First Grade, iPads, and the New Language of Six-Year-Olds

We're driving across town, and my six-year-old and I have the following conversation:

"Mom, I uploaded two new apps to the iPad they gave me in computer time today."

 (Note: I don't have an iPad.  I don't even have a phone that connects to the internet.)

"Really?  What apps?" 

"Well, one is for learning words, and the other is a game you play with another person. And the other person is really a computer program!"

"That sounds fun," I say, but I'm still wondering why my daughter uses an iPad and I don't.  She's uploading apps, and I'm not sure I would know how. 

I remember my first grade year.  This language of apps and uploading didn't exist in my vocabulary.  Many words my six-year-old knows didn't exist when I was a first grader:  Google, Facebook, MP3's, DVR's, DVD's, Internet, and even words like microwave and cell phones never came out of my mouth.  In fact, we didn't have a home computer until after I was in college.  Even more shocking is that I dated my husband without the use of cell phones or texting.  We didn't own mobile phones back then.

My college students always ask me how that worked.  "How did you find each other during the day?  How did anybody know where you were?"  They stare at me, mouths agape, breathing rapidly in terror as they imagine a world without texting.  

"Well, a person might leave a message on an answering machine on a ground line phone or write a note with an actual pencil and post it to the dorm room door."

It's inconceivable to them.

I wonder--in forty years--what someone might ask my daughter about life in 2011.  You used iPads?  How old-fashioned!  How did you ever manage?

What words will a future generation speak that have not yet come into existence? 


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Journal:  Does it shock you that first-graders use iPads and upload apps as part of a school day?

Will Technology Destroy My Teaching?

This morning my daughter announces that her class is going on a field trip to the University Astronomy Lab.

Her personal favorite planet is Jupiter.

All day, I've been thinking about the wonder she'll feel.  These planetarium shows, according to the website, "feature spectacular astronomical images from the surface of Mars, to dusty nebulae, to dazzling galaxies, rendered in three dimensions with the aid of special eyeglasses and projection screens."

This kind of technology might just provide a sublime experience for these children.  They might go on to study astrophysics, probing deeper into the mysteries of the universe.

I wish I were there with her.

But I had my own experience with technology and education today.  I received my classroom assignment for next semester, so on my way back to the parking lot, I casually pop into my future classrooms.  One of them hides deep within an ancient campus building.  The tiny room has 25 chairs and desks and a long table up front (for me).  I'm not sure I even have a chalkboard to use in that room.  These are the rooms instructors beg to get switched.  They shed tears over these assignments and bribe administrative assistants to send them to any other classroom. 

But I love rooms like that.  I request the simplest classroom.  

The second classroom resides in a building I haven't visited yet--the Business School.  I walk in, and I'm immediately transported to another universe.  A ticker on the wall brags out the stock market numbers.  Flat screen TV's broadcast major network news.  Coffee shops send out an aroma that, in this environment, makes me feel rushed and nervous.  Everybody's in suits, and the click of high heels on the floor breeds a strange insecurity in me.

I find my classroom.

It's spectacular, dazzling.  Each wall has a projection screen, and I count no less than 7 white boards that light up for my notes.  My podium up front features more buttons than I could ever figure out what to do with.  It has a microphone. If I touch this one button, the lights dim and a huge screen descends behind me.

Maybe another button ushers in my avatar who teaches for me while I go get a latte.

The students' seats swivel, and I'm not sure, but I wonder if each desk has its own laptop built in. 

I turn a circle in this future classroom, and then I immediately think:  "This is so . . . distracting!" 

What will I do with so much technology?  What could it inspire in folks trying to learn to use strong verbs and varied sentence structure?  Am I now putting on a show with lights and sounds? At what point does the technology distract rather than enrich?

I've posed the question to my technology-inundated students.  Shall I change my course?  One man leaned back (in his old desk) and said, "Don't do it.  Don't use the technology.  People want to talk about their ideas together in class.  That's what they really want."  

But is there something I'm missing? 

Living with flair means I figure out how to use technology in ways that enrich and offer sublime experiences.  Because it can.  I just don't know how--as a writing teacher--it will.

Do you know?

Your Beautiful Moments

I introduce Memoir Writing to my students today, and I ask them to write down one or two examples of beautiful moments they've experienced. 

I'm always amazed, year after year, with the types of things we remember from our childhoods.  Without fail, a student's beautiful moment has something to do with nature, friendship, God, travel, or overcoming a trial.  Not once, in all my years of teaching, has a beautiful moment emerged from memories of television or video games.  But the time they spend with technology (hours upon hours) would suggest that at least some tiny memory might emerge--some tangible image--that elevates the soul and provides a moment of self-discovery.  

But they don't have memories like that with technology. 

Yesterday, I went to a parent / teacher conference for my kindergartner.  In her journal, she was supposed to draw her "favorite moments."  She drew the swing in our front yard, the pumpkin patch, and jumping on the bed with her sister.

No favorite movies; no favorite computer games; no favorite technology experiences.  I needed to see that. 

My Sea Glass Bracelet

Just now, I visit my dear friend down the street.  Her son has a collection of sea glass, rocks, and shells from a summer beach trip.

He's teaching himself the art of jewelry making.  He presents me with a handmade bracelet, woven together with wire.

I will treasure this bracelet.  He tells me about the beach, about finding these shells and sea glass.  It's a beautiful moment.  And he's made this memory into a bracelet I can wear.  It's tangible; it's real.  It's the stuff of memoir.