Unexpected Effects of Good Intentions

Part of my work ethic is to do more than is expected without expecting reward from it. Whatever it takes to do my job as well as I can, I do. No, it doesn't always work out the way I expect it to, but in my world, it's better to do what I can, rather than to do nothing.

This week, I am experiencing the "unexpected effects of good intentions," and they are good for a change.

First, as I've been stressing over the continued loss of retirement funds, along comes an unexpected effect of accepting the classes I am assigned, doing my best, and being adaptable to changing situations that others walk away from. I've worked both hard and well, and I'm going to benefit financially from the current situation, an outcome I didn't expect, but really appreciate.

Secondly, because I spend a lot of time developing materials to accompany the required textbooks, I have been working on a series of PowerPoint presentations based on the chapters in the composition textbook. I have always shared materials with other teachers as I believe in the concept of colleagueship when far too many colleagues don't. It's as if teaching well is a competition -- but I've never been into games all that much, especially when students' lives are at stake. We all have a professional obligation to do our jobs well, and if another teacher knows a way to teach something that makes a difference in a student's life, then please, share it with me!

Anyhoo, I was sharing the PP with the division chair, and he was pleasantly surprised by both the quantity of work I've completed and the quality of what I've put together. He knows the textbook author quite well and contacted her to see if she would be interested in looking at the presentations, as well as visiting my class to see how I use the materials with the students. We'll see where, if anywhere, this contact goes, but this could become another unexpected effect of good intentions.

Finally, and, in many ways, more importantly, a lesson I used to begin the year made a difference to a student, who used it in an essay to explain a concept of self-discovery. In the essay, she detailed what I had presented, using photos I had taken this past summer with my g'son, and admitted that, at first, she was as bewildered as the rest of the class when I put the panoramic scenic photo I had taken from the observation deck at Hopewell Cape on the overhead projector and asked the students, "What do you see?"

After about 90 seconds, I put another view of the same photo on the screen, this time taken from the beach. Again, I asked the students, "What do you see?" A third time I put another, closer view of the beach meeting the water onto the screen and repeated the question, "What do you see?" The final time, the picture was a close-up of the rocks on the beach, but the question was the same: "What do you see?"

She got it: the closer we look at what's in front of us, the more we see. If all we do is stand on the observation deck, we see a sweeping sight out there, but we don't know about the rocks that are pitted, chipped, worn round and smooth by the waves; or the mud that forms the surface upon which the waves break; or the little bubbles formed by the motion of the waves against the rocks -- or any of the other details that are clear in the final photo.

For me, this is the reward of teaching, when I find a way to make a point without having to explain it, and someone actually gets it. There are other students in the class who refuse to accept that what they are writing is sub-standard, and part of the reason for that is their failure to read the textbook and apply the principles to their essays. What they've always done is what they continue to do -- stand on the observation deck and get the basic idea -- but what they need to do is come down to the beach and look closely at the details that make the observor a part of the beach.

I've always believed that if I only reach one student a year, I've failed, but reaching this student is a lovely, unexpected effect of good teaching intentions.