Are we as objective as we should be about the new teaching techniques we try? The argument that we aren’t, usually put to us by researchers, goes something like this: We read, hear about, or otherwise discover a new technique. It could be a strategy or a different approach. Maybe it addresses a problem; it might develop a skill. Whatever the criteria, the new technique strikes us as a good idea. It seems doable—something we can pull off and something likely to work with our students. More directly: we like the new techniques that we decide to try.
With a new technique in hand, we make plans to implement it; we decide on which course to try it in and when in the course to try it. We prepare whatever is needed to execute the technique and decide how we’ll communicate about it to students. And then we implement the activity, usually with some enthusiasm, almost always with high hopes. We end up having a vested interest in its success, and that’s when something between a dense fog and a slight haze obscures our view of what happened. We quickly form opinions about how it went. Sometimes they’re informed by student feedback, but even when they aren’t, we make judgments, voicing them to ourselves and to others.
The view that we aren’t all that objective about our instructional choices has some credibility, but I don’t think selecting and implementing techniques we believe in results in an incurable bias. We can cultivate the necessary objectivity, and here are some suggestions for how:
- We start by recognizing our vested interest in the success of whatever we’re implementing. We don’t try a new strategy feeling neutral about its outcome.
- We compensate for our involvement by slowing down the process, stepping back, making space, and waiting until we can more thoughtfully than emotionally assess what happened.
- We accept as likely the possibility that the new technique had mixed results. It worked well for some students, was okay for others, and was not what we had hoped for some.
- We resolve not to reach a final conclusion before asking students how they regard what happened. Ask not whether they “liked” the technique but what sort of impact it had on their efforts to learn.
- Our assessment of the technique is ongoing. We listen for what students say about it subsequently. We look at gross measures such as exam scores, papers, and projects to see whether there are small (or maybe not so small) signs that the technique had an impact.
- If after careful analysis we think the technique has potential, maybe even that it worked well, we acknowledge that it can be done better and take the actions necessary to make it so.
- We listen to how we recount the story of what happened, making sure it does not sound like a celestial learning experience for everyone.
Actually, I think an argument could be made in favor of our involvement with the new techniques we try. That case rests on the idea that caring about something nurtures a commitment to its success. You work harder to achieve that success than someone who’s objective but uninvolved. Haven’t we seen this happen when we make a change that students suggest? They want it to work and are more likely to contribute what’s needed to make it happen.
Still, there’s a caveat. We aren’t naturally objective about our teaching; we’re simply too involved, and teaching touches much of what defines and makes us unique. As a result, when we tell ourselves and others what happened with the technique, in the course, or across a career, we see matters through rose- (or some other) colored glasses. We want our teaching to look and be good. But being good—that is, for teaching to result in learning—requires looking long and hard at everything we do for students. So it’s off with the colored glasses, on with those that magnify—we need to see details in sharp focus. No hiding behind excuses, no failure avoidance, no blaming students, and no self-shaming. We’re after a singular objective: an accurate understanding of how what we tried affected efforts to learn.
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