One tweet. That's how it all started. 

And I knew I'd never teach the same way again. ​

When Mrs. G. asked me to teach my book trailer unit to her sixth graders, I jumped at the chance, but with a caveat: I wasn't going to teach it the same way I had in the past. And I literally meant that: I wasn't going to teach it, but I would very happily guide, encourage, and coach it.

(Thank goodness for forward-thinking teachers like Mrs. G. She didn't once flinch, frown, or freak out, but instead encouraged my request to simply try differently.)

A few months before this, I'd read an online post by Chris Friend about the importance of letting students take the lead in their learning:

A class discussion where the teacher pre-determines the outcome is just a lecture in disguise, dressed up to feel student-centered while still being instructor-directed. When a class involves discussion, we owe it to our students to not know what’s going to happen, lest we start dictating what we want them to think.

A class discussion where the teacher pre-determines the outcome is just a lecture in disguise, dressed up to feel student-centered while still being instructor-directed. When a class involves discussion, we owe it to our students to not know what’s going to happen, lest we start dictating what we want them to think.

​While Friend's comments are specific to classroom discussions, they certainly apply to the larger picture of learning in the 21st century, and I'd been waiting for the right moment (and a willing teacher) to embrace the philosophy of student-centered and "teacher-bordered" learning. Nylen's post in my Twitter feed came at the exact same time I proposed my plan of hanging on the sidelines instead of calling the plays. (There are no coincidences.)

DAY ONE
I project Nylen's Tweet to the students. They read it, then look to me to explain it to them. I smile at them. They look to Mrs. G. to explain away the crazy lady smiling at them. Mrs. G. smiles at them. They smile back nervously, scanning the room for hidden cameras. This has to be a joke, right?

I finally break the awkward science by asking, "Is this true? Do you need Mrs. G. and me? What if we don't tell you what to do? What if we just let you find the answers for yourself?" They look, admittedly, a little afraid. And why shouldn't they? Everything to this point in their academic career has been mostly teacher-directed. 

"How many of you play Minecraft?" I continue. Half the hands shoot up. 

"Cool," I remark. "So, which one of your teachers taught you how to play it?" 

And that's the moment it clicks for everybody. 

Now they're smiling at me.

DAY TWO
The work begins.  The project is outlined, tutorial videos and useful links are posted to Edmodo for reference, but no lectures are given. "Ask 3 Before Me, " we say. "Troubleshoot. Use the help section in iMovie. Google your questions. Try, mess up, try again." They're a little frustrated, for sure, but here's the thing: I tell them that I really don't know iMovie all that well. (A lie, but Mrs. G. and I want them to go cold turkey on their teacher dependence.)  

"Wait...WHAT?" a student indignantly cries. "Then why are you teaching us this?" 

"But I'm not teaching it to you," I tease. "Remember?"

DAY THREE
At the beginning of class, I find myself falling into to the comfortable and involuntarily role of lecturing. (Habits are hard to break.) Ashley interrupts, "Hey, Ms. D. . .can we get started please? We can figure it out."  

I literally laugh out loud. And keep a list of what I overhear students asking each other and commenting upon during the next hour.