One of the more troubling details of international adoption is that young children brought to new countries often completely lose their native language. I can recall initially giving our adoption worker one of those wincing, doubtful kind of expressions when I was informed that my new Bulgarian daughter—even at nine years old—would likely meet this fate. After just six months, my skepticism was replaced by astonishment as she struggled to even count to ten in her mother tongue—a situation that was all the more troubling because she had not yet learned English. What it meant for her to live in a word wilderness—a kind of linguistic no-man’s-land—is something I still have trouble getting my mind around.
When I contrast this voicelessness with today’s tech-amplified, social-networking millennials, it’s not hard to get a bit reflective. I certainly remember the difficult and silent chapter in my daughter’s adoption story. But if today’s technology offers any commentary into our need for audience, I find myself revisiting our daughter’s communication prison with renewed sympathy as her father.
As an educator, the experience also pushes me to ask some questions about my role in the classroom. I wonder, for instance, about those silent populations that might persist in our schools. And then inevitably the larger question comes: How purposeful are we in elevating and honoring student voices in our classrooms? Certainly, modern communication says something about our need for connectivity and community, and I don’t doubt that it can feed some unhealthy practices, but might it also be saying something about our need for audience, an innate and developmental need to contribute our voices?
As far as educational buzzwords go, “voice” is no slouch. I suppose you might make a pretty good case for spotlighting popular twenty-first-century battle cries for “differentiated education” or “project-based learning.” But I think we could also make a pretty good case for centering “voice” on the educational mantle as a concept that has shaped no small part of our collective educational zeitgeist, especially in light of our school-reform climate. If yours is a school serious about student-centered learning, then student voice is really about democratizing your school by empowering and valuing student perspective. It is probably not uncommon to even hear talk about deputizing students as co-designers in their learning. In fact for many it is probably not possible to talk about project-based learning without at least one utterance of the much ballyhooed “voice and choice.” And if we throw in those educational surveys, student-inclusive school initiatives, and a host of other empowerment efforts, we probably wouldn’t be too far off to make an effective argument for defining 2016 as the Year of Listening Schools (although my older teenage daughter may claim I am overreaching a bit on this).
But if there is another question that our digitally amplified teens do well to ask us, it is that beyond a vocal citizenry, how large should this voice be? And perhaps more specifically—especially for educators—to what extent can students trust us with their stories and their words, and how might we better shepherd these voices in our classroom communities?
I can recall a time when one of my student’s contributions worried me. In a multiage writing class, the youngest in the group submitted a piece for an in-class publication. The piece, while wonderfully written, shared this young girl’s story of her near-death experience with anorexia—a rather confessional piece, warts and all. My inner teacher-alarm sounded and I contacted the parent. (Better to call than be called, I was thinking.) Did Mom feel comfortable sharing this in a classroom booklet? After reading it and giving me assurances that it was okay and perhaps even important for her to share, we included it in our small volume and distributed it to the class. What I could not have foreseen was the role it played in another girl’s life, quietly sitting on the other side of the classroom. The rather reclusive senior, whose life had also been profoundly impacted by an eating disorder, found an almost instantaneous sisterhood with the writer. And healing. And I was once again reminded of the transformative power of writing and the weighty obligation I had to amplify our students’ voices. And to handle those words with care.
As an educator moving from the public school system to a Christian school, some unavoidable mental Venn diagrams have been materializing of late, particularly on the subject of student voice. While my experience would suggest that both sectors seem to be rediscovering the importance of student voices, interestingly what might separate the Christian educator in the matter might be motive: We don’t simply elevate students’ voices in an effort to empower and enlist. We recognize their contributions because we recognize the image-bearer dignity of our children, and we understand that it is in the way that we respond to our students’ voices that we stand to model powerful Christlikeness. And especially for those of us who are in the business of handling our students’ words, we sit in a powerful position because it is in the way we respond to these words that we can echo some pretty potent biblical themes.
It is rather obvious, for instance, to make a case that a large part of the Christian faith is defined by prayer accessibility—we believe in a God who listens to people’s voices. And interestingly it is the marginalized and otherwise silent that are pushed to the center stage. To underscore the point, one has only to consider who Jesus typically gives audience to: disenfranchised women, the outcast “unclean,” society’s unwantables, and interestingly, children. The well-known Matthew 19 “Let them come to me” passage certainly has been a passage people have singled out for baptism. But I do think the passage has something to offer on how we should regard even the smallest of voices. Contrasting what some commentators call the “rough indifference” of the disciples, Christ displays patience, gives his blessing, and importantly, is an attentive audience. While we can only surmise what that moment looked like, it is interesting to note how most artistic renditions present a crouching Christ, eager to listen, eager to value. And it is a posture we as educators would do well to imitate.
I sometimes wonder if our roles as word handlers may have something to do with how folks behave when I tell them I am an English teacher. Anyone who has taught high school English understands that your professional identity should better be kept to yourself at otherwise happy dinner parties. Almost invariably the admission seems to prompt a type of priestly-confession-box role with people unloading their literary sins: “I’m not much of a reader.” Or “I’m not much of a writer.” If I don’t tell them to recite three or four lines of Robert Frost and go in peace, further inquiry usually illustrates that some didn’t have a very positive classroom experience. Memories of their shared words are sometimes mingled with recollections of red-pen rebukes from an insensitive one-person audience. (I now call this the “you-forget-to-put-a-comma-behind-the-word depression” syndrome.) Or simply of a place where their hard-fought ideas and offerings never made it to the community.
To be sure, the products of our students also need to be assessed. The end goal of our students’ work is not just for celebration’s sake—sometimes the process is long and hard and not always all that praiseworthy. But I would argue that the labors of our young people deserve more than a one-person audience or a near-silent finale. And while our millennials, you might argue, are already being spoiled by the over-attentive realities of social media, you might also argue that this type of virtual attention is not the same as what attentive and nurturing classroom cultures can offer. Or conversely, what can help to build genuine classroom cultures. At the end of the day, voice contributions that result from self-discovered, slow-cooked, and sometimes gut-wrenched efforts are not so much about narcissism as they are about honoring our students’ growth process. Whether we encourage students to participate in an open-mike-night event, an in-class publication, a blog, a school article, or simply to engage in a classroom culture that values contributions, a student’s voice—and self-awareness—inevitably grows.
Daniel Pink, author of the 2011 bestseller Drive: The Surprising Truth About What Motivates Us might be quite instructive on the subject. Challenging readers to rethink old carrot-and-stick strategies, Pink offers a persuasive re-examination of that intrinsic fuel: purpose.
“The science shows that the secret to high performance isn’t our biological drive or our reward-and-punishment drive, but our third drive—our deep-seated desire to direct our own lives, to extend and expand our abilities, and to make a contribution” (145).
If there is a powerful reminder of this voicelessness, it is the empty, wooden platform that still sits outside my Vermont window. During her isolation, our adopted daughter found expression by woodworking in our barn and hammered out what the rest of the family concluded looked most like a small stage. (To be clear, this was her first carpentry effort.) After propping it up on the back hill, it was appropriately proposed that we attempt an open-mike night in the backyard. One of my kids and I sang some awful karaoke. We forced our eldest son on stage with his guitar. And my adoptive daughter—together with her new sister—sang the last Bulgarian song she could remember.
May our crouching attention and attentive ears be ever present in our classrooms this school year.
Works Cited
Pink, Daniel. Drive: The Surprising Truth About What Motivates Us. Riverhead Books: 2011, p. 145.
Dave Praamsma lives near Lake Champlain in Vermont with his wife and 5 children. He teaches English and writing. He is a graduate of both Calvin College and Castleton University.
