In July, I will be giving some talks on "Secret" strategies for college-bound students. They are not secret because of some organized conspiracy--they just are not widely known or practiced by new students.
Strategy #1: Greeting. Learn how to greet others as adults. There's no substitute, at least in the United States, for being able to walk up to a person, extend your hand, and say, "Hello, Professor/Dr./Ms./Mr. so-and-so, I'm ___ and will be in your class on differential equations." Don't, on second meetings, say "Do you remember me?" Instead, lead out again with your name, then move to some positive statement.
My own default statement is, "It's good to see you." I say it directly while looking into the eyes of the recipient. It never has failed to receive a positive response; often, the other person says, "It's good to see you, too." I don't favor, "How are you?" or "How is it going?" (I especially dislike the latter). I suppose that these questions are a matter of taste, but I still insist that statements (that don't require responses) are more reliable, more likely to put others at ease.
As a strategy, this one would be classed under the concept of Engagement. Rather than engaging an enemy though, or even an opponent, one is engaging a possible ally.
An extension of the strong physical greeting is the email greeting. One should default to "Dear ___," even in an email. Eventually, a more casual "Hello, Professor so-and-so" can work, but one should be wary of sliding too much into flabby, casual greetings. Friendly, informal even, but not flabby.
Emails will not be effective if they fail to engage properly. Before the actual greeting, one must write a targeted, clear subject line. But that is another subject.
A thought for training: One must be relentless in practicing greetings.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Saturday, June 7, 2008
The Millennials and the Changing Workplace
I'm still reacting to reports on the so-called Millennials and their difficulties adjusting to workplace conventions.
There always will be some tension between conformity and the gradual change of standards (after all, our "conservative" workplace would not be recognizable to someone from the 30s, for example. Do you think that it's bad that a man can unbutton his jacket now?). What appeals to this generation is what really appeals to all young generations: the explicit invoking of strategy. Believe me, females and males equally like thinking of themselves as some sort of warriors, even if they never have seen physical combat (and the video game/movie industry has encouraged this mythology). So a company can make great headway by putting everything in terms of strategy (which is what you tend to do), rather than "values," which any younger generation is ready to reject, no matter how worthy those values seem to the oldsters.
I guess that you can tell that, when I was a college teacher, I tired of all the other teachers who moaned about their slacker students. Instead, I finally told them, they should teach students proper strategy from the beginning. The teachers needed to model excellence.
If one change is in the making, maybe it is a good one: perhaps companies should train their supervisors so that the new employees see excellence in action immediately. It's hard to believe that one should work hard when a company is filled with mid-level mediocre managers. If today's new employees more readily detect this mediocrity, then we can hardly fault them for being analytical and perceptive. But young whiners--I have no time for them.
There always will be some tension between conformity and the gradual change of standards (after all, our "conservative" workplace would not be recognizable to someone from the 30s, for example. Do you think that it's bad that a man can unbutton his jacket now?). What appeals to this generation is what really appeals to all young generations: the explicit invoking of strategy. Believe me, females and males equally like thinking of themselves as some sort of warriors, even if they never have seen physical combat (and the video game/movie industry has encouraged this mythology). So a company can make great headway by putting everything in terms of strategy (which is what you tend to do), rather than "values," which any younger generation is ready to reject, no matter how worthy those values seem to the oldsters.
I guess that you can tell that, when I was a college teacher, I tired of all the other teachers who moaned about their slacker students. Instead, I finally told them, they should teach students proper strategy from the beginning. The teachers needed to model excellence.
If one change is in the making, maybe it is a good one: perhaps companies should train their supervisors so that the new employees see excellence in action immediately. It's hard to believe that one should work hard when a company is filled with mid-level mediocre managers. If today's new employees more readily detect this mediocrity, then we can hardly fault them for being analytical and perceptive. But young whiners--I have no time for them.
Myths about the "Millenials"
A good friend sent me this link to a "60 Minutes" report on the so-called generation of Millenials who just now are reaching the workplace. The video and accompanying article bash this generation as having been coddled to the point that its members require that their self-esteem be boosted constantly. The complaints about these young men and women are served up in worried, outraged tones:
http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2007/11/08/60minutes/main3475200.shtml
A rather more measured piece is by Joseph Epstein in the Weekly Standard ("The Kindergarchy: Every Child a Dauphin"):
http://www.weeklystandard.com/Utilities/printer_preview.asp?idArticle=15161&R=13A93125C3
Here is my answer:
(1) Though there may be real cultural shifts at work, we should remember that such complaints go back at least to the ancient Greeks and Romans: many writers worried that the "younger generation" lacked respect and focus, and was interested only in momentary pleasures (sound familiar?). Also, it's easy to typecast a whole generation, but harder to deal with the complex reality.
(2) Human nature probably hasn't changed in thousands of years. People still react in the same ways.
(3) I have taught many, many of these Millennials, and currently tutor those who will be the post-Millenials, I suppose. I'm not nearly so negative about their demeanors.
(4) All those consultants who are described in the article are barking up the wrong tree, so to speak. Rather than worrying about the Millennials' beliefs or internal motivation, do what coaches and trainers in other disciplines have been doing for centuries: focus only on external behavior. Compliment the strong behavior (acting, speaking, writing), then correct the weak behavior by pointing to a model for the employees to emulate.
If a business asked me to talk about these new employees (which I can do as authoritatively as anyone), I would focus less on their supposed internal constitutions, and more on what they are capable of doing. Pinpoint their weaknesses, then provide concrete strategies for overcoming those weaknesses. Their managers should not compliment the person ("You are a great person, but . . . "); instead, compliment a real accomplishment, then move to the weakness. Research shows that coddling or complimenting the person directly leads to inferior performance.
But coaches always have known that.
http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2007/11/08/60minutes/main3475200.shtml
A rather more measured piece is by Joseph Epstein in the Weekly Standard ("The Kindergarchy: Every Child a Dauphin"):
http://www.weeklystandard.com/Utilities/printer_preview.asp?idArticle=15161&R=13A93125C3
Here is my answer:
(1) Though there may be real cultural shifts at work, we should remember that such complaints go back at least to the ancient Greeks and Romans: many writers worried that the "younger generation" lacked respect and focus, and was interested only in momentary pleasures (sound familiar?). Also, it's easy to typecast a whole generation, but harder to deal with the complex reality.
(2) Human nature probably hasn't changed in thousands of years. People still react in the same ways.
(3) I have taught many, many of these Millennials, and currently tutor those who will be the post-Millenials, I suppose. I'm not nearly so negative about their demeanors.
(4) All those consultants who are described in the article are barking up the wrong tree, so to speak. Rather than worrying about the Millennials' beliefs or internal motivation, do what coaches and trainers in other disciplines have been doing for centuries: focus only on external behavior. Compliment the strong behavior (acting, speaking, writing), then correct the weak behavior by pointing to a model for the employees to emulate.
If a business asked me to talk about these new employees (which I can do as authoritatively as anyone), I would focus less on their supposed internal constitutions, and more on what they are capable of doing. Pinpoint their weaknesses, then provide concrete strategies for overcoming those weaknesses. Their managers should not compliment the person ("You are a great person, but . . . "); instead, compliment a real accomplishment, then move to the weakness. Research shows that coddling or complimenting the person directly leads to inferior performance.
But coaches always have known that.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Is There a Doctor in the School System?
A School Diary, Part I
My non-tenure contract as an assistant professor had run out (with no college job in sight), so I am grateful when a Tampa, Florida high school principal calls one day with an offer to run a reading lab for struggling students. When I accept, pay-cut and all, I do not plan to stay for an additional year to teach English—but that is another very bumpy story.
I spend a few days lining up my paperwork so that I can move to the in-person "in-take" days. The process is a crash-course in how new teachers, rather than being courted, are dumped into a stressful culture where no one seems to be having a good time.
July 12, Monday. Today, I drive to Doctor’s Walk-In Clinic for my required physical and drug test. A young—possibly teenaged—aide asks if I can urinate. Yes, I reply, I probably can. So she and another (older) woman stand close outside the bathroom, both of them giving me directions on where to place the sample. Inside, a prominent stainless shutter is marked "Place urine sample inside." My first high school teaching inbox.
They run me through the standard examination until the young woman looks up from some papers: “So, you’re still not diabetic?” I wonder what my chart could possibly indicate. I never learn more about the matter.
Before I leave, a kindly nurse asks whether I have the correct form for them to sign. No one has mentioned any form. Fortunately, she locates an extra one—“As long as they haven’t been changed.” My stomach begins to churn.
During the next year, I learn that most forms just linger in files, rarely if ever read. No one has the time.
July 13, Tuesday. I try to leave the house early so that I can take my place in the dreaded processing center in Ybor City. Already I’ve been warned that most people spend at least four hours there, while some spend all day. To prevent a wasted trip, I need several certified documents such as my Social Security card, original college transcripts, medical certification, and loyalty oath. The District does not hire disloyal citizens.
I’m dressed and ready—but one of my car’s tires is flat. And I can’t get the over-torqued lug nuts off. My wife, after unsuccessfully trying to calm me down, jumps in her car, then speeds to a neighbor’s to borrow an extension pipe—it works. I towel off the sweat and grime, get dressed all over again, then drive to the center only to find that all the processing times are filled. A piece of paper taped to the information counter identifies Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays for teacher processing, with Tuesdays and Thursdays for other positions. It’s Tuesday, so the people standing around are not even here for teaching jobs—I work all this out in about twenty minutes. The woman at the counter, speaking with a slight tremor, politely sets out the difficulties: every morning when she arrives, a few dozen people already are waiting outside. Thus, I should arrive before 7 a.m. if I want to have a good chance (not a certainty) of being processed. They don’t take appointments.
June 14, Wednesday. I arrive at the processing center well before 7 a.m. to find several other worried teachers waiting. An hour and a half later, we begin the official in-take process, which includes a stern speech about the pitfalls ahead. Nearly everyone looks glazed over already.
I snag one of the few seats scattered around the narrow hall, but then insist that a pregnant woman take the bench instead. Several times today I shuttle back and forth from chipped, dirty conference tables where I struggle with some bureaucratic tangle to the dirty hallway where I wash up again in this same grungy spot. The cycle prefigures many of my interactions with District paperwork over the next school year.
An acquaintance, a school psychologist, hails me as I sit on the floor. She gives me her office phone number in case I have any problems, or need food or drink (how right she would be about that warning!). I’m not sure that she can really help, but that isn’t the point: she picks me out as an individual, as a person, as someone who might actually need to drink, eat, and rest. One woman knows to bring a knapsack with lunch. The rest of us do not dare leave for fear of losing our place. I am starving.
During the morning, we shuffle in and out of meetings, then slowly disperse as some invisible triage is performed. By the afternoon, we occasionally meet up in twos or threes (more waiting)—the discussions invariably center on inferior job assignments, or whether someone will be qualified at all. The tension, already high, continues to ratchet up.
At no time does anyone in charge ever say, "Thank you for coming today," or "Good to see you," or even "Thanks for your patience today." A different message is crystal clear: if you don't like it, you can lump it.
I learn that in order to work past the present academic year I will have to take at least six college courses over the next three years. In order to teach past the three-year mark, I will need, in addition to those six courses (in Education), fifteen more credits in Reading (probably about five courses). If I select the right option at processing (the tension ratchets up again since I am unsure), I could opt for the $600 set of reading courses, rather than a higher total price if I pay as I go. I also must pass the CLAST test (for college undergraduates) in three subject areas.
Already I’ve spent $55 on a physical (including the urine test), $62 on fingerprinting (all digital, so I am not sure how that figure is calculated), and $112 on my temporary certificates (good for three years—after that, if I have not completed all the courses and other certification requirements, I’m out). Most of this is not refundable should I not be hired. So far, I have lost money.
Many of the other applicants are young and fresh out of college. Throughout the day, they worry about paying fees before they have drawn paychecks.
I am overwhelmed since I have spent nine years obtaining my Ph.D. in English (not counting the years long before when I was a philosophy graduate student). I have years of experience teaching at the college and university levels, including the past four years as an assistant professor. But no one at the processing center cares about my education and experience; instead, three people sniff that it is practically irrelevant, even for teaching English. I try to picture myself sitting in another classroom.
I imagine how someone might communicate: "I know that these rules seem like hoops to jump through, but they are necessary ones. Let's see how we can map out the most efficient path." Instead, a woman shoves a form across to me: I must swear that I will complete all requirements if I work for the District. If I don’t sign right now, I can hit the road. I sign.
July 21, Wednesday. For Day One of new teacher training and induction, I drive to a distant high school with plenty of time to spare, but once there, get stuck in a long, snaking line of cars. No one is directing traffic.
I’m one of only three men wearing a business jacket today, not counting the district administrators or insurance salesmen. The salesmen have much better fitting suits. I am surprised by the number of flip-flops. There must be more than 1,200 new hires today.
Assembled in our first whole-group auditorium meeting (attendees trickle in throughout), we are instructed to memorize the names of the top district administrators, right up to the superintendent. I do not try to do so, since I calculate that my chances of running across one of them casually in the next year are miniscule. And if the setting is more formal, then my lawyer will make sure that I know everyone’s names.
The staff member emphasizes that the superintendent, as well as a few other administrators, are "Doctors.” We must keep this in mind. Later I learn that most administrators have doctorates in Education, rather than Ph.D.s, which is fine by me. What is not fine is the claim that we should be hushed and impressed. No one seems impressed by my Ph.D., which also is fine as far as it goes. I never, for the rest of my tenure while teaching high school, have an opportunity to call one of the administrators "Doctor So-and-So" anyway.
We listen to a staff member’s earnest directions. During the coming year, many District trainers emphasize that we should engage in “active teaching” to match the “active learning styles” of our students—that is, instead of lecturing, we should encourage hands-on activities and presentations. Every meeting I attend, including this one, requires that we sit still and listen to a lecture.
Later in the morning, I attend our individual school breakout training run by a grade school teacher who forces us to replicate the grade school classroom, even though a number of us will be placed in high schools. The "getting-to-know-each-other" exercises are tailored expertly to the six or seven year-old. I’ll soon find out that these approaches don’t work at all with high school students. However, I still demonstrate my can-do attitude, undertaking every exercise with as much gusto as I can muster.
I’m puzzled that so many future colleagues sit back and disengage. I realize later that several of them are veterans from other districts or states, and thus already understand how the day will go. One particularly tough-while-laid-back-looking man, who never removes his fashionable sunglasses, will turn out to be a colleague teaching across the hall from my Reading Lab. A gifted teacher and highly ranked wrestling coach, he will be one of my partners in a promising, but ultimately futile attempt to instill discipline and respect in the student body.
A large spider skitters across the floor. The women squeal. In another month of actual teaching, they won’t be disturbed if the monster from the movie Alien dashes into their classrooms. The men sit paralyzed. I grab an envelop from the desk, scoop up the spider, and deposit it outside in the bushes. The session leader calls me to her desk, where I expect she will thank me for my no-fuss action. She pauses, stony-faced, then says, “I’ll need that envelop back.”
I skip the second training day. In a couple of weeks, classes will begin.
A School Diary, Part I
My non-tenure contract as an assistant professor had run out (with no college job in sight), so I am grateful when a Tampa, Florida high school principal calls one day with an offer to run a reading lab for struggling students. When I accept, pay-cut and all, I do not plan to stay for an additional year to teach English—but that is another very bumpy story.
I spend a few days lining up my paperwork so that I can move to the in-person "in-take" days. The process is a crash-course in how new teachers, rather than being courted, are dumped into a stressful culture where no one seems to be having a good time.
July 12, Monday. Today, I drive to Doctor’s Walk-In Clinic for my required physical and drug test. A young—possibly teenaged—aide asks if I can urinate. Yes, I reply, I probably can. So she and another (older) woman stand close outside the bathroom, both of them giving me directions on where to place the sample. Inside, a prominent stainless shutter is marked "Place urine sample inside." My first high school teaching inbox.
They run me through the standard examination until the young woman looks up from some papers: “So, you’re still not diabetic?” I wonder what my chart could possibly indicate. I never learn more about the matter.
Before I leave, a kindly nurse asks whether I have the correct form for them to sign. No one has mentioned any form. Fortunately, she locates an extra one—“As long as they haven’t been changed.” My stomach begins to churn.
During the next year, I learn that most forms just linger in files, rarely if ever read. No one has the time.
July 13, Tuesday. I try to leave the house early so that I can take my place in the dreaded processing center in Ybor City. Already I’ve been warned that most people spend at least four hours there, while some spend all day. To prevent a wasted trip, I need several certified documents such as my Social Security card, original college transcripts, medical certification, and loyalty oath. The District does not hire disloyal citizens.
I’m dressed and ready—but one of my car’s tires is flat. And I can’t get the over-torqued lug nuts off. My wife, after unsuccessfully trying to calm me down, jumps in her car, then speeds to a neighbor’s to borrow an extension pipe—it works. I towel off the sweat and grime, get dressed all over again, then drive to the center only to find that all the processing times are filled. A piece of paper taped to the information counter identifies Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays for teacher processing, with Tuesdays and Thursdays for other positions. It’s Tuesday, so the people standing around are not even here for teaching jobs—I work all this out in about twenty minutes. The woman at the counter, speaking with a slight tremor, politely sets out the difficulties: every morning when she arrives, a few dozen people already are waiting outside. Thus, I should arrive before 7 a.m. if I want to have a good chance (not a certainty) of being processed. They don’t take appointments.
June 14, Wednesday. I arrive at the processing center well before 7 a.m. to find several other worried teachers waiting. An hour and a half later, we begin the official in-take process, which includes a stern speech about the pitfalls ahead. Nearly everyone looks glazed over already.
I snag one of the few seats scattered around the narrow hall, but then insist that a pregnant woman take the bench instead. Several times today I shuttle back and forth from chipped, dirty conference tables where I struggle with some bureaucratic tangle to the dirty hallway where I wash up again in this same grungy spot. The cycle prefigures many of my interactions with District paperwork over the next school year.
An acquaintance, a school psychologist, hails me as I sit on the floor. She gives me her office phone number in case I have any problems, or need food or drink (how right she would be about that warning!). I’m not sure that she can really help, but that isn’t the point: she picks me out as an individual, as a person, as someone who might actually need to drink, eat, and rest. One woman knows to bring a knapsack with lunch. The rest of us do not dare leave for fear of losing our place. I am starving.
During the morning, we shuffle in and out of meetings, then slowly disperse as some invisible triage is performed. By the afternoon, we occasionally meet up in twos or threes (more waiting)—the discussions invariably center on inferior job assignments, or whether someone will be qualified at all. The tension, already high, continues to ratchet up.
At no time does anyone in charge ever say, "Thank you for coming today," or "Good to see you," or even "Thanks for your patience today." A different message is crystal clear: if you don't like it, you can lump it.
I learn that in order to work past the present academic year I will have to take at least six college courses over the next three years. In order to teach past the three-year mark, I will need, in addition to those six courses (in Education), fifteen more credits in Reading (probably about five courses). If I select the right option at processing (the tension ratchets up again since I am unsure), I could opt for the $600 set of reading courses, rather than a higher total price if I pay as I go. I also must pass the CLAST test (for college undergraduates) in three subject areas.
Already I’ve spent $55 on a physical (including the urine test), $62 on fingerprinting (all digital, so I am not sure how that figure is calculated), and $112 on my temporary certificates (good for three years—after that, if I have not completed all the courses and other certification requirements, I’m out). Most of this is not refundable should I not be hired. So far, I have lost money.
Many of the other applicants are young and fresh out of college. Throughout the day, they worry about paying fees before they have drawn paychecks.
I am overwhelmed since I have spent nine years obtaining my Ph.D. in English (not counting the years long before when I was a philosophy graduate student). I have years of experience teaching at the college and university levels, including the past four years as an assistant professor. But no one at the processing center cares about my education and experience; instead, three people sniff that it is practically irrelevant, even for teaching English. I try to picture myself sitting in another classroom.
I imagine how someone might communicate: "I know that these rules seem like hoops to jump through, but they are necessary ones. Let's see how we can map out the most efficient path." Instead, a woman shoves a form across to me: I must swear that I will complete all requirements if I work for the District. If I don’t sign right now, I can hit the road. I sign.
July 21, Wednesday. For Day One of new teacher training and induction, I drive to a distant high school with plenty of time to spare, but once there, get stuck in a long, snaking line of cars. No one is directing traffic.
I’m one of only three men wearing a business jacket today, not counting the district administrators or insurance salesmen. The salesmen have much better fitting suits. I am surprised by the number of flip-flops. There must be more than 1,200 new hires today.
Assembled in our first whole-group auditorium meeting (attendees trickle in throughout), we are instructed to memorize the names of the top district administrators, right up to the superintendent. I do not try to do so, since I calculate that my chances of running across one of them casually in the next year are miniscule. And if the setting is more formal, then my lawyer will make sure that I know everyone’s names.
The staff member emphasizes that the superintendent, as well as a few other administrators, are "Doctors.” We must keep this in mind. Later I learn that most administrators have doctorates in Education, rather than Ph.D.s, which is fine by me. What is not fine is the claim that we should be hushed and impressed. No one seems impressed by my Ph.D., which also is fine as far as it goes. I never, for the rest of my tenure while teaching high school, have an opportunity to call one of the administrators "Doctor So-and-So" anyway.
We listen to a staff member’s earnest directions. During the coming year, many District trainers emphasize that we should engage in “active teaching” to match the “active learning styles” of our students—that is, instead of lecturing, we should encourage hands-on activities and presentations. Every meeting I attend, including this one, requires that we sit still and listen to a lecture.
Later in the morning, I attend our individual school breakout training run by a grade school teacher who forces us to replicate the grade school classroom, even though a number of us will be placed in high schools. The "getting-to-know-each-other" exercises are tailored expertly to the six or seven year-old. I’ll soon find out that these approaches don’t work at all with high school students. However, I still demonstrate my can-do attitude, undertaking every exercise with as much gusto as I can muster.
I’m puzzled that so many future colleagues sit back and disengage. I realize later that several of them are veterans from other districts or states, and thus already understand how the day will go. One particularly tough-while-laid-back-looking man, who never removes his fashionable sunglasses, will turn out to be a colleague teaching across the hall from my Reading Lab. A gifted teacher and highly ranked wrestling coach, he will be one of my partners in a promising, but ultimately futile attempt to instill discipline and respect in the student body.
A large spider skitters across the floor. The women squeal. In another month of actual teaching, they won’t be disturbed if the monster from the movie Alien dashes into their classrooms. The men sit paralyzed. I grab an envelop from the desk, scoop up the spider, and deposit it outside in the bushes. The session leader calls me to her desk, where I expect she will thank me for my no-fuss action. She pauses, stony-faced, then says, “I’ll need that envelop back.”
I skip the second training day. In a couple of weeks, classes will begin.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)