Power to the People

 

Daniel Cano                                                    

 "I know of no safe depository of the ultimate powers of society but the people themselves, and if we think them not enlightened enough to exercise their control with a wholesome discretion, the remedy is not to take it from them but to inform their discretion by education." T. Jefferson

                                         

A teacher's corner

     A teacher coming to class without a voice is like a gardener, electrician, or plumber showing up to the job without any tools, or like the lead singer in a rock band, the voice the instrument. Without it, the work just can’t get done.

     We’d reached the end of the semester, last class before final exams. My community college students were anxious, as expected, and as their teacher, I wanted to ensure I provided everything they needed to do well in the final three-hour test.

     It was a sophomore literature class, the bulk of them already accepted transfers to various universities. They needed A’s and B’s, even the good old “Gentleman C” wouldn’t do. I prepared my lecture notes and lesson plans, covering the intricate subtleties or the novel we’d been reading, focusing on the main points. I couldn’t wait to get to class the next morning.

     That night, a tingling sensation tickled my throat, then a scratching. (This was pre-covid.) Uh-oh. By midnight, it was a full-on dry cough, and by the time I woke the next morning, I was hoarse, one-hundred percent mute, nothing, zip, I mean, unless you count an unintelligible croaking sound. My first reaction--bewilderment. The students were depending on me.

     I thought about calling in sick, but, with finals one class away, I couldn’t let my students down. Too late, even, for a substitute. I had to show up, no matter what, if for no other reason than to apologize. After today’s class, I wouldn’t see them again until the final exam. I’d even told them to come to class prepared to ask questions.

     Other than no voice, I felt fine, no cold symptoms. I wondered if it was somehow psychosomatic. An overexcited brain can play tricks on us. I recalled once in elementary school I got a one-line talking part in a play. It would be an evening performance, open to the public. That afternoon, I lost my voice, no sickness, just no voice. A friend had to substitute. He blew the line. As parents and students watched, he kept laughing, finally spitting out the few words. The next day, I was fine, talking again. How could that happen?

     Was it happening again? I wasn’t sure how to proceed. Even with what felt like the weight of the world on my shoulders, I didn’t panic, telling myself it would all work out, my military training kicking in. Maybe they were ready for the final even without the class. I’d done a lot of interactive stuff during the semester. I supplemented lectures with mock trials, debates, Socratic questioning, group discussions, and research projects.  Still, I knew that for the final exam they’d want to hear my “take” on everything.

     As I drove to work, I tried talking in different tones, low, regular, high. No matter what I did, I sounded like a frog, and in a higher register, out came something like a screech. I’d have to improvise. I’d been a musician in a younger life, forgotten the chords or notes on stage and had to “fake it,” which usually meant improvising, and, in a sense, creating something new. Growing up, I’d watch and listen to my fast-talking Chicano uncles bullshit with the best of them. Maybe, this was one of those times.

     Weird ideas came into my head—pressure, stress. I remembered a reporter interviewing Lee Trevino after he won the Masters, or one of those golf tournaments. He was asked, “Lee did you feel the pressure?” The cool Chicano leaning on a golf club answered something like, “Hell, you think that was pressure. Pressure is when you’re on the golf course in El Paso, and you got a $1000 bet going on with a local sharky, and you don’t have a dollar in your pocket. Brother, that’s pressure.”

     I entered the classroom. It was full, 30 students, not an empty desk. I couldn’t give them my usual “good morning” or any chit-chat. I nodded. They knew right away something was up.

     Like the game Charades, I pointed to my throat, then made a cut-off motion with my hand, to indicate I had no voice. They began looking at each other. A few laughed. I went to the board and explained my loss of voice. Groans and chuckles.  

     Instead of writing Class Dismissed, as I’d thought of doing, I wrote, “You will have to conduct today’s class! Prepare for the final exam anyway you want, share and discuss your notes, analyze passages from the book, or ask each other questions. Use the board.”

     At first, they sat staring at me. Then they turned and looked at each other. I couldn’t even say, “Start.” I just extended my arms with my palms up. They understood. For the next hour and ten minutes, I watched something magical happen. Like ants carrying provisions up an anthill, they got moving. A few students took control.

     Modeling some of my earlier classes, they moved the desks around and formed small circles. They took out their books and notes and began sharing information and discussing confusing or ambiguous passages. Even the shy students got involved.  They moved from group to group asking questions and offering their own answers.

     Sometimes, one student would stand and call out something across the room to the entire class. Someone on the other side of the room would answer. Another would write on the board, so that everyone could see the information and copy it down. Two students put their heads together, figured out the answer then shared it with the rest of the class. Not once did they ask me a question. The classroom was their workshop. I walked around, pointing, gesturing, and offering help with the expressions on my face. Mostly, I observed.

     The class time passed quickly. When they were finished, they packed up the books and notes, apparently satisfied with their progress. Some shared telephone numbers and emails. As they exited the room, they told me they hoped I felt better by the next class. It had been an invigorating morning.

     About a week later, my voice returned, I discussed the class with a colleague. I thought there was a lesson for us to learn from it. He said he was going to try it. He did, pretended to lose his voice, with the same results, an inspiring class session conducted by the students themselves.

     Now, I’m not saying a teacher isn’t needed in class. Throughout the semester, I had provided much of the context and content, enough for them to know how to apply it themselves. To me, that is true learning, the application. I never lost my voice again, but I did design my curricula and pedagogy a bit differently after that experience.