From Marshall Memo
Questioning,
the Most Basic Teaching Tool
In
this article in Phi Delta Kappan,
Anne Bruder (Berea College) remembers that her fifth-grade teacher in northern
Michigan thought she was trouble. Young Anne asked way too many questions: Why
was Lansing the state capital? How and why had the region’s Chippewa Indians
vanished? Why did all fractions need to be reduced to their lowest terms? What
really caused the Challenger explosion? And why were boys allowed to violently
pelt girls during dodgeball?
“In my youthful taxonomy of
questions,” says Bruder, “I’d hopscotch between the factual and the
philosophical, from the instrumental to the open-ended; all felt urgent to me
and, I suspect, disruptive to her… I suspect she saw me as taking up too much
space in the room or as being, quite simply, annoying… She glared at me
sideways through her thick acrylic glasses. Her nude nylons squeaked as she
passed by my desk, ignoring, as always, my incessantly raised hand.”
The teacher tried moving
Bruder to the back of the room, then to the front, and finally sent her to the
school’s social worker, who got pelted with more of Anne’s questions: Where was
she from? Did she have kids? How did she feel about Ronald Reagan? Did she
listen to Madonna? Wasn’t the teacher being unreasonable? Bruder liked the
social worker, and they ended up agreeing on a behavior modification contract:
If Bruder managed to limit her questions to five a day and kept that up for a
whole week, she could spend an hour helping out in a kindergarten class. If she
went over the limit, she’d go to the principal’s office.
Bruder loved working with
little kids, posing questions that aroused their curiosity and got their little
hands waving in the air. Back in the fifth-grade classroom, she accepted the
limits. “When my teacher begrudgingly gave me permission to ask one of my five
measly questions,” she says, “I’d concentrate and condense the chain of 12
interconnected curiosities spinning through my mind down to one meaty layered
query. My ‘may I ask you a question?’ soon became my shorthand for ‘may I have
some space to wonder about these things that fascinate me?’” If the teacher was
in a good mood, this sometimes opened up new learning for everyone in the room.
The contract worked, but it
left Bruder with what she calls a “lingering verbal tic” – feeling she had to
ask permission to ask a question. Finally, in college, a professor said to her,
“Your questions are keen, important. Keep asking them. Ask even more. But stop
asking for permission from me or anyone else.” This was terrifically
liberating, says Bruder. Finally she was released from “the anxious tic of a
10-year-old with a tiny budget for her curiosity.” This class and others in
college and graduate school came to resemble Socratic dialogues: “I began to see myself as someone with a keen voice in
the classroom, someone with agency and ability to determine how I might use
this question superpower to understand my world more fully.”
Bruder went on to become a
college English professor, and she knows that the questions with
straightforward answers that she used to spend hours researching in the
library, her students can now Google in seconds. But the Internet doesn’t
answer the kinds of questions she dreamed up as a 10-year-old, and those are
the ones she wants her college students to grapple with: How did it feel to be
a girl in America at various points over the last 200 years? What happens to a
democracy when radical ideas take center stage? Why should we still care about
a sermon Ralph Waldo Emerson gave in 1838? Students come to her office asking
lower-level questions that can be
answered by Google, but don’t ask enough of the kinds of questions that require
engaging deeply with books, footnotes – and of course thoughtful classroom
discussions.
“I’ve come to see that for my
students, asking the more unwieldy questions takes confidence and humility,”
says Bruder, “both of which my teaching must nurture. My students need to be
bold enough to voice an inchoate or controversial speculation that might, in
the end, fizzle out – or prove explosive. To do so, they must trust me enough
to know that I’ll help them when their questions get tangled. They need to know
that I won’t leave them hanging and that I’ll use my own questioning tone to
reflect back to them what I think they’re trying to ask. And they need to
believe, in some unshakable way, that my classroom is a hospitable place for
their messiest queries.” Since many of her students are the first in their
families to go to college, this sense of safety and belonging is especially
important. She wants them to feel okay asking the kinds of questions she was discouraged
from asking in fifth grade.
When Bruder says to one of her
college students, “May I ask you a question?” it has an entirely new meaning
than when she spoke those words as a 10-year-old and as a 20-year-old. “Now,
directed to my student, it tells her: ‘I see you. I recognize you as a full
participant in our work together. I acknowledge that you are capable of seeing
and knowing something new and exciting. I want to hear what you think. Come and
think alongside me, alongside all of us in the room.’ Each time I ask for my
students’ permission, I’m reminded of the power and the magic of our most basic
teaching tool to forge connections and help us all move into the unknown
together.”