So Nothing is Real: Documenting a Breakthrough Learning Experience
Steve Masson
“So nothing is real…” Andrew’s voice darted into the conversation and then trailed off, his eyes, almost involuntarily, grazed over the ceiling as if they were seeing it for the first time. . Sensing an epiphany, I paused to let the moment sink in. A five second eternity hung over the room until I broke the silence.
“What are you trying say, Andrew?” He took a deep breath, exhaled, broke off the five mile stare and refocused on Brianna who sat directly across the room.
“So a lot of what we learn, about how to act and what our values should be, we learn from the media, right?”
“Is that what you meant, Brianna?”
“Yeah, pretty much…I guess so.” Brianna, like Andrew, was figuring things out as she went. Andrew continued.
“So much of who we are, you know, where we get our identities from is movies, and books, and television. The media.”
“Right.” Brianna chimed in support, glad that someone else was on her page.
“And the media is really just a bunch of companies who are all about making money.” Andrew paused again, longer this time and spit out the next sentence. “It’s like we’re being sold to ourselves…nothing is real.” Andrew’s voice trailed off, his eyes were further away, his face blank as if he were coming in or out of a mild trance.
Across the room, Meghan thought out loud to no one in particular, “Oh my God, that was deep.” The gravity of the moment filled the room for a few seconds until the bell rang breaking the silence and sending the kids to their next classes.
This exchange, presented here through the hazy lens of memory and perception, was one of many highlights from my English 12: Media Studies class. The class had recently viewed Michael Moore’s documentary Bowling for Columbine. While watching the film, each student was responsible for writing down a list of ten questions that they thought might help spur in class discussion. As a follow up to the film, the class was broken into four groups; each group was responsible for framing and researching an essential question and then conducting a Socratic seminar on their topic.
The theme that echoed throughout each of the four 45 minute discussions was the concept of the media as a flawed mirror on society. On topics ranging from gun control reform, to the nature of teen angst in suburbia, the class continually returned to the shortcomings of the media to authentically capture or portray their perceptions of reality. Listening to the class work through these concepts brought me back to my freshman year of college and PHI 210: Intro to Greek Philosophy. The highlight of the class was the reading and discussion of Plato’s The Allegory of the Cave, a fascinating dialogue in which a group of captive cave dwellers struggle with the realization that their notion of reality has been nothing more than shadows and echoes of absolute truth.
After the Seminars were completed and the class wrote reflection pieces on the seminar process, we read The Allegory of the Cave and discussed its parallels with the themes that were raised over the past couple of weeks. The discussion was so rich and thought provoking that I did not want this line of inquiry to end. According to my class syllabus and general overview of the year, we were due to start our first digital media production unit. In years past, my students worked in groups to construct advertising/public service campaigns about current social issues. The unit generally lasts between three to four weeks including presentations and the screening of completed television spots. Over the past few years I have worked hard to streamline this course and map out a curriculum that works sequentially, scaffolds concepts, and provides relevant and progressively more challenging learning opportunities. I was about to throw the map right out the window.
I broke the class into four groups of four students and informed them that they would be writing and producing a five minute film exposé on a media issue of their choice. By the next day, three of the four groups had settled on their topics, media and body image, the reality television phenomena, and the rise in paparazzi news coverage in the mainstream media. The fourth group struggled to reach a consensus on their topic and I ultimately assigned them the task of defining media literacy with a focus on media conglomeration. These were topics that the class had previously discussed and written about, and I figured that building on their prior knowledge would help this more reluctant group get started. In the next week, the groups came together by free writing on their topics, gathering information, and sketching very tentative storyboards for their pieces. It soon became apparent how closely related each piece was and that with a little extra work we could pull each segment together to form a documentary of our own. I wasn’t at all sure how we would proceed, how long it would take, or if we even had a prayer of pulling it off.
The next day, before heading to the computer lab, I raised the possibility of adding transitions between each segment and turning the project into a class wide collaboration. Initial responses ranged from unbridled enthusiasm to outright skepticism. Reflecting on the assignment, Andrew, who eventually provided voiceover for over half of the completed project, admits to his own misgivings. “At first I was pretty skeptical. None of us had ever tried anything like this, and I wasn’t sure if we could do it.” Andrew was the only sophomore in a class of seniors. He is currently taking summer classes at a local community college and plans to graduate by the end of his junior year. He is by nature intellectually curious, an avid reader, and critical thinker. Andrew believes that the educational system fails to engage the average student sufficiently, “Kids need to be able to draw more of a reference between what they do in school and what they do in their real lives.” He also believes that “…students don’t get enough space for individuality. The establishment views students as being all the same; we don’t get to focus on the things that are meaningful or important to us.” He continues, “We get trained to stand up and sit down by a bell, how ridiculous and old fashioned is that?”Andrew’s question is a good one. Author and educator David Warlick, an advocate for innovative use of technology in the classroom, argues that,”…working in straight rows, performing repetitive tasks under close supervision, is not the style of classroom that will prepare students for their future.” Twenty first century students he argues, “…need to be creative thinking, decision-making, problem solving, analytical, self-teaching, and reasoning citizens.”
In the first two weeks of work devoted to the project I served more as facilitator and coach than teacher. After the Media Arts teacher and I co-taught a series of mini-lessons on the basics of Adobe Premiere, our primary editing software, I made a conscious decision to step back and allow for a greater level of autonomy within the groups than I was used to. They established roles organically and set out to work on writing interview questions, gathering images and footage, and assembling the initial timeline for their segment. Meanwhile, I met with each group to check on progress, make suggestions and provide technical and moral support. While the students did make some progress during week one, I realized that to produce a documentary on the scale we envisioned, would take a lot more time than I originally planned. Author and media education specialist David Buckingham notes that while media production is essential to any credible media education program, he acknowledges that, “Production work generally involves students working in groups over a long time; and this often requires high-level skills in communication and in time management.” The initial wave of skepticism was soon replaced with a general enthusiasm as each group made progress on their section. While I was pleased with the way the groups were coming together and the quality of their output, the traditional teacher in me wondered, where exactly are we going with all of this and what will happen if we can’t pull it off? I hadn’t taught a traditional lesson in several class periods and the end was nowhere in sight.
Despite my concerns, each group became more invested in their section of the film and a healthy sense of competition arose within the class. Each group wanted to produce the best section of the film, despite this, I noticed members of separate groups conferring with one another and helping each other through the inevitable technical difficulties that arose daily. By checking in with group members often, I was able to keep tabs of who was working on what and how the groups were progressing. Six weeks later I began to sense that it was time to impose a deadline on each section and attempt to pull our project together. The next morning after deciding to push the kids towards completion, a flyer for the ReelTeens Film Festival crossed my desk. Deadlines for entry were April, 15th. We had exactly one week to complete the project and en. This was just the push that we needed.
The final week of production was a blur of activity; each group was responsible for writing a transition from their segment to the next, finding footage to match their new voice over, and locking down their individual timelines. The end was in sight, but a lot of work had to be done. In the end we made our deadline with a finished documentary that everyone involved was proud of. Brianna, a student who became heavily invested in the success of the project and emerged as a leader in group number one, summed up her feelings in completing the project saying, “I felt like we were doing something useful, something that would actually help other people down the line.” Brianna like Andrew sensed a lack of creative opportunities in high school. “In school you don’t have enough chance to truly express yourself. A lot of kids go through school on autopilot. They learn how to play the game and basically tune out.” Brianna credits the authentic audience for the classes’ hard work, “In most classes, we do work and what happens to it? You get a check in the book and the assignment goes in the garbage. Sure you practice skills, but there’s no real connection. But this was creative, we did something completely original.” Brianna finished by commenting almost nonchalantly, “I’m not sure that most of what students have to do prepares them for the real world.” I responded by playing devil’s advocate and asking her how making a documentary would prepare the class for the real world, after all most of her classmates were not planning on becoming filmmakers. Her response was eloquent and immediate. “It wasn’t just about you teaching us to make a documentary. It was about how we look at the world around us and process it. It was about solving problems and working as a group and working towards a goal that was the important part.”
Soon after sending in the completed DVD, we became anxious to show the film to an audience and arranged a lunch time screening for anyone interested in attending. As we sat together in the auditorium waiting for the crowd to arrive, everyone was nervous and excited about the reaction the documentary would receive. Regardless of the audience’s response or whether or not we got into the film festival, the feeling of pride and community in those few minutes made all the effort worthwhile. Looking back on the entire experience gives me a deeper appreciation for Andrew’s moment of in class discovery. Perhaps this is because I made some discoveries of my own. Good teaching is not measured by the number of checks in the grade book. Frequent quizzes are not the only measuring stick of academic rigor. Most importantly, when students have high expectations of themselves and work hard at tasks that they are truly invested in, great learning experiences happen.
Becoming the Media is posted online at http://www.teachertube.com/view_video.php?viewkey=c32d4dab7475daa0c050
References:
Buckingham, David. Media Education: Literacy, Learning and Contemporary Culture. Malden, Ma: Polity Press, 2008.
Warlick, David. Raw Materials for the Mind. 4. Raleigh, NC: The Landmark Project, 2005.
ab rhyme scheme
Steve Masson
My poems generally do not rhyme.
The structure bugs me most of the time.
The rhythm ensnares me, a bear in a trap
And all that comes out is the same tired crap
The sing-song style of the ab scheme
Tends to lack nuance, depth, and theme.
I prefer the space of a verse that is free
Less restriction and form works for lazy old me.
Perhaps I will write the perfect verse yet,
But for now, I’ll play tennis without the net.
Deerhide: A Memoir
Steve Masson
North Manheim Boulevard dead ends at the bottom of a long steep hill. Beyond the turnaround is a precipitous drop off into the woods below. A dangerous path led into the woods, a path that until I was twelve years old, I descended backwards on all fours mindful of the shale embankments that waited to penetrate the skin upon the slightest misstep. At the trail’s end lay the stream and the broken concrete bridge. I never learned the true origin of this slab of concrete, roughly the size of a flatbed truck that lay haphazardly divided into three distinct sections. For the longest time, the myth of an angry troll explained its shattered existence.
Across the bridge lay deep woods with a labyrinth of secret paths, tree houses and swamps, a world without parents or limits. It was on the banks of the stream, amidst its large summer warm rocks, that I confronted my first snake, face to face, Indiana Jones in the well of souls. The stream opened up a half mile below the bridge into a wider birth, where I caught my first fish without my Father there to wriggle it off the hook. Straight across the bridge was a path that lead all the way to my elementary school. Along this path lay many things. The fire pit, with its empty beer cans and cigarette butts evidence of teenage debauchery that provided endless fuel for salacious speculation. Further on sat a rusted white Volkswagen Bug, which as if by magic had been teleported in to the woods to rot. Deeper still lay not one but two mattresses and box springs, flanked by an end table and a couple of chairs from a discarded kitchen set. A makeshift room without walls or a ceiling. Did a phantom couple sleep here? Weren’t they cold when it rained?
This particular late fall Saturday afternoon, I was catching water bugs with Pat Ford. Pat’s father was John Ford, the head varsity football coach and dean of discipline at New Paltz High School. Coach Ford combined the swagger of John Wayne, the sneer of Edward G. Butchinson, with the intensity of a young Bear Bryant. He was feared and respected, in that order. Even as a toddler, Pat had already begun to inherit his father’s aggressive alpha male characteristics. When our parents placed us together in the crib, it has been told to great hilarity, I would invariably end up crying and screaming out “Paka Bite! Paka Bite!” and then hide in the corner of the playpen waiting to be rescued from my teething antagonist. Though he was six months younger than I was, Pat stood three inches taller than me, outweighed me by a good fifteen pounds and could outrun, out bike, or out climb me with relative ease. Despite being physically outmatched, Pat and I were good friends; my ability to formulate plans, articulate treasure maps, and organize opportunities for mischief had won him over early and we were partners in crime.
The night before we had been on the sidelines together at Dietz stadium as the football team had racked up another victory. My father was the boys modified coach and a trusted assistant of Coach Ford. We were the team’s water boys and our task was monumentally important to the overall success of the program. We filled the coolers and water bottles, retrieved the tee after kick offs, handled minor equipment issues, and most importantly, ran the water bottles onto the field and into the huddle during timeouts. Bringing water to these giants, these larger than life pigskin heroes, was a position of serious envy in my circle. Pat and I were not relegated to the weekly peewee pickup games of two hand touch on the sidelines and backfields, we were a part of the action, we were a part of the team.
As we leaned over the bank and into the stream scooping up handfuls of water but never any of the lightning-fast water bugs, I heard the low strains of a warbling atonal song from deep in the woods.
“Pat do you hear that?” I asked.
“What?”
“Somebody out there is singing.” I replied. Pat listened hard and heard it too.
“That’s more than one person. And whoever they are they sure sound bad. Wonder who it is.”
“I’m putting my shoes back on,” I hurried across the rocks and back up on to the bridge and slipped on my pro-keds.
“CAUUSSSE AHHMMM ASSS FREEE ASSS A BIRRRRRRD NOW.”
The chorus was approaching. The singing grew louder. We prepared ourselves to meet the strangers who were clearly on their way.
“AND THIS BIRD WILL NEVER CHAAAAAAEEEAAAYANNNGGGGGGEE!”
Four looming figures spilled forth from the path, a tumbling tide of motion and song. Backlit by the descending sun, they recognized us before we could clearly see them.
“Well, well boys what do we have here? Little Coach Ford and Massooooon junior.” Squinting, my eyes began to focus and I realized that the voice belonged to Butch Rosner, the backup quarterback from the varsity team. At some point during the third quarter of every football game, Butch would pick up a ball and ask me to “warm him up” in case he had to go into the game. I took the duty seriously, concentrating hard on catching every ball and throwing back a tight spiral despite the enormity of the pigskin in my small hands. In his entire varsity career I don’t think old Butchie ever took a snap.
“What’s happening boys?” The second voice belonged to George McCormack, the starting full back and an all league linebacker. McCormack was a killer, a five-foot-ten one hundred and eighty five pound coiled spring who lived to leap across the line on either side of the ball and take someone’s head off. As savage as he was on the field, McCormack was as friendly off of it. He always took the time to say hello and talk to the kids who hung around the team. “What you up to this fine afternoon?” As he asked the question he sent a lean bead of red spit whistling through his teeth and into the stream.
They had joined us on the middle section of the bridge by now and Harold King, a talented wide receiver and honor student all America type addressed Pat directly. “Hey Pat, tell your dad that the ankle is fine, I’m good to go.” The fourth and by far the most imposing figure belonged to Chris Moriello. Big Mo was a six-foot five-inch wall of intimidating silence. The night before he had gone around the end untouched and blindsided the quarterback, simultaneously knocking his helmet off of his head and the ball out of his hand. I think he managed to recover them both.
“What are you boys deaf? Mac asked what yer up to.” Butch was the least talented but most vocal member of the group. Following George’s lead he sent a glob of red spit sailing into the stream.
“We’re just tryin’ to catch water bugs. How ‘bout you?” I mustered out lamely.
“Us, we’re hunting.” Laughed Butch as he spat again.
“Yeah? Well you’re being pretty loud for hunting.” Pat was not intimidated. “Did you get anything?” He challenged.
“Yeah we got us a deer. Skinned ‘em and left him in the woods.” Moriello and McCormack had stopped paying attention and were having a distance spitting contest off the bridge.
“Singing like that and you got a deer? I’ll bet.” Pat, the coach’s son was higher up the food chain than me; he could talk like this with and get away with it.
“Yeah we got a deer, and we’re chewing on the hide.” Butch spit again, this time the juice dribbled a bit down his chin. “You want some? Mo, lemme have your dip.”
“Huh?” Moriello turned around from their contest.
“Let’s give these little bucks a taste. Give me your dip.”
McCormack and King looked on smiling, saying nothing. Mo handed over the green and white pack of Red Man long cut leaf tobacco. At this point I knew that we were not about to chew a deer’s hide.
“You guys wanna be men?” Butch asked moving in closer. He gazed directly into my eyes, held the pause dramatically and continued. “You chew on the hide of the deer baby.” With this all four of the football payers fell out with laughter. McCormack stepped in and grabbed the pouch out of Butch’s hand.
“You sure this is a good idea?” asked Harold. “We’re gonna get in trouble.”
“Relax King. You didn’t give ‘em anything.” Butch snapped back.
“Alright, here’s what you do.” George began the lesson. “Take a small pinch, not too much and roll it like this.” He reached into the pack, pulled out a small wad, and rolled it between his thumb and fingers. Then with the other hand he grabbed his lip, pulled it out, and added the small wad to the plug already resting between his cheek and gum. “Once you get in there, you want to just give it a couple of good chews at first to get the juice going, but be careful not to swallow.” He thought for a second, “This is raw unprocessed deer hide the juice’ll kill ya. Think you can handle it?” He arched his eyebrow and offered Pat the pouch. The football players convulsed with laughter; only Moriello remained stoic, unamused.
Pat took the pouch and ended the charade. “Deerhide, My foot. This is chewing tobacco and we’re not scared.” We? Who’s we. I was getting sick already. Pat reached in, pulled out a plug the size of a super ball, and handed the pouch over to me. All eyes were on me now. I dipped in and pulled out a wad about a quarter of the size of Pat’s, skipped the formality of packing it with my fingers, deposited it in between my cheek and gum, shut my mouth and stared blankly at my heroes hoping to god that they had not just killed me. It was strikingly, sickeningly sweet. Pat leaned over the stream and spit between his teeth like a seasoned pro. The guys already convulsing with laughter nearly fell off the bridge.
“Well I guess you are some gen-you-ine little badassess,” Laughed George.
“You guys are firggin’ idiots. Let’s get out of here.” Moriello broke his silence and led the group over the bridge and up the path towards North Manheim.
“Good luck with that.” George called smiling over his shoulder. “And remember not to swallow!” I stood and watched with my mouth still closed as the teenagers made their way up the path. A wave of nauseous excitement had descended over my entire body. Seemingly from nowhere, my mouth had filled with tangy sweet saliva. Finally I leaned over the bridge and spat. The red juice rolled off of my chin and dripped on to my shirt. I closed my eyes and tried to gather my senses. My stomach was turning over on itself and beads of cold clammy sweat dotted my brow. I could feel the color draining from my face. I spit again and looked to Pat for support. We were in this together. Pat looked worse than I felt. His skin was green and fading. His mouth was seemed to be screwed on too tight and he also dribbled weakly when he spit. I held on as long as I could before spitting out the tobacco, finally using my pointer finger to fish out any remaining tobacco between my cheek and gums. Pat kept the tobacco in for a full three minutes longer than I could manage. Eventually he wandered up the path a bit and I could hear him retching. I helped him up the path and we walked slowly up the long hill towards my house.
When we got there our fathers were right where we had left them, in front of the television, cold cans of Miller in their hands, watching college football. Pat told his father that he didn’t feel well and wanted to go home. This was unusual Pat never complained.
“We’ll leave at halftime, Pat.” He replied in his gravelly monotone.
“I think I need to go now Dad.” Pat pleaded uncharacteristically, “I really feel sick.”
“What’s the matter with you?” He asked.
“It’s my stomach. I just don’t feel good.”
“Did you eat something bad?
“I don’t know. I’m just sick, that’s all.” Pat responded listlessly.
“What were you two doing down there Patrick?”
“Nothing, Dad. Just catching waterbugs.”
