Rule #3: The Beauty of Stillness

Wait time.

That's what I want to talk about today.

Wait time.

That's right. Say it with me.

Wait time.

Wait time refers to a teacher principle that I don't think we teachers live up to. It refers to the practice of waiting a long enough amount of time for students to "get" what we are saying. It involves asking questions about the material in such a way that students are given the resources to formulate an answer. It involves (get this teachers) shutting up.

And, as you might have already guessed, I suck at this. There are several reasons for my sucking, and I don't think I'm alone when I say this. First, like many teachers, I like to talk a lot. I find my voice, let's say, mellifluous. Say it with me students, mellifluous. Second, I hate silence. Have you ever asked a question only to answer it yourself about one tenth of a second later?

Yes, you have, stop lying.

The truth is, it is painful to watch people stare blankly at you, and it is even more painful when you have an answer right on the tip of your tongue. And this leads me to my third reason, which is this: I like to answer my own questions. I tend to ask the kinds of open-ended questions that lead students to self-discovery and real genuine critical analysis. But the thing is, when I ask a question I really like, I just feel this craving, this gnawing at my gut that says, "oooooh! Answer that one! Answer that one!"

I realized that I am saying that I am intrigued by my own line of questioning. Let's just ignore what might be obvious about me from this thought and move along.

Wait time is important. Really important.

What is clear about students is that what is taught is not necessarily what is learned. Teachers often move on from material so quickly, or provide so little time and resources for students to absorb material, that true knowledge (the kinds of deep connections necessary for something to be remembered and useful) often just doesn't happen. I wish I could have all teachers stand up and say it with me: WHAT IS TAUGHT IS NOT WHAT IS LEARNED.

And that is often because of this concept called wait time.

Did you know that teachers need to wait at least five seconds for students to process information, deliberate on their own opinion, and then formulate an answer? Maybe you think that is a short amount of time (you're right, hot stuff!) But the next time you ask a question to a friend or family member, try actually waiting five full seconds. I think you'll realize it ain't a short amount of time at all. It seems to last an eternity. It feels like that one blind date your mother set you up on, the one where you kept watching the clock on the wall thinking that its batteries must be dead.

And while we are on the topic, don't you think that the concept of wait time works for ALL relationships? How well do you really listen to people? How well do you let people listen to you? How could you apply this to your marriage, your children, your friends?

Oh! I have an answer! I have an answer! But I'm not going to answer. This time, I'll let you.

Eat Me!

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I think of teaching as a full-contact sport. Um. No, not that I touch my students or anything unseemly (come ON, people!), but that I absolutely, absolutely, think that teaching involves giving every part of myself. So, after lesson planning, copying, rewriting, presenting, motivating, listening, selling, engaging, revising, improving, inspiring, trudging, assessing, reviewing, and reassessing, I generally feel rather roughed up after each hour I teach.
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And, the truth is, I like that feeling. I like that it takes something out of me; something nearly tangible. I am giving my best self to the craft and there is a joy to that, for sure.
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Of course, there is also the constant feeling that I'm a self-masochist that is slowly stirring myself in the pot. There's that, too.

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I remember going with my dad to do something that he loves (it involved going to do quite a number of visits throughout the day in the small town of Mexico City). I remember how after a few of the longest and most arduous hours of my life doing what he loves so much (I cannot emphasize this enough: so much), he turned to me and said, "Doesn't this just make you feel alive?"

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Funny, it was just then that I was thinking, "I'm so tired, I wish I were dead." And/or, "I wish my father, he who brought me life, would die." The gall of my father! How could he say such a thing? Alive? Alive?

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And then it hit me. My dad LOVES this stuff. He just LOVES it. And that is why, to him, it is worth wearing himself out, taking out pieces of himself and laying it all on the line. It is like a marathoner finding that reserve tank and turning it on, because for that marathoner, the finish line somehow matters.

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What makes it matter? I'm not really sure, but I think that if we focus on what truly drives us, what makes us go to the brink and continue onward, then we know that we have found it. For me, it's getting in front of large groups of strangers and attempting to tell them that the world is theirs for the taking.

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And now, my dear audience, here is the poem that inspired this post. And please think of me as you read it, won't you?

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Me Stew, by Shel Silverstein

I have nothing to put in my stew, you see,

Not a bone or a bean or a black-eyed pea,

So I'll just climb in the pot to see

If I can make a stew out of me.

I'll put in some pepper and salt and I'll sit

In the bubbling water - I won't scream a bit.

I'll sing while I simmer, I'll smile while I'm stewing

I'll taste myself often, to see how I'm doing. I'll stir me around with this big wooden spoon

and serve myself up at a quarter to noon.

So bring out your stew bowls,

You gobblers and snackers.

Farewell - and I hope you enjoy me with crackers!