All the books about how to write well contain some form of this idea: “Don’t tell. Show!” And we know this to be true. How much better is our learning when we can have not just explanations, but stories, illustrations, and examples as well? When we look back on our own time in school, the teachers who really stand out were the ones who did that particularly well.
My own professional education is unusual in that I did not walk the traditional route. My first major experience in teacher training was in Japan, at the school of Shin’ichi Suzuki, the Talent Education Institute. I studied there for three years, along with a few dozen other young “kenkyusei”—mostly young, mostly Japanese, and all on the path to becoming certified Talent Education (“Suzuki”) music teachers. My experience was, I suspect, very different than what I might have had in a music education program at an American university.
First of all, we had a two-hour group lesson seven days a week—at least Dr. Suzuki taught seven days a week, 9:00–11:00 am; few of the students could keep up with such a schedule. Individual lessons were always in the master class style, where five to eight of us would be in the room for around three hours, each of us having a turn getting a “not-so private” lesson with Sensei. We were expected to spend five to ten hours a week observing other master teachers teaching children of all ages and ability levels. That, in addition to “Monday Concert,” which lasted all afternoon, along with a couple of other weekly classes in theory and appreciation, was the entire curriculum. We spent at least half our time listening and watching great teaching.
When I returned from Japan, I had the opportunity to work at the Institute for the Achievement of Human Potential in Pennsylvania. Again, my course of learning was non-traditional. For the first year, I spent almost all my time observing senior staff members, whether it was in the clinic, sitting with them as they would evaluate and teach programs of treatment for families of brain-injured children, or in the International School where I was apprenticed to a master teacher of Socratic mathematics. I learned so much from watching these highly competent, insightful, and experienced men and women, who clearly knew exactly what they were doing and got results! When I finally began to work as a clinician and an instructor, it was their example—more than any memorized concepts or techniques—that became my primary guide. And it worked.
Since then I have come to see that in most teacher training programs today a lot is taught about philosophy of education, psychology of learning, and even methodology of teaching, but there is not much opportunity for observation of master teachers. Other than a semester or less as a “student teacher,” most future educators spend very little time in classrooms. I believe this is unfortunate. I look back on the countless hours I spent observing teachers interact with students and just absorbing it all as the greatest part of my professional development. In fact, the things I most remember from my early twenties weren’t the books I read or the lectures I attended, but the lessons I watched. The power of demonstration is real and indisputably effective.
This is true for the young student as well. Almost every methods class in an education program will emphasize the need for modeling in the classroom. But this vision is hard for teachers to catch. We are doubly handicapped by a semiconscious belief that explanation is more time efficient and that students need to do something “on their own” in order to learn. Both are untrue. Clearly explaining a process we understand, we assume that the listener will also understand and then be able to do what we have explained. We are surprised when a student’s product is disorganized or incomplete, or when they get lost, frustrated, and confused. It becomes easy to blame them and equally easy for them to blame us. Usually it takes a lot of time to walk through the whole process with them, even doing it together two or three times, and we want our explanation to be effective and sufficient. However, it often is not.
So what is modeling, and why does it work so well? In teaching music, there are three steps: First, play the selection, perhaps repeated times—even providing a recording for the student to listen to again and again. Second, play it together. Depending on the instrument, this can take many forms, but there is a cooperation, a hand-holding if you will, a doing it side-by-side experience. Finally, the student tries to reproduce those sounds independently while a coach will plan to refine the rough spots by more modeling and co-practice. This works consistently, and it quickly becomes evident that asking a student to listen to an explanation and then “figure it out on his own” would not work nearly as well.
Consider the parallel in teaching writing, a skill in many ways like playing an instrument. Initially we show a chart or outline of what the composition will look like when finished—number of paragraphs, contents of each paragraph, maybe even a sample of a completed composition. Next, we do one together, perhaps using source texts or external content, or if of the inventive type, we make a group outline about something we all know something about. Perhaps that second step is repeated two or three times. No one yet is doing anything particularly original, but all are experiencing the process of gathering, organizing, and presenting information with a particular goal. Then, once a certain level of confidence is sensed (often by one or more students saying, “Can I do this myself?”), they are given the opportunity. What are the results? Far more students produce better compositions, and by experiencing success they consequently want to do it again.
How about for us as teachers? Will observing a model class help us teach a better lesson? Absolutely—especially if the lesson is clear and well presented. I have experienced this myself time and time again. Thus, I encourage you to consider both learning how to teach writing better by observing demonstration classes (on video, even!), and then teaching your own students better by a more extensive use of modeling. While it may take a bit more time or be a bit different than what you are used to, the results will be excellent. You and your students will be even more successful—and happier. I guarantee it.
