were teaching about, but you really enjoyed their class. Chances are good it's because they did a good job of answering that question for you before you even had the chance to ask it of yourself. I had a Biology class in college that was absolutely a delight to go to. I would sit there, transfixed by what the professor was saying, hanging on to his every word. I even looked forward to it, and let me tell you, I couldn't care less about Biology.
It worked because my professor led off each class period by answering the question: "Why should I care?" Once you've answered that question, you've got my attention. If you reinforce the answer periodically, throughout the lecture, I'll gladly listen attentively without any objections.
Great teachers build bridges. There's a chasm between what you're trying to teach me and the little narrative that's going on inside of my head all day. Students, on average, are probably worried about dozens of other little things that have nothing to do with what you're trying to teach them. I'm not saying you should outright start each lecture by blatantly answering that question; the correct approach is much more subtle. It's making an authentic connection by generating interest.
If you're a mediocre teacher, then you're more than likely coasting on the fear that most students have of failing the class. You're falling back on the fact that you're students have to care, because if they don't, you'll fail them and they'll flunk out of college and then they'll have to work at Jiffy Lube for the rest of their lives. If that's what you're doing, they'll try only hard enough to succeed, but they won't be happy about it, and you haven't actually helped them much. It's a lousy bridge, but one a lot of teachers build. If you're this kind of teacher, the best you can hope for is to get tenure, and spend the rest of your days with job security and ignoring the fact that your students are banging their heads against their desks as soon as you leave the room.
Really being good at building strong bridges is a very difficult thing to do, and it's the reason I can only think of three or four teachers who really excelled at doing this from my eight years of high school and college. The best example was Mr. Schmidt, the teacher that I had for World History twice during high school. The man was brilliant. I can't think of a single moment during his classes that I ever asked myself why I was listening to him, because he always told us. His lectures were more than him reciting dates and facts to us with the expectation that we would spew them back to him on test day. Mr. Schmidt made World History relevant to teenage minds. I'm not even sure that he really had a passion for the subject of World History itself...he was just really, really good at building the bridge.