Reason #4: If It's a Workshop, Let Me Make Something

For me, the term "workshop" conjures up images of candy canes and elves and the creation of something magical. When I don't think of elves, I'm thinking of The Old Yankee Workshop and what it means to spend some time crafting something enduring and beautiful.  Thus, when I hear that we will be attending a workshop, I initially hope that we'll be creating something.

Instead, I sit in a room full of round tables, filling out sheets in a binder without having much of a chance to ask how this information applies to my classroom.  Sometimes I'll write notes to myself like, "When you get back, try this type of learning center."  However, by the time I get back, I am exhausted and I don't want to think about my classroom.

Don't get me wrong.  I try to engage with the speaker.  I ask questions.  I take notes.  I am generally well-behaved.  However, eventually this cracks.  Eventually the creative impulse breaks through and I'm gone.  If the workshop information is new, I'll take what I'm learning and begin writing a lesson plan.  Or, I'll start developing a project based upon some of the ideas the workshop has stirred up.

If the workshop information is irrelevant, I start creating a graphic novel or writing a short story.  I've actually written a quarter of a novel, Candy Cane Revolution about the danger of power as Santa moves from savior of the elves to ruthless tyrant, throughout the course of boring workshops, professional development sessions and mediocre sermons.   I know it sounds harsh, but I do it to protect myself from some of my darker, more cynical thoughts that creep up when I'm sitting through a boring lecture.

Solution:

What if workshops were just that?  What if people had a chance to work with the information, use it in a meaningful way and then leave with something tangible?  What if they could tap into the creative impulse not as an afterward application, but in the midst of the process?

A few years back, I had a chance to teach a six-week professional development called Project Social Voice.  According to my objectives, I needed to help teachers learn various web 2.0 tools in a meaningful way.  Instead of giving mini-lessons on each tool, I had teachers develop tech-integrated curriculum and eventually put it all together into a portfolio.  We practiced digital story-telling, recorded podcasts and engaged in debate about each medium through the use of our blogs.

The result?  Each teacher learned how to use the medium, but also increased in motivation and self-efficacy (based upon the surveys taken before and after).  Beyond that, though, we had something tangible for our classrooms.  We shared a common curriculum we had developed, but we had the freedom to customize it however we wanted.

Something unexpected happened in the process.  We grew closer.  Somehow, the very personal act of creating something forced us to be more intimate and honest with one another.  We weren't simply a group of people listening to a common speaker.  We had become a guild, working on a common craft, asking hard questions and sharing our expertise.