The Consequences of Choice

It was nearly midnight when I realized that my lesson plan for the following day was not going to work. In fact, it was going to be a disaster. All week I had worked on what I thought were going to be the most successful 90 minutes of teaching yet; but there I lie in bed, unable to sleep, thinking that my students were going to look at me with dazed eyes of confusion as I told them what my plan was. It was Thursday night and nearly two hours after the usual time that I went to bed. Waking up at 5:30am would be as unpleasant as the day would be long.

So what made me second guess my ostensibly flawless plans? First, let me back up to Monday, four days earlier, where I sat clutching my new favorite book by Daniel Pink, “Drive: The Surprising Truth About What Motivates Us.” I turned page after page (figuratively, that is, because the Kindle has sadly killed the beloved paperback). Unable to put it down, I was inspired by his theory of intrinsic motivation stating that, “Human beings have an inherent tendency to seek out novelty and challenges, to extend and exercise their capacities, to explore, and to learn.”

Oppositely, if we teach through extrinsic rewards (“if-then” rewards) by offering a shiny new bike or colorful iPod at the next raffle drawing once they reach a certain level in Reading, students will ultimately learn LESS. But how can this be? We see that these systems often do work. The problem that comes into play, however, is how long they actually work and to what degree the students are motivated to learn over the span of a lifetime. By incentivizing a student to reach a target level in Math by offering a free coupon, she will undoubtedly work to accomplish that goal; but once she does, she will stop there. Goal setting stops, reading stops and learning stops until yet another bigger and better reward is offered.

To avoid such detrimental cycles, Pink encourages a self-guided approach in all areas of life, particularly in the work place, but also in student learning. “How creative a person feels when working on the project, is the strongest and most pervasive driver,” he argues. Therefore, teachers must give students the support they need and let them run with their creativity to accomplish their goals and pursue their interests. Succinctly stated, “Autonomous motivation promotes greater conceptual understanding; better grades, enhanced persistence at school, and in sporting activities, higher productivity, less burnout, and greater level of psychological well-being.”

There it was, let students do what they do, with a little guidance of course. Walla! I had an epiphany. I would give my students the space for creativity to do whatever inspired them at the end of class, with a little direction of course. The only requirement would be to create something relevant to the material learned, and it must be something useful (a poster, a news article, a song etc.) I had my presentation and my speech ready to get students fired up about learning and I was ready to be the best teacher I could be for my students.

But then it was midnight the night before and I couldn’t sleep. It made so much sense earlier that week and now it made no sense at all.

Here’s why: I finished Daniel Pink’s book on Wednesday and picked up another book on Thursday, “The Art of Choosing” by Sheena Iyengar, which would toss my brain into a fuddled mess, but only later. My morale was high as I read, “People with little control over their work… experienced more back pain, missed more days of work due to illness in general, and had higher rates of mental illness.” I remember thinking to myself, “Phew, I’m glad I’m avoiding that mess by offering my students unlimited choice and control over their learning!” The author continued, “…minor but frequent choice making can have a disproportionately large and positive impact on our perception of overall control.” I was on a real winning streak.

And then everything came apart at the seams as I rounded the corner and ran face first into her argument of Individualistic and Collectivist societies. “Ultimate happiness (in collectivist societies) comes not from making the choice but in the fulfillment of one’s duties.” In one study, a collectivist culture on average, “listed twice as many domains in which they did not want choice as compared to domains in which they did. They often wanted someone else to decide… Comparing responses between the two, Americans desired personal choice in four times as many domains of life…”

Culture! The difference in culture, hello!! How could I miss the single most important thing I have learned in my 11 months of service?? And there it was, on a comprehensive ranking system for a country’s level of collectivism, “South American countries tend to rank quite high.” And to squander any optimism I had left that my plan might work, her experiments in an elementary school showed that, “Anglo American children did better and worked longer when they were able to exercise personal choice. The moment anyone else told them what to do, their performance and subsequent motivation dropped dramatically. By comparison, the Asian American children performed best and were most motivated when they believed their mothers had chosen for them.”

My plan was in shambles. It was now midnight.

I couldn’t possibly walk into that classroom pretending to ignore this blatant evidence that my plan was going to flop. I had new knowledge, and I had a choice (and Americans love choice!) So rather than debunking my previous theory, I decided to perform a small psychological test on my students. Here’s what I did:

1. I told my students that the last 20 minutes of class would be reserved for work time. Therefore, they wouldn’t have to worry about homework and they could turn in their assignment before they left (also so that I could see the results).

2. Each student received a slip of paper stating what they should work on. I told students not to confer with their classmates which assignment they were given (collectivist societies love direction!) since each person’s would be different

3. Half of the students were told to write a dialogue. They were given only one choice.
   The other half of students were given three choices (to write a dialogue, a news article or to create a pamphlet).

4. I randomly passed them out, alternating the two different papers to every other student, and watched them as they got to work. After the 20 minutes were up, I told students that they may leave if they felt they were finished or they could stay if they chose to work on their assignment longer. I recorded the times that each of their work was turned in.

Here’s what I found:

I analyzed their work in three different areas including number of mistakes, the time they chose to work on the assignment and the overall word count to measure the length of writing. The results came as predicted. On average, the students who were given only one option worked over two minutes longer than those given three options. When dividing the number of mistakes by the total word count, those who had only one option also had a more than 4% better accuracy rating than their counterparts. They tended to make fewer mistakes, therefore boosting their grades. Most impressive, the students who had three options wrote fewer than 100 words total, whereas their classmates with only one option wrote nearly 130 words on average.

As a stared at my Excel worksheet of data with my head on my hand, I couldn’t deny that Sheen Iyengar’s same findings were true. What I thought would be best for my students turned out to be one of the worst things that I could have done for them. The moment I tried to apply what I knew from my own experiences and my own culture, the effectiveness of my teaching took a plummet. Although it was with good intention, my failure to see a culture’s deeply rooted influences was potentially damaging. However, critical thinking saved what could have been a disastrous situation. I was faced with a problem that required investigation, planning, adjustment, re-planning, analysis and ultimately reflection; a lot of work but an even greater pay off to the benefits it will bring to my future in education, I’m sure. I share this with you not only because it was a very real learning point in my service, but also in hopes that it will inspire you to apply the same careful consideration to your own life for the sake of the people around you as well. We must not only be tolerant of other cultures, but also conscious of our actions.

Will Two Years Be Enough?

Another volunteer and I decided to take on a two day hiking adventure when we found out that there would be no classes on Monday. What we thought would be a beautiful 8 hour trek up the Sierra Nevada mountains slowly and painstakingly evolved into 12 hours, and that was only the first day. Misguided by a false projection of our snail-like pace, we arrived 8,000 feet up after hiking the last hour in the dark. There may or may have not have been a tear (of joy) in my eye when we stumbled upon the cabins with cramped feet and blistered shoulders. 12 hours up the first day only meant at least 8 hours on the way down. Our spirits went from excitement to elation to boredom to desperation. This hike was not fit for two days. Thinking we might never arrive back, we thought about ways to distract ourselves. We talked about friendships, about traveling adventures, about family and past relationships. We sang ridiculous songs when we couldn’t think of anything else to talk about and when we ran out of songs we talked more. We shared our most embarrassing moments and both agreed that, yes, pooping your pants in your mid 20’s is still hilarious.

Somewhere between the endless laughter about boyfriends and diarrhea, we talked about our Peace Corps service and the crazy adventures it’s taken us as we roll into our tenth month sweating and exhausted. We reflected on both our successes and complete failures, our proudest moments and our greatest fears; and ironically, what we are both worried most about is the very real fact that our service will one day end. It seems silly to think about that now with so much time left, but for the first time, we were really able to look at our service in a holistic way, taking a step back and really opening our eyes to the impact that our work has here.

Will two years be enough?

“How do you want your service to look?” they asked us in training, over and over again.
“Successful” was the only word that I could really come up with. But what does that even mean? Successful for who? For the people that I’m serving to live fulfilled lives? For me to go on and get a job afterward? For my family back at home to be proud of what I’m doing? For future volunteers to be inspired to also join the Peace Corps?

And how long does it take to see success? How do you measure success? If I quit today, would I be successful? Honestly, probably not. And reasonably so. The first year in anything is undoubtedly the hardest. The first year of high school, the first year of college, your first real job (am I right teachers??), and so I can imagine, the first year of marriage. But then the kinks in your sails get worked out and eventually the confusion turns into understanding and weighted anchors are lifted for the propellers to finally push you forward. So if the entire first year is solely dedicated to learning…

Will two years be enough?

I’ve recently started various secondary projects including community English classes, a grant proposal for the seeing impaired students at my school, and finally a baseball team for boys and girls who steal my heart every week as I see them run the bases. On my most difficult days of service, these are the things that remind me why I’m here. When the water goes out at home and the electricity goes out at school, or when people don’t find interest in my amazing, incredible, fantabulous, life-changing projects, it’s disheartening to say the least. In one day alone, I can go from throwing in the towel and going home to thinking about extending my time here by at least 6 months. How can I leave when there’s so much yet to do?

Will two years be enough?

Time seems to pass by so slowly day to day but when I look back it’s like it all happened at once. I feel like I’ll wake up one day and know that two weeks went by, ten months, and then.. all of a sudden.. two years. But instead of worrying about where I’ll be and what I’ll have done in those months and years ahead, I’m learning to practice the presence. I’m here today, and eventually tomorrow I’ll be there, wherever that may be.

“How do you want your service to look?” they ask. My trained response that innocently spilled out of me at the beginning of service has transformed drastically. Working with people and looking them in the eye I no longer think “What can I give you?” rather “What do you need?” It’s not about me, it’s about them. It’s not about my service, it’s about their lives. But in working alongside them to achieve their needs, I do want to give them something. I want to give them the best version of myself. I want our work to be honest, passionate, sincere and well earned. At the end of the day, we’ll be looking at each other and throw up a high five. We’ll be wiping the sweat off our brow, laughing hysterically as they think, she didn’t do this for us, we did it together.

Will two years be enough?

To Erase the Past?

“How was your run?” my host sister asked me as I worked to catch my breath.

“Good,” I told her.

But it wasn’t, really. It was more like “fine” or “less than great,” but as my lungs worked hard not to collapse in on themselves I didn’t feel like I had the energy to explain why. After walking one more lap around the exercise park with her I felt I had to voice my opinion, knowing very well that it might come off as being overcritical.

“Why can’t people be considerate enough to recognize that there are more people who are also working out here?”

She darted a look at me that instantly made me recoil wishing that I had listened to my instincts. But it was too late, and all I could do now was explain myself more clearly.

“I mean, why can’t they walk only on the right side and learn to pass on the left? When I’m running I’m constantly dodging people and can’t run a consistent pace. People would be so mad in the States if you were walking on whichever side you felt like. You can’t just take up the entire path.”

She didn’t even reply exactly, more so exhaled a pitiful burst of laughter at my idealistic expectations.

“When are you going to stop comparing everything to the United States?”

Probably never, is what I really wanted to tell her. Why? Because it’s a part of me. It’s a part of me just as much as my legs are attached to my hips. If the unfortunate event were to ever happen where I lost my legs, I would undoubtedly see and explore the world much differently. But for as long as these two trunks are occupying nearly half my body weight, I might as well use them for all that they are capable of. After all, they’ve gotten me this far. Just as my legs allow me to prance around the people at the park during my ever-interrupted stroll, my past experiences will forever serve as a springboard from which I project my views and opinions. And scientifically, it makes a lot of sense. As social Psychologist, and Harvard professor, Daniel Gilbert explains:

“Our experiences instantly become part of the lens through which we view our entire past, present, and future, and like any lens, they shape and distort what we see. This lens is not like a pair of spectacles that we can set on the nightstand when we find it convenient to do so but like a pair of contacts that are forever affixed to our eyeballs with superglue. Once we learn to read, we can never again see letters as mere inky squiggles.”

And it is this irrevocable past that leaves me with constant inner battle. Having once experienced order and efficiency, I can no longer view anarchist running parks without associating it with a whirlwind of chaos. I can’t help but cringe knowing how much educational time is lost in the classrooms and the detrimental costs it has onto an entire society. And I feel a slight panic when I see people throw garbage onto the street without second thought.

So how do I humble myself to match the reality of my current situation?How do I not go absolutely mad living amongst all of this? Well, to tell you the truth, some days I do. And then I take a deep breath, or pour myself a glass of wine while I let my freakout slip into abyss. I can try to persuade my English teachers to use more effective teaching methods in their classrooms, but I will likely never change the culture of an entire running park; or at least not by tomorrow. And I can be a loving and stable role model for my students, but I will likely never solve the surmounting recycling issues. So I’m forced to put out these fires alone, silently. But in the meantime, I continuously learn to control my reactions and inner dialogue, perhaps the most challenging and important life lesson that I solicit on a daily basis; a skill which few people have the opportunity to truly learn.

Learning has been just as much, if not more, of an effort than my actual job in teaching English; learning about the culture, yes, but also learning that nothing will ever be perfect. If everything were rainbows and butterflies my job would be unmistakably mundane and overtly meaningless. We weren’t sent to Colombia to learn, we were sent here to teach, or so I thought. But nothing is ever as simple as it seems. In teaching there are so many lessons learned that we should never be blind to the sole realization of this. Upon accepting my invitation to the Peace Corps my assignment read “Teaching,” but what it should have said was “Teaching, Learning, Negotiating, Leading, Listening, Communicating, Problem Solving, Cross-culture Collaborating, and ultimatley Settling for what you cannot change after all of these efforts have been exhausted. Are you up for the job?” And I said yes, so call me crazy.

Reading for Me

I’ve been reading a lot of books lately. Like more than I’ve ever previously cared to or even fathomed. Books about long lost travelers, books about Schizophrenia, books about hermaphroditic and social outcasts. Books by contemporary Japanese authors and books by Nelson Mandela, Maya Angelou and Henry David Thoreau. No matter what I’m doing or how busy I am, I always seem to find time to pick up the latest book that I have delved into. Like a small reward for completing my necessary tasks of the day, I cradle my Kindle with all of the love in the world. I lose myself in the authors’ words as their vocabulary and carefully selected phrases enlighten my brain. I’m in love, I’m in love and I don’t care who knows it! (Flailing my arms around all Buddy-the-Elf-style) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8V8tMK68M7U

Admittedly I used to read less than a handful of books, apart from academia, over the span of an entire year. I couldn’t even finish 50 Shades of Lame, perhaps because my hipster side decided to disregard that train that millions of people were willing to put their actual sex lives aside for to fantasize about one that they would likely never have. But then again, maybe the last chapters addressed more realistic circumstances that didn’t berate a normal sex life, I will never know. So why has my literary mind suddenly been put on high speed? Yes, it’s true, my free time has nearly doubled, but on the other hand I could be using that time to watch movies or aimlessly scan t.v. channels, which hasn’t been the case. (Side note: I haven’t watched T.V. in over three months which even then was in passing.) And then it clicked. My entire life has been brilliantly consumed by the fortunate privilege of education. Since the ripe age of five, I’ve known nothing else but a backpack, books and academic approval from teachers, parents and eventually University professors. And then, after 18 years, it was over. Just like that. No more classes, no more tuition payments, no more sleepless nights writing papers.

But what I didn’t realize was that the books would also be gone, or at least the mandatory ones. Although I’ve been challenged in unimaginable ways to learn about others and ultimately myself while traveling, there’s something I will likely always crave about being challenged academically. I’m lost without it, or maybe I’m in the process of finding my way. I can’t be sure. But what is certain is that the years I’ve spent in school have inspired me to embrace learning in everything I do. School has not only pushed me to learn, but has taught me how to learn. Like a match it has sparked a burning flame of intrinsic motivation within me to ask “why?”, to challenge differing views and to pick up a book to find the answers when seemingly there are none.

I would have sworn that books would have been a torture of the past once I was out of middle and high school. Worse than Chinese water torture, I thought The Great Gatsby was sent straight from the undergods to punish me. Just the same, the dreaded, timed mile for gym class would never again be a part of my life after my senior year. I despised it with all of my being. But alas, the next book on my reading list is, you guessed it, The Great Gatsby, and next weekend I’ll be running my second 10K (in the hottest place on earth, mind you). The things that I wanted nothing to do with suddenly transformed into a blissful pleasure when it was I who was making the choices. Making choices and having control are remarkably compelling, but to make effective choices we must be educated.

“…the feeling of control–whether real or illusory–is one of the wellsprings of mental health”

-Daniel Gilbert

I doubt there will ever come a time when I am not in school. As I was talking to my mom last week, her excitement and relief emanated upon telling me that she would be finishing her Master’s degree before the end of this year. She too agreed that learning is a lifelong process that should perpetually engage our senses and challenge our thinking. But for now I must put my studies on hold while I have social commitments in my service with the Peace Corps.

So long are the days that books are thrust in front of me.So long are the days that papers with mandatory page lengths are assigned to me. Here are the days of ownership and self progression, interest and exploration into the world unknown. Unlike the past 18 years, today I’m reading for me. And when you do things truly and honestly for yourself, you gain 100% of the reward.

 

 

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The Things I Miss the Most

When you live in a state of comfort, you rarely recognize it as such. Life constantly challenges you but there are always those comforts that can bring you back to a state of peace. It isn’t until those things are no longer there, however, that the effect of their previous embrace is acknowledged. Like having your blanket removed in the middle of the night, you wake up realizing that something is missing.

It’s hard to put a finger on what I miss the most from home. There’s no one singular person that I long for in my moments of weakness. It used to be my family, and then it became everyone. There’s no one singular item that I wish I had to make me feel at home. It used to be my bed and then it became everything. Sometimes it’s a living room floored with carpeting that I long for, sometimes it’s a couch to sprawl out on. Sometimes it’s the smell of fresh cut grass or fresh cut pine, and other times it’s the smell of fresh fallen leaves. Those are the things that you never imagine you’ll miss when you leave home. Those are the things that you forget to take in one last time before you pack your bags. You can mentally prepare yourself to leave your friends and family, but equally important aspects go unrecognized because we don’t see them as comforts until that blanket goes missing.

Living without these things is life defining. The small patches of empty space where I used to mindlessly pass through moments of comfort are so persistent that in these moments I realize how I define home. Home is living without fear of danger; walking alone at midnight simply because you need a fresh breath of air, or simply because you can. Home is not worrying that you left the microwave plugged in over night. Home is walking down the street without feeling like ‘the other.’ Home is not thinking constantly about how to ask for what you need at the store. Home is not only about what is around you, but also what is not present. Comfort is only recognized when it is not there.

Yet, at the same time, these moments of discomfort are what make us stronger, more capable of conquering life’s difficulties. Discomfort is synonymous for growth and it is important to constantly remind ourselves of this in instances of frustration or misunderstanding. Learning about others, yes, but more importantly learning about ourselves; what we believe in, what gives us peace, what aspects are most important in our lives, and what we lean on in times of need. By removing the safety net that has always been there to catch us, we quickly learn its importance. We will certainly fall, but the getting up is what teaches us resiliency and gives us character.

Take every moment as an opportunity to look back at yourself and learn. Are you crying because you’re deeply passionate about something? Are you frustrated because you had not thought about something in that way before? Are you excited because you’ve discovered a new way to look at something? Be conscious of the things around you and most importantly be conscious of yourself. Be grateful for the comforting blanket, but know that it may not always be there. Be ready to adapt and find other ways to keep warm when life proves its coldness.