COLLEGE STORIES
By Joseph F. Trimmer
Delivered July 20, 2002

Today, as we don these funny robes and silly hats, we celebrate the end of your college education. But, as the word commencement suggests, this celebration marks the beginning of a lifetime during which you will need educate yourself over and over again. And each time you try to learn something new, you will remember—in bits and pieces—how you were taught those strange courses embedded in that strange code on your transcript. These memories about teaching and learning—together with those equally important memories: making friends; finding love; keeping a job; goofing off—these memories will become your COLLEGE STORIES, stories you will tell over and over again as you try to figure out what happened to you, here. In this time. In this place.

Here are three of my college stories. I tell them to remind you that the education you have received and the education you will need are curious projects. They will have a tremendous impact on your life, but rarely the impact described in the official curriculum.

STORY #1  THE HILL
Every morning, as I trudged up the hill for classes, I gave myself the same pep talk: "Say something! Say something! It's almost midterm. You haven't said a word. He doesn't even know your name. You've read the assignment. Say something! Say some thing!"

On Monday, Wednesday and Friday, my silence was prompted by intimidation. Professor Balmouth paced behind his lectern, scowling at the open book in his left hand, jabbing his right index finger at the hidden assumptions and faulty assertions in the day's reading. I kept my head down. Took notes. What could I add to this brilliant analysis?

On Tuesday and Thursday, my silence was prompted by adoration. Professor Kistler sat comfortably, Buddha-style, on top of his desk, his luminous eyes scanning the open book he held in both hands, speculating about the surprising insights and seductive sentences in our reading. I watched and marveled. What could I possibly add to this charismatic performance?

And so, every day, I would trudge down the hill. Amazed at my teachers. But despondent. For once again, I had contributed nothing to my learning. "Education," I concluded, "is what other people tell you!"

STORY #2  THE HOUR

A few years later, as a graduate assistant, I prepared to teach my first college class. I was terrified. I was no Balmouth, no Kistler. I could barely speak three words in a row without "uh, uh, uh, uh. . . .uh." How could I possibly talk for an hour? The minute I opened my mouth, the students would know, uh, uh, uh, uh, . . . I was a fraud.

Hoping to avoid disaster, I plotted every moment of that first class. I drafted an extensive outline in complete sentences. I performed my script in front of a mirror. I even practiced responding to the questions I was certain the students would ask if I paused during my lecture.

Hyped on caffeine, stomach churning, I slipped into that first class, put my script on the lectern, and then delivered my one hour lecture at warp speed in five minutes. Five minutes? Five minutes? I checked my watch against the clock on the back wall. Sure enough. Five minutes! I stared at my students. They stared at me. "Uh, uh, uh, uh . . . Any questions?" SILENCE!!! Deafening silence! ! ! . . . . I offered a pathetic smile, dismissed the class, snatched my script off the lectern and dashed to the restroom.

As I continued teaching, I got better at filling the hour. I was still no Balmouth, no Kistler, but I was developing a fairly good routine. I learned to pace my lectures by saying, "There are three major causes. . . ," or "The most important result. . . ." I even illustrated my lectures with chalk. Anything! Anything I drew on the blackboard—any chart, list, or scribble—like the "three major causes," or the "most important result," would be copied into my students' notebooks. And as I started writing scholarly articles and textbooks, I discovered I was almost articulate. I could eliminate the "uh, uh, uh, uh. . . . uh's," by simply quoting myself. Remembering the perfect line, without a script, at the perfect time.

But I still had problems with silence. My students were attentive and polite, but they never had any questions. Oh, they would ask, "When is this due?"or "Will this be on the test?" But they never asked serious questions about what they were reading, what I was teaching or what they were learning. I would ask them questions, and they would respond, giving me pretty much the answers I expected. But they never had any questions of their own. They preferred, so it seemed, to watch me teach.

"Do you have any questions about today's reading?"

SILENCE

I asked one student after another.

"Jenny? Do you have any questions?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Well. . . . you, uh, uh, uh, covered everything."

"Well hardly, Jenny. Surely you would like to ask a question. Or add something. Wouldn't you like to add something to the discussion?"

"Nope. You covered it. "

Then I realized. There had been no discussion. Not really. Just teacher-student Q and A. As I walked down the hall after another silent class, I came to a surprising conclusion: "Learning to be a teacher—at least trying to be a certain kind of teacher—was preventing me and my students from acquiring an education."

For the last several years, I've been thinking a lot about education. And I have been asking questions: "Who was the best teacher you ever had?" "What was the best class you ever took?" "What was the best course you ever taught?" The answers have surprised me. Oh, there are still old stories about dazzling performers and dazzling performances. There are still Balmouths and Kistlers around. Or to be more exact, there are Balmouth and Kistler want-to-be's who try to fill  the hour but who rarely fill more than a few pages in their students' notebooks. But that may be the problem. Not everybody can be a Balmouth or a Kistler. And given the silence that has marked my education, on both sides of the desk, I'm not sure everybody should try. The stories that surprised me-- new stories, really--revealed a different kind of teaching and learning. They were punctuated with words like collaboration and inquiry, and focused on student conversations rather than faculty lectures.

STORY #3   THE CONVERSATION
The students drifted into the room and took seats around the tables that were arranged in a circle. The class was scheduled for two hours. But the chatter suggested that the class had already begun. They were talking about the day's reading! Suddenly, I realized the teacher was in the room, seated inconspicuously at one of the tables, talking to students. They called her Beth. I introduced myself and sat down next to her as she opened her notebook on the table. She scanned the room.

"Jess? Why don't you start us off today?

And so, Jess talked. Asking questions. Posing problems. Suggesting ways to interpret the day's reading. He talked for five minutes. Five minutes! I clocked him. He had prepared. He was working from some sort of script. But still! Five minutes! Then he passed it on.

Andy talked for five minutes. Then Kathryn. Then Bill. Later I learned that five minutes was the limit. Then Lucy "passed."  Ah ha! She hasn't read the assignment. This isn't so perfect. But on the next round, Lucy said, "I've been looking at my notes. I want to talk more about Jess's second question." I looked around the table. Sure enough. They were all taking notes on one another. So was Beth. I could see her notebook. She had transcribed their comments, and then drawn lines and circles to connect parts of their conversation. Then, for the first time in a half hour, she spoke.

"Good for you Lucy! Let's work on that question. It might help us connect Bill and Kathryn's comments. Why don't you and Jess talk some more?"

And they did!

After class, I hung around to talk with Beth.

"Well, Joe. What do you think?"

"Well, they certainly talk a lot."

"They ought to. It's their class."

"But don't you ever. . . uh, uh, uh, teach? You know lecture?"

"I get my five minutes. Like everybody else. Occasionally I help them refocus the conversation. Like I did with Lucy and Jess. But usually I'm taking notes. They're great teachers.

"But you're the teacher! The expert! You're supposed to be in charge. What if they don't get it? Don't cover everything?"

"That's why I take notes. To keep track of their learning. If they miss it, I can always refocus the conversation. Or suggest more reading."

"Will they read more?"

"Not everybody. But some. They'll talk about it in class. Then the others do it. They're all trying to answer their questions. What about your students, Joe? Do they do extra reading?"

"I'm not sure they do the required reading.  They certainly don't ask for more!"

"Why not?"

"Uh, uh, …uh, I suppose they expect me to do it. You know. Provide the background. Make the connections."

"That's no fun! Education is a conversation. Between teachers and learners. Everybody is a teacher, a learner. You're doing all the work. All the teaching. All the learning. You're having a conversation with yourself. Your students just listen."

"Well, uh, uh, . . .uh, they don't talk much."

"See?"

Well I did. And I didn't.

Just like I knew I was no Balmouth, no Kistler, I suspected I was no Beth. She was so creative. So engaged by the subtle give and take of her students' inquiry. I wasn't sure I could teach like that.

But Beth did teach me an important lesson: "TRUST your students!" Give them the right environment, the right incentives, and they could teach each other. AND YOU! Beth was right about that—everybody could learn and teach.

She also taught me to TRUST myself. To trust my ability to learn, to re-educate myself. I would never master the art of teaching. The process, the conditions, the students would never be the same. But each teaching experience would be a learning experience. And each learning experience would produce a story, a story I would have to tell, over and over again, to figure out what happened to me and my students in that class, in that time, in that place.

And so, as we gather here, in these funny robes and silly hats, that's my message. TRUST YOUR STORIES. Or more precisely, TELL YOUR STORIES, over and over again, as a way to TEST YOUR STORIES. To see what really happened here. In this time. In this place. To see how your daily routines and unexpected encounters created your COLLEGE STORIES…. .  AND to see how your life, after graduation, changes you AND the way you remember your stories.  For somewhere, in the twists and turns of the plot, in the details you embellish and forget, are the real lessons about the education you have received and the education you will need. So, let the real commencement begin. Find your family. Find some friends. Share some food. And swap some stories.