A case study in deep and engaged learning: A virtual tour of BYU

I have been accused (and probably rightfully so) at times in the past of being overly critical of my own institution (as an aside, my response has been and still is that I'm critical of what happens at BYU because I care deeply about its mission and hold those who work and learn here to a high standard).  So, periodically, I intentionally go looking for good things happening on my campus.  I found one this week.

A team of 15 students from BYU' BYU's College of Fine Arts and Communications has developed a virtual tour of BYU's Provo, Utah campus.  In addition to the fantastic visuals tour goers encounter, there are opportunities to explore historic images, video content, and social media plug-ins.  And, just as an in-person campus tour might be interpreted as a mechanism for telling various aspects of the "story" of an institution (this article from +Peter Magolda makes one of the best arguments for this idea that I've read), a virtual tour has the potential to tell other aspects of this story, using different means of storytelling.  And, it's a tour that a student can "take" from anywhere in the world, and any number of times.  Finally, because the tour is self-directed, it allows students to customize their experience and search for the things they need, as opposed to the traditional canned, one-size-fits-all tours led by a student leader (though this format clearly has its own advantages).
But, this post isn't about the virtues of the tour itself, but rather the process that led to its creation.

The project was organized and coordinated by BYU's +Laycock Center, which is housed within the College of Fine Arts and Communications and whose mission is to provide students and faculty members within the college with opportunities to collaboratively develop solutions that address real problems both at BYU and elsewhere.  It's a great example of how an academic unit can provide meaningful opportunities for students to integrate their academic work with what they might term "real life."  And, the virtual tour project illustrates a number of best practices for the deep and engaged learning that should be happening in higher education more often.

1.  It was collaborative . . ..  The project led to good learning for the students who participated, in large part because it involved them in interacting with other students.  Instead of holing students up in the basement of the library to prepare for an exam, write a paper, or do some other kind of lonely academic work, the project brought students together to gather data, analyze a problem, and develop a solution that drew upon their collective knowledge, skill, and experience.  Listen to what one IT student had to say about his experience with the project:   "I thought it would just be coding things, but I was able to meet so many good people and learn a lot of new skills." As the student alludes to, this team approach was likely a bit jarring or even frustrating for some students accustomed to working on their own, but led to a much better learning experience than they would have had with a traditional do-it-yourself project.

2.  . . . and interdisciplinary.  Not only did students work collaboratively, but they worked collaboratively with people from outside their departments.  So, there were musicians working alongside actors, and IT students trying to get along with students in journalism.  In addition to improving the quality of the final product, this cross-section of perspectives and skill sets provided opportunities for students to hear new ideas, practice representing their own ideas in coherent ways for others who think very differently, and to see how ideas are improved when they emerge from dialogue among a diverse group of thinkers.

3.  Support from faculty mentors.  Although the project was largely student-driven, students weren't completely on their own.  They worked closely with faculty mentors who could provide guidance, raise new questions, direct students to resources, and provide feedback all along the way.  And, this participation alongside experts is just as important for learning as is the experience of working through problems with other novice peers.  When a student is mentored by a faculty member they see how an expert does their work and how they think about problems.  Those are things they can't learn from a textbook or a collaborative project that involves only their peers (valuable as that may be).

4.  Expanded opportunities for future experience.  I've blogged before about John Dewey's criteria for educative experience, one of which is the notion of continuity.  In a nutshell, this criterion emphasizes the need for a learning experience to expand a learner's possibilities for future learning experiences.  Thus, a good learning experience is one that serves as a springboard for future learning.  And, this is exactly what happened for two of the student leads who worked on the virtual tour.  One is an advertising student, the other is a student in Information Technology--two groups that rarely interact.  However, their experience collaborating together on the virtual tour, not only convinced them of the philosophical value of collaborative efforts, but led them to join forces for work on additional projects since completion of the tour.  Virtually every institution of higher education contains some kind of language in their mission statement about life-long or continued learning, and students' continued participation in collaborative, interdisciplinary work is tremendous evidence that this objective has been meant (much more telling than a students response to a survey item inviting them to report their likeliness to "continue learning."

As educators, we need to be providing more opportunities like this for students.  Teaching and educating, ultimately, is about providing learners with experiences that shape and transform them.  Although increased knowledge, skill, and understanding come along the way, this should all be subsumed by a more holistic change in a learner's view of the world.  And, that's what I see happening (even on a very small scale) among students who have opportunities like those who participated in developing the campus tour.  And, even if you don't care all that much about learning (I know no one working in higher ed would ever knowingly admit this, but you know who you are), these kinds of experiences have relevance for the financial and business sides of the institutional house.  Listen to how one student's perspective of the institution changed as she worked on the virtual tour project:

"I'm a senior, and honestly, I was starting to get kind of sick of campus, [said +Paris Sorbonne, an advertising student who served as the project manager on the virtual tour] but there was this moment during this project when I thought 'I want to be here.'  This campus is just so beautiful.  There is a legacy behind it.  It's changed lives.  So that split second when I felt that, I thought this is what I want the tour to be about."

Working on the tour didn't just enhance Sorbonne's learning experience, it helped her understand and connect with the institutional narrative at BYU.  And, that left here feeling a sense of purpose and motivation that had been missing before the project.  That connectedness is likely to stay with her long after she graduates, and that holds big implications for the type of alumnus she'll be.

So, whether you're a faculty member, administrator, or someone working in the enrollment management, business, or alumni office, you should care about whether or not this type of thing is happening on your campus.

Legitimate Peripheral Participation: A new lens for viewing the first year of higher education

At the outset, let me say that I'm a theoretical and philosophical nerd.  I like to read about theory and educational philosophies because they're just plain interesting and they lead me to see educational experiences differently, which I enjoy.  That said, my strong stance is that, without a theoretical foundation, those who design and order educational experiences (whether that is in a classroom, a home, a playing field, or music hall) aren't nearly as intentional and impactful as they can be when they are operating from a clear set of theoretical or philosophical principles.  Steve Yanchar, a faculty member in the Department of Instructional Psychology and Technology at BYU, has written very eloquently and persuasively about this idea here.

So, with that roundabout disclaimer for any theory-averse readers, here goes.

One of the most interesting theoretical frameworks for describing and understanding learning that I've come across is Jean Lave and Etienne Wenger's notion of Legitimate Peripheral Participation (LPP).  To really understand the theory, you'll need to read their book.  But, for the sake of this post and your time, here are the main ideas.

• Learning isn't merely knowledge or skill acquisition; rather, learning is the process of becoming increasingly skilled in the practices and discourses of a particular community of practice.  This means that "learning" is situated in particular contexts, activities, and social groups.  For example, learning to be a nurse isn't just understanding what to call particular body parts or how to give an injection (though this knowledge and skill is part of the process).  Instead, learning to be a nurse involves learning to think, act, and talk like expert nurses do.  Ultimately, it is a way of being that subsumes a whole constellation of knowledge, skill, and values.  So, learning is the process of becoming like the experts or "old-timers" that are part of an already existing community.
• In order to learn or become in these ways, a novice or newcomer needs to have access to the practices of the community.  So, that means being around old-timers, hearing the stories they tell, the way they describe problems, and seeing the way they do their work (whether that's making hamburgers at McDonald's, working on stopped up toilets, or writing academic articles).
• Learners also need opportunities to participate in legitimate and peripheral activities within the community and with other community members.  Lave and Wenger use the example of apprentice Vai and Gola Tailors in West Africa, who learn to be master tailors, first by hemming cuffs and attaching buttons to already finished articles.  From there they move on to increasingly complex tasks, all of which are integral to the overall process of tailoring an entire piece of clothing.  By participating in these practices, they don't just learn how to tailor, but learn what it means to be a tailor, with all of the complexities that come with that craft.  All three principles (participation, legitimacy, and peripherality) are key here because if any of these conditions isn't met, learning isn't likely to occur.  For example, if a tailor isn't performing a legitimate aspect of the tailoring process (e.g. distributing handbills in a public square to generate more business) or one that is peripheral (e.g. working in a setting completely disconnected or isolated from the master tailors), he or she isn't likely to master the knowledge, skills, discourse, or tools necessary to be a good tailor.  Rather, the "learning" will be fragmented and artificial.

There's much more that could be said about LPP, but that should be enough to provide a basic overview of the theory.  

Given the work I do with first-year students on my campus, my question is how LPP might inform the way we welcome, orient, and "teach" students during their first year.  Here are a few thoughts:

1.  First-Year Experience programs should be built around meaningful tasks.  Although there are certainly things that we want first-year students to know and be able to do by the time they finish their initial year on campus, talking at students about these things (whether it is in new student orientation, in a freshman seminar course, or any other formal setting) isn't likely to lead to any real learning or growth.  Instead, we should be identifying a series of developmental tasks that students can be invited (or better yet, expected or required) to participate in during their first two semesters.  And, no, I don't just mean coming up with a list of courses.  Thoughtful FYE administrators will consider what the practices and behaviours of "expert students" are and structure FYE tasks/objectives around these things.

2.   First-year students should be provided with a comprehensive view of the mission and purposes of their particular mission from the very beginning of their experience.  In West African tailor shops this happens through the early tasks novice tailors are asked to complete.  It's very simple, by working with finished garments that have been tailored by master's, newcomers develop a good sense very early on of what a quality finished garment should look and feel like.  And, having that comprehensive understanding helps guide and focus their learning as they move through other tasks.  For a first-year experience program this can and should happen at New Student Orientation.  I've written before about how this could happen during an Orientation Convocation, but there are other, more active ways to give students this perspective as well.  One that was suggested on my campus by one of the administrators involved in orientation was to invite second semester students to serve as orientation leaders.  At first this seems risky, after all, how much can a second semester student really know about campus or about what new students need to know.  But, there is an intriguing idea here in that expecting second semester students to convey institutional messages and model effective student habits for their peers might speed up their development.  By expecting nearly new students to help to orient and support even newer students, we provide them with a meaningful opportunity to embrace and internalize a set of beliefs and practices that are important for their success.  And, by involving them in these ways, we involve them in an important aspect of our work (legitimate peripheral participation).  Similarly, any opportunities for new students to mentor, tutor, or advise their peers (even if that is in a simple setting like a study group) can move forward their growth, again, because they are participating in the work of the institution in meaningful ways.

3.  First-year students should have access to "old-timers."  This could mean anything from experienced students, to faculty members, to administrators or staff members.  The key idea is to structure the first-year in ways that provide opportunities for these interactions.  As a non-example, consider the practice of packing new students into large lecture halls for "survey" or "intro" classes.  Not only is this generally a poor way to learn, it provides little to no opportunities for students to have meaningful interactions with a faculty member.  In contrast, small seminars, employment and research opportunities, and mandatory advising facilitate these types of interactions where new students can learn by watching, talking, and participating with more seasoned members of the campus community.

Ultimately, the goal of the first-year experience should be to invite new students to become full participants in the campus community by structuring their experiences and interactions in ways that allow them to actually participate in those practices.  And that can extend well beyond the realm of traditional academics, to the arts, meaningful service, and anything else that a particular campus might value.

The best kind of colleague

One of my favorite collegial pairs, partly because I'm a descendant
 of the actual Butch Cassidy (aka Robert Leroy Parker).

“A good definition is almost impossible, but you know one when you see one. The connection is almost immediate.You know it's going to be a good day because you will be seeing that colleague.”                                                                         

-Anonymous



This morning, in her "A Kinder Campus" column that regularly runs in Inside Higher Ed, +Maria Shine Stewart posed the question "What makes a good colleague?" The column is thoughtful, well-written, and inspiring--well worth the five minutes or so it took me to read it.  And, it invited me to reflect on what kind of colleague I am.  This assertion, from one of the colleagues Stewart interviewed for the piece, was particularly thought-provoking for me: a colleague is someone who listens and helps a peer when it would be easier just to focus on his or her own responsibilities." Far too often, I'm guilty of becoming wrapped up in my own to-do list or project and forgetting about or even consciously avoiding interactions with others so that I can be more "productive." My department (and my own soul) will be kinder when I finally kick that habit that has crept into my work over the last few years (I rationalize by blaming it on becoming absorbed in my doctoral study, which is probably a factor, but clearly not the only culprit).

In reflecting on Stewart's column and her description of collegial relationships, I recalled a Christmas gift I received over the break that initially only struck me as incredibly thoughtful, but which upon further thought seems to represent the best kind of colleague I could ask for.

My friend +Drake Allsop ordered me a copy of Dan Pink's newly released book (To Sell is Human) and had it delivered four days before it was even available in bookstores.  For someone like me who loves to read, loves social science-esque books, and is a fan of Dan Pink, it was a pretty cool gift to receive.  In that respect, it was the type of gift I might have received from any of a number of friends and family who know those things about me.  But, because of my relationship with Drake, the experiences we had when we worked together at BYU, and some subtle things he did in the giving of the gift, it was a uniquely collegial.  Let me explain.

To begin with, Drake was a student who worked for me in BYU's +BYU Office of First-Year Experience.  Consequently, our relationship should have been dictated by the traditional employer-employee norms, with me as the authoritative supervisor and him as the student who followed directions and did his work (a far cry from collegiality).  However, Drake very quickly became much more of a colleague because he engaged with me in ways that few other students have.  He read what I read, initiated enlightening conversations with me about academic ideas, challenged me when my thinking was off or he saw that I could make some kind of improvement (I'll never forget the day he told me my presentation slides for an upcoming conference were pretty boring--it's true they were and the revised slides were much better), and became a partner with me in my learning.  We also laughed raucously and irreverently almost every day we worked together, which I've found goes a long way towards building a relationship.  

I see a lot of the best parts of my relationships with good colleagues represented in Drake's gift.



1.  It recognized, acknowledged, and validated my intellectual interests.  Drake knows I like Pink and knows what kinds of ideas I enjoy being exposed to.

2.  It invited me to grow and expand my mind.  Drake knows I'm busy and that I'm probably not reading as much as I should now that the new semester has started.  Sending me the book was a subtle reminder to me that I need to continue to expose myself to new ideas, even when I don't think I have time or energy.

3. It challenged me.  A little context is helpful here.  Drake graduated from BYUs Marriott School of Management, and while he is definitely not your typical business student (case in point, he is now an elementary school teacher), we had and probably continue to have some philosophical differences about various issues.  He probably also knows that I shun commercialism, sales, and most profit-motivated ventures.  So, receiving a book that, on its cover (literally), is all about selling myself is a bit of a challenge to my way of thinking.  I appreciate that and it is something that the best colleagues do for their friends.

4. It was an invitation to engage in a conversation with Drake about important ideas.  In the text message Drake sent me a few days after I had received the book he mentioned that he is reading the book too, and that he looks forward to talking with me about it.  While that's the kind of thing acquaintances say to each other (kind of the grown-up or academic version of "hey, we should hang out sometime"), but don't really mean, Drake is sincere.  I fully expect to have that conversation with him when I finish the book.

I'm grateful for both a new book, as well as good colleagues.  They make my work, my learning, and my life (which are all terribly intertwined these days) much more meaningful.

Can learning happen without the learner knowing it?

I spent most of last Friday on a tour of Thanksgiving Point with a group of fellow graduate students who are working with Thanksgiving Point management on a project I have blogged about in a previous post.   We visited each of the three main venues at Thanksgiving Point and at each venue our tour was facilitated by the director of that particular museum or attraction.  Among other things, they oriented us to their venue, helped us understand the guest experience, and showcased exhibits or features they felt were particular noteworthy.  One of the directors, while taking us through his space, repeatedly made the comment that "kids are learning here, they just don't know it."  After hearing that statement three or four times in a matter of an hour, I started to wonder what that might mean.  And, it highlighted for me the fact that we frequently assume that learning is occurring without any real evidence that it is.  The TP manager we spoke with assumed that kids, parents, and other guests were learning while participating in the museum experience his venue provides, but it was just that--an assumption. 

In the title of this post I posed a question--can someone learn without knowing it?  I think the answer to that question probably depends on how a person defines "learning."  But, I'm willing to concede that "unconscious learning" might happen in some cases (e.g. The gradual process of becoming a more skilled artist or musician or the familiarity with a new neighborhood that comes over time).  But, the larger issue here is how much more meaningful learning is when the learner recognizes that it is happening.  And, helping learners see they have learned, seems like an important function for educators and educational environments to play.  This could happen in any number of ways, but here are a few

1.  Clearly articulate what you hope will be learned.  Sometimes just alerting learners to what it is they should or could be learning, helps them recognize it when it happens.  The old adage, "you see what you're looking for" applies here.

2.  Ask them to reflect at key points in the experience.  Ask learners what they are learning and how they are learning it.  This could happen at just about any point in the learning process, but beginnings and endings present nice opportunities for reflection.  What's more comparing these sorts of pre-post reflections reveals to learners how they have changed and provides an opportunity for them to identify how to replicate the learning process on their own.  

3.  Celebrate learning.  Provide opportunities for learners to demonstrate, share, highlight, or reveal what they have learned.  Not only do these sorts of activities deepen learning for individual learners, they communicate to the larger community of learners (a class, a school, an organization) what type of learning the community values.

4.  Provide opportunities for learners to teach one another.  Nothing lets us know how well we know something like trying to teach it to someone else.  And, the process of articulating knowledge not only reveals what a learner does and doesn't know, it deepens understanding and raises new questions that facilitate additional learning.

A "Third Place" on campus: What would an academic town hall for freshmen look like?

I just returned from a meeting with a group of librarians on my campus (as an aside, whatever stereotypical illusions I held about librarians being socially awkward book worms were destoryed in the 90 minutes I spent with them).  Our conversation centered on (1) their desire to create a third place space within the library that students can come to when they aren't at home and aren't in class and (2) my department's desire to create a space where freshman students and their mentors can build relationships, work collaboratively, and engage in meaningful dialogue.  The concept of third place was pioneered by Ray Oldenburg and, in short, describes a public space where members of a community can come together to dialogue and form bonds.  

During the meeting my mind wandered a bit (who hasn't had that happen in an administrative meeting) and I began to think about a recent blog post by Gary Daynes in which he drew connections between universities and cities.  In his post Gary describes a number of ways in which cities and universities are similar including power systems, food distribution, and police forces.  One element of cities or towns that I see missing from my University (and I would imagine a large number of institutions across the country) is the town square or commons area where members of the community congregate to do what I see as the real work of a city (e.g. share opinions about the health or malaise of the community, make suggestions for improvement, and showcase local products and creations).  I've oftened wished I lived in small town USA where this sort of thing happened more regularly.

So, this left me wondering about what an "academic town square," particularly one targeted at first-year students, might look like.  My initial thoughts are that those desigining a space like this would need to keep a few things in mind:

1.  Comfort.  This needs to be a place where students would choose to go when they don't have anything better to do.  Part of this is attending to physical comfort--it needs to include comfortable places to sit and to work and should "homey"--but, social comfort would be critical as well.  Care needs to be taken in encouraging social equality wherein a diversity of people and ideas are welcome.  And, a place to buy inexpensive, high-quality food (think coffe shop/cafe) would help as well.

2.  Invitations to collaborate.  The physical layout and objects placed in the space need to signal to those who enter it that this is a place where dialogue and group work are not only allowed but expected.    That means no desks, very little fixed furniture, and lots of studio-like space where people and congregate and engage in "messy" learning.  

3.  Opportunities for students to make the space their own.  The initial design needs to leave room for students to "move-in" and make it their own.  I'm not exactly sure what this would look like, but the space should be living and dynamic such that students can make their mark and create a sense of identity or sense of place there (for an example of what I mean, see this blog post from last summer).  This might include showcasing of student work (e.g. art, film, music, writing) and not just course projects or assignments.  

4.  Central and visible.  By definition the town square is the hub of the community, both physically and conceptually.  An academic town square needs to be accessible to students and should be highly visible so that students know where it is and can see the work that goes on there even if they don't actively participate.  A "lab" tucked away in the basement of a building or the corner of the library will fall flat on its face. 

5.  Commonly accepted "house rules."  Some sort of expectations as to what constitutes appropriate use of the space would need to be developed.  I'm not suggesting a placard of rules at the entry to the space like what you find at the neighborhood pool.  To be effective the code would need to be developed by those that use the space, not a university committee (or even a committee of students for that matter).  I'm not sure what the process would be here, but it seems important (anyone with ideas or suggestions for how this could be organized in an organic, grassroots way?).

Part of me thinks I've outlined an expensive plan for replicating the student union building.  But, the other part of me thinks that there is a need for a new space that is different from the student union in critical ways:  academic dialogue and deep learning experiences, but in an environment that feels like a student lounge.  As I walk through the student center on my campus I see lots of activity and energy but it happens in microbursts--a short conversation in the Taco Bell line, a hurried lunch with friends, stopping in to the Career Center to pick up a brochure, etc.    What's missing are sustained dialogues about what students are learning in classes, informal conversations about the recent campus forum, or students arguing about healthcare and pulling up C-SPAN interviews online to illustrate their points.  

Am I crazy?  Could a space like the one I've described work on a college campus?  And, what would it look like if the target population was college freshmen?  

College as a Playground or Design Studio

Yesterday as I was leaving my office late at night I saw something that has had me thinking ever since.  Near the door where I exit to go to my car there was a large advertisement for my institution's ORCA Grant program.  When it was placed there it wasn't all that different from any other advertisement I might have seen on campus--a couple of images, a bit of detail about the program, and a contact--however; it had been transformed into something much more creative and interesting than a poster advertising research grants.  There were a couple of reasons why this happened.  First, the poster (in its infant stage) was largely white, with a few black lines here and there.  On top of that, someone had taped a package of colored magic markers to the posterboard.  Finally, the posterboard was placed in a high-traffic student commons area where students gather to sleep, eat, study, etc.  All of these things added up, in students minds, to be an invitation to engage with the ad and create something completely original.  What was even more interesting to me was that this urge to create led students to create another "original creation" if you will, on the microwave stand nearby the ad.    Next to these nicely decorated styrofoam cups was a hand-written sign that said "Feel free to drink from one of these clean, decorated cups. "

This was all quite fascinating to me.  Without any real direction and in a wikipedia-like and asynchronous collaborative way, a group of students had produced something that was actually quite sophisticated (the artwork on the poster and the cups was quite well done--probably because students in the visual arts program take their classes on the floor just above where my office is located).  It left me wondering how we might engage students creativity and desire for play in ways that would both lead to good learning and also result in the creation or development of meaningful artifacts, solutions, etc.

What if campuses intentionally designed spaces (physical or otherwise) that invited students to engage with some sort of meaningful problem or task on an informal level and that also provided them with access to resources or tools that would help them create or produce something worthwhile?  I'm not talking about a studio, lab, or workshop.  Good things happen in those places, but the formal nature of the interactions and work there can sometimes limit learning.  Additionally, only a student registered for the course or invited by the lab director can participate.  What I am describing here is a sort of emergent workspace that grows on its own as students make the choice to be there and participate.  

For example, a department who wants a new logo or brand that could identify them and communicate their mission could create a large posterboard like the one I referenced above and place it in a very public space.  On the posterboard could be a couple of concise, simple directions (e.g. "We are the Office of First-Year Experience.  Our mission is to help students successfully transition into BYU and become members of our community of learners.  We need a new logo.").  Around the posterboard would be some basic materials that could be used to create something--markers, construction paper, double-sided tape, and pipe cleaner.  I wonder what might happen.  Would students pay attention to it?  Would they create something of enough quality that we might consider using even a part of it?  Would they steal my pipe cleaner?  I don't know.   

To make something like this work, it might need to be a bit more formal, but I think it could be done.  It could start with simple, but meaningful challenges that the university wants solutions for (e.g. The significant financial cost of people taking far more paper towels from a restroom dispenser than they reasonably need to dry their hands).  A call could go out across campus asking for students willing to come together to work on the project--it would be important that this invitation be broadly spread so that interdisciplinary teams form.  Students could have an advisor from administration that could help connect them with resources and be an advocate for the adoption of their solution (given that it is of sufficient quality).  Then, and this is key, students could be brought together after the completion of the project to reflect on the process and what they have learned, with particular emphasis on helping them connect their experience to coursework from their discipline.  

Would it work?  How could it be structured enough to pan out, but informal enough that students engage willingly and leave their "this is an assignment and I'm going to jump hoops" mentality at home?

Why do students hate school, but love learning?

A few weeks ago my wife and I had some friends over for dinner.  Just before they left we we got to talking about blogs and I mentioned, somewhat casually, that I have a blog that I post to about once a week or so.  At that point my wife turned and looked at me like I was a stranger she had never seen before and then said, rather emphatically, "No you don't."  You see I have never been particularly fond of or good at writing (as many of my posts reveal).  But, for the past year or so I have been a regular blogger.  What's more, it is one of the more enjoyable things that I do in my work.  This didn't make sense to my wife and has only recently started to make sense to me.  

In high school, and to some extent in college, I cringed any time a teacher mentioned an essay, research project, or even Haiku (I still wince at writing reports, memos, and evaluations).  I hated writing.  I was forced to do it, couldn't write about anything other than what the teacher wanted, and no one other than my teacher (who I didn't really care about anyway) was going to read it.  So, I've always been a little intrigued by the fact that writing for a blog is something that I do willingly.  Last night I got some answers that shed some light on this split personality I've developed.   

I listened to a talk by Clay Shirky ("Where do people find the time?"--for part 2 of the talk click here), a professor of new media at NYU, where he describes what he calls an "architecture of participation."  This architecture consists of three factors:  an ability for individuals to (1) consume, (2) produce, and (3) share all of which Shirky argues are critical for meaningful participation.  The more I listened I started to realize that my blog has allowed me to do all three of those things and I started to believe what Shirky was saying.  My blogging is different from the academic writing asked of me in school in very important and fundamental ways.  First, when I blog I get to write about what I am interested in and it isn't restricted to a particular discipline.  I am, at heart, an educator so many of my posts center there.  I've also written about politics, language, design, and health care. . .things I know little about, but am interested in.  Blogging also allows me to produce my own digital footprint.  I enjoy creating a post that links to books I've read, talks I've listened to, and other blogs.  It's also gratifying to google a term like "deep practice" and see one of my postings come up in the search.  I feel like I've created something that matters.  Lastly, because blogs are public I know that what I'm writing may actually be read by someone (I recognize that may not be true, but the theoretical idea sounds good to me).  That, incidentally, makes me care a lot more about what I write about and how I write it.

This all leaves me wondering how we can make school a little more like blogging.  What if schools were more thoughtful about creating an architecture of participation that would support the type of learning we hope happens in our classrooms?  How would assignments be structured differently?  How would the teachers role in the classroom change?  How would relationships and roles among peers look?  

The idealist in me wants to believe this would make a difference and that students would start learning in school in the same ways we see them learning once they leave our classrooms and campuses.  Am I being naive?