Recently, I had the pleasure of accompanying my form group
on a week-long camping residential. I was looking forward to it. The week was
going to be a challenge (some of them were uncertain of the 3 day residential
we went on last year) and, as an inner city school, the majority of them were
alien to the concept of sitting outdoors - let alone adventuring in it.
However, we were all excited – it was a challenge and we were ready!
We had spent the majority of the year preparing for our trip
and I had already spent weeks convincing them that would return as more
confident individuals with refined skills and different outlooks. What I hadn’t
anticipated, was that this would apply just as much to my own skills.
On the first day, we were thrown into the ghyll. Dressed in
flattering overalls and safety harnesses, we stepped into the freezing water
and the look of excitement switched to discomfort in a matter of seconds. For
one student, her face was etched with fear. I watched as she froze, squirmed and
eventually squealed – refusing to take another step.
Naturally, I stepped in.
I listened to her. Talked to her and, together, we advanced
through the ghyll. Progress.
Or was it?
Fortunately, I was in
the ghyll with another experienced instructor. He had watched this unfold and
quite quickly asked for a word. He told the others to continue – including the
girl who was struggling. He asked me to watch the girl as she progressed. In my
absence, the rest of the group had begun to support her. By the end of the
gyhll, she was jumping into the water and floating around in her life jacket.
True progress.
If I had continued, the girl would most certainly have
reached the end of the ghyll – she may even have jumped in. But, her success
would really have been mine. I was explaining the process and returning her to
a place where she felt secure. Would she transfer this to another activity?
Probably not. After all, the skills were never hers in the first place
My colleague’s approach involved leaving her for a few more
seconds – forcing her to look for alternate options. She explored the
environment and the support options. She found her own way using tools that she
could refer to for the rest of the week. These were transferable and the young
lady excelled in activity after activity and she knew it; her beaming smile
stood out across the week.
Then, I wondered about my classroom. How often do I help a
student by walking them through an answer? As a practitioner do I explain and
recover or allow them to explore?
Unfortunately, I am almost certain that it was
the first. Failure didn’t feel like an option… . In a classroom, when faced
with perceived failure, students can disrupt, fail to complete their work or
simply fail to attend. But, I’m now convinced – more than ever, that we must
teach students to ‘fail’ if we want them to succeed.
Interestingly, following camp - when I asked the students if their work looked as though it was going to be as successful as they were in the ghyll. They asked to redraft their writing. Their self perception and thus their resilience had improved.
Admittedly, explorative learning is much easier when you are
in the middle of a ghyll or sat on a cliff face. Quitting isn’t really an
option so we are forced to find answers. But, can we transfer this to the
classroom? Practical subjects do it all the time: no one kicks a football once
and expects to become a Championship footballer and the idea of pressing a few
keys on a keyboard and being labelled as Mozart is seen as obviously
ridiculous. Yet, on paper, students often feel the expectation to master a skill
immediately.
I have already seen how cross curricular experiences can begin to break down this barrier but, without the privilege of a ghyll nearby, my challenge is to see whether these results can be replicated within traditional education. Will it work? I'm not sure, but I will have fun exploring - and hopefully the students will too!
