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In the previous blog in this series, we learned from Ramona Quimby’s kindergarten teacher, Miss Binney, that there is value to connecting with students. To writing them notes. To communicating that they matter in the classroom. To giving a shit.But sometimes we just have no shits left to give. Miss Binney was an unseasoned pedagogue. She possessed the eagerness of youth. When she printed Ramona’s name, she, like Ramona, always added kitty-cat ears and whiskers to the Q. “That was the kind of teacher Miss Binney was.” One who still had many shits to give.Mrs. Griggs, Ramona’s first grade teacher in Ramona the Brave, does not. And I don’t think we should begrudge her for it.The narrator describes her physical appearance as such: “Mrs. Griggs, older than Miss Binney, looked pleasant enough, but of course she was not Miss Binney. Her hair, which was no special color, was parted in the middle and held at the back of her neck with a plastic clasp.”Mrs. Griggs’s unremarkable appearance matches her no-nonsense pedagogical vibe: she is in the classroom to guide the students in the hard work of the first grade, which she consistently reminds them is not, like kindergarten, a place to play.Part of the hard work of the first grade is becoming literate. Ramona’s burgeoning literacy is one of two pedagogical themes that punctuate Ramona the Brave. When the first grade begins, Ramona can read three grown-up words that she taught herself from road signs: gas, motel, and burger. She is consistently disappointed, as they rarely appear in literature.The other recurring pedagogical theme in the novel is the big emotions that Ramona brings to the classroom. These begin on day one of first grade. Ramona has been eagerly awaiting the start of school. For once she has something really interesting to share with her peers during Show and Tell: at the end of summer, some workmen came and “chopped a hole” in her house.This revelation does not receive the reaction Ramona anticipated. Rather than being amazed, the class laughs. The laughter stings, but insult is added to injury when Ramona’s best friend, Howie Kemp, who himself had jumped through the hole in the house, refuses to publicly confirm the hole chopping. As Ramona’s rage boils, Mrs. Griggs addresses the situation: “‘Ramona,’ said Mrs. Griggs, in a voice that was neither cross nor angry, ‘You may take your seat. We do not shout in the first grade.’”Ramona seethes at the injustice of the situation and refuses to participate actively in the class the remainder of the day, “even though she ached to give answers.”Things get worse over the next month. Ramona remains despondent. Mrs. Griggs has said every day since the first grade began, “We are not in kindergarten any longer. We are in the first grade, and people in the first grade must learn to be good workers.” Mrs. Griggs does not seem to recognize what a good worker Ramona is. She has learned the words bunny, apple, and airplane, along with all the others in her new graduated reader.And then come the paper bag owls. Ramona constructs a perfect bird: bespectacled with eyes peering off to the side and covered with little Vs to make it look feathered. But, to Ramona’s horror, Snoozin’ Susan Kushner’s owl looks just the same as Ramona’s. Mrs. Griggs holds up Susan’s owl for the entire class to admire. Knowing that her teacher will tell her “Nobody likes a tattletale” and the class will call her Ramona Copycat instead of Ramona Kitty Cat if she narks, Ramona says nothing about Susan’s academic dishonesty. Instead, she crushes both her and Susan’s owl and slams them into the trash can.The behavioral snafu is addressed by Mrs. Griggs at parent-teacher conferences, which Ramona is absent from. She remains at home, feeling proud that she could read bits of the evening newspaper, learning that the z-z-z-z-z-s were going to play the z-z-z-z-z-s in z-z-z-z-ball.The Quimby family debriefs the conference and reports that Mrs. Griggs expects Ramona to apologize to Susan. Ramona’s older sister, Beatrice, who was also in Mrs. Griggs’s class in the first grade, recalls (interrupted by Ramona feeling frustrated and screaming the most-vulgar word she can possibly think of: “guts!”) that Mrs. Griggs was always big on apologies. She also reports that Mrs. Griggs operated with a monotonous, consistent curriculum: “We just seemed to go along with our work, and that was it.” Beatrice got along well with Mrs. Griggs because she was the kind of student that she liked: neat and dependable, very un-Ramona.The report indicates that Ramona is progressing well with her reading and math, but that she needs to work on exhibiting self-control in the classroom. Ramona thinks the feedback unmerited and asks why she cannot change to the other first grade class. In response, Ramona’s father, Robert Quimby, drops these golden nuggets of pedagogical wisdom:Because Mrs. Griggs is teaching you to read and do arithmetic, and because the things she said about you are fair. You do need to learn self-control and keep your hands to yourself. There are all kinds of teachers in the world just as there are all kinds of other people, and you must learn to get along with them.As teachers, we bring not only our methods but our persons to the classroom. Who we are matters there. Not all humans get along swimmingly with all other humans. That’s okay. Not all professors get along swimmingly with all students. That’s okay.It is a kindness to ourselves to find out what works for us in our classrooms and repeat those things. If we are constantly reinventing the wheel, eventually we will run out of inventions.It is a kindness to students to find what works for the widest variety of students and repeat those things. It is also a kindness to students to have some flexibility with respect to some course policies, practices, and assignments. A bend-but-don’t-break model of teaching.Just as students, like Ramona, must learn to get along with all kinds of teachers, so also teachers must learn to get along with all kinds of students. Because, to echo the wise Mr. Quimby, there are all kinds of students in this world just as there are all kinds of other people.And Mrs. Griggs learns to get along with Ramona, big personality and all. At the end of Ramona the Brave, Ramona loses one of her shoes on the way to school (she had to throw it at a ferocious, sharp-toothed dog). Rather than make a paper turkey, Ramona requests that her teacher allow her to make a paper slipper. Mrs. Griggs begins to balk, “We always—”, before changing her mind and allowing an educational audible. This is much to Ramona’s delight, who now feels she no longer needs to dread turkeys or her teacher.

My road trips contain a heavy dose of Beverly Cleary audiobooks. Traipsing around the midwestern United States, my family of six fills the time by listening to the antics of Henry Huggins and Ramona Quimby read aloud by Neil Patrick Harris (quite frankly, it’s his very best work) and Stockard Channing.The fourteen-book literary universe constellates around Klickitat Street, nestled in the shadow of Mt. Hood in Portland, Oregon. The books are filled with stories about nothing, like Seinfeld. Being about nothing also makes them about everything: transitions, family, friendship, middle-class America, financial precarity, elementary romance, death and new life, divorce and marriage, budding independence, sibling rivalry, and, most importantly for our purposes, education.My family is particularly smitten with Ramona Quimby, who first appears as a minor character in the Henry Huggins series. She takes on a larger role as Beatrice’s exasperating younger sister in Beezus and Ramona (1955) before becoming the eponymous protagonist of seven novels that chronicle her elementary school years. Throughout the Ramona series, readers are offered a window into the family life of the Quimbies and the early public-school education of Ramona first at Glenwood Elementary School and then Cedarhurst Primary.In this blog series, we take a close look at the fictional educators and experiences that shaped Ramona’s life and mind during her most formative years. From these we will glean pedagogical lessons, from the effects of rituals and social dynamics in the classroom to the importance of deconstructing the threshold between the classroom and the real world.    KindergartenAt the beginning of Ramona the Pest (1968), we are introduced to Ramona’s young and unseasoned Kindergarten teacher, Miss Binney. To Ramona’s mind, “she could not have been a grownup very long.” Over the course of the novel, what we learn about Miss Binney, above all else, is that she cares deeply for her students. The very first thing that Miss Binney does after introducing herself to Ramona, is to affirm her presence in the classroom: “I am so glad you have come to Kindergarten.” Ramona knows that she matters in this space.As the novel progresses, Ramona’s varied experiences in the kindergarten classroom are narrated. She learns the puzzling ritual of standing up straight, facing the American flag, and singing the “dawnzer” song. Ramona figures this must be about a lamp because the dawnzer gives off a “lee light:” 🎶“Oh, say, can you see by the dawnzer’s lee light.”🎶 She brings her doll Chevrolet, who is named after her aunt’s car and has green hair from an unsuccessful attempt to blue it like her best friend Howie’s grandmother’s, to show and tell.Through her Kindergarten experiences, Ramona comes to find that Ms. Binney truly understands her. She asks all the right questions and affirms Ramona in all the right ways.Until the fateful day that Ramona loses her first tooth. At recess she is on cloud nine about her plan to use the tooth as bait to catch the tooth fairy. Almost unthinkingly, she pulls the curls of her rival, Susan Kushner, just to feel them boing. Miss Binney, looking out for the physical and emotional wellbeing of Susan, tells Ramona that she can only return to the kindergarten classroom if she commits to not pulling Susan’s curls. Stubborn and despondent Ramona, forgetting her tooth in the school building, returns home where she vows to stay until Miss Binney forgets who she is, feeling that her teacher does not care for her anymore.  The Quimbies, apparently very committed to developing their child’s autonomy, allow Ramona to remain absent from kindergarten for several days. On the third day of absence, Ramona receives a letter from her teacher. The prized tooth is Scotch taped to the top of it. When her mother offers to read the letter because Ramona’s literacy is still developing, Ramona snatches it away, declaring, “It’s my letter!” She glances at the first line and can make out the first words: “Dear Ramona Q” (the Q decorated with cat ears, whiskers, and a tail, just the way Ramona herself styles it). Though Ramona can’t actually read the lines of print that follow, she vocalizes what she imagines to be the letter’s content:“‘Dear Ramona Q. Here is your tooth. I hope the tooth fairy brings you a dollar. I miss you and want you to come back to kindergarten. Love and kisses, Miss Binney.”In reality, Miss Binney’s letter reads:“Dear Ramona Q. I am sorry I forgot to give you your tooth, but I am sure the tooth fairy will understand. When are you coming back to Kindergarten?”What is written in the letter matters far less than what the letter communicates. It is a token of Miss Binney’s affection, and it makes an instantaneous and profound impact on Ramona. Miss Binney does care for her. She cares enough to write Ramona a note in her own hand.One’s handwriting, especially in personal letters, is a representation of their person. Miss Binney is able to cross the void of Ramona’s physical absence and demonstrate her care for her. A small part of Miss Binney is present in the letter, forming a connection with Ramona and reaffirming their relationship.This is the pedagogical lesson we can learn from Ramona’s Kindergarten teacher: the simple act of giving students a handwritten note is pedagogically a/effective because it affirms the unique relationship between teacher and student.Following Miss Binney’s lead, I have made it my ambition to write every student in my classes at least one handwritten note per semester. At the beginning of the semester I make a simple spreadsheet that lists each student, indicates the date on which I gave them a note, and what the note was about. The contents of the notes range from simple affirmations of something that a student said in class to congratulations about their team’s athletic victory or an individual accomplishment.What is written in the letter matters far less than what the letter communicates.Watching students’ reactions to receiving an envelope with their name on it at the beginning of class is a great joy. They discreetly open the note and furtively take in its contents, unsure what they have received or why. Even more joyful is seeing how students respond in the days and weeks that follow. Some explicitly offer thanks for being written to, saying that it means a lot. Others change their posture in the classroom, becoming more attentive and more joyful at being greeted at the beginning of class. And it has been enough for some to take additional courses with me or with colleagues in my department, a select few students taking on our department’s minor or major.At the end of the day, a simple handwritten note, which takes me or Miss Binney approximately two minutes to compose, communicates to a student that they are seen, known, and cared for. One of my colleagues once memorably said, “These students just want to know that their professors give a shit about them.” Giving a shit is a pretty low bar, but it sure goes a long way.

Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds…   Romans 12:2a (NRSV) Students are stressed today, and Omicron is not the only culprit. Twenty-four-hour access to social media and our preoccupation with it has proven to be both a blessing and a curse. With every posting that stirs divisive issues like Critical Race Theory, attacks on voting rights, or the “anti-vax” movement, what may have begun for students as an average day can quickly lapse into chaos. “This is really nothing new,” faculty might whisper to themselves. Educators have always been challenged by the effects of life’s storms that impact adult learners. What is concerning now is that tempests seem to be rising at an alarming pace. During the past two years we have witnessed: (1) The COVID-19 pandemic taking the lives of almost one million Americans; (2) The cruel public murder of George Floyd by a law enforcement officer; (3) The violent insurrection at the US Capitol on January 6, 2021; and (4) The brazen slaughter of 25-year-old Ahmaud Arbery and subsequent criminal conviction of his unrepentant assailants. You undoubtedly have your own list that may include one or more of these tumultuous events. Consider George Floyd’s death. Students throughout the world were outraged by the inhumane treatment inflicted upon Floyd. Organic protests spread from Berkeley to Budapest. On the other hand, a vocal segment of Americans believed that Floyd caused his own demise because he unlawfully purchased cigarettes with a counterfeit 20 dollar bill. In a June 8, 2020, article in Inside Higher Ed, Lindsay McKenzie noted that many university presidents called for social change following Floyd’s killing but very few offered concrete ideas for implementation. That fact was not lost on discerning college students. So, what did you share with students and what did they share with you in the wake of these critical events? Perhaps the prospect of discussing the “COVID/Floyd/Insurrection/Arbery” incidents with students raised problematic classroom management issues for you. Did any of these events create anxiety for you personally? Were you transparent with students? Was it your first impulse to offer solutions or solace? Did you squarely address the tough questions raised or did you conspicuously sidestep the deeper issues? I regret that I was not actively teaching courses during this period. However, I personally experienced moments of reckoning in the classroom following the murder of Trayvon Martin and the mass shooting deaths of 20 precious children at Sandy Hook Elementary School. I also witnessed the rise of disparaging racist speech leveled against Barack Obama and his wife Michelle following Mr. Obama’s first election as US President; I recall adult students arriving in class expressing despair or anger while others sat in relative silence. Those incidents led me to reexamine my responsibility as an educator in the aftermath of a social crisis. A number of my colleagues found themselves distressed by the feverish hostility expressed by competing political factions. Some faculty were reluctant to share with students because the subjects of controversy were outside the scope of their field of scholarship. Others found it safer to tread lightly on the periphery and not address contentious student concerns. But this message is not intended as a critique; now is a time for grace. In an era when student feelings of isolation often predominate, adult learners need a sense of community with their peers and with educators. We are listening to students, but do we hear them? If we can encourage students to boldly go into the world and speak truth to power, then we must also be willing to bear witness to each student’s truth—even when it is raw or unscripted. Effective teaching is essential, but it is not without limitations. When instructors teach, we facilitate student acquisition of information and the development of discrete skills. But when we endeavor to educate, we answer a higher calling; a calling rooted in a belief that each learner has the potential to experience growth and gain insight in ways that can ultimately transform the whole person. When we educate, we are not tentative—we are intentional. During times of crisis, we cannot permit ourselves to be constrained by the four corners of cherished syllabi. It is imperative that I operate “in the moment” and not become a hostage to the moment. We must seek first to educate; we can always teach tomorrow.

In Toward a Theory of Instruction, educator Jerome Bruner insists that a theory of development must be linked both to a theory of knowledge and to a theory of instruction, “or be doomed to triviality.” (Toward a Theory of Instruction, Jerome Bruner, Boston: Harvard University Press, 1974, 192 pages, ISBN 9780674897014, 21). I’ve long felt that this is partly the reason why so much of what passes for religious education and religious studies are at best benign, and at worst, risk a tendency to trivialize faith and religion. Being “interesting” may provide enough impetus to keep people coming back to participate in religious education and religious studies for a while, or to keep students engaged during a course, but ultimately, there are more “interesting” things in the world to capture and hold our attention if entertainment is our vehicle for retaining people’s participation in learning. An effective education program (1) must give rigorous attention to the developmental dynamics and processes of its subjects (learners), including motivation (which is based on “need” and not “interest”), (2) must hold to an epistemological philosophy of how learners learn, and, (3) must apply and practice a theory of learning related to how to teach, be it instruction, nurture, training, demonstration, tutorial, apprenticeship, etc. Bruner suggests that mental growth “is in very considerable measure dependent on growth from the outside in—a mastering of [the ways] that are embodied in the culture and that are passed on in a contingent dialogue by agents of the culture.” (Bruner, 21). He claims that this is the case when language and the symbolic systems of the culture are involved. Can we say the same about faith formation and development for ministerial and religious studies students? Perhaps it’s helpful to consider that while faith is a universal human potential, it is dependent on growth from the outside in “a mastering of the ways the practices of faith are embodied in the faith community’s culture that are passed on, as Bruner says, “in a contingent dialogue by agents of the culture.” That strikes me as a more helpful and promising start at understanding how faith develops than fuzzy devotional notions, individualistic or “magical thinking” related to how faith comes about and develops. Worse still, the temptation to make learning entertaining and interesting. Further, Bruner’s statement that ”much of the growth starts out by our turning around on our own traces and recoding in new forms, with the aid of adult tutors, what we have been doing or seeing, then going on to new modes of organization with the new products that have been formed by these recodings” (Bruner, 21) suggests three things. First, the necessity of a core curriculum structured in a spiral or holographic framework. This allows for intentionality in creating opportunity for re-tracing and “recoding in new forms” the fundamental concepts of faith (this may be a good rationale for the power of the observance of liturgical cycles in worship and educational programming). Second, it highlights the necessity of mediating relationships for growth in understanding—teachers, mentors, guides, spiritual friends. Third, the constructivist understanding of epistemology (knowing) through which the learner creates knowledge, insight, and meaning through the experiences of faith and relationships. Or, as Bruner puts it, ”the heart of the educational process consists of providing aids and dialogues for translating experience into more powerful systems of notation and ordering.“ (Bruner, 21).