Considering Sustainability Outside of the Science Classroom
by Lauren G. McClanahan
Western Washington University
Humanity is exalted not because we are so far above other living creatures, but because knowing them well elevates the very concept of life.
—E.O. Wilson
Given the titles most often studied in secondary literature classes, one could infer that critical topics such as race, gender, class and culture reigned supreme in the 20th and 21st centuries. From the classics to current young adult fiction, students are transported to worlds where characters are acting in and around specific settings, but the settings are not necessarily the star attraction. The settings provide context, but only as backdrops for the main characters on stage. According to Glotfelty (1996), upon reading the current canon, “you would never suspect that the earth’s life support systems were under stress. Indeed, you might never know that there was an earth at all” (p. xvi). In secondary literature classrooms, where students study how ethics impact their moral and spiritual lives, “we have fairly well ignored our impact on the natural world or our relationships with it” (Bruce, 2011, p. 13).
The concept of relationships is key. Closely examine any middle or high school curriculum, and you will readily find many topics being formally studied: chemistry, algebra, civics, literature and the like. However, what you won’t readily find is any meaningful connection between them, as often they are treated as separate entities, existing in a vacuum, not simultaneously acting or being acted upon. As educators, we would do well to heed Barry Commoner’s first law of ecology, which states, “Everything is connected to everything else.” The disciplines under study in our schools should not, according to Cheryll Glotfelty, “float above the material world in aesthetic ether,” but rather they must interact, playing a part in an “immensely complex global system, in which energy, matter and ideas interact” (1996, p. xix, emphasis in original).
Ignoring our impact on the natural world occurs at our own peril. Scan any headline and you are sure to find news of storms of increasing severity, toxic oil spills, and the ravages of mining, drought, flooding and famine. Secondary English teachers must come to terms with the fact that we are beginning (re: have already begun) to reach our environmental limits on this planet, “a time when the consequences of human actions are damaging the planet’s basic life support systems” (Glotfelty, 1996, p. xx).
According to Ecological literacy expert David W. Orr, “Sustainability is about the terms and conditions of human survival, and yet we still educate at all levels as if no such crisis existed” (1992, p. 83). Orr goes on to state, “all education is environmental education” both by inclusion and exclusion (1992, p. 90). By what we teach or don’t teach, we model to our students that they are “a part or apart from” the natural world (Orr, 1992, p. 12). What this implicitly tells our English Language Arts students, which they are receiving in most cases through exclusion, is that “our ecological relationship with our habitat is either a matter of little importance or something only relevant to ‘science geeks’” (Bruce, 2011, p. 13). According to Glotfelty, “as environmental problems compound, work as usual [in the English classroom] seems unconscionably frivolous. If we’re not part of the solution, we’re part of the problem” (1996, p. xxi).
But aren’t issues of the natural world, the earth and its systems, best left to the domains of science? Why must we feel compelled to study the natural world in the English Language Arts classroom? In this paper, I will attempt to offer a rationale for the inclusion of the environment into the ELA classroom, and offer a plea to the profession that the natural world (and, by extension, the constructed world) is definitely under our purview, and that as teachers of English and composition, we are morally obligated to cast the earth as a main character, for only out of action can environmental justice take root and grow.
What English Teachers Do
As English Language Arts teachers, we may feel that the issues of resource depletion and increasing toxicity are beyond our prescribed scope and sequence. Yet, I would suggest that it is well within our capacity to cross over into territory once claimed exclusively by the sciences—indeed, it is our moral obligation as teachers. According to Glotfelty (2006), we must consider “nature not just as the stage upon which the human story is acted out, but as an actor in the drama” (p. xxi and we humans as “ecologically imbedded rather than immune” (Bruce, 2011, p. 14). Because English Language Arts teachers specialize in questions of “vision, values, ethical understanding, meaning, point of view, tradition, imagination, culture, language and literacy” (Bruce, 2011, p. 14), we can easily cross the arbitrary and human-constructed boundary into the sciences. Questions of vision, values, ethics and culture are, according to Buell (2005), “at least as fundamental as scientific research, technological know-how, and legislative regulation” (p. 5).
Moreover, the English Language Arts perspective “softens” the sciences where discussions of environmental degradation normally occur. One popular point of entry is Aldo Leopold’s (1966) concept of a “land ethic,” in which he states, “A thing is right when it tends to preserve the integrity, stability and beauty of the biotic community [soils, water, plants and animals]. It is wrong when it tends otherwise” (p. 262). His statement is ecocentric (nature-centered) as opposed to anthropocentric (human-centered), and here is where the English Language Arts can find entrée into the sciences. By studying literature and composition in ways that notice both human and non-human species, we promote empathy for all, including soil, water, and air, upon which all life depends (Bruce, 2011). By tackling issues of environmental degradation (or, conversely, celebration), English Language Arts can focus on how humans are affected by human action and on how the whole of biota (including, but not favoring, humans) is affected.
Another natural cross-over point of English Language Arts into the sciences is through the discipline of ecology. According to Dobrin & Weisser (2002), ecology can be defined as “a science that evolved specifically to study the relationships between organisms and their surrounding environment” (p. 9). They define the relatively new field of ecocomposition as a study of relationships: “Relationships between individual writers and their surrounding environments, relationships between writers and texts, relationships between texts and culture, between ideology and discourse, between language and the world” (p. 9). Here, Dobrin and Weisser are explicit in their use of the term “environment,” in that it is more encompassing than merely “nature.” “We mean all environments: classroom environments, political environments, electronic environments, ideological environments, historical environments, economic environments, natural environments” (Dobrin & Weisser, 2002, p. 9). As English Language Arts teachers, we deal daily in the study of discourse (speaking, writing and thinking), and that means studying the relationship between discourse and any site where discourse exists, be it natural, constructed, or imaginary.
Ecocomposition, Ecoliteracy and the “Greening” of English
The curricular responsibilities of English Language Arts teachers can be broken down into two main categories: reading and writing. They can be further dissected into reading different authors and genres, and writing for different audiences and purposes. Critical theories such as race, gender, class and culture have dominated the post-modern English Language Arts curriculum. Two new curricular approaches suggest that place be added as a new critical category. The first is “ecocriticism,” defined as “the study of the relationship between literature and the physical environment” (Glotfelty, 1996, p. xviii). Glotfelty (1996) explains that “Just as feminist criticism examines language and literature from a gender-conscious perspective, and Marxist criticism brings an awareness of modes of production and economic class to its reading of texts, ecocriticism takes an earth-centered approach to literary studies” (p. xviii). Questions such as “How is nature represented in this sonnet?” and “What role does the physical setting play in the plot of this novel” inform the focus of ecocriticism. Whereas ecocriticism is concerned primarily with the interpretation (i.e. reading) of text, a second theory, ecocomposition, is concerned primarily with the production (i.e. writing) of text (Dobrin & Weisser, 2002), understood to include not only the printed word, but also visual and natural texts (or contexts). In this sense, the concept of language (discourse) is broadened, so that “language does not exist outside of nature,” and that language (discourse) is “the most powerful, indeed perhaps the only tool for social and political change” (Dobrin & Weisser, 2002, p. 26). Indeed, following this line of thinking, writing = power.
But how could we best frame a curriculum based upon these two new critical theories of reading (ecocriticism) and writing (ecocomposition)? The broader concept of ecological literacy might be useful for helping to locate nature in the English Language Arts. Orr (1992) suggests that, “Literacy is the ability to read. Numeracy is the ability to count. Ecological literacy…is the ability to ask, ‘what then’” (p. 85)? “What then?” would, according to Orr, be an appropriate question to ask “before the last rainforests disappear, before the growth economy consumes itself into oblivion, and before we have warmed our planet intolerably” (p. 85). One could just as easily ask, “Why should I care?” Or, “How does this affect me?” The English Language Arts skills of close observation and making connections must be brought into practice if we are to adopt an ecological literacy framework. To help us construct that framework, a framework that asks us to step outside of our minds and out into nature, Orr (1992) suggests six principles, or frames of mind, that we would do well to introduce to our students
“[A]ll education is environmental education” (p. 90).
“[E]nvironmental issues are complex and cannot be understood through a single discipline or department” (p. 90).
“[F]or inhabitants, education occurs in part as a dialogue with a place and has the characteristics of good conversation” (p. 90).
“[T]he way education occurs is as important as its content” (p. 91).
“[E]xperience in the natural world is both an essential part of understanding the environment, and conducive to good thinking” (p. 91).
“[E]ducation relevant to the challenge of building a sustainable society will enhance the learner’s competence with natural systems” (p. 92).
Although all of Orr’s Principles are useful guides towards an ecological English Language Arts curriculum, the first two are most directly and easily applied through a place-based pedagogical approach.
The Power of Place: Place-Based Writing
A place-based education incorporates the concept of “place” or “environment” as an integrating context across multiple disciplines (Sobel, 2004). Place-based education can be characterized by “interdisciplinary learning, team-teaching, hands-on experiences that center on problem-solving projects, learner-centered education that adapts to students’ individual skills and abilities, and the exploration of the local community and natural surroundings” (Bruce, 2011, p. 21). We can use our local places, environmental issues (and all issues are environmental), and peoples’ natural love of nature, or “biophilia” (Wilson, 1984) “…to improve English education, literacy, and citizenship” (Lundahl, 2011, p. 44). Keeping in mind Orr’s (1992) first two principles of ecological literacy, we can see how a place-based pedagogy is a natural fit for the English Language Arts.
Orr’s (1992) first principle of ecological literacy, that “All education is environmental education” (p. 90) may at first seem hyperbolic, but is indeed accurate. When combined with the pedagogy of place-based education, this principle takes flight. According to Sobel (2004), place-based education:
…is the process of using the local community and environment as a starting point to teach concepts in language arts…and other subjects across the curriculum. Emphasizing hands-on, real-world learning experiences, this approach to education increases academic achievement, helps students develop stronger ties to their community, enhances students’ appreciation for the natural world, and creates a heightened commitment to serving as active, contributing citizens. (p. 7)
Sobel’s (1992) emphasis on the cross-curricular nature of place-based education highlights Orr’s (1992) second principle of ecological literacy, which states that, “environmental issues are complex and cannot be understood through a single discipline or department” (p. 90). By using local places as sites for linking the arts and the sciences, students make connections, and when students make connections to a place, that place becomes more personal. Place-based writing projects encourage students to more fully commit to a topic, which can allow for a more authentic writing experience. Indeed, “meaningful writing both grows out of and reflects back on a connection with place” (Jacobs, 2011, p. 51). By providing our students with unique, authentic experiences in their own communities, we can begin to harness the elusive quality of “voice,” along with providing authentic reasons and audiences for writing.
Heeding Student Voice
Taking a place-based, eco-literacy approach to the language arts can be a weighty, sometimes depressing task. The new term “solastalgia” describes the “sense of loss people feel when they see changes to local environments as harmful” (Bluestone, 2011, World Changing, p. 449). Reading the headlines today, students must be concerned with a wide array of environmental issues, some which affect them directly (increasing gasoline prices, local flooding) and some of which affect them indirectly (the melting of the polar ice caps). In order to avoid this feeling of eco-nihilism, Owens (2001) suggests that:
Educators have a responsibility to help students resist the cynicism and hyperbordom of contemporary consumer culture…[we must] give them opportunities to testify about what is wrong and what is good about those worlds…[and] provide them with a vocabulary with which they might critique their environments and develop an awareness of what exactly it is…that can make a person miserable, bored, angry, tired, scared, depressed. (p. 69)
This concept of testimony fits nicely into the more personal structure of place-based writing. As Freire (2000) states, the purpose of education is for students to “develop their power to perceive critically the way they exist in the world with which and in which they find themselves” (p. 83, emphasis in original). To bring about lasting change, both reflection and action are needed; the word and the world are inseparable. Personal experience can often be considered the best evidence when building a rhetorical argument. According to Matalene (2000):
Most students quickly learn that the easiest, safest, least risky method is to keep private and public separate. This seems to me seriously wrong…we should be encouraging many voices, not turning them all into one. Surely, teaching students that they have the right and the responsibility to add their own unique voices to the American conversation is why we teach writing anyway. Surely, we want to strengthen their individual, private voices so that one day they may speak, not just listen, and act, not just watch. (pp. 188-9)
Matalene articulates the fundamental rationale for encouraging students to write from their experience, “It honors their voice, encourages their efforts, and, ultimately, follows Freire’s idea of praxis from reflection to action, to make better citizens” (Jacobs, 2011, p. 51). Certainly, the uniqueness of experience + place = voice. Additionally, when framed within a place-based, ecocompositional curriculum, students are afforded more authentic reasons to read, write, think and take action.
Response to any crisis is often technological, and with the goal of solving the immediate problem. But what if the response to how climate change is affecting the lives of middle and high school students was more reflective in nature, and focused on writing and thinking specifically about place? The following section examines a specific assignment that asked students to look closely at their unique communities and tell their own stories, through words and photos, of how climate change has impacted their lives. This assignment is an invitation to think about something that these students earnestly need to think about, something that is troubling to them, and to, “use English class and writing as a vehicle for discovery” (Ruggieri, 2000, p. 53).
First Person Singular Project: The Marriage of Ecocomposition and Place-Based Education
In my experience as a middle school Language Arts teacher, and now a teacher educator, I often come to the conclusion that my students learn best from, a) studying topics that are of interest to them, and, b) from one another. Thus, I created the First Person Singular project, where I ask middle and high school students to use text (both written and visual, through the use of photographs) to tell a story, in this case, the story of how climate change is having a direct affect on their lived experience. It is my contention that teens (and often, adults) will listen more closely if a story of such immense consequence as the degradation of our planet is told through the eyes of peers.
To begin, I ask students to photograph evidence of climate change that they may see in their own neighborhoods. In Kwigillingok, Alaska, this means photographing the damaging effects of the melting permafrost beneath their homes. In Tsetserleg, Mongolia, this meant photographing evidence of unusually harsh winters. In Burlington, Vermont, this meant photographing local flood damage due to unusually heavy rains. By locating problems in specific places, the project takes on an immediacy and an authenticity that can only be achieved through a place-based pedagogy.
After students have collected their photographic evidence, they are asked to write about what they photographed, and why they think it is a good example of how climate change is affecting their lives. In nearly every instance, the physical manifestation of a changing climate is deeply personal. In Alaska, for example, students wrote about how their homes were sinking due to the melting of the permafrost beneath their feet. Their photos and their accompanying writing illustrated homes that had to be propped up by concrete cinder blocks to remain somewhat level. One student’s essay explained how his community has already had to move once due to shoreline erosion, and he did not want to have to move again. “We can’t leave,” he eloquently stated, “but we can’t stay, either.” In Vermont, climate change looks quite different. Two months before I worked with these students, a hurricane swept up the East Coast, leaving Burlington soggy amidst floodwaters not normally seen so far inland. Several students chose to write about how the destruction of the city’s bike path impacted them. Since bicycles are their primary mode of transportation, they felt cut off from the world when the floodwaters tore apart the path. These stories are perfect examples of how the ecological relationships between humans and their surrounding environments are dependent and symbiotic. Through discourse (in this case, writing) these students were able to shape their experiences, using the power of the word in naming the world around them, and their experiences in it.
After photographs have been taken and words have been written, I ask students to read their writing aloud, into a digital recorder, so that their voice (quite literally) can be heard. I believe this to be the most powerful aspect of the entire First Person Singular project—the platform it provides to literally hear students’ voices. When combined with the photographs, the audience begins to gain a sense of who these students are, as individuals, and why what matters to them should matter to us as well.
All elements of The First Person Singular project (photos, writing, and audio) are then entered into a video production program (in this case, iMovie) to be made into a digital story. For the purposes of the First Person Singular project, digital storytelling can be defined as a multimodal activity combining written, oral, visual and gestural symbols into digital representations, such as videos, short films, feature-length films, or photo montages. Thus, digital storytelling is an ever-evolving method of artistic and academic expression, often told in the first-person narrative form (hence the name of the project). Content is most often drawn from personal experiences that are deemed important by the students involved in their creation. Through this project, students are reminded that the source of their power lies in their own story, in the earth, and the relationship between the two. Hence, students must learn to tap into and trust the truth of their own lived experiences. An example of “First Person Singular: Alaska” can be seen here:
Once students have engaged in a project that has affected them personally, they might feel the urge to take on an issue of local importance—the pollution of their local watershed, the air quality in their particular neighborhood, or the safety of their local food supply. Any number of social-justice themed projects cold be similarly told, using the combination of text and photographs, to illustrate how everything is connected to everything else, and to create a civic competence that tends to be lacking in our schools.[FL1] One recent example is the publication of “Dream fields: A peek into the world of migrant youth.” In this book, migrant youth from Washington state share their stories, through words and photos, of the conditions they find working in the damp fields of Washington’s commercial tulip industry.
Toward an Environmental Justice
As teachers, regardless of grade level or discipline, we must constantly ask ourselves, “Why?” Why do we do what we do, and what results do we hope to see because of it? The answer, I believe, lies within our belief that it is our moral and ethical obligation to do so, to model for the citizens of tomorrow how to think creatively, holistically and put their learning into practice. We want our students to eventually outgrow their need for us, to trust their own experiences as valid, and continually learn from them. Personally, I would add that I do what I do because of my own biophilia, or love of life—all life—in its myriad forms. I want my young daughter to have the same ecological opportunities that I have had—to come face-to-face with massive glaciers, to share a meal with a nomadic Mongolian family, to see the Milky Way on a clear, cool night, to experience autumn in New England, to hear an orca breathing. And I don’t just stop at my own daughter—I want every child, regardless of place—to have the opportunity to experience environments and cultures that are different from their own, before those environments and cultures disappear.
So, where do the English Language Arts fit in? Why the emphasis on “greening” the humanities? According to Jensen, “Far too many of us have forgotten, or never knew, that words can be used as weapons in service of our communities. Far too many of us have forgotten, or never knew, that words should be used as weapons in service of our communities” (2012). Some say that literature should be apolitical, and that the English classroom (or any classroom, for that matter) is not the place for politics. Well, thank goodness Rachel Carson wasn’t apolitical. Thank goodness Mark Twain wasn’t apolitical. Jensen (2012) states it well:
I would not be who I am and I would not write what I write without having learned from some of my elders who refused to believe that writers should or can be apolitical or neutral or objective. The truth is most important, they said. It is more important than money. It is more important than fame. It is more important than your career. It’s more important than your preconceptions. Follow the truth—follow the words and ideas—wherever they lead. Words matter, they said. Art matters. Literature matters. Words and art and literature can change lives, and can change history. Make sure that your words and your art and your literature move people individually and collectively in the direction of justice and sustainability. They said literature that supports capitalism is immoral. A literature that supports patriarchy is immoral. A literature that does not resist oppression is immoral. But you can help to create a literature of morality and resistance, as each new generation must create this literature, with the help of all those generations who came before, holding their hands for support, just as those who come after will need to hold yours.
Lauren G. McClanahan holds a Ph.D. in English Education and is currently Professor of Secondary Education at Woodring College of Education, Western Washington University in Bellingham, WA. As a former middle school teacher, her interests include how student voice can be used to inform audiences about how climate change is affecting those in ecologically sensitive areas. Her series of “First Person Singular” video projects include students in Alaska, Vermont, and Mongolia.
I learned early on that storytelling is one of the most important tools for teaching science. If you think about it . . . what is science? Science is an attempt to understand the universe.
A well-told science story does three important jobs: It brings facts to life; it makes abstract concepts concrete; and through the virtual reality of storytelling, it walks listeners through the process of scientific inquiry.
Children are curious about information and science facts if they’re presented in an intriguing way. Historically, teaching science education meant spending an inordinate amount of time memorizing facts. Facts are important, and storytelling is one of the most effective ways of delivering them. But if you stop with facts you are not teaching science. Science is a verb, an activity, not simply a body of knowledge.
Ideas such as the food web, evolution, the water cycle, and animal adaptation are examples of the “big picture” ideas that are critical to understanding modern science. But if you stop with concepts, you still are not teaching science. You are building a necessary conceptual framework for ordering and understanding facts. Again, science is something you do, a way of asking questions and seeking answers.
Storytelling can be used to introduce or implement all of the science standards. Though it is obviously a prime example of language arts and science communication skills, I often include mathematics problems in the science stories to emphasize the importance of mathematics in science education.
Science-process skills are the methods or strategies that scientists employ to discover and understand the story of the universe. A good story involves the listener in many of the strategies of gathering the facts of the story, making predictions about the outcome, and checking their hypothesis against the unfolding details of the tale. Also, you can use a story to make abstract concepts personal and tangible. Important facts can be conveyed within a dynamic context so the facts stick; they have more meaning and impact
Let me share a short story that will show you what I mean.
Starting with a Story
When I was a student at Oberlin College, one of my favorite biology professors was a man whom I only remember as George. At 94 years old he taught an occasional class. Because his father had also been a biology professor at Oberlin College, George had grown up on campus. Botany was his specialty and he spent his entire life studying the flora and fauna of northeastern Ohio.
Once a month on Sunday afternoon, George led a hike in the arboretum. Every month that I could be there, I was. He meandered through the arboretum telling stories about whatever plant caught his fancy.
One Sunday afternoon as we were walking in the flood plain of Plum Creek, he stopped next to an ancient cottonwood. This huge tree was almost a meter wide and maybe 30 m tall. He leaned against this giant tree and said . . .
When I was a seven-year-old boy, my father told me that cottonwood trees had a unique characteristic: If you break off a branch and stick it in the mud, it will sprout.
When my father told me this I thought, “Poppycock! If you break off a branch it is dead. A dead stick will not sprout.” Note that I did not say this; I have more respect for my father than to openly dispute him without a bit of evidence, but I did not believe him.
A few weeks later I was walking through the arboretum when a huge storm blew in. I love those Midwestern summer thunderstorms. As the clouds roll across the Great Lakes they pick up steam, literally. You can see the dark clouds gather in the distance as the winds start to blow and you know the heavens are going to open. Most kids might run home, but not me. I love the crack of lightning, the roar of thunder, and the warm rains that pummel the earth.
As I was walking along Plum Creek a strong gust of wind snapped off a branch from a cottonwood tree and it stuck in the mud. I thought, “Aha! This is my chance to prove my father wrong.” I came back each day for five days to gather evidence. Sure enough, after the third hot summer day it started to wilt. Because of the heat it was losing more water than it could absorb; evapo-transpiration is the scientific word for tree sweat. By the fifth day the leaves were curled. This branch was dead.
I went home and told my father he was wrong, and I had the proof. My father calmly listened to my interpretation of the facts. He said, “Son, you’re jumping to conclusions. You need to collect more data.” He told me to go back to that tree every day for the next 10 days, write down what I saw, and then tell him what I thought. Being a good son, and wanting to be a good scientist, I went back to that stick every day for 10 days.
Sure enough, after five more days the leaves started to uncurl. After seven days they started to plump up, to fill with fluid. By the 10th day the stick was indeed alive. I wanted to know why or how, so I carefully dug down around one side of the stick. I saw the small sprouting roots that had begun to grow. So, my father was right. Cottonwood do have a unique characteristic in their ability to sprout if you plant a stick in wet earth. It’s called regeneration. This is why cottonwood and willow are very important tools in preventing erosion. Streamside stabilization projects use willow posts and cottonwoods to help hold the stream banks in place.
I’ll never forget this idea because, you see, this giant cottonwood tree that we are standing next to is that cottonwood stick I watched wilt 87 years ago. Obviously, my father was right because that stick has grown into this huge tree.
And now having heard the tale, you will never forget that cottonwoods are able to regenerate either.
Making Stories Work for You
While the story is still fresh in your mind, make a short list of some of the facts you learned from this story. Which major concepts stand out for you? What are the science-process skills modeled in this study of the cottonwood? (At this point in a performance or workshop I often ask the audience to turn to a partner and answer these questions aloud. Obviously this is difficult in an article! But before you read on, please take a moment, read back over these questions, and make a list, at least a mental one.)
Through George’s story we have collected data about transpiration, root growth, and regeneration. We have formulated the hypothesis that sticks cannot regenerate and then designed an investigation to prove or disprove our theory. We have drawn an incorrect conclusion and collected more evidence to discover the truth. We have learned about trees but more importantly we have learned the process skills we need to learn about the unfolding drama that is the story of the universe. To paraphrase an old proverb, we have been given fish for supper and a net for catching all the fish we desire.
Think about it another way: Do you remember what your third-grade teacher said on November 4, nineteen hundred and . . . whenever? Do you remember stories that you heard when you were a child? If you have something important to say, put it into a story! Stories are like the glue that helps things stick. By giving facts an exciting context, they are more meaningful and more likely to be remembered.
Stories can make abstract theories concrete by bringing the listener into direct experience with the concept. The food web is not just an idea in a textbook; it is what you had for lunch. The water cycle flows through your blood streams. Storytelling engages listeners in the scientific process through the suspense and virtual reality that a good story creates. Students make discoveries along with the author or main character in the tale. You can tell stories from your life and experience, or you can dramatize important discoveries in the history of science. Even works of realistic fiction, if grounded in good science, can be written or told to illuminate a concept, introduce a chapter, or prepare students for a science experiment.
Having said all that, I’ll say something more: If you stop here, it isn’t enough.
Students must be energetically engaged in the activity of designing investigations and conducting research. After listening to this story about the cottonwood, what questions does it raise for you? How could you design a study that would find the answers? Go ahead and conduct this investigation. Remember: Science should be a verb!
After a recent retelling of this story, one student’s hand shot into the air immediately. When called upon he asked if this ability to regenerate was true of other trees. I asked what he thought. Several students’ hands shot up. They discussed different trees that might regenerate. One child said, “We could plant sticks from different trees and see if it was true.”
This is the other important role of storytelling in science education. A good story can motivate listeners or readers to want to become scientists. Think about it . . . who were the professors or teachers who inspired you to pursue this field? I’ll bet they were all good storytellers.
What are your stories? How can you share your discoveries in a way that could inspire and instruct your students? What are some of the classic tales of science that you remember from your education?
One of my favorite anecdotes from history is about the smallpox vaccination. Edward Jenner noticed that milkmaids did not get pox. He found that they had been exposed to a germ called cow pox. This allowed milkmaids to develop an immunity so they were not affected by smallpox. From this discovery he developed a vaccine that saved thousands if not millions of lives.
Another of my favorites, though tragic, involved Marie Curie. She discovered radioactivity and opened the doors to the new science of nuclear physics. She would wear radioactive jewelry to dinner parties as a conversation piece. She later died from cancer because no one knew of the dangers of radioactivity. These are just two examples of classic tales you could tell.
In any discipline from astrophysics to molecular biology there are great stories about the scientists and their discoveries that you could dramatize. If you want to invigorate your teaching, tell your students the stories of science and the scientists that have inspired you. Tell the tales of the universe and your students will gain a deeper understanding of science facts, concepts, and methods.
Resources
Print
Cherry, L. (1990). The Great Kapok Tree. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich.
Ellis, B. (1997). Learning from the Land: Teaching Science Through Stories and Activities. Englewood, CO: Teacher Ideas Press.
Frasier, D. (1991). On the Day You Were Born. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich.
Haven, K. (1994). Marvels of Science; 50 Fascinating 5-Minute Reads. Englewood, CO: Libraries Unlimited.
Leopold, A. (1970). A Sand County Almanac. New York: Ballantine Books.
Muir, J. (1994). The Wild Muir. Yosemite, CA: The Yosemite Association.
Reed-Jones, C. (1995). The Tree in the Ancient Forest. Nevada City, CA: Dawn Publications.
Yolen, J. (1987). Owl Moon. New York: Philomel Books.
What Makes a Good Science Story?
The most important scientists have all been good storytellers. Think about the scientists who have had the most lasting contributions to our understanding of scientific principles and the way things work. They have all been great writers and storytellers.
I believe that Rachel Carson changed the world in the first few pages of her landmark book Silent Spring (1962). Her modern parable about pesticides and the absence of songbirds in the spring helped to write new laws and radically transformed our relationship with the wild world. Her story took you inside the dilemma of a toxic environment and the long-term implications of what was then acceptable behavior. Her story, like the writings of Stephen J. Hawkins, Stephan Gould, Annie Dillard, Aldo Leopold, and others, can give you a front-row seat on scientific discoveries.
Through their stories you feel like a voyeur, looking over their shoulders as they fumble through their mistakes and stumble upon the truth. A good science story needs this sense of immediacy, this in-the-moment insider’s view. Think about some passionate moment in your work as a scientist or science teacher. This passion and enthusiasm is important to the writing and telling of the tale.
Like all good stories you need well-defined characters. Who was there? Help us get to know something about these people and their motivations. You need a clear setting. Where were you? Describe the place using all of your senses; take us into this unique moment and specific location. You also need a dynamic plot with a sense of mystery or surprise. What happened? What led to your discovery? What did you learn from your mistake or success? Take us step by step through the questions that led to the research, the methods you used, and your “Aha” moment, when things clicked for you. Let the reader or listener share your sense of discovery. Use this outline to build your tale.
Recreate the moment. Exercise your science vocabulary while defining terms with explanatory clauses. If young children can memorize the Latin names of dinosaurs, they can certainly learn science vocabulary if they hear the words in a meaningful context. The truth is they will never learn these words unless they hear them in a meaningful context.
Interrupt the story to ask questions, engage the audience as guinea pigs in your experiment, or have the audience members choose a partner and tell each other their hypotheses.
When the story is over create a space for them to process the ideas, ask questions about the outcome, and internalize the concepts. Challenge them to design and conduct follow-up studies.
If the story motivates students to be active participants in scientific inquiry you know you have a great story!
How to Tell a Tale
What do storytellers do to bring the story to life? Who were your favorite professors, teachers, preachers, and politicians? What techniques did they employ to hold your attention?
Different personalities tell stories differently. The most important thing is to find a presentation style that suits your personality. With this said there are a few general techniques to consider:
• Use your voice to create characters, express emotions, and experiment with pacing, tone, accents, and sound effects.
• Use your body language, facial expressions, and gestures to convey the unspoken and reinforce the words you are speaking.
• Use your imagination and all five senses to be in the tale as you tell it. The more real you can imagine it, the more real it becomes for your audience even if it is a work of fiction.
• Involve the audience with simple rhetorical questions or complex sing-a-long songs. Within the body of the story allow them a chance to discuss a prediction or formulate a hypothesis.
Engage the audience as a partner in the telling of the tale. Use your voice, body, imagination, and the audience to tell, not read, the story. Beyond technique, the most critical element is your passion for the content. If you can tell the story in a manner that conveys this excitement, your contagious enthusiasm will be the key to a successful telling. [/password]
Abstract: In the contest of ideas, environmental educators put themselves at disadvantage by not availing themselves of the tools of humor. From satire to ridicule to comedy, the ability to connect through humor shouldn’t be overlooked. Humor has often been looked down upon by environmental professionals. Many environmental scientists, advocates, and educators view “Environment” so seriously that “having fun” with it would be “inappropriate”. This puts educators of all stripes at a disadvantage. Opponents of environmental education regularly use ridicule and satire to degrade the message and demean the messengers. Environmental professionals are often portrayed as purveyors of “gloom and doom” and their pronouncements the ranting of Cassandras. These comments often come clothed in mean spirited jest. Willingness to take up the tools of humor simply means leveling the playing field. This paper addresses how humor can inform; approach serious subjects humorously, and can be incorporated into different environmental education forums.
There’s a story that goes back at least until the early 1980s. It is a take off on the biblical story of Creation. It is usually titled something like “God and the EPA” or “God and the Environmentalists”. Instead of God being able to create the known universe at will and on His timetable, He finds himself stymied at every turn by the requirements and concerns of various Heavenly bureaucratic agencies and angelic environmental interest groups. When it becomes apparent that impact assessment, public comment and review, and many of the other things we take for granted as normal in the environmental community are going to stand in His way, God creates Hell. Although it is a funny piece and sure to draw a laugh from a great range of audiences, environmental audiences often miss the underlying message: that processes and protocols that lie near and dear to our heart and are looked at as good, right, just and even dare I say Holy, are infuriating to others in society. In subtle ways, environmental angelic surrogates in the Heavenly Host are subtly mocked and presented as a bit “fuzzy”. The story brings to light a very important point that is often overlooked; those who control the discourse most often control the outcomes.
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In the contest of ideas, environmental educators often put themselves at disadvantage by not availing themselves of the tools of humor. From satire to ridicule to good natured comedy, the ability to reach through humor shouldn’t be overlooked. The use of humor has often been looked down upon in formal and informal environmental education. Many environmental scientists, advocates, and educators often view their subjects as so serious that it would be inappropriate to “have fun” with them. It is often forgotten that humor often provides a tactical advantage in discourse. As Neil Postman pointed out in his seminal work Amusing Ourselves to Death: Public Discourse in the Age of Show Business, we live and work in a society where many interpret veracity from the level of entertainment derived from the presentation.
This entertainment mentality clearly puts environmental educators of all stripes at a disadvantage. Opponents of environmental protection and education regularly use ridicule and satire to degrade the message and demean the messengers. Environmental educators are often portrayed as purveyors of “gloom and doom” and their pronouncements as the ranting of Cassandras. What makes it worse is that these comments often come clothed in mean spirited humor. Look at the language used by Ron Arnold, James Watt, Fred Singer, and other past and present enviro-skeptics and wise use activists. When they are not attempting to draw doubt to the underlying science, they are using satire, ridicule and the darker elements of humor to attack the intellect and motives of the proponents of environmental protection.
The point is that willingness to take up the tools of humor simply means leveling the playing field. This paper addresses how humor in its different forms can be used to inform, how to approach serious subjects humorously, and how humor can be incorporated into different forums. Regarding the conference theme, “Casting a Wider Net”, adding humor to the arsenal of many environmental educators and the ability to defend oneself from the “meaner” forms of humor would certainly expand the scope of environmental education. To paraphrase the apocryphal dying actor “Dying (or talking gloom and doom) is easy, Comedy (or using humor to educate) is hard”.
So, one might ask the question, “What is humor and how do we use it?” There are six or seven basic definitions to the term humor. Humor is:
• The trait (personality characteristic) of being able to appreciate and express the humorous
• The quality of being (or not being) funny
• The liquid parts of the body (still related to the topic in that medieval medicine believed the outer disposition or personality was dependent upon the balance or imbalance of certain essential body fluids)
• One of these four essential humors in medieval medicine
• A characteristic (permanent or temporary) state of being
• A message designed to evoke laughter or
• A good mood.
Why is the use of humor important and powerful? The more painful and/or complex the concept, in the right hands/using the right words, the more powerful the opportunity to teach using humor. Consider the moments of highest tension or grief in ones own life: a birth, a death, a pressurized educational or work situation. How often is resolution or at least momentum changed by the challenge of humor? The medievalists may have been on to something when they spoke about balancing the humors; for humor itself helps to restore balance in discourse.
How can humor be applied to the processes of environmental education? First of all, there is only so much planning that can be done. Even the most skilled professional comedian utilizes the moment and the setting to provide opportunity for comedy to happen. Robin Williams is a master of this as was once again demonstrated during an appearance on “Inside the Actor’s Studio” (June 10, 2001). Being amongst students, he often broke into “professorial” riffs, including a masterful one on the history of comedy (“far back in time, two Cro-Magnon were looking down a hill at a group of Neanderthals. The one Cro-Magnon said to the other ‘How many Neanderthals does it take to light a fire? None, they don’t have it!’”). Humor/comedy is often for educators an opportunistic enterprise. Very often, it can resemble a verbal form of the Japanese martial art Jujitsu. Those who ridicule environmental academics and teaching are often themselves in superior power positions: politicians, leaders of industry or labor, columnists or journalists with regular access to media outlets or “experts” underwritten by moneyed interests.
Think about some common critics of environmental regulation and education, and the great opportunities for ridicule and satire. The U.S. Department of Defense comes readily to mind. Despite the fact that they are arguably the strongest military force in the world, they feel overly constrained by current environmental regulations and they and their allies in Congress have been pushing for exemptions. Imagine the fun one could have with the concept of the U.S. Army being held up by the black footed ferret, the gopher tortoise or some other endangered species. Rep. Tom DeLay is on the record as referring to the EPA as Nazis; think of the imagery that could be used turning this vile comparison on its head. It is important to remember that those who control the terminology often control the discourse and win the argument before it begins. Consider the success that the Wise Use movement has had in labeling acts of vandalism as “ecoterrorism”. It has transformed in the minds of many often minor criminal acts into something seriously subversive and dangerous to the society as a whole.
The use of humor in environmental education does not always have to be defensive or used to ridicule. Consider the sheer wonder of the natural things that surround us. Nature can be pretty funny. Once again to reference Robin Williams, he did a marvelous routine in his standup days on the platypus as proof that God gets stoned. Almost anyone who truly tries to explain the wonders of life and the universe must see a thousand amazing things a day in nature, but even more amusing things. I explain to my students that if we are ever going to really understand how to protect species and their habitats, we must get inside their heads (as best as humanly possible). For instance, when one drives in the southeastern United States, one regularly sees dead armadillo by the roadside. Here is a creature whose ancestors roamed the Earth 60 million years ago, yet is being wiped out by the thousands along lonely stretches of southern roads every summer. I proceed to explain how this can happen by getting down on all fours and invoking audience participation to demonstrate that last few moments of an unlucky armadillo’s life. It is guaranteed not only to evoke laughter but to teach the audience that evolution isn’t fast enough to keep up with technological change.
Every day presents us with opportunities as educators to take what unfortunately may be boring subjects and transform them not only into something that entertains, but teaches. The sci-fi author Harry Harrison referred to one of his characters as being a “stainless steel rat in the wainscoting of society”. We can not simply rely on tradition pathways to deliver information and increase knowledge, understanding and commitment about the environment. I’m not advocating turning teaching into standup comedy. On the other hand a little humor, like chicken soup, couldn’t hurt. As was pointed out in the NEETF/Roper report Understanding Environmental Literacy in America, the levels of understanding and commitment to environmental sustainability in this country are astonishing low. As educators we should be willing to stretch ourselves to “make fun” of serious subjects with that most subversive of goals: to teach.
Eric Fitch teaches in the Environmental Science Program, Dept. of Biology and Environmental Science, Marietta College, Marietta, OH, USA 45750
Reference List
Coyle, Kevin J. (May 2004) Understanding Environmental Literacy in America: And Making It a Reality Washington, D.C.: NEETF (National Environmental Education & Training Foundation
Fitch, Eric J., 2004, National Security and Environmental Protection: New Realities in American Public Policy in Interdisciplinary Environmental Review (Vol. 6, Issue 1): Worchester, MA & Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield
Postman, Neil, 1986 Amusing Ourselves to Death: Public Discourse in the Age of Show Business New York, NY: Penguin Books
Postman, Neil and Charles Weingartner, 1971 Teaching as a Subversive Activity New York, NY: Delta Publishing
Williams, Robin, June 10, 2001 (originally aired ) Inside the Actors Studio Exec. Producer/Host James Lipton, Director Jeff Wurtz, New York, NY: Television Program
Williams, Robin (1993) Robin Williams – Live at the Met : Producer Troy Miller. 60 min. Lionsgate New York, NY: Videocassette
