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By: Andrew Larson, High School PBL Facilitator
Columbus Signature Academy New Tech High School
Columbus, IN
Nearly two decades ago I took a two- week course in the summer about inquiry- based learning in science. We were a small group of teachers, huddled in a room on the IU Bloomington campus on days too nice to be spent indoors. The structure of the session had us spending our mornings together with our instructor, learning the pedagogy of inquiry based instruction. In the afternoons, we spent a few hours in a research lab and got to shadow and learn from research biologists. Through the course of the time we were to develop our own inquiry- based lesson, to be delivered at the end of the two weeks.
It was a rich experience. I was surrounded by talented educators and the time spent in the lab each afternoon left me with many insights into the research of cell division and its regulation. Our instructor’s name was Jose Bonner, a brilliant man that pivoted late in his career away from doing research in molecular biology to teaching science to non- science major undergraduates. He did this to confront a growing problem that he felt compelled to address: scientific illiteracy.
Dr. Bonner asked the kinds of probing questions about our biological discussion topics that really poked at your brain. I found it very uncomfortable. These were tough questions about topics that at the time, I felt that I understood pretty well. Just writing that last sentence makes me think that I had an ego issue. (I did.)
We were also asked to journal regularly about both what we discussed in class and also observed and gleaned from the research lab shadowing experience. This was the first time I had ever journaled as a practice, and even though I didn’t do it by choice, I can’t help but think that if I never developed that reflective practice, I wouldn’t be writing this here today...but we’ll leave the topic of reflection for another time.
The delivery of my lesson at the end of the experience remains the most terrifying teaching observation experience in my life to date. Overall it didn’t come off that well because it turned out that my ego had gotten in my way during the design of the lesson. I was reaching, really trying hard, to present myself as an intellectual equal to the people in the room. The result was a disjointed, incoherent lesson plan that left my audience confused.
Upon later reflection, I realized that what I was really trying to do with my lesson was emulate Dr. Bonner. He seemed to simply know everything. His approach to teaching and questioning felt like a mind game that I did not want to play. More than anything, his approach left me feeling intimidated and discouraged. But it did help me learn something in this process about who I am, or rather, who I wanted to be, as a teacher: I wanted to be OK with not knowing. I wanted to be forgiven for not having the answer to every bit of minutiae.
When I think about inquiry as a pedagogical approach, I often defer back to how I felt in that summer seminar with Dr. Bonner. With no offense whatsoever intended, he helped me clarify for myself my own philosophy of how students should experience science. I did not want to be the kind of instructor who asked his students to read his mind. In the classroom, especially after having become a practitioner of PBL, I have adopted a philosophy of total transparency when it comes to content. I will tell a student everything I know about a question that they have (they’ll either ask more questions or quit listening at some point; either is fine.)
The launching point for real learning, for all of us, students and instructors included, is that precipice at which I don’t know the answers to their questions and we must pursue those answers together.
In the context of PBL, this approach of “not knowing by design” has led me to adopt a philosophy that every project is an experiment. True to the nature of how science actually works, it begins with a bedrock of content knowledge upon which an experiment can be built. Content is king, and remains the foundation of almost everything we do in class. But the inquiry is elevated by the prospect that we all might just discover something through an experiment that students themselves design and perform.
In terms of notable projects that fit this mold, our Haw Creek invasive species project is perhaps my favorite example. How to fight back against invasive species is such a vexing problem that it lends itself to experimentation, and the experiments that students design take on quite a few different looks. The approach is always grounded by some central themes:
What is known to work? When students suggest ridiculous things like trying to kill invasive plants with root beer, I usually don’t let them. UNLESS, that is, they have conducted research that suggests that the approach might have some merit. If they have not done the prerequisite research, then they have foregone at least some of the freedom associated with having choice. When we ask students to build on the foundation of knowledge that science has accrued, we are asking them to contribute to that body of knowledge in a way that could result in a discovery. This is, to me, the purest and most authentic form of inquiry available.
What have past students tried, and with what results? The beauty of having an ongoing project that never ends is that you have, at your fingertips, an archive of scientific data that can inform current and future students and create something special that spans decades or even generations. When I look at the couple hundred meters of creek bank that we have rehabilitated over the last decade, I am truly in awe. Projects like this build community, connecting current and past grade levels, and even alumni with current students. Importantly, from the point of view of scientific inquiry, building on the success or failures of other students gives them permission to “steal ideas” … except it’s not stealing; it’s more like a peer review process. That, to me, is inquiry.
Is the proposal practical, or theoretical? Some ideas are scalable to a level that could result in real change on a larger level than our little bubble. Other ideas are not; they are more about answering the question, “can it be done at all?” I love both approaches and do not inherently favor one or the other. When I was an undergraduate student, I worked in a research lab for a couple of years. I gradually became disillusioned with the highly theoretical aspect of the work being done in the lab. I could not see the relevance. I was interviewing one of my professors for a class assignment (Dr. David Asai, another molecular biologist) when I brought up this topic. I expressed my frustration that there seemed to me to be no practical outlet for the research being done in this lab. He set me straight. He looked me square in the eye and said, “Look, we don’t know, none of us do, when and if the research being done in that lab will ever contribute to the world in a different way. Even if it never does, it doesn’t matter. That’s not what science is about. Science is about building knowledge. All contributions to that knowledge are equally important, and equally valid.” Since the day of that interview, my perception that “knowledge is only beneficial if it helps solve a problem” has changed to “knowledge is always beneficial, as long as it is obtained in a sound way.”
Inquiry is not just for science. Maybe my view of inquiry is broad to an extreme, but I think that inquiry plays out in many disciplines. When students in my colleague, Joe Steele’s, English class commit to memorizing and reciting poetry, they are bound to undertake an inquiry in a different sense of the word. Perhaps they are asking themselves, “What does this poem make me think of? Why did the author choose this exact combination of words? Do I like this poem? Why or why not?” When students are exploring genres of dystopian literature in the Global Science Perspectives class of my colleagues Veronica Buckler and Fariha Hossain, they will be asking themselves questions such as, “How does this dystopian society reflect the real world? How do I feel about the kind of world this author has created? Do I need to take action to ensure that this world never becomes real?” In Sarah Leiker’s mathematics class, when students are asked to design their instructor’s back yard to maximize the dog’s access to shade, sun, and water, they are going to unpack some rules of area and perimeter in ways that will stick and that have application into other realms of adulting.
What do these examples have in common? They are all open- ended explorations that ask kids to venture into some unknown realms. Nothing new there, except that the realm is unknown to both the students and the instructor. When this happens, the student- teacher dynamic shifts. We take on something more akin to a partnership. Their ideas are valued because hey, they are working on something here that hasn’t been solved before.
There is beauty in not knowing all the answers. Obviously a qualified educator needs to be an expert in the content. The real question becomes, “Well, OK. We know something. So now what? What should we do with it?”
The answers to that question, and the outcomes of that application, are never dull. Some are utter insanity. Mixing plaster of paris in a bucket in front of the school and smearing it onto a cardboard topographic landform model with bare hands? Insanity. But also, very memorable. Having the whole class spread out over 100 meters and lay down in a mall parking lot and attempting to track the speed of passing clouds? Ridiculous, and also hilarious, and one of my favorite days in two decades.
Teachers don’t mind learning as they go. Good, inquiry- based projects empower kids to take the lead in answering their own questions and ensure that we won’t be there to ruin it by telling them all the answers…. Because if we don’t know the answers ourselves, then we can’t very well ruin it, can we?
Andrew Larson is a science facilitator at the Columbus Signature Academy New Tech High School and an experienced Magnify Learning workshop facilitator. He writes for our regularly updated blog about Project Based Learning. When he’s not doing awesome PBL work, you can find him mountain biking, spending time with his family, or digging around in the garden.
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