Setting the Tone for Successful Learning
by Shari Dinkins
Years ago, I adopted a dog from a local humane society. At twelve pounds, he was not threatening yet he barked at other dogs, pulled on the leash, and rushed visitors at my door. After investigating several options, I hired a reputable dog trainer to come to my home. I was naive about the training process. I imagined that this professional would simply step into my living room, sit my dog down and have a very serious talk with him. Then he would start acting differently.
How wrong I was.
This trainer knew what most dog trainers do—that dog training is mostly about retraining the owner. Within a few hours, I had learned techniques to set boundaries and limit behavior, be
assertive or even dominant, reward desired behavior, and exert the right kind of energy as a loving “pack leader”? In return, my dog became more relaxed; he settled into a “beta dog?” position comfortably. Although I expected him to be depressed and withdrawn with his new position in my household, he wasn’t. In fact, he actually seemed grateful to be relieved of the job of managing me, my house, any visitors, and all that surrounded us when we walked. I was happier, too. With the help of a professional trainer, we had settled into a proper relationship—that of leader and follower.
I am convinced that this event has taught me more about managing classrooms than many teaching workshops I’ve attended. Although it’s true that this metaphor is limited—students certainly are not like dogs to be trained—the idea of exerting the correct energy is one that has governed classrooms for years. This explains why inexperienced graduate students and teachers assistants often have trouble controlling students, and why certain instructors’ personalities are more effective than others at enforcing policies intended to encourage particular behaviors and learning.
I was lucky to come to teaching as a third career. After ten years in Silicon Valley, managing product and people, I had very little difficulty realizing my place in the classroom. With another decade in advertising, managing creative teams and creating campaigns, I realized that the effort I put into teaching and the way I managed students greatly influenced the outcome—in
this case, a graduating class that would contribute to society. Yet, the corporate world did not prepare me for the degrees of formality that can exist in classrooms; those degrees vary with
the course curriculum, the level of learning, the age of the student and instructor, the type of campus, and even the time and location of the class itself.
My first part-time teaching position was with a local for-profit business college. My dean helped delineate my role by assigning me a textbook, giving me sample syllabi, and going over the student handbook that defined proper behavior on the campus. She also instructed me to have the students call me “Miss or Ms. Dinkins?” At first, I found this odd. I had worked in many industries and become comfortable with first names. Who was this Ms. Dinkins? I almost expected my mother to answer when a student piped up with, “Ms. Dinkins, what do we need to read for tomorrow?” Although I became used to this form of address, I was often tempted to ask students to call me “Shari?” Yet I did not give in. Knowing that the students were paying good money for classes helped keep me in check. I wanted them to feel as if they were getting their money’s worth. I wanted to develop the confidence in my teaching that I did not yet have, and maintaining a certain distance between student and teacher seemed important at this stage in my career.
When I landed the chance to teach a one-day workshop through a state university’s extended education program, I realized that I was working under different circumstances. This was a short course in a technical subject open to anyone in the community, and was therefore very different from teaching undergraduate students who were required to study core courses to achieve a long-term goal. Many of the students attending this one-day workshop already had a college degree; many had professional jobs; most were older than typical college students. They would be more like peers than students.
I instinctively knew to develop materials for an audience that already understood how to perform certain duties. The result was a wonderfully informal level of communication with a structured, yet flexible, curriculum. We were on a first-name basis, which, because of the age and expertise of the students, didn’t undermine my authority. I’m sure it helped that I was published in the field and had a decade of experience in that area. And, of course, the students wanted to be there; they had paid their fees and brought supplies. It was a successful day that resulted in positive reviews and an invitation to return to teach the next semester.
The next year, I answered an advertisement in the local newspaper to teach creative writing.
My new boss, the director of senior classes at a junior college, hired me to teach at several senior centers and retirement homes. I would need to approach the directors at those institutions and convince them that the residents would greatly benefit from journaling, writing poetry, and creating their own autobiographies. After setting up regular times and locations, I would then develop some “soft” materials to help shape their writing—all
the while keeping in mind that these were older adults with vast life experiences. I was not to criticize their work, but instead encourage them to write, write, write. My role was that of a
witness, or at best, a very kind guide. I insisted that these older student writers call me “Shari.” In contrast, I called them by the formal Mr., Mrs., or Ms., only reverting to first names after specific residents repeatedly insisted on it. Although I found this kind of teaching valuable in a way that no other assignment ever had been, I also realized that my job as a cheerleader and coach seemed to dictate a kind of respect while I witnessed these
students’ writing.
I relocated to the San Francisco Bay Area to teach a three-quarter load at a very large, urban community college. My experience here further shaped me as an instructor, but also presented challenges. Suddenly, I was responsible for a semester’s worth of learning. I had to choose texts, write curricula, and develop original materials for students in developmental-level English courses. The student population was tremendously diverse in ability; some came from local high schools and were hopelessly underprepared; others were returning students from blue-collar professions. We also had a large number of international students, which resulted in a split in the level of formality in classrooms. Many international students would address me as Ms. Dinkins, or Professor Dinkins. At the same time, young students from urban centers might address me as Ms. D. or, worse yet, Shari. I had to draw boundaries. This was difficult, because I did not want to alienate students.
Retention was of the utmost importance, and this was a core class required for transfer. I finally stopped telling my first name to day students and simply outlined the course name, S. Dinkins, and the day’s activities on the board. Most fell to calling me Ms. Dinkins or Ms. D. Night classes at this campus seemed to cull an older crowd with more professional experience. In fact, some students were my age! It seemed awkward to ask them to address me formally. Depending on the nature of the night class, I sometimes asked students to call me Shari. Rather than undermine my authority, the informality reflected a closer relationship that encouraged these professionals to do the required work.
Today I work at a university in the Midwest. I’ve noticed a greater level of formality with undergraduate students—especially with daytime classes, in which Professor So-and-So, or Dr. So-and-So prevails. Night classes may be more relaxed, but not necessarily. Many professors encourage graduate students to address them by first name. A professor I know in the sciences confessed that he really sees his graduate students as budding colleagues. They share resources and sometimes publish together; therefore, addressing one another with first names seems appropriate. I tend to prefer Ms. Dinkin during the day, and encourage night school students to use my first name when I decide it’ s appropriate.
Good instructors set a level of formality with students inside and outside the classroom. Confidence in discipline, teaching skills, and oneself sets the tone for a course. Regular misbehavior does not occur in classrooms where the instructor is in control. Drawing
boundaries, setting limits, and rewarding positive behavior are important tools for the part- or full-time instructor.
