100% of hands up – worth it?

“If all the students know the answer, the question was too simple.”

One of the best things about working at Michaela is the willingness and ability of pupils – all pupils, in every class – to answer questions.  It’s not rare to see 100% of hands in the air at least a dozen times a lesson.  Pupils love to be picked, and love to show off their knowledge, and regularly beam with pride at a good answer.

There is a lovely photo, which gets regularly tweeted, of a row of pupils in a Michaela Science lesson. Every pupil has his or her hand up in the air. Of course, any tweet about Michaela has a tendency to polarise opinion (normally those who have visited vs. those who haven’t), and last night this picture attracted the response: “If all the students know the answer, the question was too simple.”

This statement presupposes that there is little or no value in recalling information that is widely known. It also assumes that simple information is not worth embedding. Finally, it suggests that if all pupils are capable of answering the question correctly, there was no point in asking the question.

If the content of your lessons is valuable, there will always be value in checking that your pupils have mastered the content.  You may ask the same question fifty times over the course of a school year, and the answer will become more and more automatic each time a pupil answers it. Spaced repetition is key for recall; recall is the bedrock of memorisation; long-term memorisation frees up working memory and allows pupils to make better use of what they know. I know that the language I teach in my French lessons is language that pupils will use for the rest of their language-learning careers, and therefore I have no qualms about checking, in most lessons, that pupils know how to say ‘it’s’ and ‘because’ and ‘I love to do my homeworks while listening to music’. Memory is also fickle – what one pupil remembers every time might escape another. 100% hands up is the only acceptable response to a question. I refuse to stop asking the question just because everybody appears to know it; if it’s a good question, it is worth answering repeatedly. This creates confidence and demonstrates mastery.

Another reason that 100% of hands up is a desirable thing is that it demonstrates how well pupils have listened to and taken on board the information you present.  When you jettison discovery learning in favour of just telling them the things they need to know, you are faced with a room of pupils who have all of the information they need to answer a question, and in which no pupil is left out as a result of inability to source that information. If they don’t know the answer, it is more likely than not that they just weren’t listening. You can do a lot with that.

The only reason I can think of that you wouldn’t ask an important or valuable question during your lesson is if you believe there is an opportunity cost in doing so.  I know that I certainly used to believe that asking a question that some pupils might have been able to guess the answer to, or one that some but not all of the class would remember, was a better use of time than reinforcing knowledge that they had already acquired and were on the way to mastering.  Time was short, and there was content to teach. But if the content you’re teaching is not fundamental to the understanding and mastery of your subject, then it’s not as valuable as teaching and repeating and reinforcing and going over and practising and mastering the stuff that is important.  I don’t spend entire lessons asking how to say ‘it’s’, but I will ask it twenty or thirty times a term; it’s a crucial and not-to-be-forgotten element of my subject. And yes, I may not spend the same amount of time asking how to say ‘slippers’, but if I considered it crucial to the mastery of French then I would.

I used to agonise over the kids who never put their hands up; I realised at the beginning of this year that, far from being unable to recall it, they simply had not been given sufficient opportunities to recycle, reuse and rehearse it. Since asking the same questions of the same valuable content over and over again, all pupils are able to recall it. And the ones who got it first time? They’re using it and working towards complete mastery.

Choose your content, rehearse it, recycle it, and ask the same valuable questions until you get 100% of hands up 100% of the time. To do otherwise is to leave pupils behind, and to deny the others mastery of what you’re teaching them.


Entre l’enclume et le marteau

Previously, on ‘A drop of ink…’

“I’m looking forward to reporting back again in a couple of weeks, and seeing if I can start to tackle the other things playing on my mind – marking, feedback, promoting the four skills, the new GCSE, memory, creativity, culture – in the meantime.  But I love this new way of doing things so far, and the kids seem both keen and a little bit more empowered.”

I’ve been trying to write this post for the best part of two weeks, as evidenced by the fact that my first draft started thus:

“The Summer term is now in its third week, and school is settling into a pleasant rhythm.  I get to school at 7.00, have breakfast and coffee, and conduct a vital, ten-minute mise en place that sets me up for the rest of the day. I’m lucky that, although I work a long day (7.45 – 5.30), I have a relatively light timetable, so there is time to plan, mark and think between lessons.”

This is all still true, but I have felt a little more pressured over the last few weeks.  The honeymoon period of the new way of teaching (see previous posts) has given way to some small measure of uncertainty and frustration, a lack of clarity as to how to proceed.  I have found myself thinking wistfully of Powerpoints, of my tried and tested (and thoroughly lacking) techniques.  I have to keep reminding myself that the hours spent on putting together clickable resources add far less to a pupil’s classroom experience than those same hours spent thinking about how to introduce, practise, rehearse and repeat good French.

The reason is simple.  I am caught, per the title of this post, between the devil and the deep blue sea; between the hammer and the anvil.  I am doing unfamiliar and interesting and challenging things with pupils who are not used to them: some of those kids are getting HUGE amounts out of it, others are pushing back, as can be expected.

But I’m also caught between what I know will benefit these pupils in the long run – sticking with it – and the suddenly pressing need to prepare them for their end of year exams, to meet the national curriculum criteria, to demonstrate progress.  That, and the fact that in the five weeks we’ve been back I’ve seen some classes just six times – nowhere near enough time to allow those new routines and practices become habit, for me or for them.

Last week, I became deeply dissatisfied with my lessons and the outcomes my kids were achieving.  I became lost in this lacuna between the school’s expectations and what I want to continue doing with my pupils.  This is not necessarily because my school demands unreasonable things, or even that the way I’m teaching cannot work within the strictures of the school’s agenda – merely that I haven’t the time with the kids to make the new approach work with the old.

I now have to think about this end of year exam situation in earnest – set assessments, test for valuable things, make sure that even though I’m teaching in a completely different way to my colleagues that neither their nor my pupils are disadvantaged in the final analysis.  It’s going to be an interesting challenge.

I’m going to keep up the rich input, keep repeating and practising and going over the things that I know will prove valuable in the end, and work out a way of ensuring that the kids can show off some of that stuff in the exams.

Wish me luck!

Version 2.0 – First Steps

Previously, on ‘A drop of ink…’

‘I feel I should start by showing my pupils that they can be good at languages, to give them that sense of confidence and achievement that I felt in my school days, and engage them through an incipient mastery of French rather than because we do blindfolded obstacle courses or watch film trailers.’

I should probably clarify a couple of important things before continuing.

The first is that I am not out to criticise anybody’s practice.  The canon of MFL pedagogy comes from a long-standing tradition of people working really hard to do their best for pupils, and it has huge value.  I am also aware that what doesn’t work for me might be really effective in the hands of another teacher, or in front of another class.

The second is that I really, really like my school.  It is full of, as the slogan says, ‘the hardest working young people in London’, and that goes as much for the staff as the pupils.  My colleagues in the MFL department are hugely efficient and effective, and are already doing much of what I aspire to do.  The pupils work hard in their German classes, and are held to incredibly high standards, and that is part of what I’m aiming to achieve in my own lessons.

So, with that caveat of respect and deference in place, I return to my sense of unease.

Liam* is in one of my year 7 classes.  He’s a lovely kid, and started the year really keen.  In the first few weeks, he was alert, attentive, and cottoned on really quickly to what he was being taught.  After the first month or so, his attention and enthusiasm waned: things were getting a little bit harder, he thought.  Adjective agreements were where he first started to lose the plot.  Since then, he’s bimbled along below the radar: he no longer actively contributes in lessons, he is more easily distracted, he is rarely wrong but doesn’t try as hard.

Liam can’t speak French.  He can say a few set phrases: “Bonjour, je m’appelle Liam.  Comme ci, comme ça.  J’ai onze ans.  J’habite à Woolwich.”  But saying anything longer or more interesting seems to incite anxiety: “I can’t do it, Miss.”  This is in a school with a strong culture of growth mindset, where we constantly remind pupils that improvement requires only practice and determination.  He feels lost and disempowered.  I can’t blame him.

I haven’t taught the alphabet.  I haven’t taught spellings. [I am absolutely going to do all of these things in the first two weeks back!]  I did some phonics after half a term, but never embedded it enough to have a lasting impact.   But whatever I did or didn’t do, I created a classroom culture in which pupils felt physically safe and secure, were able to have a giggle and rarely stepped out of line behaviourally, but one in which many of them routinely felt unable to tackle the task at hand.  Most of my year 9s truly, honestly believe that French is hard, and that is devastating.

What did I do wrong?  Well, I didn’t teach the alphabet and spellings in the first few weeks, the very building blocks of the language (26 letters! How hard can it be?!).  It would be far more empowering, thought I, for them to be able to introduce and say a few things about themselves in French.  They remember what I taught them in those first few weeks really well, because they were fresh from the holidays and I’d spend an entire lesson on answering the question ‘Comment t’appelles-tu?’. The problem was, the moment it got more complicated than that, they started to feel underprepared.

I worked on the principle that you start with the stuff that they understand, and integrate and develop it into an introduction to things that they don’t yet understand: the new stuff, the lesson content, Vygotsky’s paradise.  This works fine, except you can’t develop the phrase ‘Je m’appelle…’ with a description, an adverb, a connective, a different tense, a new and interesting idea, or make it work in dozens of different contexts.  While pupils might remember that ‘j’ai’ means ‘I have’, you’ll get plenty more ‘je suis douze ans’ before they really know what they’re talking about.   They’ll also have limited use for ‘j’habite à Woolwich’ when they no longer live there.

One of the reasons I love teaching is the constant opportunity to start over, to refine and finesse and improve your practice, and to give yourself and pupils fresh starts whenever you need to.  So, when I do this again next year, I’m going to start with this:

  • French alphabet, spellings and high frequency words/vowel combinations. Demystify the language before they even start: here’s what this sounds like, here’s how you pronounce this, here’s what this means.  26 letters!  I relied very heavily on cognates in my first few weeks, which was great until the kids realised that not every word was a cognate or near-cognate.  Cue the immortal response from Gemma*, ‘Miss, if it doesn’t look like an English word then how do I know what it means?!’  [Answer: Gemma, I will tell you what all of the words mean, so that you don’t have to guess.  But you do have to pay attention.]
  • Phrases that they can use all the time, and that mean something. Somebody once told me that they introduce the language to year 7 through the medium of insults and colloquialisms: it’s better to hear a child say ‘ahh, Madame Lund, elle me prend la tête! Elle me tape sur les nerfs!’ than to hear them repeat ‘Je m’appelle…’ and the like endlessly.  Added to this, I have recently read about a set of phrases that are easily adapted to a range of contexts.  These are 10 variations of some key verbs (starting with aller, jouer and faire), which my pupils will repeat and reuse over the course of the Summer term, and into which will be inserted the new content.  In that way, I can get them understanding (and even using) phrases like ‘J’aime jouer au foot dans le parc, mais hier j’ai joué au tennis avec mes copains, et aujourd’hui il faut que je fasse mes devoirs après avoir fait la vaisselle.’ I’ll take it slowly, but it will be made much, much easier by the next resolution…
  • Tell them what every word means. I’ve done discovery learning, and it turns up some wonders: the child who identified the link between the Harry Potter spell ‘Tergeo!’ and the English word ‘detergent’, pupils who are able to intuit the meaning of whole passages from a smattering of familiar words.  But they remain just that: wonders.  While I’m impressed that Kaya and Sam can use their link-making skills to understand a range of new phrases and vocabulary, they’re spending a lot of mental energy trying to work out things that I can just tell them, and meanwhile Suki and Dave are hopelessly lost because they aren’t making the same links.  Better that I tell them what it means – what it all means, down to the last word – and then they can use their mental energy repeating, practising and familiarising themselves with the content in different ways so that, in the end, they’re using the language rather than trying to remember what it means because I hadn’t explicitly told them from the outset.

I say “next year” – I’m actually going to start a lot of this come April 13th.  But while my methods might seem long-winded and slightly diffuse, my aim is simple: I want kids to feel empowered and confident in my lessons. To enjoy French because of that, not because of a fun activity I might spend 4 hours and £14 devising on a weekend.  And, crucially, empowering them is not about removing deep thought or hard work – I suspect that they will find it really challenging – but rather about allowing them to spend their time committing to memory the things that I, as the teacher and the expert in the room, can tell them right first time.

Version 2.0 – The Dilemma

Disclaimer: I am aware that, as an NQT, I know very little indeed about teaching.  My experience and knowledge are limited.  By writing this blog, I hope to critically engage with the theory and techniques that have been passed on to me, and based on which I have been judged.  All constructive criticism is welcome!

In my 18 months of teaching, I have been very lucky.  I have worked with many wonderful children, and in two schools full of extraordinary, dedicated and hard-working teachers.  I have seen some exceptional teaching, and have had the great fortune to learn from some wonderful practitioners.

When I started my NQT year, I found it easy to repeat the patterns of my training year.  I started with some momentum, which I maintained and then lost towards Christmas.  I had a paper problem: too much of it, and not much of it any good (sorry, MFL budget. Sorry, trees).  I spent quite a lot of my time thinking of the most ‘engaging’ way to teach the kids about colours, or animals.  It involved a lot of time, energy, powerpoints, pictures, downloading and adapting from TES… and, of course, paper.

A few months ago, I began to feel uneasy.  I was teaching the way I had been taught to teach, and my kids were doing… okay.  Not terribly, not wonderfully – about as well as could be expected when taught by a slightly stressed, very self-critical NQT.  Doubtless with a few more years’ experience, I would be able to turn that ‘okay’ progress into ‘good’ progress, or even ‘great’ progress.  Everything would surely be fine.

People who came to see me – from both MFL and non-MFL backgrounds – told me everything I was doing was fine, and that with a few tweaks it would be great; most of the kids tell me that they enjoy my lessons, and that languages are alright, fun even.

But the sense of unease remained.  I am teaching languages in a completely different way to how I was taught. I am using pictures, single word and short phrase presentations, building from picture+word to words+punctuation, as directed by mentors and managers.  We play games, we are active, we do a variety of activities. I get to integrate my love of music and drama into my lessons.

I didn’t learn like that.  I had rote learning, memorisation, textbooks, a few songs here and there, verb tables, drills.  Yes, I went to a grammar school, and was fortunate to find both learning and languages quite easy.  I learned both French and Spanish in this way, to a level that, 11 years after leaving school, I can recycle and reuse everything I learned then.  It stuck.

And I’m finding that, in the ‘words and pictures’ style, it doesn’t really stick.  Yes, some kids retain the information and can recall it in later lessons; some work really hard to commit their vocabulary and certain phrases to memory so that they can answer questions or do well in assessments.  Can they speak French? Barely.  Will they remember this stuff in six months, or a year?  Almost certainly not.

And it’s really HARD.  The process of devising lessons (our department is fairly new, so resources need to be made and revised regularly), creating resources, agonising over differentiation, creating schemes of work that cover both useful French and what’s contained in the exams, marking… It’s all really hard.  It’s hard for me, because I spend more time doing that than thinking about the best way to teach the language I love – what French is really useful, how to anticipate and deal with mistakes, make it challenging but manageable, give the kids confidence, help them to speak and understand and read and write French.

Worse, it’s hard for the kids.  They struggle, they find it difficult to recall words and phrases, they don’t always have what they need at their fingertips, let alone on the tip of their tongues, and when they’re handed a dictionary, they usually produce gobbledegook. I’ve noticed a polarisation in my classes: on one end, the kids who take the language and run with it and enjoy it and do well; on the other end, the kids who find it baffling and difficult to remember, who feel stupid in French, who get frustrated (rightly so) and give up.

At present, the effort I’m putting into teaching is not being matched by the outcomes for the kids, and that means that something is wrong.  Something feels wrong.  Like I said, I’m teaching in a way that I was never taught as a child, using techniques that nobody used then, but by some miracle I came out proficient in the languages I learned. I remember enjoying languages not just because of the feelings of sheer joy at understanding a foreign tongue, but because I felt like I was good at them.

Maybe one day I’ll enable pupils to feel that joy of decoding French or Spanish and making sense of something that was previously nonsense to them; however, I feel I should start by showing my pupils that they can be good at languages, to give them that sense of confidence and achievement that I felt in my school days, and engage them through an incipient mastery of French rather than because we do blindfolded obstacle courses or watch film trailers.

And certainly not because they spend most of their time looking at pictures.