The Personality of a Class:
Assessing Classroom Dynamics
by Regina Masiello
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| "Teachers
often refer to the "mood" or "feeling" in their
classrooms, and as a new teacher I desired a thorough understanding
of this often-mentioned but rarely-analyzed phenomenon: What gives
a class a distinct personality?" |
The start of the fall semester marked the beginning
of my career as a teacher, and I was pleased, and a bit thankful I
suppose, when I met my first group of students. They were interested
in the way the class was going to work, the rules they needed to be
aware of, and once we started discussing the assigned texts in class,
they proved to be talkative. Unlike so many of my colleagues, I did
not struggle to inspire conversation in my classroom. Instead, my
students willingly entered into the class's group work format and
they seemed to thrive there. By the third week of class all of my
students had memorized one another's names, and would refer to statements
made by their classmates as they answered assigned discussion questions
or raised questions of their own.
Approximately one month into the semester I was asked to take another
group of students who were suddenly without a teacher; naively I expected
this class to behave as my first had. I expected visible and audible
indications that they were interested in their work, talkative and
involved. However, unlike my first group of students, this second
class rarely asked questions, did not learn one another's names regardless
of my requests, and generally seemed bored by logistical and regulatory
policies.1 Tardiness, never a problem in my first
class, was epidemic in my second class. In short, I found myself faced
with a larger challenge than I had expected. I was not worried by
the quantifiable increase in my workload, or by the demands this new
section of Expository Writing would make on my time. Instead, I was
concerned by a seemingly intangible impression, a sense that my classes
had very different personalities.
Teachers often refer to the "mood" or "feeling"
in their classrooms, and as a new teacher I desired a thorough understanding
of this often-mentioned but rarely-analyzed phenomenon: What gives
a class a distinct personality? How does one get a sense of a class's
personality? And, most importantly, how does one explain or discuss
so seemingly intangible a subject as the personality of an entire
group of people? The following pages chart my attempt to discuss the
personality of a class and, ultimately, to question a teacher's ability
to know or perceive that personality.
After a few weeks of teaching both sections of Expository Writing,
using the same readings, discussion questions, and assignments, I
realized that the seeming lack of interest in my second class could
no longer be understood as an "adjustment" period. It was
true that my second group had lost their original teacher, and that,
according to my students' accounts, their first teacher had shown
them little respect. My students explained that their first instructor
had often arrived late to class, had been unprepared to lead class
meetings, and had often, without prior notice, missed class entirely.
But after only one week of meetings, my students realized I was not
like their first instructor, and the group perceived my unflinching
commitment to teaching. In short, I believed, based on my students'
passing comments, that they had left their semester's unfortunate
start behind. The differences between my two sections seemed to go
beyond the purely logistical circumstances at the beginning of the
semester, and I quickly set about trying to understand the disparity.
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| The Tale of Two Classes |
Probably in an attempt to avoid the seemingly intangible
qualities at the heart of my concerns, I turned first to what seemed
highly quantifiable: statistical and demographic information. I teach
for a large university which is divided into smaller colleges based
on disciplinary focus and admittance standards. While most of the
students in my first class attended the humanities college, my second
class was comprised of students from science-oriented schools. Considering
the implied demographics of the two classes, I formed two theories
in an attempt to explain the difference in classroom dynamics.
First, I conjectured, the difference in classroom
dynamics may be attributed to a simple matter of interest.
The students in my first class attended the humanities-oriented school,
and probably had a prior interest in reading and writing. Their eagerness
and engagement in my classroom could be a reflection of the fact that
the focus of the class complemented my students' general interest
in humanities-based work. My second class, on the other hand, seemed
generally set on a scientific path, and rather than being interested
in writing, they were enthralled by their Biology classes and reserved
their enthusiasm for those courses.
Perhaps, looking at disciplinary segregation from a more cynical angle,
the difference in my classes had little to do with genuine interest
at all, and was rather a reflection of the fact that "current
academic disciplines and departments were created more than a century
ago" and that in general "formal education has been carefully
designed to keep everything separate from everything else" (Miller
and Spellmeyer I2, I4). The students in my second class, who were
largely studying sciences, may have been conditioned, from years of
experience in our schools, to see writing as an unnecessary diversion
from more apparently relevant classes, like Biology and Chemistry.
My first class, however, largely set on a path of humanities-oriented
study, had been taught to believe that my class was within the realm
of their studies, and that writing was a valid part of their overall
program. Whether I based my theories on the optimistic belief that
my students harbored genuine enthusiasm for their subjects, or on
the pessimistic belief that my students had been conditioned to isolate
each discipline from the others, I felt it possible that disciplinary
"loyalty" or interest played a part in classroom dynamics.
My theory seemed more and more plausible each time I heard students
from my first class complain about their Biology classes and science-related
requirements, or when students in my second class bemoaned the "uselessness"
of writing papers. To my first class, science courses were a diversion,
and, to my second class, writing was a distraction. This seemed to
explain, at least in part, the differences in attitude I experienced
in the classrooms.
My second theory, born out of my consideration of class demographics,
made me a bit uncomfortable. Could it be
that my first class, comprised of humanities students from a college
with more stringent admittance criteria, was simply better prepared
to be in a college writing course? And if such a claim
was made, was this an analysis of innate ability or a question of
socioeconomics that could only be sorted out by studying school districts
and income levels? Were the students in my second class, who attended
colleges rumored to have lower admittance standards, less prepared
to be college students? These questions brought me to a disturbing
place: if these demographics suggested that my students had highly
varied levels of preparation, why were they all taking the same class,
with the same reading, and the same questions? Had the placement system
failed the kids who were sitting in my classroom uninterested and
bored? And did any of this account for that chimerical reality I had
deemed class personality? |
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| "Could
yellow paint and large windows make one group of students eager to
participate and interested in knowing one another? Could carpeting
really dissuade students from speaking in class?" |
Although considering such socioeconomic realities had
seemed a good idea when trying to make sense of the difference in
my classrooms, I found myself drifting farther and farther away from
the students in question, and closer to critiques of the bureaucratic
systems necessary for keeping a large university functioning. Interested
in understanding the dynamic in my classrooms, I turned to what seemed
another possible set of contributing factors: meeting times and locations.
My first class met at 2:50 in the afternoon, while my second class
met at 8:10 on Monday mornings. This perhaps made my assessment of
tardiness as an indication of attitude or personality unfair; even
I found the 8:10 class a bit unnerving, and certainly unpleasant on
Monday mornings. In addition, my first class met in a room painted
in a lively and friendly yellow color, it had many windows which let
in the afternoon sun, and it had no carpeting, which made the murmur
of peer review echo, and made us all feel like we were at a social
event or a creative workshop instead of a composition class.
My second class met in a much smaller, dark-colored room with tiny
windows and thick carpeting. The dimensions of the room made sitting
in a large circle impractical and made discussion groups difficult
to organize and separate. The carpeting dulled the sound, rendering
the murmur of peer review virtually inaudible and making the classroom
feel like a stale library. Unlike the convivial and pleasant atmosphere
my first class enjoyed, my second class gathered in a stuffy room
that made class meetings seem dark and dull, and only emphasized the
early-morning meeting time.
Could such details influence the tenor of a classroom? Could yellow
paint and large windows make one group of students eager to participate
and interested in knowing one another? Could carpeting really dissuade
students from speaking in class?
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| The Power of Context . . . or not |
According to Malcolm Gladwell, in his book The Tipping
Point, "ideas and products and messages and behaviors spread
just like viruses do" (7). Gladwell claims that the spread of
ideas or behaviors is dependent on several factors: the people who
are capable of spreading ideas or behaviors; the attractiveness of
the idea or behavior; and the atmosphere in which the idea or behavior
is presented. Having already considered the importance of the people
in each class, as well as how their very different backgrounds might
have contributed to their behaviors in my classrooms, it seemed logical
to analyze the classrooms themselves, and Gladwell's point about context
forced me to give it more than a casual glance.
The color of the walls and the carpeting on the floor may well have
helped shape the personalities of my classes: "the features of
our immediate social and physical world-the streets we walk down,
the people we encounter-play a huge role in shaping who we are and
how we act. It isn't just serious criminal behavior, in the end, that
is sensitive to environmental cues, it is all behavior" (168).
According to Gladwell's model, all behaviors, not only the criminal
behavior he analyzes in chapter four of his book can be changed by
the smallest contextual stimulus.
Though it was nearing the end of the semester when Gladwell's book
confirmed my early suspicions about the importance of the classrooms
themselves, I immediately sought to alter the environment in my second
class as an experiment. Changing classrooms was out of the question,
so I made a point of arriving especially early to ensure that all
of the blinds and drapes were open in the room. I rearranged furniture,
pushing the many unneeded desks out of the way. The room looked a
bit more spacious, and as it was a peer review day, I told my students
not to fear being too loud.
These changes made no difference. Peer review was still sluggish,
my students still seemingly unwilling to participate in the making
of their own knowledge. While my students' papers in the second class
proved that many of the students in the group were listening, working,
and actively improving their essays, their level of participation
in class just would not change; their demeanor remained somber and
uninterested. I repeated my contextual improvements the following
class as well, hoping that the quality of group discussion would prove
susceptible to environmental influences, but the outcome was the same,
and my students seemed to begrudge every minute of class time.
After examining the students in the classes, as well as the physical
spaces in which the classes met, the only variable left to examine
was myself. Ending my analysis where I probably should have started,
I considered my own approach to the two groups. Perhaps I had shown
some sort of unconscious preference for my first class. Perhaps the
burden my second class placed on my work schedule was evident to my
students. Perhaps my students perceived my personal dislike of the
early morning meeting time and my own lack of energy. Although I had
made an effort to avoid these pitfalls, perhaps my students could
sense what I was not even aware I felt. Believing that a change in
my classroom demeanor might help alter the dynamic of the room, I
decided to dress casually during the last weeks of class, and I altered
the discussion questions I gave my second class. Again, none of these
small changes worked; no matter how I adjusted the material or myself,
their personality remained fixed. |
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| "A
narrative that hopes to capture the events, interactions, processes
and feelings experienced in a classroom must be a collaborative effort;
it must take the form of a collage rather than a snapshot." |
By the end of the semester I was convinced that the students in
my second class really hadn't gotten over their first teacher's
treatment of them, or that they simply didn't like me. I was also
convinced that the students in my first class not only liked me,
but they appreciated the goals of the course and appreciated one
another. I happily assumed that my first class had formed a sort
of community,2 a space in which they could all
learn and make mistakes together. This notion of community presented
itself as I watched the students in my class exchange phone numbers
and make social plans for the weekends. I was disappointed this
camaraderie did not exist in my second class. I believed they had
been deprived of a truly rewarding experience, an experience my
first class had seemed to enjoy and benefit from.
After I submitted final grades, I eagerly read my students' evaluations
of me. What I found from my first class truly surprised me. Several
of the students in the class claimed they had never understood the
goals of the course, and one student said he or she believed my
grading practices to be unfair. Another student claimed that I did
not know how to connect with my students. The evaluations told a
story contrary to the one I had been composing for months. The evaluations
told a story of an unheard minority in the class, unhappy with their
progress in the course and with my ability to help them. If within
my first class a silent minority had existed, I couldn't imagine
what my second class would say.
I read the evaluations from my second class, and to my amazement
these evaluations did not indicate that my students had been unhappy.
In fact, these evaluations told a story that contradicted all I
had believed throughout the semester. Far from being unhappy with
me or with the course, many of the students thanked me for my help,
and explained that Expository Writing had helped them understand
what writing on a college level meant. For a moment I believed my
evaluations had been switched; the evaluations from my first class
had expressed what I believed was felt in my second class, while
my second class expressed what I believed my first class had felt.
The evaluations undermined the narrative I had been constructing
all semester. The notion that my second class had expressed a bitter
resentment for me as well as for the course through a surly personality
simply wasn't true; the days of quiet group work had perhaps been
the product of serious concentration rather than dislike. My first
class, whose personality made me believe that all was harmonious,
that all of my students felt included and understood the course's
goals and requirements, had really fostered an angry minority, perhaps
silenced by the overall feeling of congeniality in the classroom.
While I do not suggest that final evaluations can be read as unbiased
accounts of truth (evaluations often record a student's frustration
instead of a considered analysis of their instructor), they can
capture in writing the students' perspectives, or a version of the
truth about which teachers can normally only conjecture. I would
have benefited from my students' perspectives earlier in the semester.
If I had issued an informal mid-semester evaluation I might have
better understood my second class's behavior and I might have found
and helped the unhappy minority in my first class. It seems that
any attempt to tell the story of teaching without simultaneously
telling the story of learning is bound to be flawed; for the story
of teaching must make room for the varied perceptions of both instructors
and students.
"Intangible" indicators, such as a class's personality,
can mislead a teacher about the experience of her students, making
her account of the story of teaching necessarily flawed. Likewise,
the story of teaching told only by a student would be flawed, for
the student's perception of a teacher's personality or demeanor
may be incomplete. A narrative that hopes to capture the events,
interactions, processes and feelings experienced in a classroom
must be a collaborative effort; it must take the form of a collage
rather than a snapshot. Any story of teaching must also be a story
of learning, told by both teacher and student alike.
1. I refer to my classes as "first class"
and "second class" throughout this paper. This is not
an indication of their progress through the course or of my preference
for one group over the other. This distinction is chronological.
I taught the "first class" before I was assigned to teach
the "second class," and I use these terms only to facilitate
discussion here.
2. I agree with Joseph Harris's claim that
the word "community" is thrown about too often, and that
it has come to represent a Utopian ideal that is impossible to replicate
in the classroom but which is simultaneously dangerous to deny.
I use this term here with necessary caution, and without attaching
to it the wholly positive connotation the word has taken on. I envisioned
my classroom as a community in so much as it provided a location
for debate and disagreement amongst a group of people with ostensibly
common goals. For more on this subject, see Joseph Harris's essay
"The Idea of Community in the Study of Writing" in On
Writing Research: The Braddock Essays 1975-1998. ed. Lisa Ede (Boston:
1999), pp. 260-271.
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