All posts by Jessica Parsons

6x6

The Kindness in Thinking It Through

Leave a comment

This past week has been a whirlwind of logistics and duct tape as we successfully launched the Access in Action conference. The speakers were amazing, and each one reinforced a shared idea: accessibility is less about grand gestures and compliance checklists and more about the everyday choices that make learning easier to participate in and engage with.

Late last week, I started to plan how to thank our speakers. I’ve always been a “thank-you card” person, so that felt like the most genuine way to express my gratitude. When I paused to think about how that gesture would actually be received, it became clear that I needed to adjust. One of our speakers is blind, so I need to make adjustments to the format, but not the intention.

Using a braille machine to create a thank-you note shouldn’t be something we frame as “going above and beyond”. Creating an accessible experience should be the expected minimum. If I’m going to make thank you cards for all my speakers, I’m going to make thank you cards for all of my speakers.

Kindness, at its core, isn’t about effort or novelty. It’s about taking a moment to reflect on how our actions land, and whether they fully and completely communicate the care we intend.

As a homeschool student, I vividly remember many, many trips to the Burton Barr Central Library, particularly for a lesson on Helen Keller. What left an impression with me wasn’t the lesson itself, but a small moment: a librarian taking the time to show my sister and I how the braille embosser worked and printing our names so we could feel them on the paper. It wasn’t presented as anything special, just someone noticing curiosity and responding with an act of kindness. I’ve remembered that moment for more than twenty years and that moment led to recognizing an opportunity to express gratitude in a more appropriate format.

My identical twin sister recently recommended Unreasonable Hospitality by Will Guidara. Although it’s rooted in the hospitality industry, I’ve been surprised by how closely it mirrors Higher Education. Both are service-driven spaces that succeed when people feel considered rather than processed. The book emphasizes how small acts of intentional kindness and proactive thinking can help others to feel seen, heard, and cared for in a way that creates a sense of belonging and leaves a lasting impression.

This act of kindness wasn’t complicated; it just required intention.

Finding a braille embosser was difficult, but it did require asking the right questions and making a few phone calls. With Burton Barr under renovation, I followed the trail to the Mesa Public Library, where a librarian and I learned to use the machine together and printed the note. I got to play with a really neat piece of technology (ask me sometime, this thing is COOL), and I now have a note for our speaker. Now that note is winging its way to Tony, and my handwritten thank-you cards are on the doorknobs of our other speakers. Mission accomplished.

This story isn’t about getting to learn a new technology (which was AWESOME) or hunting down a memory of my childhood (thought both were genuinely meaningful). It’s about demonstrating a commitment to kindness and recognizing when our practices don’t effectively serve our audience. It’s about recognizing that sometimes what might at first glance seem “unreasonable” or “above and beyond” is really just the minimum expression of demonstrating kindness and consideration.

I could have very easily sent an email or made a phone call. But the spirit of our conference is all about the choices and efforts we make in our interactions with students and each other to make our lives easier. To remove barriers and to remind those around us that they are valued members of our community… and that’s what this week’s act of kindness embodies.

Genuine gratitude isn’t about writing out the card with meaningful words, cursing my handwriting skills when my letters get sloppy, and delivering the cards to offices. The true act of gratitude lives in reflection. When we write a card, or send an IM, or tell someone “great work!” in passing, kindness shows up through intention, consideration, and the pause we take to think about how our message will be received.

So let me leave you with this thought:

Where in our lives can we pause to consider kindness? What small adjustment could help build a sense of belonging or show someone how much we value their role in our community?

In a world with so much unkindness surrounding us, it costs us nothing to practice kindness and be that light.

And maybe we’ll learn something new along the way… 

6x6, Adjunct Faculty, advice, empowerment, engaging students, risk-taking, Student Engagement, student success, teachers, Worthiness, Write6x6

I’m not a Teacher, I’m a Storyteller | A Story

Leave a comment

This may not be a radical idea… in fact, there are several fantastic articles on the topic I’ve linked below from others like me. But to a first-semester adjunct, this story I’m about to share was a groundbreaking moment of discovery, something we weren’t taught in “teacher school.”

This is a story about identity, development, and collaboration, and what it means to teach in collaboration with students.

I am not a teacher.

I was once asked in a marketing class to describe myself in one word, which is an impossible task for anyone who knows me. I’m an actress, a facilitator, a technology nerd, a stuntwoman, an entrepreneur, a caregiver, a DIYer, and a lifelong student with an endless list of interests. My degrees and certificates span culture, art, and technology, reflecting my refusal to decide what I want to be “when I grow up.”

But when I looked at all of those mismatched puzzle pieces, I realized they were all doing the same thing: telling or engaging with stories about people, ideas, systems, and experiences. So, I claimed the identity that fit all of them.

I am a storyteller.

No real big surprises there!

In my late teens, I was genuinely confused when a close friend asked if I’d ever considered teaching, after I’d given a laundry list of careers I was determined to have in my lifetime. Teachers, in my mind, were patient, gentle, steady, and meticulously organized. They were nurturers and experts. They were Ms. Frizzle, Gandalf, and Yoda made real. Don’t get me wrong, I was good at facilitating workshops; it was something that had sparked this recommended career path. However, a sixteen-week class felt apocalyptic for my hypothetical students, and for me. I was going to get attached, I was going to be a fixer of problems, I was going to hold them to too high standards, I was going to be a chaotic ball of energy with a little too much enthusiasm for the most mundane topics. I am a Storyteller, not a Teacher. I had some of those magical traits, but not enough to even consider the title, let alone the position.

Nearly seven years later, a coworker suggested I gain classroom experience if I wanted to become an instructional designer. I nodded politely while internally panicking. I loved the idea of giving back and sharing what I’d learned, but the same thought echoed in my head: I wasn’t a teacher. I could share my experience, I could show, listen, and explore with them. But was that enough?

Then, by a twist of fate, I was asked to fill an emergency opening to teach Photoshop. A program I’d been using for years, and one of my favorite classes I’d taken as a student. To be honest, I think I was already drafting an email asking for a course shell before the acceptance email fully left my inbox. I was excited about the opportunity to design a learning experience; the reality of “teaching” hadn’t quite hit me yet.

I started building something I’m passionate about. I can disappear for hours in a module, reworking, reorganizing, researching content, aligning, and anticipating. It was pure heaven as I built this world for my students to come play in with me. I started worldbuilding. The competencies became plot points. Each module became a chapter. I imagined my cast of characters (students) before I met them. I could see each of them: the non-creatives, the already-proficient, the ones relying on the Computer Commons to complete their work. I adjusted due dates. I planned support. I made sure my characters had what they needed to take this long journey with me and prepared myself for them to surprise me and help me revise my ideas as they grew.

On the first day, I walked in ready to play the role of “teacher.” I had taken classes on the art of teaching. I knew how to explain things. I had a color-coded “script” (lesson plan). I was so ready.

Nothing inherently traumatic occurred during that first class (despite every technical issue imaginable). We went over the syllabus, opened the program, and started exploring together. I asked questions and used my energy to draw the students out of their shells. It went (objectively) very well. I’d been told over and over again, “Facilitators aren’t Teachers”, and I internalized that meant I didn’t belong in this space. But that’s okay, I’m an actress, I’m used to playing in spaces that aren’t my own… but my identity as a Storyteller also informed my feelings over and over again… I wasn’t a Teacher. I walked out of that first class feeling like a facilitator who had just run a great workshop… but that wasn’t enough. The disconnect felt palpable, but I couldn’t put my finger on what was holding me back. It came back to identity. I’m not a teacher; that must be why this nagging feeling of “wrongness” was creeping in. Real teachers don’t feel like this!

I struggled for weeks with the tension between who I thought a teacher was supposed to be and who I was when I taught.

Then one week, exhausted and defeated, I “gave up” the fight to lean away from my facilitator roots. We were discussing typography, specifically kerning, when a student asked, “Is that why the Skyfall poster looks so weird?”

I could hear the angel chorus start to ring as I paused the lesson. We pulled the poster up, and sure enough, the letter spacing was dramatic. I dropped the poster into Photoshop and demonstrated how we would adjust the kerning in real time. The room changed instantly, and I’ll never forget the excitement as students dove for their keyboards to find more examples. This was the magic of improvisation I felt every time I presented a workshop, facilitated open conversation, and led with the story.

It was a frantic, somewhat chaotic moment as we found momentum in the uncharted territory, but it felt like settling into a familiar space.

Suddenly, we weren’t talking about fonts; we were examining how we, as humans, relate to shape, weight, color, and spacing, and using storytelling to do it.

I abandoned my carefully crafted PowerPoint. I scribbled the vocabulary and key points on the board. Students Googled their favorite posters, albums, advertisements, etc. We analyzed them together to see what worked, what didn’t, and what the design communicated about character and tone. How what we were learning popped up in the real world and (more importantly) how learning this tool would inform their future design work. They used the vocabulary. They debated the meaning. They connected design choices to narrative intent.

At the end of class, they sat outside in the commons, still talking about font pairings and correcting one another, using the language we’d just learned. Their work that week left a huge smile on my face. They didn’t just “get” the lesson; they internalized it. They were making creative connections and using examples from class and from their own research to do it.

The students connected to the story in a way they hadn’t to a more traditional style of curated, guided instruction. They were finding personal application and discovering motivation through the momentum of exploration.

The next week, they were still referencing those posters while discussing color theory. Their assignments showed more care, more intention, more thought.

That’s when it clicked.

I wasn’t failing at being a teacher by facilitating.

I was succeeding at being a storyteller.

I wasn’t delivering information; I was facilitating the journey toward discovering meaning. I was connecting lived experience and observation to new knowledge. The course wasn’t broken (and I wasn’t broken). I didn’t need to become someone else.

I didn’t have to become a teacher.

I just had to tell the story and invite the students to make the lesson a part of their own journey.

I’d built the world already. I knew who my students were and what they hoped to get out of the class. I just needed to guide them in the right direction and build momentum toward discovery.

Now in class, every session started with a rehearsed PowerPoint-based launching point to set our foundation… and then I turned the students loose on the topics with guiding questions: “So where have you seen this?” or “What does this remind you of?” or (their favorite) “Walk me through this concept/tool/idea.” Every class is an adventure (literally and figuratively). There were a few times we found ourselves on the edge of a rabbit hole, and I had to pull us back on topic, but the energy in the room was incredible. The collaboration and exploration were infectious… and I had so much fun witnessing it.

So, to me, a teacher is a little like the “Wise Guide” archetype, providing wisdom and experience for a hero and their journey. But this Guide doesn’t have to tell their Padawans all the answers or hit every bullet point on the lesson plan with perfect phrasing. They paint a picture, create a world, tell a story, and lead students through key concepts toward the big “aha!” moment at the end.

Teaching is storytelling.

There is no one type of teacher, just like there isn’t one genre of storytelling.

Every great teacher is a master at facilitating learning in their own way, showing students how to make meaning and breathe life into a concept by guiding them through the world (content) we love, helping them fight dragons (challenges), and watching as they become the heroes of the story (making independent meaning).

Deeper Reading (Storytelling as an Educational Tool)

The Educational Benefits of Storytelling
The Power of Storytelling to Facilitate Human Connection and Learning
The Value of Storytelling as a Learning Tool

6x6, AI, empowerment, engaging students

The Art and Science of AI in Education

Leave a comment

The Need for Deeper Examination

Educational Technology, as a field of study, is all about recognizing how technology helps (and hinders) student learning. Recognizing how we support “old school” practices with technology, and temper “new” practices with proven strategies. Ultimately, it’s about recognizing balance as an essential tool for success… and sanity.

Cue AI’s continued dramatic entrances into our sacred spaces of learning and tranquil chaos. AI has become a destabilizing force for industry, arts, education, and society at large. Higher education, especially, has met AI with hesitancy, distrust, and a healthy dose of skepticism. We’ve all thought it and heard it:

“AI is going to make teachers irrelevant!”

“This generation will never learn core skills because of this technology!”

“Our students will become too reliant on technology at the expense of critical thinking!”

“This technology is going to destroy industries and cost jobs!”

I offer you this sobering thought… similar concerns have been presented during several technological revolutions of our past:

  • The Printing Press (1450s)
  • The Personal Calculator (1970s)
  • The Personal Computer (1970s)
  • The World Wide Web (1991)

Ironically, each of these technologies is now central to Higher Education and can be credited, in part, with our continued survival. Personally, as a Tech Enthusiast and a born-and-raised Computer Geek, I feel we should always meet technology with a healthy dose of cynicism. Does this technology actually make our lives better/easier? Do we actually need this technology, or is it a “nice to have”? One of the many lessons learned from the Pandemic is that technology has its limitations, but can also be a surprisingly powerful source of connection and creativity.

Let’s explore these two questions as they relate to AI and the wider world…

Does AI make our lives better/easier?

Every time I ask myself this question, it gets harder to answer.

As a creative, it’s made my industry quite frustrating. It’s led to debates questioning whether the value of artists and artistry outweighs profits and efficiency. Is the value of art rooted in its ability to be consumed, or in the act of its creation? More on this in a bit.

As a Graduate Student and a notoriously slow reader, AI was a lifesaver. Being able to use programs like NotebookLM each week to generate a podcast summary of my readings allowed me to focus on the big picture first, then strategically consume the sections that resonated and challenged my views, rather than skimming everything and hoping for the best. It was also a lifesaver to ask AI to help me find a quote or statistic in my readings, instead of having to sift through hundreds of readings from the whole semester in the hopes that I wasn’t just hallucinating the idea.

As a facilitator and trainer, AI has helped me break down ideas and concepts into more digestible steps. Helping me rephrase, re-examine, and find new ways to engage. I can’t describe the number of times I’ve asked AI, “Does that make sense?” and been humbly reminded that I need to remember what it was like to learn and not assume shared knowledge or experience.

Do we need AI in education?

The short answer is no.

Educators will keep on educating without any assistance from AI. Education predates the internet, the printing press, and even our ability to make tools. We’re just fine without AI.

But let’s circle back to rephrase that earlier question about artists. Is the value of knowledge and education rooted in the ability for it to be consumed/absorbed, or in the act and experience of learning itself?

What does it mean “to learn”?

  • Is the point of learning math solely in the ability to complete math worksheets, or is it about teaching students to learn to reason, recognize patterns, and think critically about how we solve the problems of our world?
  • Is the point of learning how to replace the engine in a car only about the exact placement of the nuts and bolts? Or is it also about developing workflows and processes that promote accuracy, efficiency, and anticipate problems before they arise?
  • Is the point of learning to write an essay rooted in our ability to write a perfectly formatted paper? Or is it about learning to express our thoughts and emotions, develop our sense of self, reason, and build meaning, and share with others?
  • Is the point of learning to act the ability to memorize and recite a monologue from Shakespeare? Or is it about recognizing the universal emotions and experiences across time and space, about developing empathy, about recognizing and clarifying our intent as we navigate the world?

I’d like to challenge you to take a look at your subjects and look at the core of the lessons your field has to offer (not just the skills!). Then ask yourself whether that is something AI can replicate.

For most of us, the answer is no.

The Art and The Science

When I used to teach leadership, we’d talk about the two sides. The Art and the Science. The “science” of leadership is what you’ll hear from every TED Talk and CEOs’ latest book. It’s a series of processes and proven strategies… It’s a formula. However, the Art of leadership is about application. I can put every leadership problem into a formula, but do I have the soft skills, empathy, communication skills, experience, humility, etc., to put the output of my formula to good use?

In teaching, we often focus on that “science” aspect. If we want students to learn to write, we ask them to write an essay. We give them the tools they need, the expected formula, and the rules. However, all AI knows is the “science” of writing. The patterns and formulas we so carefully teach our students. But what about the Art of writing the essay? Not the ability to phrase words “prettily” or use an Oxford comma in a way that would make our High School English Teachers weep with joy. No, it’s about formulating ideas and expression. AI can imitate this, just like a leader can imitate the formulas they’ve read about, but it will be hollow until we add that art… that sliver of imperfect humanity.

So, should we ask them to write the metaphorical essay? I beg the question: what about that essay can’t the students ask an AI to do for them? Or, perhaps more importantly, in what ways can we use the essay as a tool to facilitate a larger lesson on the importance of discovering our voice and finding a balance between expectation, efficiency, and expression of ideas?

Education doesn’t need AI

Our students don’t need AI

Our World doesn’t need AI

But it’s here, and we’re all still trying to find a balance between technology and humanity because of it. We need to find our path to collaborating with AI in a way that furthers our fields, rather than saturates them.

Collaboration with AI in education doesn’t mean outsourcing thinking or chasing efficiency for efficiency’s sake. It means approaching AI as something to question, critique, edit, and wrestle with. Our role isn’t to compete with AI or to ban its use out of fear. We’ve been given an opportunity to reflect and redesign learning experiences that ask students to do what AI can’t do: make meaning, exercise judgment, reflect on values, and develop a sense of voice and intent.

Our students will enter a world that invites, tempts, or requires the use of AI. Are we preparing them for that world? Higher education has long been a space where we help learners navigate the complexity and ambiguity of our society with thoughtfulness and preparation. This moment offers us an opportunity to reexamine what we value most about learning and to intentionally teach students how to balance the science of efficiency with the art of being human.