At #flipcon12, Jon Bergmann and Aaron Sams ended their keynote with a blank slide--suggesting that they, even though they kind of invented the Flipped mindset and brought it to the masses, were not the sole experts on the subject.  There is always more to learn.  There will always be further to push.

And over the past couple weeks, Cheryl, Karl, Crystal, Kate, and I have been working on filling in that final slide on the Bergmann-Sams slideshow.  So, dear readers, you can expect to see blogs from all of us over the next few weeks which attempt to do couple of things:

1. Clarify/push forward the philosophies central to the Flipped Class Movement, at least as they pertain to our individual contexts. (And yes, there will be differences; the pinnacle of a Flipped math class looks very different from a Flipped English class, and so forth.)

2. Explain, in a concrete way, how these Big Ideas can manifest themselves in a real classroom in front of real students. This step will include lesson/unit plans, project designs, etc.  

Also, we will be publishing a 4-or-5-way collaborative video in about a week or so, talking about these things in summary/interactive form. Be on the lookout for that. 

                      *             *             *

So, let me begin with a new Big Idea, to get the metaphorical ball rolling.  

About a week ago, Cheryl Morris wrote a blog about our first "Conversations in ELAflip" subject, which was "the difference between content and process videos." A quick summary/pair of definitions:

Content videos are pretty much typical classroom direct instruction--condensed lectures for the purposes of communicating basic facts from one party to another.  Example would include things like "here are the three steps you need to include in a research paper introduction" or "here are the mathematical steps you need to follow to calculate molar mass" (I think I said that right; I'm not a chemistry teacher).  

Process videos are exactly what they sound like: videos in which the student can view an expert (or more than one expert) actually working their way through the process, using a problem/question/prompt they have never seen before.  You can see examples of those here.

We believe that the spontaneity and struggles that come forth when experts fight their way through a new problem are highly motivational and instructive for our students.  In our personal context, we know this: writing is hard.  It's difficult for everyone, from first graders crafting their first sentences all the way to masters of language.  And for students to get to see two people--their teachers, people who are supposed to have "all this writing stuff figured out already"--have to spend 5-10 minutes crafting and arguing over ONE SENTENCE... it helps.  It's our version of Michael singing "You Are Not Alone."  We are here with you. Really. 

So.  Long preamble to get to the first (or maybe by now it's the 2nd?) Big Idea: Traditional, unflipped classes tend to be focused almost exclusively on content delivery--probably 85% percent of the class time.  That leaves around 15% for process/modeling/labs, etc.  The Flip, in our minds, is based on reversing that set of percentages to 85% for process, 15% for content.  

We do believe students need content, that they need both historical context and content knowledge in English, but we also believe that we can accomplish most of those things in brief video formats.  You can see this (85-15) pattern happen in both our "Research Paper: Introductions" and "Conclusions" cycles; for each, we have one short video outlining the necessary components (content) and 3 or 4 longer videos which show us walking through the process of writing one (process).

What follows from this idea is very important: education is about student learning, not impressing our students.  

And what follows from that one is perhaps the most important: education is about a little knowledge, a lot of thinking, and a human connection.  
  

There's something inspiring about watching speakers like Sir Ken Robinson and reading great thinkers. They are responsible for the very beginnings of my thought processes around the flipped classroom-- they are kind of like Patient Zero in this metaphor.  They made me realize that greater things are not just possible in education, but necessary.  

Sometimes, though, those sources leave you with a false high, an empty mountaintop experience. You are inspired, excited, educationally stimulated, ready to change the world--but when you wake up the next morning to get to work, you have no idea where to start.  We have no toeholds to climb or bombs to detonate.  And when that happens, we end up going back to just the same old stuff we've been doing for years. 

To be clear, I'm not disparaging the Inspirers and the Big Theorists. They flipped my mental switch on, and for that, I'm eternally grateful.

But mercy. When you participate in actual creation, when you and a partner (or partners) begin to do the Actual Work to transform Big Theories into Concrete Pedagogical Frames One Can Actually Actually Use In Class...

That's where the revolution starts. 

And last night, the serious revolution started.  More to come on this very very very soon.  Let's just say we started a month ago with Content Flipping. Then we moved to Process Flipping.  The new iteration will be Thought Flipping (or maybe Meta-Flipping).  We're pushing in the direction of using the Flipped Classroom model to teach kids to have intellectual conversations/debates/brainstorming sessions, and using this set of ideas as the cornerstone of everything we do, moving forward.  

But for now, I want to share some of the stuff our little group has been working on:

Conversations in #ELAflip: Part 1 (Content Videos v. Process Videos)
                                                   Part 2 (Making Room for Human Connections)

The Blank White Page Project:  More information here, from @guster4lovers in conjunction with Karl                                                                                                                                      
                                                              and Crystal and Kate Baker
                                      (This is kind of a 20% Project we conceived about a month ago, and  
                                       we're super-stoked about its collaborative/instructional ramifications.)

Pursuing Happiness (& Making Connections) : Kate Baker


How to Introduce #flipclass to Students : Crystal Kirch


Using/Instituting Student Blog Structures : Karl Lindgren-Streicher




I want to really, sincerely thank all of these folks for not just provoking and stimulating my thinking, but doing the hard work of building structures on top of all these wild #flipclass theories.  Thanks, Buckets. 



          

There exists in our world the idea of the lone creative genius, toiling away at his desk or her laboratory, single-handedly saving the world or enlightening the masses by the pure force of their individual intellect. 

This image is false.  It's a lie.  An odious lie. 

And that image, to which many in our society are so beholden, is what drives many so-called geniuses to madness, or places of darkness and loneliness and self-isolation.  

But over the past weeks, I have learned differently, thanks to a gaggle of Twitterfolk.  We seem to be conducting, online, through Google Hangouts and Twitter and direct messages and emails, a contemporary version of the Parisian salon: a place where like-minded individuals just get together, hang out, and bounce ideas off of each other.  (Except without the cognac and opium.)

Through that frenzy of ideas, some amazing and powerful (there's that word again) ideas have started to form. Like the Blank White Page.  Like a precise and sprawling definition of what it means to flip classes in the humanities. Like how to flip reading (which, for the record, isn't "read this book at home and talk about it in class").  Like how to work on a cross-country video collaboration, showing faces and processes and misfires and missteps and, ultimately, beauty.  

I have no idea what it is yet, but there's something taking shape, something (dare I say) magical, almost.  It's many things: frenetic, whirlwind-ish, spiraling, chaotic.  But it's not boring. 

And it's definitely not isolating. 

I just spent two hours last night, until almost midnight EST, re-recording an instructional video with my partner-in-crime Cheryl Morris.  She had already spent close to fifteen hours editing the original attempt, which, though not bad, just wasn't up to the standard we have set for ourselves.  I was exhausted, hyper to start with, but devolved into only partial coherence as the evening wore on.

And I loved it. 


It was a struggle, yes, and it took a really long time, and there were moments where I just wanted to give up and go to sleep.  But there was this other person on the other end of the video/Google Hangout, pushing me, gently demanding my best.  

So I did it.  And I loved it. 

That's the crux of this whole flipped process for me.  There is love--of the process, of the knowledge gained, of the camraderie--and there is encouragement (plus a little kick in the pants when I need it). Here we are, two 10-ish year veteran teachers on opposite coasts, creating something new, something original, something that neither of us would have dreamed possible alone.  

Alone, it would be too much work.  It also would not be nearly as pedagogically sound.  Beyond the friendship and the hard work is kind of a positively thrilling pedagogy--we're not lecturing students in a virtual classroom, drawing pictures and delivering facts in a technologically proficient way.  We are modeling thought processes and letting students see the machinations behind the curtain, so to speak. 

We're being real, we're being messy and silly and occasionally profound.  

It's a beautiful thing. 

And I love it. 
-----------------------

If you want to see some of these videos, go check out our YouTube channel, ThomassonMorrisInstr !

If you want to contact us, we'd love to hear from you on Twitter:
                                                     Cheryl-- @guster4lovers; Andrew-- @thomasson_engl

I want to give readers a bit of understanding about why I have chosen this title--Concerted Chaos--for the blog.  


First, for those of you who have things to do, the Cliffs Notes Version:


As I understand it, chaos theory suggests that there exist underlying mathematical principles which govern events that seem random in nature.  My classroom appears chaotic to the untrained eye, but there are guiding principles and organizational structures in place that guide events.  "Concerted" means, in my sense, "well-coordinated."  So, "well-coordinated chaos."  Makes sense, both for my personal pedagogy and as a description of a high-quality education.


I also appreciate the pun on "concert," which brings in musical implications-- while a massive group of musical instruments or voices all working in disharmony could sound disastrously, if they play/sing their harmonies & countermelodies in a "well-coordinated" way, then the end result is magical.  


And I like the alliteration. 


If you like what you've read so far (and you have some extra time), then you could keep reading for a more detailed version! 

                                   *          *          *


Note: This is part 2/2 of the introduction I wrote in January. For part 1/2, go here.

The basic goal of what I call the “chaotic classroom” is to shift the burden of the actual information transfer from “teacher delivering” to “ student gathering.” Certainly, my classroom and those of the other teachers following this methodology seem to be utter chaos if the viewer doesn’t know what they’re witnessing.  It is true that there are generally many activities going on simultaneously; for example, in a given class period, some students may be writing or revising a research paper, some may be filming for a different long-term project, some may be “translating” a seventeenth-century document into contemporary English, and other small groups may be composing a microtheme (a short, compacted essay) in response to an assignment on poetry analysis.  In the midst of such a classroom, the teacher drifts from group to group, pushing thought processes further, adding extra insights, checking in, playing things by feel. This type of classroom allows a teacher with a class of twenty-five to thirty students to check in on the individual progress of every student, almost every day.

It is critical to note, however, that I’m just talking about the appearance of chaos. Chaos theory, though I’m not smart enough to fully articulate a definition, involves the idea that seemingly random natural events such as changes in weather or explosions in population growth actually have underlying mathematical principles governing them, and thus can be patterned and predicted. To the untrained eye, these phenomena look random and chaotic; it is only through experience in observation that patterns and order emerge.  And so it is with the chaotic classroom—the teacher doesn’t just say, “Hey guys, go do whatever.” The chaotic classroom requires a great deal of very specific planning on the front end, both at the big, class-wide structural level and at the individual level. Modern education and the so-called “21st century student” deserve teachers who can contend with chaos, or at least the outward appearance of chaos. The world doesn’t run on a factory schedule. It’s chaotic. Lots of changes happen every day, and one of the most significant skills a student can learn is how to budget time and take a project from beginning to end without someone hovering over them every second of every day. 

I have designed this teaching style over the past ten years, and continue to evolve it, both for the benefit of my students, but also to deal with my deficiencies as an educator. I recognized early in my teaching career that l was not a naturally gifted lecturer. I stutter, I run down tangents and only periodically get back to the main line of thought, my mind races faster and faster, and my poor mouth can never hope to keep up. However, now I know research tells us that lectures fail to communicate information to anybody effectively, when the goal is retention of that knowledge. (Cite studies, etc.—but save the bulk of the research for later) I swing between two organizational poles—hyper-anal-organized (which I can’t sustain for long periods of time) and what could kindly be called a laissez-faire approach to putting things where they belong. I don’t think linearly; I think in circles (which is not necessarily a deficiency, but it is certainly uncommon in the world of education). And I’m not willing to work sixteen to eighteen hour days in service to the gods of education, not with a wife and toddler and a Great Dane. 

When most people hear the world “concerted,” they think of a concerted effort, or an effort made with massively intense focus and strenuous force. That’s the kind of effort most good and great teachers make every day in class; I am writing this book to alleviate some of that pressure. The alternate meaning for “concerted” is jointly arranged and well-coordinated (cite). This is the message I’m driving towards: if our classrooms are jointly arranged (jointly, between members of the faculty, between teachers and students, and even adding community members to the process), well-coordinated (with lots of planning design done on the front end), and chaotic (with lots of activities going on during a given day—activities which have a definite order and purpose, even if said purpose is not readily apparent to every passerby, and even if the purpose is student-designed), then the education our students will leave us with will expand beyond facts and theorems. They will learn to find and pursue the things they love; they will learn to finish what they start; they will learn to pace themselves; they will learn to design projects; they will learn to speak in front of people and to write with passion—all of which will serve them well going forward in their lives. And you, the teacher/advisor/leader-of-classroom, will be able to truly meet each student where they are, during class, without the burden of five hours of grading schoolwork every night. I reject the idea that only teachers with ulcers are working hard enough. I reject it with all the force of my heart; I reject it along with all the bitterness I had built up, and all the anxiety I spent my days running from before I made this drastic educational shift in my own classroom. 

(Note: I wrote this as part of an introduction to a book in January 2012, before I even knew what flipped classrooms were.  It serves, I think, as a look into where I started, and maybe a glance towards where I am going.)

                                *        *        *

The story begins, as most of mine do, with a moment of terror. Humans have
evolved for millennia to be scared of large groups of animals that all, collectively, have
their eyes trained on you. We react with spikes of adrenaline, sweating, shaking, our
fight-or-flight reflexes kicking in full speed ahead; to be in this situation, alone, was often
the precursor to a grisly death at the teeth and claws of a pack of wolves. Of course,
this is why so many people are terrified of public speaking, and this is what I do every
day, along with thousands of teachers around the country and around the world. We
stare down our fears and proceed, because it doesn’t really get any easier, no matter
how much we wish it would. And when this evolutionary panic is combined with the
anger and frustration of being the one trying to share the most “important” of information
and having no one listen (the audience, of course, probably regards me as the
homeless man on the corner, raving about the end of the world), well, it’s quite the
powerful cocktail of emotion. We end up a good ways down the path to burnout, and it’s
difficult to see the way back.

So, the story begins with me, as usual, trying to fight back a rising wall of panic,
feeling cornered in a room of thirty high school juniors, feeling like this every day, and
the edge never really wearing off. It sounds insane to call these my happy moments,
but they are—the moments when I’m trying to outrun my own pounding pulse and share
bits of wisdom from the ages. But spending six to eight hours a day feeling like I was
running for my life, well, that’s not sustainable, not for the long-term. I had to find a way
to adapt, to survive, because as difficult as it is for me to simply be in the room with and
be responsible for so many young lives and minds, I cannot imagine spending my life
doing anything else. There had to be another way, a way that was less overwhelming, a
way that felt better to me, more peaceful, less like slow death, a way, more importantly,
that engaged kids. Because, of course, when students are working on something that
interests them, they aren’t staring at me. I had to do something different.

This is my something different.

I write this, then, partly as an explanation, partly as justification, partly as a
coming-to-terms with my own thoughts and my own teacher-demons, and partly as an
invective against the “way things have always been done.” We know, and have for a
while, that what many of us do in the classroom isn’t engaging to students—and though
I have heard many teachers say that our job is to teach, not entertain, my belief is that
we have to do better. We don’t have to put on clown noses and do the happy dance,
but we do have the responsibility to create curricula that meets students where they are,
and we have to be clear about the skills we want them to be responsible for. And we
need to be honest about the best ways to get them there.