For me, Crossroads is a joyous time. The reason for all the happiness is the fellowship. Together in one place are people from various backgrounds and perspectives with a common devotion to improving science education. This doesn’t happen by accident. We are very deliberate about who is invited and who ends up attending. And yet it often feels like magic. My memories of Crossroads, and the 2011 gathering in San Antonio in particular, is sprinkled with hearty laughter and warm embraces. Of course it is not all fun and games. The people who attend do so because they are primed to engage in deep discussions. I forget about the intensity of the Incubator sessions. Pictures like this one remind me about the importance of our conversations:
In this image are three people who, despite traversing varying pathways, come together to contemplate an issue at hand. Each individual is incredibly smart. I think of each as a very happy person and my memories of conversations with each has them smiling. However, in the right setting and under the right conditions, they are able to focus their attention with an unparalleled focus. I wonder where else we might see three people looking at a fourth person with this intensity. This is what it looks like when professionals are given the opportunity to extend themselves and direct their caring dispositions toward a colleague who is vexed by some aspect of the profession. Around this table are individuals who take issues seriously. They work hard at this. And to be on the receiving end is an amazing experience.
The magic of Crossroads is that we can work hard and play hard. We are very serious at times but also just as comfortable at laughing — quite naturally. In combination — the intensity of the work and the genuineness pleasure we have being in each other’s company — helps remind us that we are not alone. I can’t wait for it to happen again. This might be an important thing to remember: I should not wait but strive to find other ways to experience the joyous intensity of serious thought.
I took a few pictures, mostly of y’all with your name badges, along with a few from sessions. Take a look at our photo album here, or the slides below:
Field biologists are familiar with releasing organisms to the wild. Until today, I was not quite sure I appreciated how such activities could make a person feel. I have teacher friends who raise fish eggs in a chilled aquarium to be released in spring to re-stock salmon populations. I know of people who tag birds with the hope of tracking their travels. And I am sure almost you have seen nature programs of injured or orphaned animals being rehabilitated and returned to their natural habitat.
Today, I packaged the Proceedings for the 2011 Crossroads meeting. I was quite conscientious because these envelopes are to travel over the nation. One is going to Seattle and another is going to Tallahassee — from top left to bottom right corner. Others are going to California, the Carolinas, Georgia and New York state. The number of address labels was exactly 50 which seemed off by at least one. But indeed we have just 47 presenters and 4 facilitators. Since I already have my copy, it is accurate that there are 50 yellow envelopes waiting for the postman to retrieve tomorrow.
I tucked a generic note into each envelope asking the recipient to acknowledge they received their package. I expect to hear from more local Crossroads participants by the end of the week. And I am anticipating comments about the document’s appearance. I explained to our local copy company that since we were meeting in Texas, an orange cover would be nice. When I retrieved the materials today, they apologized for the color since it is not exactly subdued. They even referred to my order as: “Oh, the orange books.” So trick-or-treat!
Fly my little booklets. Find your way to welcome hands. When you arrive, take your rest and allow your keeper to open you wide and caress your interior. In just 10 days or so, you and your siblings will all come together in Texas. There your worth and value will become realized and appreciated. May your travels be swift and true. Looking forward to seeing you all, proceedings and people, in the very near future.
My loving partner has a mistress, but we have an understanding. I have my own mistress as well, but … well, I’m getting ahead of myself.
Karyn’s other lover is knitting. Of course, there’s much more to her than the single dimension of a long line of yarn, but for the sake of this essay let’s ignore her great literary taste, photographic genius, and loving devotion to her family and neighborhood school. For now, let’s imagine her whole identity is woven, er, knotted… tied? stitched? … knit (and purled) into her collection of natural fibers. If you, too, are paired with a knitter (not simply someone who knits), you will understand what this means. The act of knitting is ritualistic and embedded into many other features of one’s life. People identify their selves with projects and process, and I’ve come to respect actions such as “turning a heel,” “tying in the ends,” and “decreasing,” as well as other stunts I’m less adept at describing.
Strangely and fascinatingly, knitting isn’t the solitary pursuit that I would first assume it to be. It is ridiculously social compared to the stereotype. Karyn heads to Portland, OR at the end of the month for a “sock summit,” and she sorely laments the fact that Crossroads conflicts with an annual knitting retreat in the mountains. (She’s a good sport, though, and will hopefully spend a weekend in San Antonio instead, needles in hand, camera at the ready.) Weekly meetings with friends revolve around the knitting act as well. And then there’s “Ravelry.”
Ravelry has had my attention since Karyn had joined and started telling me about it. This was well before either of us were connected to Facebook in anything more than a superficial way. Recently, Farhad Manjoo described it and its novelty at Slate.com. He does a great job of explaining what makes Ravelry not just special, but actually useful and integral to the craft of knitting and its social experience. You should read this yourself — I won’t bother restating his observations at length; for my purposes its enough to explain that Ravelry allows knitters an identity that is connected with their craft and projects, gives them a space to document not only the results but the process and progress of their endeavors, and provides an arena in which to get advice and ideas from others.
Jealous? I am. It doesn’t drive me to knit, but it does make me wish for a deeper connection with my own mistress, science education. We have places to dump out the results of our work, but really this is not much more than a display case for a cabled, wool sweater. We do little to model our work in its most authentic forms; we seldom have the opportunity to pull up our pant leg and show off our new socks as we’re wearing them. And, most lamentably, we don’t get the chance to talk about and display the processes of our efforts as we’re in the midst of them. We could learn something from knitters.
Okay, it’s true that we created Crossroads specifically to meet these needs. San Antonio, for many of us, provides us with a moment to show off those socks and other projects, most of which are still on the needles or perhaps still being patterned. And, I’d never want any online, social network to replace the actual face-to-face-to-face-to-face-to-etc. of our physical retreat. It couldn’t. I still wonder, though, if our collective group, with all its technological savvy, gumption, and higher degrees, could come up with a better way to keep us connected. Is there a Ravelry we could be making for ourselves? And as I ask this out loud, almost rhetorically, I wonder if I should be looking at myself (and a few helpful others) to take responsibility for answering the question.
Recently, I was taken by John’s writing about trust. He goes beyond a simple description and admiration of being able to find trust, faith, dependability in someone or something, and suggests that these features may in fact be those that allow success in an educational arena. From his own experiences, there’s a case to be made that a teacher can be innovative when he trusts in the leadership of his principal; a teacher’s instruction can be reformed if she trusts in the example of a peer; and I suppose even students will endeavor to try out something new and even uncomfortable if they have a certain trust in the good intentions and integrity of their teacher.
I didn’t immediately buy into the idea until he related it to backpacking. When on the trail we can enjoy ourselves because we trust that companions will do their own part to make sure we return to our families safely. Given that premise, I could see the many other applications of the idea, including maybe even my own classrooms for preservice teachers. If these up-and-coming leaders learn to trust that I have their best interests at heart and maybe some record of not completely failing them in the past, they seem to be willing to follow my lead into the unfamiliar and even unsteady. If we know we won’t fall over on our bicycles because of a guiding hand behind the seat, we’ll be willing to take the risk of getting on the improbable two-wheeled machine in the first place. My first experience rock climbing was only enjoyable because I had a large amount of faith in my guide and his ropes. I suppose a lot of teaching and mentoring is much like this. We’ll step out on a ledge if we know there’s a net or, even better, someone there to prevent any disastrous misstep.
This all makes sense, until I think of my friend John on the trail:
I love this image, and I’m proud that I was able to take it. But the true secret of my photographic genius is that I was in the right place at the right time behind our campsite in the Kolob Canyons of Zion National Park; and I simply saw John approaching this backlit, upward bound position a few seconds before. I barely had time to pull out the camera and point. I didn’t look, didn’t sight, didn’t check light settings — I just hoped that I was getting a light reading off the sky and had things more or less in focus. And what I got was a great image, sun at his heels, climbing a mountain. This is pretty much my complete, enduring image of Dr. Settlage. This is an image of someone I would follow up a mountain, literal or metaphorical. In truth, it’s only partially because I trust that he knows where he’s going and what the route will look like. It has more to do with the light at his heels and the emboldened look in his eye. It reminded me of the “sparkles.”
Our friend Heidi Carlone first told me about the sparkles. As she was talking about her data and the group’s method of coding it, there was something that they didn’t know how to name, but knew it was important. As Heidi related it to me:
“Sparkles”… named for what’s come to be a very important code in our data analysis — “the glittery sweet spot” scientific performances.
I’m not sure if I’m ready to tell John or anyone else outside of my immediate family that they have a “glittery sweet spot.” I’m not sure how that will be interpreted. And yet, there’s something that goes beyond my trust or faith in someone or something, as important as this may be. If I’m going to follow you, I need more than a belief in your ability to provide for my safety. I have to be excited by the prospect of following you. It’s not exactly what Heidi had in mind when she has been coding for “sparkles,” but it’s a similarly intangible thing. Call it sparkles, the light at someone’s heels, a certain enthusiasm/energy/inspiration. Whatever it is, it’s important.
As we’re going through the first piles of Crossroads proposals (due this weekend!), I’m reminded of this inspiration. Already I’m reading about new endeavors that I want to be a part of. In part, this is because the ideas are well thought out and developed. They’re produced by some friends and scholars that I have reason to believe in. Most important, though, is the fact that they’re inspiring. They are attempting to ascend those steep slopes, and in spite of the climb it’s clear that there’s a sparkle. It’s a delight to see and get to be a part of this kind of work.
My first trip to San Antonio has been a successful and exciting one. Though brief, it’s set the stage for our meeting in September. The meeting rooms have been selected, lunch arrangements made, and a rough schedule is confirmed so that it flows from one event to the next. I’ve even picked out which chair I can sit in as guests arrive at the St. Anthony Hotel. It’s deep and comfortable, ornamented with brass handles shaped like swans. It’s next to three others — so there’s room for you, too. We can sit and look out onto the street as people begin to arrive.
Even as I wait in this airport gate getting ready to head back home, and as John is already in flight, the fun is now underway. I’m charmed by all the possibilities. These all start with imagining people arriving, welcoming them to the reception as they walk past the piano and into the warm room surrounded by dark wood panels and filled with friends and fellow attendees. There’s the hall where we kick things off the next morning, and the small, comfortable rooms where all the incubator sessions take place. This framework awaits, and for now I’m left to wonder about details, if Naomi Shihab Nye (our guest poet on Monday evening) should stand or sit; and if we’d like pastries or fruit during a morning break.
The big piece that needs to be filled in now is you. Mark your calendars for September 25th, and start pecking away at proposals. Until then, imagine that I’m just sitting at the St. Anthony, patiently, in this comfy chair with the brass handles.
Today I was on the radio for an hour. Previously, when I would fantasize of such a day, I would have been discussing my rock star status, sitting behind a piano. Or, more recently my images of grandeur put me and John in comfortable chairs sitting across from John Stewart on the Daily Show. This wasn’t quite as big — a public radio show that reaches out across the state, although on satellite radio you can hear it across the nation, and on the internet you can get it around the globe. So, being excited about the insides of the radio studio and the chance to feel important was tempered by a bit of terror.
Here’s what pushed me through: I was introduced as “Dr. Adam Johnston, Professor of Physics…” [blah blah] “..awarded” [blah blah] “and co-founder of Science Education at the Crossroads, a conference with a mission to reform science education.” I grinned, because if John was able to listen at that instant, I imagined him cheering for the publicity that was gained after each break and re-introduction. Moreover, this affiliation meant that I wasn’t alone. The reason I was there in the studio wasn’t because I’ve reformed science education or even because I know how. I was there because I’ve seen what others are doing, what they continue to do, and what their mission is all about. I battled a bit, politely, with the MacArthur award winner on the phone line who believed science should help us to place our elite students on trajectories to more science related jobs. I countered that we should think about reforming the culture of science within schools, educating all kids with the science ideas and attitudes that they can use throughout life, regardless of professional track. And, at the end of it all, I summarized that I know we can do these kinds of things because the people I’ve worked with and learned from at Crossroads have shown this.
When I got in my car and tried to put my head back together (I still don’t remember what exactly I said on air), I was listening to Frank Turner, and specifically these lines:
We planned the revolution from a cheap Southampton bistro
I don’t remember details, but there were English boys with Banjos
And that made me smile, because that was pretty much where this all started. Not exactly with banjos and no British accents, but the same idea. Crossroads started because we thought we could do better, and we knew that we needed to.
And so, this is all just a longwinded introduction to the announcement that the Call for Papers is out, the dates are set, and the place is ready for us. We have our poet booked. We can’t wait to hear from you. Until then, we’ll be playing these banjos, whether on the radio or not.
John and I have been busy lately, and even our email exchange you can hear our respective buzzing and giggling. Taking the year off from Crossroads has been good in several ways, but maybe none more than the benefit of re-realizing how much fun this all is.
We know what city Crossroads will be in 2011.
And we have the dates pinned down: September 25-27.
And, we have our poet. We’ve had amazing poets in the past, but … well, you’ll just have to wait and see. I’ve typed out and deleted so many times the official announcement that I feel like I’ve already betrayed the secret.
Once we figure out the exact locale whittled down from the many great offers on the table, we’ll let you all know. Right now we’re just looking at fine details, things like menu selection and how the chairs are arranged in a given meeting room. (If you’re going to be at ASTE in Minneapolis in January, we should be able to tell you all the details.) For now, mark your calendars and start to mull over your Vexations and Ventures. Maybe you could start with the inspiration of a poem, or two. These, at least for me, give me pause and are discussion prompts for classes and reminders about the purpose of education and the roles of teachers and other human relations:
Rain
by Naomi Shihab Nye
A teacher asked Paul
what he would remember
from third grade, and he sat
a long time before writing
“this year sumbody tutched me
on the sholder”
and turned his paper in.
Later she showed it to me
as an example of her wasted life.
The words he wrote were large
as houses in a landscape.
He wanted to go inside them
and live, he could fill in
the windows of “o” and “d”
and be safe while outside
birds building nests in drainpipes
knew nothing of the coming rain.
_____
How to Paint a Donkey
by Naomi Shihab Nye
She said the head was too large,
the hooves too small.
I could clean my paintbrush
but I couldn’t get rid of that voice.
While they watched,
I crumpled him,
let his blue body
stain my hand.
I cried when he hit the can.
She smiled. I could try again.
Maybe this is what I unfold in the dark,
deciding, for the rest of my life,
Billy Collins’ poem, “Consolation,” has been stirring in my head as I’ve been thinking about various goings on. John is currently en route for Ireland, a trip that is part sabbatical oriented, part vacation. Mostly, I think he plans destinations that are named after favorite whiskeys. I’m reminded by the poem because it attempts to suggest that it’s even better to not be going away to Europe, but in the process makes it clear that those of us left behind, here on the North American continent, aren’t so much better off:
Instead of slouching in a café ignorant of the word for ice,
I will head down to the coffee shop and the waitress
known as Dot. I will slide into the flow of the morning
paper, all language barriers down,
rivers of idiom running freely, eggs over easy on the way.
I’ll eat my eggs and enjoy my ice while John is sampling those fine whiskeys and visiting quaint establishments, sweet accents included, no charge. But it’s more than this. Fall is the time of year when we’re usually hosting Crossroads. It’s not that there has been a lack of things to do: An extra obligation here, another department commitment there, plenty of other projects I’ve never quite caught up on. And yet, something’s still missing.
I think about recent Crossroaders and even lurk on Facebook pages and read over emails. People are busy, taking on new administrative roles, finishing graduate programs, starting new jobs, hosting new endeavors, working with teachers, welcoming kids on Saturdays, welcoming kids on Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays . . . it’s all kinds of busy out there, and I know I only catch the small glimpses of it, peeking through the openings between slats in the fence as I run by.
Taking a sabbatical from Crossroads for a year was exactly the right thing to do. At the same time, I miss it just enough to think about next year, and the year after. So, while it’s a “year off,” it’s also been a chance to deliberate about future venues, guests, and directions. Yes, we think we know where we’re going to host the conference in 2011. And 2012. It’s infuriating that I can’t stop thinking about the future plans for this. And exhilarating.
To all of you out there not coming to Crossroads in 2010, I’m thinking of you. Nice work. Keep it up. Can’t wait to see you in 2011.
To John in Ireland right now . . . well, I just don’t want to talk to you. I’m here, eggs over easy, with the waitress known as Dot.
Stacy, a colleague just a few steps away in my friendly physics department hallway, popped her head in my office the other day. Her approach is signaled with her distinctive two step, stomp clomp, my audio cue that Stacy is dropping by with a question. Everyone in my department has their own cue: a shuffled set of steps from my department’s chair, a subtle wave from my friend Colin, a quick-paced knock from John, a gentle peek around the doorframe from Michelle. Stacy’s cue though is particularly noteworthy because it inevitably leads to discussions about science education. This time she asked: “Where do we find the picture of the STEM pipeline?” It’s a simple question, and if you are in the business you know exactly what “STEM” is and exactly what this pipeline metaphor represents.
STEM, of course, is Science Technology Engineering and Mathematics; and the “pipeline” is the flow of quantized, atomic little students up through the stages of K-16 and into the workforce. I suspect the pipeline is a bit like an oil well, or at least the comic book animation of such, and we have this vision that if we just pump on this a bit we should have an output of little scientists, engineers, and other economy-driving careers pouring out.
Given the last summer and the sickening oil offenses in the Gulf of Mexico, visions of STEM-fluid disasters suddenly come to my mind. I suppose this is only one reason why the pipeline metaphor might not be appropriate.
We also all know the story, and it goes a little something like this: Somewhere in the upper elementary grades, we start to lose interest in science. Sure, in the lower grades, children love science and all that it represents: fun, questions, gooey stuff. But then bad things happen. The subject matter goes dead; the curriculum becomes stiff; we implicitly punish children by punishing schools by restricting funding for anything that doesn’t meet the stipulations of a mandate with a clever acronym. And somehow, girls first drop their interest in science and a year later their male counterparts follow. No child left behind, they all follow one another down a route of disinterest in the study of the natural world.
Like I said, we all know this story. But I can’t find the data for the story. Anywhere. John, my loyal and much better informed mentor and friend, tells me that it’s the same story that he tells. Yet, he’s never written about it because he doesn’t have any data to back it up. We’ve passed this legend down from one generation of science educator to the next. The story is most certainly true, but we all describe it as though we read the primary data, maybe as though we collected it ourselves. Certainly, we all know with some kind of familiarity how it has happened because we’ve all seen it firsthand.
I wrote my friend Heidi about the story of the STEM pipeline, because my friend Heidi is smarter than John, and also because she does her work in girls’ identities with science. She would have cited the story of the STEM pipeline in the first paragraph of her dissertation. But Heidi tried to suggest that she really didn’t read that much — because “early career award” members of national science education organizations can earn such acclaim without reading much research? Perhaps, but more likely, it seems that the story is just a story. Just to prove the case that much more thoroughly, she goes on to actually suggest that I had the story a bit wrong: “…[M]uch of my stuff focuses on students who have the interest and motivation and skills/understanding… and [they] still end up leaving [scientific fields of study].” So, even though Heidi hasn’t read the official story of the STEM pipeline either, we know she’s heard it. We’ve all heard and have retold a different version of this, but is it true? And what part of it is true? And why do we use it? To what end?
Today, my two daughters walked into new classrooms, along with hundreds of other children at our elementary school down the street. They’re laughing and smiling, a bit jittery but mostly excited to see their new classrooms, their teachers, and their friends. It doesn’t look like a pipeline to me. It looks like it could be fun. We are a species that can create pipelines, but we have also invented and even placed a priority on these things called schools. Children learn to get along, they learn to count, and they should be learning about how to ignite sparks. In some ways, I really hope that there isn’t any pipe, narrow and with the potential for clogs. Instead, I hope we have something which launches individuals in all different directions, along trajectories they are passionate about. Rather than trying to fix the leaks in any given pipeline metaphor, we should be trying to produce fountains.
