“It’s a Facebook thing” and ignorance of the internet: a short story

Yesterday these Kony posters appeared in our neighborhood. I knew they would get torn down as soon as people saw them this morning, so I went out early to take some snaps.

As I pulled up to the first one, a man (good-looking, maybe in his late 20s?) got out of his car and headed toward the sign. He leaned down to my open window and said, “do you know anything about this?”.

I said, “No.”

He said, “I think I know the kids who did it. It was kids.”

“Oh.” I said

“They don’t bother me.” I said. He looked puzzled.

“I figure it means they’re thinking”, I said.

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s just it,” he said. “They’re not thinking. It’s a Facebook thing.”

“Well,” I said, “maybe it will make other people in the neighborhood think, and that would be a good thing.”

Pause, as he turns away.

“I’m an educator,” I say, “It goes with the territory.”

He looks at me curiously. “Wait a minute,” he says, “Are you a teacher?” (This immediately reminded me why I never use the word “educator” – I have no idea why I did.)

“Yes.” “Where?” “MiraCosta.”

“I think I had you,” he said. (I avoided sighing – people saying that to me used to mean something completely different.)

“Then,” I said, “You should know I like this sort of thing.” He smiles and rips the sign down, going back to his car. I drove to another part of the neighborhood to get more snaps before he finished his morning endeavors.

Yesterday I had a conversation with a colleague who is otherwise very intelligent about the world. In fact, he teaches about culture. I was complaining at how few of our colleagues have any understanding of new media, the internet itself, or  the role of these elements in our culture.

He said, “Well, I’m not on Facebook, if that’s what you mean.”

“But your students are,” I said. “Don’t you think you should get in there and try to understand what’s going on? You could learn more about how they think.”

“I don’t like Facebook,” he says.

So I’m thinking (as I imagine the FB “dislike” thumbs-down in my head), is this how we deal with this? We don’t want to use it ourselves, so we aren’t interested in understanding it? Do we think the same thing about other kinds of knowledge and understanding? How do we teach our students if we don’t understand something that has become so quickly a major part of our culture? What do we teach our students if we don’t understand this?

It’s not “a Facebook thing”. Or if it is, it means we need to understand what being a Facebook thing means, and that it doesn’t necessarily translate as “doing what my friends do” or “living in a different space”. Facebook, and the whole internet, affects our lives every day, whether we have accounts or not. And when students (and former students) and teachers don’t get that, it’s a bad thing.

 

In search of context

On PBS radio, Kevin Whitehead’s review of Jenny Scheinman’s ‘Mayhem’ included a quick comment that if one of the songs was “taken out of context” it would be heard differently.

There are wide-open moments on Scheinman’s “Devil’s Ink” that, taken out of context, could pass for modern composed music.

Which made me wonder how a piece of a song could be taken out of context? It would have to be informed by other songs or other knowledge.

Of course, an individual song can be taken out of context — bands like Pink Floyd and Radiohead didn’t want their songs to be sold separately in iTunes. Alice Cooper’s Welcome to My Nightmare is meant to be heard in a certain order – so is Queen’s Night at the Opera. Album rock is based on the album, not the individual songs.

But context can be important for bits of knowledge as well. And this connects (really it does) to my students coming to class not having done their reading.

I complained about this on John Mak’s blog, in answering his query about flipping the classroom, where I described the problem in my hybrid class, where lectures and readings are online, and on-site time is for discussion:

Several students seem to “forget” to do the online work at all, having been “trained” to just show up in a class. The time in class, now joyfully turned over to “discussion”, doesn’t go as well when students don’t do the online readings.

The readings provide context for what we talk about in class. Reading about what happened (yes, including some facts) provides the context for both the primary sources and further discussion.

And yet, there is no reason for a person to realize they do not possess context for their ideas. They may think their thoughts spring from an internal source, without connection to their culture, upbringing, or surroundings. Only their presence is required to engage in criticism, on any subject.

Such disconnected idea-building could represent a moment of spirituality, but is more likely to express simple ignorance.

People who cannot think within a pattern of intellectual endeavor (mathematical, historical, literary, scientific) lack the context within which to put the bits and pieces of information they may encounter.
http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/embed/x7snY1-js6s?rel=0#t=0m51s

The Nowhere Man in Yellow Submarine knew a million details, but had no knowledge.

So the entire purpose of education is to provide context. Or, at least, it is its central purpose. Providing facts and forcing memorization, we say, doesn’t do that – you only learn the details. But could enough facts, stuck together however tenuously, create a net that becomes a context? Can we rearrange the songs to make an album?

Or is it necessary to have someone else (expert, professor, teacher, curator) create the album, so that we hear the individual tunes as a contextual package?

Perhaps the controversy between the constructivist or connectivist pedagogies and the instructivist pedagogy is mostlya bout context. The constructivists and connectivists want the students to build their own contextual package, inductively, and the instructivists want to provide the contextual package, within which students fit the specifics, deductively.

Either way, it seems to me, the goal is the same.

Telecommunications, Twitter and Titanic

No, I am not a big fan of the James Cameron film, mostly because of the awful script and the inability of the two leads to rise above it.

I have also not been a big fan of tweeting “history”, in historical reinactments done via Twitter. I critiqued the approach heartily almost exactly two years ago.

However, I have now been to two museum exhibits of artifacts from the Titanic (including the current one in San Diego), and tonight I sit here watching Twitter as the Carpathian steams in to pick up survivors, and I have to say, it’s ridiculously riveting to watch the disaster unfold on Twitter.

I have followed both Real-Time Titanic  and TitanicVoyage  out of the  UK publishing house The History Press for the last couple of days. Both have done a great job in creating a suspenseful account of what professional historians like to call (often disdainfully), “popular” history, Real-Time Titanic using a third-person, journalistic style and TitanicVoyage marking posts by the type of tweeter (#captain, #crew, #thirdclass) for an even more harrowing first-person tone.

As with most of the popular history I’ve enjoyed, I was drawn to a single aspect of the subject, in this case the problem with the Marconi wireless radio just a day before they hit the iceberg.

Apparently, the transmitter went down.

And apparently, they broke the rules to fix it.

Naturally, this sent me on a hunt for rules about Marconi wireless, and the stories of the young men who worked the radios. I found a respected article by Parks Stephenson, a fascinating page on the wireless telegraphists, a website “specialising in radio aspects of the Titanic disaster since 1999“, and a recent article from Atlantic Monthly on the importance of radio to the survivors. None of the creators of this stuff are, to my knowledge, professional historians. They are enthusiasts, of history and radio.

Even if only parts of the stories are true, it is possible that a couple of young men took apart a radio against some sort of policy to make sure it transmitted, and if they hadn’t then a day later when Titanic hit an iceberg they might not have been able to send the distress call.

Conclusions can thus be made about the value of mechanical tinkering, and not being afraid to break the rules, and professional pressure to do your job (hundreds of passenger-sent messages were sent from the ship by radio).

It’s harder to explain, though, the emotional impact of watching it unfold, in “real time” 100 years later, as if it were happening now and we could hear the screams of the people freezing to death yards from the lifeboats. There was a certain War of the Worlds aspect to it, even though Twitter is not really the radio and one couldn’t unknowingly follow the Twitter stream the same way people unknowingly tuned in to Welles’ show.

And again this odd use of Twitter makes me rethink the role of stories and history and the enthusiasts who put it all together, and I’m filled with nothing but respect for their work.

Web 2.0 Fail: Back to the Tree at the Fork in the Road?

Chris P Jobling via Flickr

This is a story of failure. Not, at first, the good kind of failure, the kind that leads to growth. In this case, it’s the kind of failure that leads you to go back on the trail, to find that tree around which you tied the ribbon, and take the other fork in the road.

For many years, I did all my web stuff myself. This was before a whole lot of software or webware – it was all HTML, which I taught myself from a For Dummies book (Quick Reference, 1997). Oh, and we had Webboard 1 (they’re on 9 now) for threaded discussion. Geeks used IRC and other ways to talk in real time. The sound of the modem was music to my ears.

Then Web 2.0 happened, and it was so exciting and easy to use all the cool stuff. Flickr for photos! Blogger and WordPress.com for blogs! Twitter for microblogging! You could post all your stuff, even create stuff, and there it is, all for free. No need to know HTML!

I should have known better. I’m a historian.

Problems at Pedagogy First!

Most of our participants at Pedagogy First!, at our encouragement, have been using Edublogs or WordPress.com for their blogs. At first, these blogging services provided for free the means to upload the things our participants created as part of the class. But, as time has gone on, fewer features have been enabled for free accounts at these services.

The number of plugins that both services offer has also decreased. We have been exploring workarounds in response to the decline in services like embedding media. First it was Flickr, YouTube and Vimeo, where you could just by typing the URL into WordPress.com but Edublogs wasn’t so easy. Then we couldn’t get Edublogs to embed Jing or Slideshare (and WordPress.com could only if we used Vodpod).

Now our intrepid participants are posting audio and sure enough, WordPress.com won’t let them embed audio on the free account using an upload. So the trick here is to upload ones audio “somewhere on the web” and put in a shortcode like .

To upload “somewhere” means they really should have access to a web folder somewhere and know how to ftp to it, or try a service (I tried yourlisten.com, but it didn’t work). As they helped each other, they discovered Soundcloud could work. But this sort of thing is dicey and inconsistent, and it freaks out the newbies. Come on, everybody, let’s run all over the web looking for ways to do something simple!

Problems for Me

At the same time, I have been experiencing problems with my own free services. Posterous won’t convert my video to embed it, regardless of the codec used. I recorded the weekly message to my students in Eyejot, and it didn’t send it to me for four days. Flickr wants money to share my photos with others.

And then I look at ds106, harbinger of all things self-participatory. Jim Groom at UMW just raised money for a separate server, and they’re giving students domain names and web hosting so everyone can run their own blogs (not, you’ll note, using WordPress.com or Edublogs).

Going Backward

So is it time to go back to that tree? Back up (beep, beep, beep) the road of Web 2.0 “freemium” service providers, who (like insurance companies) are charging us more and delivering less, and get back to that DIY spirit? I always recommend some DIY anyway – keeping your files on your own computer to protect them from loss, never writing anything directly into a system. Now we may have to build learning units around it.

As we revise the syllabus for next year’s Pedagogy First! class, I’m asking my colleagues whether we should recommend some hosting, and teach everyone how purchase hosting space and create their own blog (as ds106 did last year). Our college’s super computer guy is happy to administer some WPMU blogs for MiraCosta participants,  which is wonderful, but every plugin will have to be approved and updated, and/or faculty will need to be taught how to use their web folder and upload things, a whole different level of web comprehension. They won’t know why they should make the choice between uploading to their web folder and uploading into WP — too many choices is bad for newbies. And, if this year is anything to go by, 75% of participants won’t be from MiraCosta, or won’t want a MiraCosta-controlled blog. We’ll need to  teach them how to not only set up a blog but get a hosting account (likely at Hippie Hosting for $12/year), install WordPress, and then set it up. It’s a year long class, but still…

This was the sort of thing we taught in 1998. Here’s some HTML. Here’s how to ftp. Now have fun. Blog platforms should make it easier, but in their current push toward monetization, they really are adding another layer, something else to be learned, instead of substituting for that back end knowledge. We didn’t whine in 1998 about learning the back end — you had to know some in order to teach online.

Walking away

As for me, I’m creating a new WordPress blog of my own and using Posterous Importer to transfer my ds106 blog. And I’m crawling through those php.ini files trying to fix problems, knowing I cannot expect novices to do that in the fall.

I also know, of course, that you can never really go back….

Paying to share (a Cranky Post)

I guess it’s becoming a Cranky Post series.

My stuff is stashed in a few main places on the web that aren’t hosted by me: Slideshare, YouTube, and Flickr are the main sites where I “publish”, plus I have stuff at Screencast, Screenr, MindMeister where I create things. I have this blog, and a Posterous blog for ds106 and separate blogs for other classes, etc.

So the big three are places where I am really trying to share. I upload many tutorials to YouTube (if they still look ok when they’re compressed that much). I post all my presentations, often with audio, at Slideshare as slidecasts. And Flickr has lots of my pics. Well, 173 pics. Which brings me to the issue.

Flickr has decided that when I reach 200 pics, they want to charge me $25/year. To get analytics and remove ads, I have to pay Slideshare the educational price of $144/year (certainly an educational price, since it is educating me rapidly). If I want more space on Screencast (they tell me I’m almost full up), I’d have to pay them.

No, I do not think everything on the web is or should be free. But these are not sites where I’m marketing my products, selling my photos, or making my career. Nothing I post there makes me any money, and by posting I am contributing to everyone else. Everything I have up is Creative Commons licensed as Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike.

So, for example, all my photos on Flickr can be used, for free, by anyone. I post them there for that reason.

But these services want me to pay to share. I don’t think that’s right.

The business model for these sites relies on ads, and thus lots of eyeballs coming to their site. Users who post add value to the website – in fact, they are the website. If those of us who shouldn’t pay remove our stuff, then the only stuff will be from people who can afford it or are trying to sell things.

Why not charge the nominal fee to the people who treat their work as copyrighted, who demand that people pay to use it, or who post it to sell it? If the purpose of the content is commercial, charge a bit. If it’s just for free sharing, keep it free.

What we offer

An excellent post by Tony Hirst notes the many classes being offered by entities that are not universities.

As we unpack the ideas of what makes up a class (and, I think, a school and education in general), it is possible we will find that the sharing factor (not the fee or the choice of classes) will be the main distinction between publicly funded higher education classes and the commercial “classes” being offered everywhere by everyone else.

An entity may offer classes in order to to create better-trained workers, or qualified beauticians, or registered health care workers, but if the models, techniques and approaches being used aren’t shared beyond the (paying) students, they aren’t contributing to the greater good. The pedagogical models aren’t shared, and in many cases are trademarked, copyrighted, or otherwise hidden from access.

So even if they’re “free” or “open”, courses offered by publishers, Condé Nast/Vogue, The Economist, The Guardian, Cisco, Google, or The Learning House are closed in their business model. They offer courses, often on contract in order to provide to other closed entities. Their intent is to sell their product, one way or another, even if that product is a method or approach.

But certainly public institutions work for the public good, at least that is why the public pays them.  (I am not sure what to think about private universities such as Stanford and MIT in this regard, because they do offer classes with the intention of furthering knowledge, but this knowledge is often closed and very expensive.)

This distinction in intention is why public institutions particularly should be sharing not only their classes, but the knowledge of pedagogy and content embedded in their faculty. (No, I promise not to go off on why all faculty should blog.)

The value of a class, then, is not just in the content, but also in the perspective and intention behind the offering. Would you rather take a class in constitutional law from an institution that wants your money, or from one dedicated to creating an educated citizenry?

Why don’t we go for active learning? (a Cranky Post)

Lecture, as we know, is a bad idea.  Harvard prof Eric Mazur, among many others, discovered that his students don’t learn from his brilliant, riveting lectures. He switched to more active learning, with students explaining concepts to each other.

Project-based learning, constructivism, student-led learning, active learning  – – call it what you will, it involves engaging students with the material, and often with each other, to promote deep learning.

But oh, those evaluations. Mazur also notes:

“It’s not easy. You get a lot of student resistance,” he continues. “You should see some of the vitriolic e-mails I get. The generic complaint is that they have to do all the learning themselves. Rather than lecturing, I’m making them prepare themselves for class—and in class, rather than telling them things, I’m asking them questions. They’d much rather sit there and listen and take notes. Some will say, ‘I didn’t pay $47,000 to learn it all from the textbook. I think you should go over the material from the book, point by point, in class.’ Not realizing that they learn precious little by that….”

Administrators do not want student complaints, and not many of us are tenured Harvard profs and can afford bad student evaluations.

It pushes against instructional innovation, even approaches (like constructivism) that go back many decades.

How can we make the changes that we know need to be made if students don’t like active learning?

We can’t, so the result is pressure to make active learning “engaging”, even though there is little evidence that this improves understanding or achievement. So now, if I’m going to create more work for my students, I’d better be sure it’s engaging for them, despite the fact that they’re doing more work. Oh, and I need to make sure to achieve those Student Learning Outcomes, which have become more and more like Teacher Effectiveness Indicators.

It’s a wonder that any change takes place at all under these constraints. It means that in order to engage students in the kind of active learning that leads to improved achievement, many of us would have to become thick-skinned, self-confident, full-time, tenured radicals who don’t care if their students aren’t happy.

I’ll work on it.

Dear PLN

Dear Professional Social Network / PLN,

In the beginning, although I was not interested in what you had for breakfast, I was interested in what you thought about things. And you told me, in tweets and blogs and comments on my blog. Things were good.

But as time has passed, you have turned to posting links, often without comment. Sometimes these links are very interesting, but I can’t know until I click on them, and either way I’m not getting anything from you except the link. And when I create a link-less post in Twitter, I don’t often get much response.

Now I understand that I am supposed to consider you as nodes in my network and as filters for my information. But to me, you were so much more. And now you blog less, if at all, and instead give me lots of links to works by other people. If you read my blog anymore (and the numbers indicate you don’t) you rarely comment. If I comment on yours, little conversation ensues unless you are a very big name with many people commenting to each other.

I don’t know how to tell you this, but I don’t want just links. I want you, your thoughts and dreams, your frustrations and successes. And I want that just as much from those of you who are big social media stars in educational technology as I do from my more intimate connections. And you all scroll by so fast these days, with all those links; it’s hard to find the comments you do make.

So I’ve been hanging less and less around our old haunts. Twitter is occasional rather than daily. I moved all my RSS feeds to Netvibes to get away from Reader, so I see your posts better now. Some of them are just RSS feeds of links. I was going to spend more time with you in Google +, where there seemed to be some Buzz-like conversation at first. But even there now it’s mostly links. And Facebook? We made a little corner for ourselves, where people feel comfortable to … post a lot of links.

I think we need to talk.

We aren’t assessing learning

In a presentation yesterday for the Learning Analytics and Knowledge open online class, Gardner Campbell argued that we are engaging in a factory model of student education, rather than one that reflects the complexity inherent in actual learning. In my favorite section, he uses analogies such as a daily pill box and cows feeding at a trough to convey his points.

http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/embed/S5r6L4bKJrs?rel=0

Campbell went on to discuss the ways in which the tools of learning analytics we use (rubrics, student learning outcomes, objectives) reflect and sustain this industrial model, by establishing pre-set goals and tracking “achievement”. These methods cannot track learning, which is much more complex.

In addition to being, as Gardner is, just wonderful, I think this is good logical ammunition against the belief that we are actually assessing learning with our “learning management systems” and other tools designed to organize, manage and measure. It’s important to understand that our measurement systems reflect a linear, simplified model when we engage in the assessment of student work. It also goes to the heart of measuring our own effectiveness as teachers.

If learning is complex, messy, riddled with failures that lead to successes, then to assess it using methods that are simple, linear, and concrete is rather bizarre.

[Gardner’s full talk as a Collaborate recording is here]

Small changes, big effects

Robert Therrien, No Title (Blue Plastic Plates), 1999

I’ve made many small changes in my classes, and am pleased with the result. (It’s especially pleasing because so many times I make big changes to little effect!)

1. Lotsa Quizzes: I got rid of the textbooks for most of my classes and wrote factual quizzes based on my lectures, giving the quizzes weekly instead of every two weeks. There are more questions but fewer points per question, and they get hints for each question because they can change their answer (I actually didn’t intend this, but I kind of like it). This format helps them keep up and review during each quiz.

2. Separate Multiple Choice and Essays: I’ve separated the multiple choice lecture/factual questions from the essay questions. The quizzes used to be a small number of factual questions plus one essay, given every two weeks. Students would have to wait to get the results until I graded the essay. Now they get the quiz results immediately.

3. Three Essay Exams: Instead of having a short essay due every two weeks as part of the quiz, I’ve instead created two major essay exams plus the final exam. They seem to be spending more time and effort on these and the quality is much better. And I grade less often but it’s more in-depth so I hope my comments are more helpful.

4. Grading Criteria Inside the Exam: Instead of just relying on a Grading Information page, I’ve included the criteria for essay grading as part of the essay question itself. That seems to be helping the essays also.

5. Seminar Hybrids: For my San Elijo hybrid classes, I’m using a seminar format. Some would call what I’m doing “flipping” the classroom, because all lecture reading, forum postings, public writing, quizzes and essay exams are online. We meet an hour and a quarter a week, and spend most of the time talking together about primary sources and how they fit into the era. It’s so wonderful to work in this seminar setting — I learn as much as they do. I will miss it very much. (It’s unlikely I will be able to do it again because hybrids are new and thus enrollments were low.)

6. Encouraging Late Source Posts: Each forum is one weekly topic, so I normally encourage moving on. But students will need the sources they post later for the essay exams. So now I encourage those who want more sources for their essay to go back and post them. This way everyone can use them, and the source collection is bigger.

7. Grading Late Quizzes By Date: I close each quiz with a password after the due date, but students may take them up to a week late for reduced credit. I’ve always reduced the score the same amount for a late quiz. But now when they email me for the password, I tell them I’ll take off less if they turn it in as soon as possible, and email me the minute they’re done (so I can change the score manually). This encourages them to finish up the quiz so they can move on to the next week’s material.

These changes were labor intensive to set up, but actually save me time and effort during the semester, so I have more energy to actually talk with students and tend to their learning as we go along. Far more of my time is spent encouraging and teaching rather than grading, and this is true of both my hybrid and online classes.

It’s shaping up to be a good semester.

Justify that pedagogy

The focus on technology for teaching becomes increasingly dangerous, and the only response is to articulate ones own pedagogy and be prepared to defend it.

More and more articles imply that teachers who don’t use the current gadgets and technologies are illiterate and useless.

On the other side, in a recent article, it is gleefully pointed out that Michael Wesch’s methods (which rely heavily on Web 2.0 and student exploration) may not be suitable for everyone, as he observes another professor doing quite well with lecturing. And yet Wesch’s awe at the effectiveness of another professor’s non-technology-based pedagogy should not be surprising, because Wesch is a good teacher who sees that different pedagogies may be equally useful.

Ed tech pushers try to force people to get trained in technologies that may soon be worthless or, worse, may force the pedagogy of the instructor into modes unsuitable for that person’s teaching style. I have refused to use far more technologies than I have adopted.

Luddites would have one believe there are no improvements to be made in classroom teaching. While this certainly isn’t true overall, it may be true for those who experience success in the more traditional methods. There is simply no proof that the charismatic lecturer teaches more poorly than the Web 2.0 devotee. Hattie’s studies indicate that student achievement is only related to a few teacher-controlled areas, and that these are primarily feedback, student’s prior cognitive ability, and instructional quality (knowledge, guidance, more feedback), none of which require technologies beyond a space with a roof and some writing materials.

Meta-cognition about pedagogy is what’s valuable here. In a world where some want to push people to use educational technologies (including Blackboard and other expensive college-wide systems) and others want to drone on and on or read from the book and call it “lecture”, we must all be prepared to defend what we’re doing. This is true whether we’re in a formal faculty evaluation or a hallway conversation. The ability to do so is an important skill, or we’ll get overwhelmed by supposed “improvements” that can do a great deal of harm to our effectiveness as teachers.

Few of us were asked to consciously develop pedagogy when we began teaching. We were either left alone or given a specific model to follow (deliberately or accidentally). We assessed our own effectiveness through how well we thought students understood, and what grades they earned according to our standards. Most of us got upset when students did poorly, and changed our pedagogy and materials (often every semester) to try to “get through” and improve results. In this development, we came to believe that certain things were important and other things were not, and through experience created our own pedagogical framework. We operate within that framework every day, keeping what seems to work and changing what doesn’t.

But we must learn to articulate why, to understand our own strengths and the reasons we teach the way we do. Great lecturers should not need to justify why they don’t use the web, unless they are in a research field and are refusing to help their students access the world of information. They should not be forced to engage in small-group activities or other techniques that do not work for them. You cannot use a technique effectively if you can’t do it well, and none of us does everything well. We try to do better (I am currently working on guiding large-group discussion, an area of weakness), but we must be allowed to use the techniques that we find most effective.

So don’t come into my office shaking your head because so-and-so just won’t use the web for his classes. I don’t care. Does he teach well? Does he know his subject, communicate it effectively to students, and assess their understanding? Can he articulate his pedagogy and justify his method?

We also need to be prepared to do this for online teaching. Here the training and understanding of technology is necessary, but its purpose is to achieve our pedagogy in an online environment. The equivalent of the boring classroom lecture is there online too, in posting Word documents in Blackboard, asking a few questions in the discussion forum, and assuming the class will run itself. Good lecturers must learn the technologies to get that energy online if they want to replicate their pedagogy in an online environment. Teachers who excel at groupwork must learn the technologies to do that effectively in an online setting. Those who want to use a guided exploration technique may naturally be led into Wesch-style 2.0 teaching.

All these can be justified if we focus on our pedagogy instead of who “gets it” with technology and who doesn’t.

In open learning, size might matter

I look with some consternation at the classes I’m setting up for spring. I have put all the presentation information on the open web, but because I need to track 240 students (40 each for 6 class sections), all graded assignments are trapped in an LMS (in this case, Moodle).

At the same time, of course, I read everywhere how the model is shifting, and in particular how the MOOCs (Massive Open Online Courses) are pushing both connectivism and open learning. The latest is Kop, Fournier and Mak’s A Pedagogy of Abundance or a Pedagogy to Support Human Beings? Participant Support on Massive Open Online Courses (2011). The idea is that the social connections in open courses need to provide the bulk of the support for learners: “We would argue that one of the major challenges is to create a pedagogy that supports human beings in their learning where the social connections people make on the network provide their learning support.” This comes up against the idea of the importance of the instructor: “teacher presence supports cognitive presence”. The study concludes that connections with both other students and the instructor are significant, which mirrors conclusions in studies about ordinary online classes.

Several differences exist between the MOOC model and my History classes.

MOOCs have learning objectives determined by the learners, where mine are determined by course descriptions at universities and student learning outcomes. This necessitates that I track learner progress toward those objectives, and quantify them through individual grades.

In MOOCs the level of participation is of importance mostly to the facilitators (you can see my discussion of engagement with brainysmurf here), where in mine retention of students and preventing them from dropping is significant to both my faculty evaluations and the chances to offer the class again.

Legal concerns in a MOOC are the sole responsibility of participants, whereas my classes are offered by an public institution that has to abide by certain state and federal laws in order to receive funding.

But the main difference is that MOOCs are Massive. There may need to be a point of critical mass in order for community to form effectively enough to support student learners. My class limit of 40, which seems excessive to me for the kind of individual monitoring I’m forced to do, may be too small to form that kind of support structure, even with a facilitator as active as myself.

However, 240 (the total of all my students together), may be large enough. If so, the Facebook group, where all my students may join, could provide a space for that community.

So back to the graded assignments trapped in the LMS. I am not concerned about the exams — the multiple-choice quizzes are individual and instantly scored for instant feedback (which is their other purpose, in addition to ensuring content exposure required by the course of study). The essay exams are also individual and are simply easier to mark inside the LMS.

But the “discussions” are trapped there too, though I don’t call them that. They are “sources and writing” forums, where students post sources and construct mini-essays based on the collection they create. I have to track them to track participation, so they’re inside the LMS.

These “sources and writing” activities are what’s causing my consternation. Clearly they should be on the open web. Students could be blogging, then finding the sources on each others’ blogs and creating their theses as posts. But I cannot track them with the granularity I need for 240 students, so they’re trapped.

My sense is that community support is not likely to arise in a forum where the class starts with 40 students, but maybe 27 will actively participate, and of these (experience suggests) only about 7 will actively engage with what other students have written rather than just searching for sources to do their own work. So I’m hoping that 240 in a Facebook group will provide the community element necessary for support when my classes are not MOOCs.

The larger question is whether there is a critical mass that should be achieved to provide such support, and whether a part of the class needs to be an emphasis on participants learning how to support each other. This “development and practice of peer facilitation, mentoring, and coaching” mentioned in the article would have to be intentional and part of class design. If I am unable to fully organize a formal mentoring system (which would take a great deal of time), perhaps the Facebook group can be a place where those connections can be made, if enough students participate.

The Guiding Force

The Guiding Force of a class is the heart of it, from which everything else issues forth. For most college instructors, the Driving Force is the syllabus, or the course objectives.

But I have seen courses where the Driving Force is the discussion. One of our earliest online instructors, Judy McIlwee, back in the day before course management systems, put all her lectures as the start of a discussion topic rather than on a separate web page. I was amazed – it changed the whole focus to student discussion rather than lecture, just by placement.

In our Beginners Workshop, we used a workflow sheet to help instructors articulate their Guiding Force. Is it the syllabus, discussion, the student learning outcomes, the textbook, the courseware, their own objectives? When we determine this we form a core for our class.

[This is one of the reasons I hate opt-out course management systems like Blackboard — its Guiding Force is an an organization based on the type of the course elements: tests, materials, etc., with a course menu that implies that each is separate but of equal weight. The only visible pedagogical Guiding Force is the presentation of information.  As I tell my students when writing essays, presenting information is never the reason for an essay — the Guiding Force for an essay is answering a question or proving a point. We could see a course as an essay, too.]

Articulating the Guiding Force of a course can set up the design for ones first online class. Shifting the Guiding Force of a course can reinvigorate a class.

Connectivist theory makes the connection between learners the Guiding Force.

Constructivist theory makes students creating things the Guiding Force.

What Michael Wesch and others are doing (see his Digital Ethnography Netvibes page) makes student collection, annotation and curation of content the Guiding Force.

The Digital Storytelling DS106 class at University of Mary Washington makes student creation of content the Guiding Force.

I’m currently appalled by assessment. It’s driving me crazy. It’s not teaching the students anything. I want to run away, never grade another test. So maybe I should do the opposite. How could I make assessment the Guiding Force of a class?

Students could create the assessments, take them, retake them, evaluate them according to a rubric they create. It would change the shape of the class.

What’s your Guiding Force?

Notes from POT Luck 8 Dec 2011

Today a group of us met in Google Plus Hangout. Everyone from the Program for Online Teaching Certificate Class and Facebook Group is always invited, and it’s an open session. Today we had Todd, me, Walter, Norm, Maha, and Ted from POT Cert, and we were joined by Zack and Scott (that’s geographic representation from Arizona, northern and southern California, Dubai, New York, Alabama, and Japan).

Run by our Captain of Synchronous Sessions, Todd Conaway, the sessions have fallen into a Thursday pattern. Although originally envisioned as question and answer sessions for POT Cert Class participants, or maybe even a training or how-to opportunity, the fact that more experienced people tend to join has transformed the format into something more exploratory. The past few times people have shared sites they’re working with, in particular those focused on collaboration, mirroring what we’re doing in the sessions. As a result, we have spent several hour-long sessions following each other into various collaborative environments and trying things out together in real time.

Image cc E. Chris Lynch on Flickr

But sometimes we’re awfully silly. Maybe it’s the Google Hangout moustaches, or the way we all go into somewhere and one (always one) of us can’t get the damn thing to work, or the serendipitous arrival of people we’ve heard of but never met. Maybe it’s how I can say, “I don’t know if this works on a smart phone” and everyone whips out their phones to try. We all have our little foibles (Ted won’t do anything Facebook; I won’t do anything that costs money). Anyhow, it’s quite fun.

So I said I’d take notes today, which we had designated a POT Luck — everyone bring something to share. Walter shared how he uses instapaper‘s “read later” feature to stay organized, and showed us the resource page for Curtis Bonk’s The World is Open and his popular video series about online teaching. Ted shared how he used Zoho Sheet‘s embed code to embed a formula-based assessment worksheet into a Posterous class blog. We talked about apps we played with last time, particularly Qikpad (for instant collaboration with polls and features), and tried to watch video together. We looked at ifttt so we could Put the Internet to Work for Us and, although fascinated by the variety of conditional activities, weren’t sure yet that we had a good way to use it.

Other failed ideas included: FERPA t-shirts that say “It’s OK – I am not doing this in records maintained by the school”, having everyone pitch in for one Livescribe pen and mail it around, and actually reading instructions on a $6 bar of salted chocolate. We were enchanted by Scott’s use of a fancy radio microphone that made him sound wonderful despite the early hour in Japan, and he contributed a site for transcribing mp3 for captioning if used in Chrome.

We’ll do it again — all our distributed activities like this are posted on the … Distributed Activities page at the class site. The class is open, the synchronous sessions are open — won’t you join us?

 

 

Why it’s gotta be faculty

Here’s my new acronym: FLCP. It stands for Faculty-Led Community of Practice.

I am working my way through the implications of Etienne Wenger’s work on communities of practice, mostly trying to decide whether the Program for Online Teaching‘s open, online Certificate Class is one, or should be one, or could be the start of one, or isn’t one at all.

As I did this, I began to consider that what makes our class different is that POT itself, our own group that facilitates the class, is led by faculty. Now, I love educational technologists, instructional designers, and people with masters degrees in the technology-oriented areas of education. But these positions are new compared to college faculty (which go back to the Middle Ages). Both are hired by institutions, to be sure. But there are some major differences that I think justify why communities of practice, particularly those relating to online teaching and the use of internet technologies for education, should be led by faculty.

The first and most important is that faculty-led communities can provide a focus on individual pedagogy instead of institutional goals, procedures, and culture. Often IDs and ed techs answer to the computer department heads, or deans of technology. They must keep institutional goals, enterprise systems, and political issues in mind. This can make individual pedagogy a secondary issue. The emphasis is often on enacting college policies (fulfilling transfer requirements,or student learning outcomes) rather than developing an instructor’s own approach. And often these possible approaches can be trapped due to institutional decisions to limit pedagogy through the support of a particular LMS or campus-developed system. I can’t think of a single educational technologist working at a college who has the power to make decisions about which technologies the institution supports. They, and instructional designers, tend to be caught in between the decisions of higher ups who want to invest in enterprise systems and make everyone use them, and the faculty trying to find their way.

Since centralized IT and educational administrative systems tend to focus on standardized systems, the institutional solution to unprepared faculty tends to be an emphasis on “training”. In this case the word is improperly used to define preparation for teaching online. “Training” is designed to bring everyone in the group to the same place, such as a level of skill for using a piece of software — training everyone to use the features of a learning management system would be a primary example. “Preparation” does not carry that connotation of homogeneity. “Education”, which would be even better, might suggest individual goals as the foundation of the work.

So instead of “best practices” (now often the domain of “experts), we could focus on “our practices”, those that best match the instructor’s strengths with the technological possibilities.

Faculty-led projects can also break down hierarchy. If the core group includes adjunct faculty, then barriers are broken down between full-time and part-time faculty. When it comes to teaching with internet technology (or just teaching in general), both groups have exactly the same issues. Folks connected to administration and technical services have to consider the groups differently (one clearly gets more support than the other), but a faculty group doesn’t.

In addition, if faculty are able to lead such a community, it says something in response to a novice’s concerns about being overwhelmed, having too many students, too much work, too much to do. Working with the technology is what educational technologists, administrators, and instructional designers do all day as their regular job. When they try to lead faculty in making changes, there is a feeling that, sure, those guys can do this stuff all the time, because it’s all they do. If a faculty member (or several of them) have made time for this, it must be crucial somehow to our main job, teaching.

Another benefit is that faculty-led communities of practice can act separately from formal evaluation processes, program reviews, curriculum development, etc. They can also work across the disciplines, apart from discipline-specific and department politics, including turf wars and disputes over standards.

I’ve been reading portions of Palloff’s and Pratt’s The Excellent Online Instructor, and at the end of a section they say that if you don’t have a formal process for getting online faculty together, you can make it yourself by hosting brown-bag lunches or hosting a synchronous meeting online. Although this is true (in some ways that’s how POT began) this puts faculty leadership in a backup position, when it should be the main idea. Faculty groups shouldn’t be playing shortstop to what technologists hit — they should be pitching.

But of course there are a couple of caveats. In George Otte’s article on faculty development and blended learning, he warns against “Shock and Awe”, having highly experienced and competent online faculty held up as a model to emulate. He says people admire such faculty (they are shocked by how much time it must have taken and awed by the result), but they think they are exceptional and don’t copy them. He claims that community-building is primary, and suggests an emphasis on hybrid courses as a good middle ground to encourage faculty to build dedication to teaching online.

Whether it emphasizes the hybrid model or one that’s fully online, a community of practice formed and led by faculty should be the place where new faculty are welcomed into a culture that puts teaching first. In this way, they can develop their own online pedagogy in a supportive environment.

Sources:

Otte, G. (2005). Using blended learning to drive faculty development (and vice versa). In J. Bourne and J. Moore (Ed.), Elements of Quality Online Education, Volume 6 in the Sloan-C Series (pp. 71-83).
Palloff, R., & Pratt, K. (2011). The Excellent Online Instructor: Strategies for Professional Development. Jossey-Bass, An Imprint of Wiley.
Wenger, E. (2006). Communities of practice – a brief introduction. Retrieved from http://www.ewenger.com/theory/communities_of_practice_intro.htm.

Middle ground: web 1.5, sets and more

This week I have been attending to the various discussions around the recent work of Jon Dron and Terry Anderson, including the Hot Seat forum related to the 8th International Conference on Networked Learning (no, I’m not going to Maastricht) and Jon’s presentation at the Change MOOC (the web space for this is here). Sources also include Dron and Anderson’s 2009  article Lost in Information Space: Information retrieval issues in Web 1.5.

I am intrigued and delighted with an approach I see as middle ground between the Web 1.0/closed classes/LMS/hard tech/group focus and the Web 2.0/open education/network/connectivism focus.

For the former, the model seems to be formal groups of people, such as a class, using closed but comfortable ways to learn online in a manner prescribed by an instructor, with the result being a grade.

For the latter, we have the open ideas of networks, learning taking place in weak and strong connections, with softer technologies that provide for more creative work. Looser forms of assessment (such as badges and feedback) follow this model as well.

In the middle of this dichotomy is what Dron and Anderson  call Web 1.5, and what they refer to as “sets”, unintentional collectives of people who learn within a shared interest. Thus there is a middle ground between the horribly limited, walled garden system and the wild, diffuse, scary openness of networks.

These discussions are especially timely in light of my own efforts to find such a balance between closed/open, safe/scary, hard/soft in designing my online classes for next semester, where the unscary stuff (my own work, such as lectures, information, readings) is completely open, but the scary stuff (anything graded, such as student forums, quizzes, and essays) is closed in the Moodle LMS.

It is not, as I’ve noted, an ideal balance or compromise, because unlike the Elgg VLE used by these authors, I do not have granularity of permissions where students may choose exactly what elements of their work are open or closed.

I had thought that creating a broader “group” in Facebook (of all my students, not just those enrolled in one class) would design some openness for them, but of course I have been reminded that Facebook is closed too. It’s just an LMS with advertising, and a flat social space. On the other hand, at least there isn’t any hierarchy, and perhaps there is comfort there within a more open way of communicating, if not a more open role.

As much as I love the far out, wild west, final frontier elements of open web-based learning for my own use, I do not think my students are ready to the extent that I could handle helping 240 of them manage it. At the same time, the limitations of LMS-based education drive me crazy. So it’s productive to envision Web 1.5 pedagogies that could, in Jon’s Goldilocks analogy, get to a point of “just right”.

 

 

Guilt and 240 students

As I examine the various ways I could configure my classes for next semester, my knowledge of the many choices means I really am thinking about everything. But the central feeling ends up being guilt instead of anticipation.

I know all the wonderful options to make classes more exciting, more student-led, more exploratory. I’ve even done some of them (I recall the semester the students did the textbook exams but everything else was their own guided projects). And I did design Pedagogy First! for the POT Certificate Class, which is open and guided in what I think is a great balance. Surely I could do something like that?

Well, for the first time ever, I’ll be teaching six classes in spring instead of five, with 40 students in each (minimum). I have scheduled two new hybrids, one for Western Civ II and one for U.S. History II. I have four online classes, one for Western Civ II, two for U.S. History II, and one for History of England. So that’s three preps, as they say (a prep is a class different enough that it requires its own resources, structure, retooling). Except it feels like five preps, since hybrids aren’t the same as online classes.

My guilt is from the realization that I can’t manage 240 students in a free-form, MOOC-y way. Yes, we do it with Pedagogy First! and 90 “students”, but the assessments there can be much looser, the objectives much broader, and the content much more diverse. The faculty learning there are highly motivated. And although I’m not stuck in K-12 land with its concrete standards, I do have content outlines (so very 1990) that I am supposed to follow to make the classes transfer to university, and student learning outcomes. The outcomes don’t worry me, because I wrote them for the most part, and they are all about skills that historians need to demonstrate anyway. The content I’ll hit one way or the other. So really, I have the enviable freedom to structure these classes however I want.

I could use blogs and wikis instead of Moodle, and a central blog and Engrade again for the on-site (now hybrid) classes. I could have them blog and collaborate in documents and work in teams and use WordPress and make videos and … oh my god, 240 students?

That number keeps popping into my head, in creepy neon light like the Bates Motel sign (cue Bernard Hermann music here).

Only a couple of things keep me from feeling like a failure as I “tentatively” set up the four online classes in Moodle, willing myself to believe they are just drafts, backups for the upcoming blogs, and the PB wiki, and the Canvas Instructure (actually, that’s just an LMS you can’t edit well), and the Flickr group I want to make but probably won’t.

A week or two ago, Dave Cormier gave a presentation for Alec Couros’ EC&I831 (I sit in when I can, which isn’t often enough). He spoke about rhizomatic learning and nomadic learning and other cool and inspiring stuff, and I wanted to move on with my work but felt stuck. Then one of Alec’s students, Chelsi, wrote a post that reminded me what Dave had said in response to a question about dealing with standards, that he said you do this stuff when you can.

Well, I do a lot of cool stuff. I’m really proud of the design of my discussion forums, where students select and post their own sources based on their interests, and craft historical theses. I want to see that happen again. I want to add a weekly synchronous session based on a skill set, with each week a different skill, where all my students can come and benefit, not just one class. Some direct instruction and, I hope, discussion in real-time. I’ve never done that. I want more peer evaluating, and fewer graded essays so there’s more chance to practice. I want to switch to weekly, instantly-graded reading quizzes so they have instant feedback. I want to run two of these with no textbook. I love the broadcasting I can do from the classroom to students at home, and the online students could view it too.

I also want everything open, but if I use Moodle to manage the gruntwork (exam -> gradebook, track forum posts, etc) it’s closed (though I could allow guests, of course). I can piece together my own grunts (Engrade, for example) but that’s a lot of clicks for six classes. The lack of connection between their tasks and the gradebook seems like the Grand Canyon with this many students.

I know, excuses, excuses! I talk the talk but won’t walk the walk. But do I really need to prove anything to anyone?

So I’m just going to say this: for this one overloaded semester, I might have to sacrifice some of the external openness in favor of internal openness, some real-time contact with my students, and some time spent giving feedback in the forums. Because that’s when (and where) I can do it. And I’m quite sure that by the end of the semester, I will have written an article justifying the approach as being that LMS/opened balance I read about all the time. Or not.

What’s wrong with canned courses? Just one thing.

As we see colleges like Rio Salado and for-profits like National, Argosy, and Walden “Universities” create huge online programs, we see more and more courses designed by “teams” and taught by associate faculty/staff. When online learning began, of course, faculty created their own courses and taught them, but there were efficiencies to be had by creating one course and having it be reused by everyone. Publishing companies were quick to start creating their own courses to go with their textbooks, complete with Blackboard cartridges and/or their own learning management systems (I was asked by at least one of them to write a course they could sell). And now Google and Pearson are teaming up with their own “free” LMS (you’ll pay with your personal and marketing information) so that people can “share” courses (in their LMS’s format) under a Creative Commons license (Attribution only, of course, so they can be sold later — it wouldn’t do to have them be Non-Commercial and Share Alike).

Sense my disgust? To me, these are all canned courses, made to last a long time and be consumable by anyone, but more importantly, taught by anyone. We continue to sojourn, often voluntarily and with enthusiam, into the Land with No Professor, as detailed elegantly by Alex Wright in his From ivory tower to academic sweatship of 2005.

So now I hear things like this more than ever:

“So what’s wrong with using the publisher’s PowerP*ints if it’s good stuff?”
“So why shouldn’t I use the course cartridge? I create and run my own discussion boards.”
“They do all this video and stuff better than I do — that keeps students engaged.”

I sputter around, after I get my chin off the floor. What about the de-professionalization of teaching? what about improving those technology skills? can’t you see it’s all the commercialization of education and you are a willing participant?

But today, after thinking about this issue for, oh, fifteen years, it occurred to me what’s really, really wrong with using course cartridges and canned material.

It’s modeling the wrong thing.

Modeling is very important — some say it’s the most important aspect of college teaching. It’s our main job, Stephen Downes says, modeling and demonstrating. A faculty member shared with me only today an exam where he accidentally had two questions that were the same, but one phrased concretely and one conceptually. The students aced the concrete question and failed the conceptual question, though the answer was the same. I suggested that instead of asking them what happened, he instead should model how he developed the question, what he was thinking he’d get in response, and what happened when he saw the completed exams. I suggested this would show the students he’s human and works on these things, share his method with them so they feel included, get him good answers to why it occurred, and review the material, all at the same time. That’s what modeling does.

So what does it mean when we build our courses on material created by someone else?

If we are using it wholesale, out of the can, we are modeling a lack of creativity (in addition to implying that our own view as a discipline expert is kind of beside the point). It’s very difficult to model how historians do history (or chemists do chemistry, or writers write) when we are using someone else’s interpretation or method.

We are also displaying an absence of critical thinking, the kind that we say we want our students to engage in, unless we are using canned content as the start of a discussion about perspectives on that content (I wish that happened a lot, but it doesn’t).

And we’re showing a lack of respect for our own professions as practitioners of both a discipline and of teaching.

If we want to promote a thoughtful citizenry that can make important decisions, work creatively to change what’s wrong, and innovate to make our society better, it’s a pretty poor example to rely on canned material.

Tin Can as Cheese Press cc Chiot's Run

Is there a good way to use all this excellent content? You bet. We can disassemble, disaggregate, reinvent, repurpose, re-create. We can take just what we need (quiz questions, maps, slides) and use it to support our pedagogy. If the publisher doesn’t allow that (I can’t take apart the PowerPoints provided by the publisher of my textbook, for example) we don’t use it. We can learn just a few skills — maybe editing video or doing a screencast or slideshow. Make our own stuff. It won’t look professional, and that’s OK. It will look human, and students will be seeing an example of an instructor who makes his own stuff to get a point across. As with modeling the design of a test question, whatever we make will be saying to students that we cared enough to make it to help them understand.

It will also model that we are professionals with viewpoints created from a deep understanding of our fields, individual viewpoints based on common methods, vocabulary and standards. That’s what we want them to do — use the skills of our discipline to better understand the world, and help improve it. As Richard Kahn notes about Howard Zinn’s argument that professors should share not only their viewpoints with the class but how they developed them:

[F]rom a perspective such as Zinn’s, our job as educators is to invite our classes into the rigorous pursuit and production of the living history of ideas—the truth of our unfolding human process in all of its registers. In this way, we thus also model for students how to begin naming and navigating the various socio-cultural forces coalescing around them, to articulate and argue for their own perspectives on society and its institutions, and so in good faith become democratic citizens capable of exerting their own civic leadership.

We certainly can’t do that with a course cartridge.

Symbols for my hybrid classes

I’ll be teaching my first hybrid courses since 2000 starting in January.

At the same time, I’ve lost my Fireworks program in my upgrade to OS 10.6 (Snow Leopards, as we know, are afraid of fireworks). So I’m trying an open source image editing program, GIMP. So I’ve been playing with images.

Here’s my image for what my hybrid classes should look like:

hybrid engine image

 

And here’s my new symbol for my course pages to indicate a class is a hybrid (pretty steampunk, huh?):

hybrid symbol

(Both of these are Creative Commons licensed Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 2011.)

Class design: is One Blog the middle ground?

I have now been a student in three separate classes where I ran my own blog to do the class assignments (CCK08, EC&I831 and ds106).  My classes for students are all designed with an LMS-based forum, within which outcomes have been achieved well thus far (I implemented the basic format in 2009).

So now, as I consider departing from an LMS for at least one of my classes for spring, the question is: should I have each student create his/her own blog, then aggregate them, and have them comment on each others’ blogs for discussion? That’s been the model in all three classes I’ve taken, and is the model for Pedagogy First!, where we’ve been using 90 individual blogs for the POT Certificate Class, aggregated to one central website.

But is this the best way for my own classes?

In a more typical online class, discussion takes place in a forum. This keeps things focused and in one place. People are used to forums. All the classes I’ve seen with distributed activities instead of forums have students begging for a forum, whether it’s a threaded forum in an LMS, a Google group, or a Ning. People want a central place to talk, and an aggregated blog made of up all their disparate posts can become just an information center, not a coffee house.

My brilliant colleague Jim Sullivan teaches English composition using a class blog. Students are all authors on it, and they blog there, not on their own blogs. We’ve discussed this many times, and I’ve rejected it because students don’t control their own space. I think they should, but I’m aware that the idea of helping hundreds of students with their technical problems has been a major hurdle to moving ahead. Now it occurs to me that Jim’s approach may be the pedagogically middle ground rather than just easier and more convenient for me (I like pedagogical middle grounds).

A traditional forum in an LMS is set in its pattern and closed in its format (once the class is over, you usually can’t access it). Having everyone create their own blog lets students have their own permanent space, but really doesn’t encourage discussion (as I’ve discovered running Pedagogy First!). Is the One Blog approach the middle ground?

Is it open and available?

It can be open and as loose as I want, and since I run my own WordPress I can promise it will stay open (Jim runs his own Typepad).

Is there a sense of student ownership?

While students don’t run their own space, students may feel that the One Blog is their space collectively, rather than individually (a classroom they can help create). This could subconsciously create a feeling of community.

Does it provide a good place for discussion?

Yes — not as much as a traditional forum, but more than individual blogs, because it is in one place and everyone is signed in just once, rather than being a guest on other people’s blogs. Plus, WordPress comments are nested. I have searched long and hard and have been unable to find forum software that is free, nests the comments so you can see which comments reply to which, and will tolerate multimedia.

Isn’t Ning a middle ground?

Ning is a social networking platform, a damned good one (nested! multimedia!), but to use it for free you have to advertise for Pearson. That isn’t middle ground — if there’s any advertising in my class at all (and I think there shouldn’t be) it should be incidental, not deliberate and appearing as if I am a spokesperson sponsoring a product (in many ways, this includes Blackboard and Moodle). And I don’t have time right now to figure out how to use an open source social networking platform (such as Oxwall) on my own service.

Although until now I’ve only used blogging for class as a student, I do use the blog platforms for my History 103 and History 104 at San Elijo. They’re not actually blogging on these (in terms of reflection or graded items), but rather posting theses for papers they turn in, and working together to create collections for class presentations. I could start by expanding this set-up into the One Blog format.

Sooooo…..

what am I not thinking of here as I make this decision?

 

Flipping research

“Flipping” a class (putting lectures and presentations online, then using class time for collaboration and discussion) is all the rage at the moment.  Everyone’s in on it now, from The Economist to The Daily Riff to Daniel Pink. I don’t see the big deal, since basically using a textbook is the same thing (read at home, then come to class). Maybe in the 16th century people were wowed by this idea. I’m glad it’s come back around – I don’t like using class time for relaying information you could find elsewhere. You want to know when the Battle of Waterloo was? Go look it up. It’s easy now to look it up, so it’s easier to justify not lecturing on the facts unless I’m presenting a different paradigm. I think I started doing that, what, fifteen years ago?

But I want to be more innovative, so I’m doing flipped research.

Here’s the idea. I’m referred to in education research circles as “just a practitioner”. I do stuff. I teach history at community college, and try web technologies to help me do that. I use learning management systems, video, slidecasts, whatever it takes. I’ve done everything from Webboard to WordPress to Google + hangouts.

But I’m not an expert in educational theory, nor in the entire edtech field that I’ve watched emerge (and achieve frightening proportions) over the last decade.

So now I’m doing something really cool: offering an open, online class to prepare faculty to teach online. It’s designed like a MOOC, but it’s not a MOOC because it’s not massive (90 enrolled, 81 blogs aggregated). I’m taking ideas from other people, including Alec Couros’s EC&I831 for the structure and the mentoring, Jim Groom’s ds106 for the aggregated blog and the element of insanity, George Siemens and Stephen Downes’ whatever-MOOC-they’re-doing-today for the large topic and distributed conversation. But I haven’t done much “reasearch”. I do read articles on learning management systems and MOOCs, but basically I’m … just a practitioner.

So now I’m writing a research paper based on what I’m doing, and it all feels like reverse engineering. I’m looking up studies on open classes and professional development for online faculty, and finding a few people doing what I’m doing. Some of the articles show findings that what I’m doing might be good; most end with “further research is required”. I’m doing that research, survey participating faculty, planning to note how approaches change on their blogs.

For a historian, this is so not what you do. You create a provisional thesis based on the reading of primary sources. I guess in this case, according to the educational research folks, the primary sources are the studies. They should have guided what I do, and I should have planned my class based on the findings of others. I should have been consciously aware of what everyone else was studying, not just doing. Instead of pulling cool ideas from Alec, Jim, Stephen and George, I should have read a bunch of studies on the ways of doing this and built my class with a solid theoretical and practical foundation.

But no, I just did it. I created the class based on my experience rather than my research. I’ll probably be kicked out of the historians’ club if they find out. And that’s what makes me…just a practitioner.

Embed, feed and tag: the bare minimum

We’ve been having trouble with the task for this week at Pedagogy First!, the aggregated blog of the POT Certificate Class. I posted a task that asked participants to create a Slidecast (PPT -> Slideshare -> plus audio) or a Jing (usually uploaded to Screencast.com), then embed it into this week’s blog post.

But oh! Trouble ensued because the current free versions of Edublogs and WordPress.com make embedding these items difficult or impossible. While those of us running our own blogs on our own or rented servers can control our WordPress blogs, these vendors have the control. The free Edublog (built on WordPress) won’t actually accept the Jing embed code, and blog posts saying it will lead us astray. It won’t accept the Slideshare embed code either. They tell you that you can embed media in an Edublog, but the fine print says maybe not if it’s a free account. The free WordPress.com blog will accept the Slideshare shortcode, but not the Jing embed code, even when one is very careful. This post says that you can use Vodpod, but one of our participants tried it and it failed. Some participants got around this by downloading the mp4 of their Jing and uploading it to YouTube so they could embed it. I tried downloading the swf version of a Jing to try this tip, but I could only seem to download mp4. So Jing isn’t even trying to help (they want you dependent on Screencast.com, where if your Jings have too many viewers they insist you have a paid account).

We need a new standard for the basic functions of blogs and other social webware. And once I read Martin Weller’s post from 2008, I realized that these are the basics:

1. Embed

A blog or social webware of any kind is useless without embed. . If you cannot share right from your space, if people must click away using a link, the implication is that the media is not yours. It “belongs” to Slideshare or Screencast. YouTube and Vimeo balance this issue, by allowing embed but branding the player. That makes more sense. (BTW, those mysterious embed codes they “give” you are just basic object and embed HTML, which have been around for over a decade — everywhere should accept them.)

2. Feed

Any site that gets updated, but does not have the RSS feed obviously available is similarly useless. Readers need to be able to aggregate all the things they read, create their own newspaper, if you will. Some of the themes in WordPress (including many available through Edublogs and WordPress.com) don’t have an obvious RSS button available, so unless you know how their feed is structured, you can’t put it in an aggregator. And how is it possible that the RSS for Comments is still separate from the Posts? How can there be no progress with this?

3. Tag

We’re still confused by tags, since Twitter needs a hashtag, while blogs use either Tags or Categories, which are difficult to distinguish. Still, most of the save-and-share technologies get the tag idea. Nevertheless, if everyone is using an agreed upon tag on their blogs, there is no way to find these across the entire web. The closest we’ve found is to search for the tag in Google Blog Search, but it’s very delayed and misses many of them, tending to favor those who put the tag in their post title.  For my purposes, if people use our potcert11 tag outside the class, I have trouble aggregating these into a blog or widget, or reading them myself.

It’s incredibly stupid that we can’t do these things for free. They are basic. If you want to pull us in to have us pay for premium features, you need to understand which features are basic rather than optional.

This is serious enough to have me rethinking our recommendations for newbies to use Edublogs or WordPress.com. Posterous and Tumblr are now being seen as being better for this kind of thing. Maybe they are, and we should focus less on full blogging platforms and more on embed, feed and tag.

 

It’s not a book

I’ve been reading Nicholas Carr’s post from last week about the Kindle, where he points out that e-books not only reduce books, but add unnecessary elements to them (such as Amazon’s linking the “interesting phrases” in a text). He knows that the “reading medium will, as always, influence the act of reading”.  I understand his despair. But I think one of the problems is that “e-readers” are being called “electronic books” because they have text. But they aren’t books. They are, for lack of a better term, web pages without the web.

How do we deal with the efforts of the new technologies to couch themselves as the updated version of the old technologies? They call these products (Kindle, Nook, etc.) “e-book readers” in the same way that they called automobiles “horseless carriages”, because people hadn’t yet developed a new vocabulary for a new technology. E-book readers have little to do with the book or reading, although initially that is their first use. As Carr notes, the model is commercial, and simple reading cannot be enough economic activity to satisfy.

In the early days of e-readers, I often wondered why these e-readers they had wi-fi. If they were for reading books, you could download the books to your computer (after paying, of course) and then use a USB cable to transfer them to your e-reader. This is, after all, what we do with mp3 players. But, as with smart phones, the e-readers let you download items directly over a wireless network. This means the intent is different than just pay-and-consume. The intent is clearly pay-and-pay-some-more, so the transformation of the text was inevitable. Carr writes in another post  that the idea of “bookishness” was just a metaphor to Amazon, a marketing tactic to get readers to buy the product.

I think it might help if we depart from the marketing ploy, and start thinking of e-readers as mini-tablets, which are themselves mini phone-OS computers, which are dumbed-down versions of  real computers, which are becoming small boxed versions of the internet. The Kindle Fire is clearly a tablet, connected to the “cloud” via a browser. Its only resemblance to something you “read books” on is that it is a pay-and-consume object.  Its purpose is to access the web to buy things, to turn everything into the consumer web. Its effect will be the same as smart phones and iPads, a closure of the open web as it is replaced with App World.

So none of this is about books, or even text (except as a form of  “media”). It’s about multimedia consumption devices, mini-entertainment centers. Some of that entertainment might be couched as text, but that doesn’t make these pieces of technology “electronic books”. There is no such thing as an electronic book. There are books, and there are electronic devices. I like them both, just not for the same reasons.

The dangers of segregating the digital sphere

I have begun to think it is dangerous to consider the digital, the online, the technological, as separate from the whole.

Partly this thought is a result of attending Martin Weller’s presentation this morning for the Change MOOC, where he presented a wonderful discussion of Digital Scholarship. But my question was whether the attention given to digital scholarship as its own issue doesn’t undermine the effort to have it become mainstream.

This goes beyond the “no significant difference” argument that comes up periodically for online teaching, although for me it started there. At our college, online teaching came about as a “modality” or “mode of delivery”, because it was 1998 and we were trying to offer it as an option for students. We taught ourselves how to teach online, all before learning management systems, best practices, or student learning outcomes. And most of us involved said it was just teaching, doing what we do but adapting it for a different “classroom”. I’m not sure I ever saw the difference between “online education” and “education”, or my “online U.S. history class” and my “U.S. history class”.

It’s not that I don’t acknowledge differences between the relationships, work tasks, and communication we engage in online and those we engage in face-to-face. But I also acknowledge differences between relationships, work tasks, and communication in various face-to-face settings, and it has always been that way. If we say “online community” instead of just “community”, we imply a separate reality that may or may not be the case. Rick Schwier’s presentation in Alec Couros’ EC&I831 last night noted that there are many ways that communities form in online environments, and of course there are many ways that communities form in-person also. Schwier noted that some of us use multiple online personalities, reflecting the in-person reality that you don’t talk the same way to your priest as you do to your coach as you do to your mom as you do to your college president.

A class is a class to me, whether it’s taught under a tree, or in a circle, or over the internet, or by hand-written snail mail.

I’m going to argue for completely ignoring the fact that things are “digital” or “online”. In terms of scholarship (it’s own heavily-laden word), continuing to fight for the acceptance of “digital scholarship” perpetuates the idea that it is somehow different from “regular scholarship”, that is is not as real. We shouldn’t focus only on the vetting of articles, the false scarcity of  information and the tyranny of for-profit journals, but on behaving as if it’s just scholarship. The same standards (peer review, for example) should apply if  you’re going to say it’s real, or scientific, or important, but whether it’s online for free or in a bound pay-walled journal  is irrelevant in terms of its value. It’s either good research and useful to me, or it’s crappy research regardless of format.

This is why I am against the idea of having a “dean of online”, a “coordinator of online education”, or anything else that segregates the digital aspects of education into their own sphere. If we do that, we continue to emphasize its differences. While this may be an advantage up to a point (getting funding for online projects, justifying masters programs in educational technology, paying government employees to create standards and rules for accessibility), it also provides ammunition for those who are resistant to technology and resistant to change. It packages the “technology-enhanced” and the “online” and the “distance ed” into something that is easier to dismiss and de-fund. Such packaging can also discourage innovation by making “online education” a specialization beyond the understanding of ordinary faculty, something that requires strict management by administrators. And that packaging can be literally packaged, by selling “online courses” created by “teams” at for-profit institutions, or “course cartridges” in Blackboard, available for those too controlled or too timid to create their own classes.

The distinction thus gets in the way of professional development, when good faculty feel they are entering a new and scary world instead of just extending something they already do skillfully — teach.

So I’m declaring myself against “digital scholarship”, “online community”, “distance education”, and anything else that applies a special adjective to something wonderful we do as humans but happen to do using a computer.

And no, that doesn’t mean my Facebook “friends” are my “real friends”.