What happens when a natural-born storyteller (I get it from my mother) ends up in a career where every day is spent in front of an audience telling stories? Well, for me, it was 30+ years as an educator. Oh, and don’t get the idea that I’m limiting “stories” to anything not directly related to the task at hand. I told plenty of stories with hopeful ethical and moral shadings (more on those later) to help produce classrooms of mutually respectful and supportive students, but I told way more “stories” about math, science, English, history, and even physical education one year (just one class, but it was last period and we had a blast every day inventing new games or variations on old ones…Cone Ball, anyone?).
Think about it for a moment. Try to remember when a new skill was being introduced to you or an old one was reviewed. Watch a cooking show on too many channels or YouTube videos to list. Directions are rarely just a set of steps in an appropriate order. Pam and I love to watch some of these cooks as they share their recipes and intersperse almost every step with some personal memory of the times they did it wrong, or got it really right for the first time, or did it “wrong” but developed their own style in the process. They make what is essentially a basic task analysis (list of steps in order) a personal story of success, failure, frustration, and ultimate joy; in other words, an entertaining and memorable task analysis!
They tell the “story” of their fried chicken recipe, including other characters who played a part. A story. It may not appear to be the most efficient way to teach something, but in my experience, making a lesson personal and enjoyable encourages learning, short and long term. Good teachers learn to balance entertainment with the subject matter. I’d like to think I did most of the time, but that reminds me of a story…
Early in my career, I fell victim to what is probably a very common problem for many teachers (even if they aren’t aware of it): I was the only adult in the room. My opinion must be more valuable based solely on my age and experience. Of course, I would be able to lead my students into clear and effective ethical/moral decision-making (only as far as it was appropriate for the classroom environment; I left religion and politics to families and friends). Why it never occurred to me that none of my teachers had been able to produce such clarity of thought in me, I don’t know. What I did learn was I had a set of “beliefs” that I expected them to adopt (don’t lie, don’t cheat, don’t steal, and some other don’ts, and to turn in anyone who didn’t don’t). A big problem became evident early: I didn’t always don’t. I was expecting them to do things I didn’t expect of myself. And worse, I discovered why I still allowed myself to do those things: often, they appear to make life easier (especially in the moment), at what seems minimal cost (who’s going to know). I learned if I were going to ask for these wonderful, very useful behaviors, I had to try to explain not just the obvious, immediate benefits (praise from adults) but also the possible/likely costs (anger and pain from fellow classmates). I needed to find a way to share that they would become the results of their decision making. That lying and cheating in class had a cost beyond the risk of being caught. And I needed them to know that the choice was theirs, and I would still love them regardless of their choice. Learning to live our best lives is hard work. It is filled with challenges. We all screw up. We all deserve and need to be valued, even when we screw up.
In Stories from Homewood, I share adventures, undertaken by characters I hope you come to care about, and the challenges they face when confronted by their own difficult choices. Because that’s the lesson I learned from my students. Each person decides how they want to be known; appreciated or disliked; needed or endured; loved or ignored. It isn’t simple. But it can be made easier by learning the most vital lesson: most of the time, we do what we want…what makes life easier at that moment. We overeat because what’s one more donut. We stay up too late because we deserve a break. We make promises but then break them because it serves us better at the time. And before you think I’m preaching at you, please don’t. If you really want that donut, eat it. If you want to watch a late-night show on cooking fried chicken, go for it. If you promise something but have to break it, do so as gracefully as you can. We all have. I’m just saying we need to consider the price tag for all these decisions. Calories and lack of sleep are obvious consequences, but breaking promises (and I consider lying to be breaking a promise) has a more difficult cost to determine. In Stories from Homewood, Aaron is faced with making decisions that will affect his family, old friends, and his new friends in Homewood. He will learn how hard it can be, but he will also get new insights into the rewards for being the person others, and more importantly, he, can like and respect.
They are based loosely on stories I would tell our son, Aaron, when he was very young. We lived in the country, so every drive took a while. I have named characters after some friends and family members and my best teachers. They are otherwise completely my creation, so they shouldn’t be congratulated or blamed!