Collaborative Knowledge

Keith Sawyer's Creative Teaching: Collaborative Discussion as Disciplined Improvisation describes the dangers of scripted teaching in regards to student learning outcomes. Sawyer argues that effective teaching simply cannot stem from pure script, that a teacher must have skills akin to that of an improvisational actor in order to best reach the dynamic and unpredictable needs of the student. When I first read this article, I felt the need to double check the date in which it was published; do people still seriously believe scripted teaching is the most effective way to teach? Of course, with current NCLB policies slowly tearing down our nation's education system, I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. But we all know that proponents of NCLB are clearly out of tune with what learning actually means. For those of us who aren't stuck with our heads up our own asses, improvisation learning, whether we've termed it that way or not, should not come as a surprise. Anyone who has ever stood in front of a classroom will vouch for the fact that a teacher simply cannot predict the questions a student will ask, or even the interpretations they will contrive from the information you try to give them. I suppose this technique can work if questions and discussion are not allowed. But then how much learning actually occurs?

Sawyer began to stray from the obvious when he moved into discussion of constructivist theory, and in turn sociocultural theory. He points out, with help from Rogoff, 1998, that "cognition is 'an aspect of human sociocultural activity' rather than 'a property of individuals" (14). In other words, we form knowledge together, with other inquiring individuals. This concept can be furthered explained in Kenneth Bruffee's article Collaborative Learning and the 'Conversation of Mankind' in which he points out that knowledge is constructed in a "community of knowledgeable peers" (90). In this type of community, we can come together to engage in and learn what Bruffee refers to as "normal discourse." In order for this so-called community of knowledgeable peers to obtain an agreed-upon piece of knowledge, they must engage in discussion, ask questions of each other and help each other understand their individual points of argument. Bruffee argues that this type of discussion is what leads to a mutual understanding of information, knowing the context of one's field.

What I feel is pertinent to know about these two discussions is simply that knowledge-gaining requires collaboration, regardless of the setting or profession. In the classroom, this can mean something as basic as group work, where students must collaborate with each other to solve a problem or analyze a text. When it comes to teaching, it then becomes important to be prepared for improvisation (if there is even a way to prepare necessarily) and to invite students to struggle within their community of peers to gain new understandings of the information considered "normal" for academics, and particularly the field of study. In a classroom such as this, I believe it is important to allow students to gain the ability to engage in "normal discourse" within their chosen fields. This is what the entire setting of academics should be for: learning the contexts and discussing ideas within them. Once out of the classroom setting, students eventually become "colleagues" within the field, as Bruffee describes, and then they will have the ability to engage in "abnormal discourse."

Here's where I think collaborative learning becomes essential: If students are never given the opportunity to engage in conversation and debate within a community of knowledgeable peers, they will never fully learn about the expansive amount of information that exists within their field. The scripted teaching that Sawyer talks about will not allow students to think critically about the subject, and thus will be left with a very skeletal overview--information they may or may not remember long term anyway. Bruffee argues that only when people within this knowledgeable community can no longer agree on what is true. "Abnormal discourse," or discussion that breaks from the normal conventions, can trigger fresh and often controversial thought. However, this is only achievable when one is well versed in his field; he knows the arguments, facts, figures and theories, yet he believes there is something more (or rather something the community has never discussed) to add to the conversation. Bruffee claims that "abnormal discourse sniffs out stale, unproductive knowledge and challenges its authority" (93). If this is the case, generations of students who were taught under the scripted model and never engage in collaborative discourse risk becoming generations of citizens who won't recognize when change needs to happen.

Django's Satura

The satura seems to be quite a ubiquitous idea. In Jarrett's comparisons, the satura shows up in foods such as gumbo, but there's more satura in our lives than simply that. As a population, we see saturas on subway trains and crowded streets. In language, we see satura in the different dialects and various words we create that stem from cultural and geographic influences. I chose to listen to Django Reinhardt's "Minor Swing" becuase the description of the "gypsy guitarist" sounded intriguing for a jazz piece. Perhaps it is my lack of jazz-listening experience, but I was curious what a "gypsy guitarist" would sound like in jazz.

Upon first listening, I would not have been able to say why this piece could qualify as a satura. If anything, it seemed like an amalgam, a solid mixture of influences that have been melded together so as the distinct parts are no longer identifiable. But of course, this is my poorly tuned jazz ear speaking. During the second listening, I was able to identify how this piece is a true satura. Bear with me now: what I seemed to hear was a slight swing influence in the background, which kept the beat throughout the piece. On top of that, it seemed as though a guitarist from a Mexican mariachi band was plucked from his normal Friday night gig and placed here with Django. The bent notes that Jarrett mentioned were distinct and felt unique within the whole of this piece, and the violin that squeeled in delight at its chance to sing its solo made me think of many different folk or country songs in which the violin plays a similar role. During this second listening, the song seemed to become a ray of light refracted through the prism of experience, I guess I could say. I could slowly begin to distinguish some of the separate colors, the influences and the instruments.

Unlike some jazz music, this particular song made me want to grab a partner and dance...anyone would do, I'm sure the dog wouldn't mind. Perhaps that's why I picture swing as an underlying current for the piece. Most music will make me want to DO something, whether it be dancing, singing, or some kind of activity that gets me off my feet. But really, the music I've always felt the most in touch with, the kind that sings to ME, has always made me want to write. I never know what about, but that doesn't seem to matter. Sometimes those are the best times to do some writing, are they not?

Images of Jazz

Jazz has always been one of those genres of music that I can honestly say I've always enjoyed. Understood, however, is a completely different thing. I cannot say that I truly know jazz. Whenever asked about my taste in music, particularly when it comes to jazz, I will say that I appreciate the music as much as anyone can who does not fully understand what it is their listening to. I'm upfront about this, but mostly so that I don't find myself in some kind of musical terminology-throwing contest of which I would surely lose. I hesitate to discuss this type of music (as is obvious by my late blog posting) because I'm simply not sure what to say about it.

That brings me to the point of this blog entry today: to discuss the two different versions of "West End Blues," by Louis Armstrong and Nicholas Payton. I shouldn't be so hard on myself, I suppose, when it comes to my lack of understanding of jazz. It is music, afterall, and I do love music. So I'll simply describe both pieces as I heard them and share the images that came to mind as I listened:

Louis Armstrong's version (or was this the original, I'll assume?) reminded me of a lazy summer day, rocking chair slowing creaking back and forth, the neighborhood children running around with dirt on their knees chasing after the ice truck. I say this as if it was some distant memory of mine. I was born in 1979. It is not. Regardless, the unmistakable scratchy record playing sound would bring most back to a distant time, whether we were there or not. I enjoyed its mellow, feel-good time, and its classic jazz melody. In this piece, it seemed as though the trumpet and piano, along with the other horns, took turns contributing to the overall piece, like sophisticated children practicing what their parents taught them about sharing. I smiled as I listened.

Nicholas Payton's version was a stark contrast to Armstrong's. Right away, I was jolted from that front porch rocking chair into a busy city street in New York or perhaps New Orleans. The energy of the piece made me feel like it was meant to accompany someone who had somewhere important to go, important people to see and meet. The confidence of this person bubbled over into the streets where his heels clicked along in an upbeat and hurried fashion. The trumpet in this piece seemed more throaty and agressive (if this could describe the sound) and was far more in control of the music than Armstrong's piece. This little trumpet never learned to share, perhaps. It definitely owns the song. It also feels like the players are standing before the listeners saying, "This will move you, will shake you, will make you get up off your feet and dance!"

I can't pick a favorite between the two because they both are so strikingly different. I'm not even sure I would have recognized that they were both "West End Blues" if they hadn't been paired together for this particular assignment. Regardless, my opinions of this piece are limited to what I believe the music is saying, the images in conjures up, and of course how well it moves a "non-jazz-knowing" person. Maybe I'll become an expert one day and have a far more sophisticated appreciation for these two songs.

David Blakesley describes Kenneth Burke's pentad as the motivation behind action. Because dramatism helps us understand why we act (or say, respond, believe, etc) in a certain way, the pentad seems to be an approach to help us learn alternative ways of acting. When we say the word "race," for example, we associate a multitude of ideas, problems, identifications and so on with that word. Eventually we can no longer talk ourselves out of these ideas because as Blakesley notes, "our terms use us, rather than the other way around." In order to create meaning behind the word "race" in a way that helps us understand all different perspectives, we can use the pentad to force ourselves to break down previously held notions of race and create new ones.

I believe that the pentad, if used thoughtfully, could be a starting point to understanding our world and the strife that exists within it. It certainly won't result in a world of people joined hand-in-hand to circle the plannet, but if we could at least come to an understanding of why we disagree with certain ideas then we can "act" in a more positive way.

This idea needs some solid grounding from anyone who understands dramatism better than I do. Any thoughts?

The Role of Rhetoric in Self-Identification

In John D. Ramage's Rhetoric: A User's Guide, he discusses the subject of identity and how one comes to create and understand his identity. In the beginning of the section titled, "Essence v. Substance," he defines essence as "some part of us--perhaps physical, perhaps spiritual--that make us who were are, that if removed from our identity would change our identity." Later on, he explains that we come to an understanding of things when we compare one thing to another. Rhetorically, this can be understood to mean that an apple gains its meaning by using other words such as "fruit," "red," "juicy," or "round." The same goes for "finding one's self." In order to discover one's essence, we can only look to the words that have been laid out for our choosing. Essentially, then, this search for identity is merely a search for the perfect word to satisfy our need to classify and categorize (or uncategorize) ourselves and to differentiate between what we are and what we are not.

So here's my question: How unique are we when we must resort to prefabricated words to identify ourselves? When a person spends his youth (or even his lifetime) trying to discover himself, has he always innately known who that person is but simply didn't have the words for it and therefore remained unaware? If so, do these decades of unrest and confusion circulate around the need for language to give us self-satisfaction?

If our identity depends on the right combination of words that others before us have created, then perhaps the people who have their own truly unique identities are those who cannot express at all what it is that makes them unique. If this is so, then perhaps we should all simply stop trying to find ourselves or rather begin to revere those who are mute or live in distant monasteries devoted to lifetime vows of silence. We should never attempt to discuss who these people really are because it is not possible to give them a unique identity because simply describing them breaks up the originality with our prefabricated words. And the rest of us must accept the fact that we are all the same and different, unique and unoriginal until someone creates a new word out of no other previously known words to describe us.

Or perhaps there is an infinite number of ways to combine the words we have been given and for eternity the English language will create new and unique ways to help us find ourselves?? :)