Okay, so I'm a little confused about what I'm supposed to be doing here. I am not completely sure if it is supposed to be an informational text or a 'how to' text, so I went with a how to text. This will be in the form of a small booklet, like something you might get with a small telescope, and will provide the steps to finding the north star. Those steps are as follows (I haven't made the book yet):
Step 1: Find the big dipper or Cassiopeia. The big dipper is one of the most recognizable constellations in the sky: It looks like a big scooping spoon. Even though it is easy to find, it is not always in the sky. If it is not, Cassiopeia is. Casseiopeia is either a big bright m or a w in the sky.
Step 2: If the Big Dipper is in the sky, draw a line to connect the last two stars in the spoon. Follow that line for five times the distance between these two stars. There you will find the North Star, and the little dipper.
Step 3: If Cassiopeia is in the sky, look at the first 'V' of the W. cut the V in half and follow it the way that the V opens (it may be useful to think that the mouth of the V is trying to eat the north star!) to find the North Star. Keep in mind that when Cassiopeia appears as an M, you will need to use the second mouth, rather than the first.
A brief explanation: The big dipper and Cassiopeia are circumpolar constellations, which means that they both rotate around the North Star, which is directly north of planet earth (but very far away!). This is why if you cannot see one, you can see the other, and why they can always be used to find the North Star.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Friday, October 16, 2009
My Persuasive Piece
Following my group's advice, I abandoned the boring essay and went with a flier to get kids to come to a Star Party. It took forever to make. It is obviously an appeal to a fourth grader's ego. Enjoy.
Randy
Randy
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
My Narrative (Finally)
John and Elizabeth had gone fishing with their father before, a few times, to sleep rocking in the bottom of the boat while dad fished late into the night. This was the first time that Dad had asked John to help thought, and it was the first time he had taken John by himself. Elizabeth pouted some, but Dad had said that she could help him take the fish to market, and mom let her help pack their lunches, and that seemed to make things better. So Dad and John set sail in the early evening, floating out to see and into the setting sun, with Mom and Elizabeth waving at them from the shore.
The calm water turned dark when the sun went down, and John's father did not hang a lantern on the boat like he normally did. The two of them sat in silence, John lying at the bottom of the boat, starting up at the stars, clear in the night sky and reflecting off of the water. Then John's father began to talk from his fishing perch. John knew that the stars were important; he knew that his dad used them to go and come home safe, and even to monitor the time. Tonight, Dad told the story of the two bears.
"Once," he said, "they were two humans, a mother and son who loved each other very much. But because the mother drew anger from the gods, she was turned into a bear. She stayed near her son and watched him grow. One day he was hunting and encountered his mother, and decided that a bear would be a good trophy. To save the mother, the gods turned the boy into a bear as well, and then put them both among the stars, so that when we are lost, we can see how they found each other, and find our own loved ones."
John loved the stories his father told. His father's voice was slow and rhythmic like the waves. Even though John knew all of the stories, having heard them as a kid, he loved to them over and over. He climbed out of the bottom of the boat and his father made room for him on the fishing perch, where he was going through the net for snags. John pointed up to the small bear and identified the North Star for his father. Dad smiled at his son's ability.
The night went on this way; father and son watching the constellations rise and sometimes Dad would tell the story, while other times John would recount the story of the constellation. Neither of them seemed to notice the wind picking up, except that John wrapped himself in a blanket to protect from the crisp breeze. But the wind kept blowing, and John's father decided that they should head back a little earlier than normal. He walked over to the sail to trim it and steer them toward home. Just as he grabbed the sail, a very strong gust blew and, John, used to seeing his fathers work, watched as the gust ripped the sail from his father's hand and his father fell into the bottom of the boat. John ran over to his father, but he knew immediately that he had been hurt, and that he would have to get the boat back to land on his own, out of the coming storm before things got worse. Working the sail and the rudder was a familiar job for John and his sister--his dad would always let them move it. But Father would always tell them when and how far: staring knowingly at the stars and telling them 'right' and 'left' and 'an arm's length.' John glanced forward at Ursa Major, mother bear, riding the horizon, and then set to work at turning around the boat.
John proved a good sailor: his father lay in the bottom of the boat, covered in a sea blanket to keep warm and dry, and John worked, sailing by the stars. He watched the time go by as constellations slid beneath the horizon as new ones rose. He had no idea what time it was, only that he was tired and the stars had changed--and that some of the new ones were less familiar to him. The wind was picking up and fear kept John awake.
Soon a light appeared on the horizon, and John thought at first that it was the hints of the sin peeking out, and was immediately relieved and filled with dread. Even while he was glad for the end of the night, John had no idea how to sail in the day---the day made the water and sky look all the same. He feared to think that he had been sailing for so long. The light seemed to make time freeze, and John watched it in fear that it would at any minute erupt over the horizon as the glowing sun. He glanced up at the little bear, the brightness of the North Star seeming dim in the presence of this new light.
The light on the horizon was not the sun. It rose and rose like a new star: bright, but not the sun. John got closer and closer and realized what he was looking at--it was the lighthouse! He was almost home! He adjusted the boat's path a little, knowing what the wharf would be off to the left of the lighthouse, and trimmed the sails. He then sat beside his father and tried to wake him to let him know. His father's eyes opened bright, he watched the North Star high above, and then felt the light of the on them.
The rain came right as John and his father came to shore. John called and Elizabeth came and helped pull the boat in--their father helping, but protecting his hurt arm and rubbing his head where he had fallen. John rolled the boat over after they had lain down they mast, and they all ran toward the house, where John's mother was waiting in the doorway. John went in last, looking back and seeing the big bear and the small bear even through the rain, shining bright, reminding everyone that they could find their way home. Then his father put a hand on his shoulder and brought him into the warmth of the house, smiling at him as any proud father would.
The calm water turned dark when the sun went down, and John's father did not hang a lantern on the boat like he normally did. The two of them sat in silence, John lying at the bottom of the boat, starting up at the stars, clear in the night sky and reflecting off of the water. Then John's father began to talk from his fishing perch. John knew that the stars were important; he knew that his dad used them to go and come home safe, and even to monitor the time. Tonight, Dad told the story of the two bears.
"Once," he said, "they were two humans, a mother and son who loved each other very much. But because the mother drew anger from the gods, she was turned into a bear. She stayed near her son and watched him grow. One day he was hunting and encountered his mother, and decided that a bear would be a good trophy. To save the mother, the gods turned the boy into a bear as well, and then put them both among the stars, so that when we are lost, we can see how they found each other, and find our own loved ones."
John loved the stories his father told. His father's voice was slow and rhythmic like the waves. Even though John knew all of the stories, having heard them as a kid, he loved to them over and over. He climbed out of the bottom of the boat and his father made room for him on the fishing perch, where he was going through the net for snags. John pointed up to the small bear and identified the North Star for his father. Dad smiled at his son's ability.
The night went on this way; father and son watching the constellations rise and sometimes Dad would tell the story, while other times John would recount the story of the constellation. Neither of them seemed to notice the wind picking up, except that John wrapped himself in a blanket to protect from the crisp breeze. But the wind kept blowing, and John's father decided that they should head back a little earlier than normal. He walked over to the sail to trim it and steer them toward home. Just as he grabbed the sail, a very strong gust blew and, John, used to seeing his fathers work, watched as the gust ripped the sail from his father's hand and his father fell into the bottom of the boat. John ran over to his father, but he knew immediately that he had been hurt, and that he would have to get the boat back to land on his own, out of the coming storm before things got worse. Working the sail and the rudder was a familiar job for John and his sister--his dad would always let them move it. But Father would always tell them when and how far: staring knowingly at the stars and telling them 'right' and 'left' and 'an arm's length.' John glanced forward at Ursa Major, mother bear, riding the horizon, and then set to work at turning around the boat.
John proved a good sailor: his father lay in the bottom of the boat, covered in a sea blanket to keep warm and dry, and John worked, sailing by the stars. He watched the time go by as constellations slid beneath the horizon as new ones rose. He had no idea what time it was, only that he was tired and the stars had changed--and that some of the new ones were less familiar to him. The wind was picking up and fear kept John awake.
Soon a light appeared on the horizon, and John thought at first that it was the hints of the sin peeking out, and was immediately relieved and filled with dread. Even while he was glad for the end of the night, John had no idea how to sail in the day---the day made the water and sky look all the same. He feared to think that he had been sailing for so long. The light seemed to make time freeze, and John watched it in fear that it would at any minute erupt over the horizon as the glowing sun. He glanced up at the little bear, the brightness of the North Star seeming dim in the presence of this new light.
The light on the horizon was not the sun. It rose and rose like a new star: bright, but not the sun. John got closer and closer and realized what he was looking at--it was the lighthouse! He was almost home! He adjusted the boat's path a little, knowing what the wharf would be off to the left of the lighthouse, and trimmed the sails. He then sat beside his father and tried to wake him to let him know. His father's eyes opened bright, he watched the North Star high above, and then felt the light of the on them.
The rain came right as John and his father came to shore. John called and Elizabeth came and helped pull the boat in--their father helping, but protecting his hurt arm and rubbing his head where he had fallen. John rolled the boat over after they had lain down they mast, and they all ran toward the house, where John's mother was waiting in the doorway. John went in last, looking back and seeing the big bear and the small bear even through the rain, shining bright, reminding everyone that they could find their way home. Then his father put a hand on his shoulder and brought him into the warmth of the house, smiling at him as any proud father would.
Monday, October 12, 2009
If you cannot differentiate instruction, you shouldn't be a teacher
I hope that is clear enough. Because it is something that has to be said. If you cannot make your lesson approachable by every student in your class, well, you really have no place in a class. Because there is one place where there is no room for pure democratic principle: information dispersal. That is, you cannot distribute information in such a way that it is packaged for the majority.
This is not just an issue of ethics--it's a logical impossibility. Why? Constructivism. Constructivism says that students develop interpretive schemas based on experience. Which means that, unless two students have the exact same experiences (both internal and external, chemical and physical, and all of those realms of human experience which we fail to quantify), they will not have the same schema.
What passes for 'mainstream' education is an education that is accessible to the largest portion of the bell curve. There is a difference between accessibility and mastery, and I would submit that our settling for accessibility has a lot to do with the deterioration of the bell curve in general.
We've got to do better as teachers. We have to stop saying that to ask teachers to ensure make education accessible to more than the majority is 'idealist; asking too much; living a dream.' If we don't start expecting teachers to teach, and holding them accountable to that, what makes think that they will?
P.S. I know I haven't posted my story yet. I haven't finished revising it. I was waiting on a friend's expert opinion, but she hasn't e-mailed me yet.
This is not just an issue of ethics--it's a logical impossibility. Why? Constructivism. Constructivism says that students develop interpretive schemas based on experience. Which means that, unless two students have the exact same experiences (both internal and external, chemical and physical, and all of those realms of human experience which we fail to quantify), they will not have the same schema.
What passes for 'mainstream' education is an education that is accessible to the largest portion of the bell curve. There is a difference between accessibility and mastery, and I would submit that our settling for accessibility has a lot to do with the deterioration of the bell curve in general.
We've got to do better as teachers. We have to stop saying that to ask teachers to ensure make education accessible to more than the majority is 'idealist; asking too much; living a dream.' If we don't start expecting teachers to teach, and holding them accountable to that, what makes think that they will?
P.S. I know I haven't posted my story yet. I haven't finished revising it. I was waiting on a friend's expert opinion, but she hasn't e-mailed me yet.
Friday, October 2, 2009
A Ghost in the Classroom
Since we are talking about talking, I want to talk about our good friend Lev V. because I'm not sure that I could talk about talking without talking about Mr. V. (for the record, that is supposed to be a little loopy).
Maybe it is because I'm a little elitist, or over confident, but I'm all for the upheaval of the modern classroom structure. I don't think we took Lev to heart--he haunts the curriculum and the jargon and even the classroom: we talk about scaffolding instruction, and social cognitive development, and then we let our kids talk amongst themselves briefly during lessons that we present. What we don't do is create social learning environments--environments where learning is organic.
Actually, that isn't true. I mean, where do you think your kids are learning the 'bad words' from? Certainly not their teachers (unless you live in Manhattan, in which case it's probable). The thing is that students learn from people that are like them--and most learning in school takes place in the informal social context rather than the dispensational forum anyway, so as teachers really the only option is to harness that information so that students are learning more than the 'f' word from their peers--unless that f word is friction, fiction, faction, or France.
I spoke briefly about it in Dr. Wilson's class, and I want to expand on what I said here: Lev Vygotsky is more than ZPD and Scaffolding. He's about interactive, socially relevant learning; and he isn't about a teaching strategy, so much as a pre-existent phenomenon. The zone of proximal development isn't the capacity of development of the student--it's a zone that is a natural development of the interaction between two people. That is to say that no matter whom you interact with, a zone of proximal development exists. Lev does talk about optimal Proximations--formations that foster learning to a greater extent, and we must understand that no learning in this context is one way: enter scaffolding.
I read a few semesters ago in the Oxford Commentary on Vygotsky something that stuck with me, and that is that we have badly misrepresented scaffolding. When we think scaffolding, and how we are taught the concept of scaffolding is assisting a student to reach a concept, like the concept of a building--as the building is developed, the scaffolding is removed. Not only is this a misunderstanding of Vygotsky, but it's a misunderstanding that leads directly to our conclusions that a teacher must control the classroom. It is a one way interaction--we must scaffold our instruction so that students can have access to primary concepts. What is forgotten is that necessary part of what scaffolding actually is--a relational development. In this way both people learn and grow from the scaffolding relationship.
How does all of this relate to talking? Well, all students are an expert at something. Some students will be experts at things the teacher will not. No two students have similar backgrounds. And every student interaction fosters a zone of proximal development that, well, develops a student. Talking is the conglomeration of all of this. Students learn from each other. They learn in the thirty-five minutes at lunch things with more social relevance than they do in the rest of the day. Talking is the way we harness this in the classroom so that students learn from each other. Talking in dynamic roles, understanding perspectives within a social context, and learning from the diverse pool of tools that community provides: such as in a debate, in a discussion of what 'love is,' what a cycle is.
Education is the communication of socially relevant concepts, the provision to a future generation the tools necessary to maintain the future society. All of this underscores community, and community learning--not a sage with answers to pass out. It is often said that our generation will have to solve problems that our parent's generation did not know existed, and that underscores our parent teacher's inability to teach us how to solve them. Martin Luther King, Jr. once stated that you cannot solve a problem using the same logic that created it. All of these demonstrate the need to let students have control of the classroom: what problems will our children have to solve that we do not even know are problems, and that they will have to develop their own logic to solve?
Talking needs to happen in class because it is the context of social learning--what is language but the indicator of two people's need to communicate information to one another? All of this to say that Lev shouldn't haunt education, but to take center stage--and perhaps that means the teacher needs to sit down, and let the students talk.
Maybe it is because I'm a little elitist, or over confident, but I'm all for the upheaval of the modern classroom structure. I don't think we took Lev to heart--he haunts the curriculum and the jargon and even the classroom: we talk about scaffolding instruction, and social cognitive development, and then we let our kids talk amongst themselves briefly during lessons that we present. What we don't do is create social learning environments--environments where learning is organic.
Actually, that isn't true. I mean, where do you think your kids are learning the 'bad words' from? Certainly not their teachers (unless you live in Manhattan, in which case it's probable). The thing is that students learn from people that are like them--and most learning in school takes place in the informal social context rather than the dispensational forum anyway, so as teachers really the only option is to harness that information so that students are learning more than the 'f' word from their peers--unless that f word is friction, fiction, faction, or France.
I spoke briefly about it in Dr. Wilson's class, and I want to expand on what I said here: Lev Vygotsky is more than ZPD and Scaffolding. He's about interactive, socially relevant learning; and he isn't about a teaching strategy, so much as a pre-existent phenomenon. The zone of proximal development isn't the capacity of development of the student--it's a zone that is a natural development of the interaction between two people. That is to say that no matter whom you interact with, a zone of proximal development exists. Lev does talk about optimal Proximations--formations that foster learning to a greater extent, and we must understand that no learning in this context is one way: enter scaffolding.
I read a few semesters ago in the Oxford Commentary on Vygotsky something that stuck with me, and that is that we have badly misrepresented scaffolding. When we think scaffolding, and how we are taught the concept of scaffolding is assisting a student to reach a concept, like the concept of a building--as the building is developed, the scaffolding is removed. Not only is this a misunderstanding of Vygotsky, but it's a misunderstanding that leads directly to our conclusions that a teacher must control the classroom. It is a one way interaction--we must scaffold our instruction so that students can have access to primary concepts. What is forgotten is that necessary part of what scaffolding actually is--a relational development. In this way both people learn and grow from the scaffolding relationship.
How does all of this relate to talking? Well, all students are an expert at something. Some students will be experts at things the teacher will not. No two students have similar backgrounds. And every student interaction fosters a zone of proximal development that, well, develops a student. Talking is the conglomeration of all of this. Students learn from each other. They learn in the thirty-five minutes at lunch things with more social relevance than they do in the rest of the day. Talking is the way we harness this in the classroom so that students learn from each other. Talking in dynamic roles, understanding perspectives within a social context, and learning from the diverse pool of tools that community provides: such as in a debate, in a discussion of what 'love is,' what a cycle is.
Education is the communication of socially relevant concepts, the provision to a future generation the tools necessary to maintain the future society. All of this underscores community, and community learning--not a sage with answers to pass out. It is often said that our generation will have to solve problems that our parent's generation did not know existed, and that underscores our parent teacher's inability to teach us how to solve them. Martin Luther King, Jr. once stated that you cannot solve a problem using the same logic that created it. All of these demonstrate the need to let students have control of the classroom: what problems will our children have to solve that we do not even know are problems, and that they will have to develop their own logic to solve?
Talking needs to happen in class because it is the context of social learning--what is language but the indicator of two people's need to communicate information to one another? All of this to say that Lev shouldn't haunt education, but to take center stage--and perhaps that means the teacher needs to sit down, and let the students talk.
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