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Write6x6

Rest is Holy; It is Not a Reward

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I organized my office to be a place of comfort, both for myself and my students. There are scrolls, books, fidget toys, plushies, small hard candies, and comfortable seating specifically to encourage students to be comfortable when they stop by. Students regularly tell me that my office is “Cozy.” What they notice first is the comfortable chair with the soft pillow and the shelf of fidget toys and hard candy. What they don’t notice is a small, bright yellow Post-it note, set at exactly my eye level, beside my computer. It is not particularly prominent to anyone but me. But for me, it is the most important thing on that wall.

It reads: Rest is holy; it is not a reward.

I place a lot of value on my productivity, which is not a particularly healthy mindset to have. Sadly, I gained that mindset in my previous employer. Before my current position, I was employed at a toxic work location that had a lot of negative attributes. One of those was the expectation that employees would be productive in all situations without reward. As a parent of small children, I worked in that environment under a cloud of fear that I would be fired. I was undervalued and underpaid, and the experience left lasting scars on how I operate in the workforce. I also have a streak of perfectionism that gets in the way of just getting the work done. So, I may finish my work, but since it is never perfect, there are times I will spend a lot of effort and energy to fix those things that don’t necessarily need to be fixed. I have learned to remind myself that I “can’t let perfection get in the way of good enough”, but that is a discussion for another day.

So, this is how I found myself in Spring Break of 2021, running on empty.

I recognized that I had not taken a break in over a year. I had been in the same basic situation the year before with the COVID flip to online, and my teaching over the summer had meant I had little to no actual breaks. I chose to use my winter break to refine the OER textbook I had worked on, and I had even added additional work with the district OER committee. I could hear my internal voice telling me that I really needed to take a break, but I kept thinking that I needed to prepare for my class stuff with the computer issues, and I felt guilty about “letting my students down.”

Dear reader, have you ever felt guilty about taking a break? Were you ever afraid that stopping would cause more problems than just getting through it all? Have you ever said to yourself, “I will rest when…” and then just continued? Because that was the frame of mind I was in. I kept charging forward. I just need to make it to Spring Break. I just need to make it to Summer. I just need to get through Summer School. When you push yourself that hard, something is going to give.

I have been teaching for over 25 years now. I hit burnout at year 15 and had to take a year’s sabbatical to find myself and my love of teaching again. Having gone through it once, I could see the signs in myself. The passion that had carried me through years of teaching was fading out. And my body, which had been keeping score all along, finally sent me a bill I couldn’t ignore. I had to take that sabbatical to find my way back to the love of teaching.

And so, here I was, winding my way into a similar situation when I found myself in a conversation with a dear friend. When I pushed back on all of the things that I needed to do before I could rest, he said, “Rest is holy; it is not a reward.” A light came on in my brain. I came to the sudden realization that I had been treating my rest as a reward for my hard work rather than something I deserved, regardless of the level of effort I had been putting in. I wrote down his words on a Post-it note that now sits at eye level beside my computer as a reminder that I can’t decide to put off the break I need. I need to take those breaks, or I will be the one to break.

That which is holy is something to be protected and adhered to. And so I had to flip the script.

For me, making rest holy meant a change in how I approached my days, my weeks, and my vacation days. For my days, I allotted an hour of rest where I walk with my husband and share my day. It allows me to relax, talk to someone I care about, and get a little exercise. For my weeks, I have one day each week that I save as a day of rest. I might schedule family or friend activities, but it is a day when I plan my time to avoid thinking about work-related tasks. Sometimes that day is a weekend day, and sometimes I will reserve that day during the week, but there is always one day of rest where I don’t check my email, don’t look at my to-do list, and if something comes up, I will send myself a note to look at it when I am not resting. Because that rest has to be protected.

For me, gardening has become a big part of my rest. I spend time cultivating my plants and forming my own sanctuary just outside my door. The joy I felt when my pomegranate tree cutting got its first new leaves, or my amaryllis bloomed, that joy is like a deep, cleansing breath of fresh air to the soul.

For my vacation days, I set clear boundaries for myself. My proclivity for working and staying productive means that I can’t just sit around and do nothing. At least, not yet. But I am working on it. I sit in the garden with a cup of tea and watch the wildlife dance around the plants. I sit in the rocking chair in my home office and read a book that has no other purpose than to be entertaining. I walk with my family or friends and talk about all the things happening in their lives and mine.

And here is what I am learning. While I find myself more productive after my rest, I am coming to realize that my true goal is to recognize and embrace the value of rest for the sake of rest. That rest itself is the payoff. And that by continuing to treat rest as holy and not a reward, I will eventually come to value rest as the goal. Rest will be how I get back to being the me that is filled with passion for painting, scuba diving, and herpetology. Rest will be how I return to doing those fulfilling things that I enjoy but have been putting off until “I have more time”.

So, dear reader, as I am reflecting on my goal to make rest holy and to stop treating rest as a reward for my hard work, I invite you to reflect on your own treatment of rest. Are you rewarding yourself with your days of rest, or are you making your rest the important and holy time that is necessary to sustain the best you that you can be?

If I could go back to the Spring Break of 2021, I would tell myself to stop stressing over all the work I thought I needed to get done and take that breather that I should have been taking. Because I needed a break. I may have taken one 8 weeks later, but rest is not something we can afford to keep putting off.

I have to remind myself regularly that rest is not a reward, which is why that Post-it still sits on my wall. I am just as busy today as I was then, but honestly, I am in a much better place. Because I am finally learning how to rest.

6x6, Write6x6

A GCC Pot Pie

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This time last year, Mary Anne posted “Mary’s Teaching Pie,” and more recently, Lore posted “A Cake Made of Purpose”, which inspired me to write a recipe post of my own. If my work at GCC were a recipe, it would be a pie: A GCC Pot Pie, a recipe for something warm, structured, and nourishing.

Every semester, when I step into the metaphorical kitchen of GCC, a hot and busy location filled with activities and opportunities, I am delighted at what is produced. My GCC kitchen is the classroom, the Gaucho Urban Garden, the faculty senate meetings, and the “pit” where the dragons are slain.

Pot pie isn’t particularly glamorous or exciting. Rather, a hot pot pie is something warm and wonderful; humble, hearty, and made with care. It is a golden crust holding together the hot, tasty filling. It is my work at GCC.

The Crust

A good crust is firm but not rigid. It holds the shape without immediately crumbling under pressure, and provides a foundation for the rest of the pie. This would be the structure, the rubrics, defined expectations, and purposeful lessons.

Starting the Filling

Students walk into the classroom carrying their doubts and fears; their worries and expectations. So a gravy of patience is necessary to loosen it up. Encouragement is necessary to make that gravy thick and hearty.

Mentoring students, being willing to work with them even after the classes are done, encouraging them to reach their potential, and having them continue to stop by years after they have completed my courses with the knowledge that they are always welcome, that is one good gravy. It is my way of keeping the kitchen warm enough to help those students rise.

Fold in Vegetables

GCC sits in a food desert, one of many around our state. I have talked many times about my work with the English students in the Gaucho Urban Garden. Well, my time with Dr. Angela Schwendiman and Mr. Jared Mann has led to conversations and now action on the creation of a campus food forest. The food forest will be a living statement that we grow what our community needs. I have had the pleasure to watch my students grow in more ways than one as they help to plant and harvest vegetables and fruits as part of their research. And their involvement in this burgeoning project is more than a little exciting.

Then there is the club work. Being a club advisor is incredibly rewarding, particularly when the other advisors are from different departments. The Dungeons and Dragons Knights of Pen and Paper club offers the students a place where they can find fellowship. Students who might otherwise be reluctant readers are transformed into storytellers, and recently, the club collaborated with the library on a club READ poster. These students are declaring quite clearly, “We Belong at GCC”. This is a literal and metaphorical folding in of vegetables.

Seasoning

Faculty senate work is a seasoning. As a faculty senator, I try to make sure my colleagues’ voices are heard and carried into rooms where decisions are made. I bring back concerns and try to make sure those concerns are addressed.

The Secret Ingredient

The thing that makes this pot pie work is one special ingredient. Belonging. Belonging is the focus of my doctoral research, and the longer I study it, the more I see it in everything I do. The students who keep coming back because they feel welcomed; the D&D tables filled with different ages, backgrounds, cultures, and majors; the garden where composition lessons have become something the students can hold in their hands; the classroom where every week the students are reminded that they are supposed to be there, that they belong. Research tells us that students who feel like they belong are engaged, take risks, and persist. They come to class, to the garden, to the D&D tables because they feel like they belong to something special. We Gaucho Back has solid meaning.

Belonging isn’t a seasoning or a garnish; it is in every layer: the crust, the gravy, the vegetables, even the seasoning. It can’t be tasted in isolation because it is what makes this pot pie work.

In my recipe, belonging is the first thing added, and the last.

Bake and Serve

Spoon all that wonderful goodness into the shell and lay the top crust over, pressing down the edges. This dish has a lot going on inside, so there needs to be a few vents to allow it to breathe. Bake in Arizona temperatures. When the crust is a golden brown and the filling bubbles up through the vents, it is ready to serve.

Make sure to serve while still warm. Pot Pie is best while it is still piping hot.

That is my recipe for the work I do at GCC.

Bon Appétit!

6x6

The Kindness in Thinking It Through

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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, grading, reminiscing, Write6x6

Grading Students or Grading Work?

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My belief in rubric-based grading actually began long before I became a teacher. I was a TA in high school, and had been invited by my mentor teacher to “grade” assignments. The teacher gave me an answer key and a rubric for the assignments. I say “grade” loosely because I was really just identifying key pieces of information against a rubric.   The teacher gave the ultimate grade and score, and I never touched the gradebook. One of the memorable moments came from the reading of the short answers in the quiz on “Watership Down”. I had not read the book and could not discern whether the students met the requirements outlined by the rubric. So, I asked the instructor for a copy of the book, read it over the weekend, and then went back to “grading” the quizzes.  What I discovered was that the issue was less about my lack of knowledge and more about the rubric itself. Once I had the context I needed, I could see clearly that the rubric did not align with what the quiz question was actually asking. It was a valuable lesson, not just in content knowledge, but in how a poorly constructed rubric can undermine even a well-intentioned assessment. It was actually a very daring experience for me when I went to point out to the instructor the shortcomings of their rubric.  Luckily for me, the teacher was encouraging and received my feedback graciously, agreeing that the rubric needed revision.   

Since that time, I have been active in my approach to rubric use and invite the students to use a rubric on their own essays as a part of their peer review process.  I find that they become more capable of recognizing the requirements of an assignment and can give better feedback to their peers with a clear rubric. So, they first evaluate their own essays with a rubric and then have the opportunity to give feedback to their peers with the same rubric.  The students have consistently told me that they appreciate seeing where they might have gone in the wrong direction using the rubric.  

When I was a new teacher, I tried to be clear but fair and grade based on the students’ demonstrated skills as required by the university I worked for. I thought I was doing a pretty good job until I had a weekend grading rush. I discovered my own biases when I had a stack of papers to grade and no time to look up which paper was which. I graded fast, using my rubric and making comments on the papers, but so fast that I did not see the names on the papers until I was inputting them into the Blackboard system. That was when I realized that a student I had thought really had an understanding of the coursework was completely misunderstanding the content. The student had been so active in the class and involved in the class discussions, one of my most vocal and engaged students, that I had completely missed the fact that they didn’t really understand the content. Combined, these experiences have influenced my current grading philosophy, to grade blind and to have a clear rubric for the process. 

Shortly after my rushed grading weekend, I came across an article that discussed the “halo”  effect and the opposite of it, the “horns” effect. Teachers don’t intentionally start out having favorites, but there are always students who participate in class who may not have the strongest skills in their actual work.  The halo effect is caused when the grader allows their bias to subconsciously influence their grading based on the student’s perceived effort, participation, or behavioral compliance rather than their actual skills and knowledge. The horns effect is allowing the bias of a student’s perceived lack of effort, lack of participation, or misbehavior to influence grading subconsciously. I recognized my own epiphany reflected in the article. 

Looking back on those experiences, the rushed grading night that revealed my own bias and the weekend I spent reading a novel just to be a TA, it is clear they shaped my approach to grading. A good rubric is not just a grading tool, and blind grading is more than just a procedural safeguard. Blind grading with a good rubric is a commitment to fairness, and it protects both the student and the teacher from the very human tendency to let impressions get in the way of honest assessment.

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

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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

GCC Students, Glendale Community College, student success, Write6x6

Coming Full Circle

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Many years ago, I was a student at Glendale Community College, couch surfing to avoid homelessness and struggling to finish a successful semester. An instructor noticed, offered support, and helped me when I needed it most. Today, I stand in front of my own classroom at GCC, given the opportunity to pay that kindness forward. This is the power of community colleges, and it’s why I chose to teach here.

Community colleges have always existed to bridge gaps. When Joliet Junior College opened its doors in 1901 as a direct connection to the high school, it addressed a fundamental inequity: higher education was largely reserved for white, moderately wealthy, male landowners. The 1944 GI Bill expanded this mission, and when John W. Snyder’s report on “The Veteran and Higher Education” challenged President Truman to examine what higher education could become, the resulting Truman Commission report transformed the landscape. The Commission wanted students of all social and economic backgrounds to access higher education, to create better citizens and a stronger society. Their vision worked. Campuses became more inclusive, enrolling Black students, women, and other minorities in unprecedented numbers. Today, community colleges exist in every congressional district in the United States, continuing that mission of access and opportunity.

In 2022, I was part of a conversation with then Under Secretary James Kvaal of the U.S. Department of Education that crystallized why this mission still matters. He spoke about the inequities perpetuated by institutions that are “proud to turn students away” and emphasized that community colleges have a vital role, particularly for students at “lower and medium income levels.” Higher education, he said, needs to meet students where they are and consider their mental health and financial needs as a whole person, not just an enrollment number.

This is exactly what community colleges do. We try to do so much for everyone, working to remove the barriers to education. And in doing so, each of us makes a tangible difference in students’ lives.

In my first semester teaching as an OYO, fresh back in the United States after a decade abroad, a student confided that he was couch surfing at different friends’ houses because he was homeless. The situation was affecting his ability to complete coursework. As a new hire, I wasn’t yet familiar with all the campus supports available, but I knew some community resources. I brought him information and suggested places on campus where he could study and complete homework with reliable access to technology and space. That student finished the semester successfully.

Years later, as a newly hired probationary faculty member, I worked with a student facing financial issues that threatened to derail their entire educational pathway. This time, I knew exactly what the college could do to help and how to connect the student to those resources. They not only finished the semester successfully but went on to enroll in a bachelor’s program, which they’re on track to complete.

I used to work at universities where, as Mr. Kvaal noted, some were indeed “proud to turn students away” from their educational hopes and dreams. The perspective at Glendale Community College is drastically different. Here, instructors not only have the opportunity to support students, but that support is available, accessible, and actively encouraged.

For me, GCC represents a full-circle life experience. I was that struggling student once, uncertain about my future, navigating homelessness while trying to get an education. An instructor saw me, helped me, and changed the trajectory of my life. Now, I get to do the same for my students. I am living proof of the difference we make in the lives of our students, and I teach at a community college that does its very best to make that difference every single day for our students and our community.

6x6, AI, empowerment, engaging students

The Art and Science of AI in Education

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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.

Write6x6

Think Before You Prompt

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When ChatGPT first appeared on the academic scene, I struggled with deciding which path I was going to choose in my own classes, turning to handwritten drafts as a stopgap, but operating with the knowledge that, in the long run, these students may actually need to know how to use AI in their future positions. I discussed detector software, outright bans, and fully embracing AI as possible positions. As I watched my students navigate this new landscape, I realized that prohibition wasn’t the answer. Students are already using AI. The question isn’t whether they’ll encounter it, but how they’ll think about it.

What I needed wasn’t a ban. I needed a path to knowledge and a way for students to make ethical choices.

This three-class lesson series across two weeks emerged from a simple premise: students can’t make ethical decisions about AI if they don’t understand their own thinking processes first. By combining critical readings, hands-on AI experimentation, and deep reflection on reading and writing itself, I’ve created an assignment sequence that transforms students from passive AI users into metacognitively aware writers who can articulate when, why, and how AI supports, or sabotages, their learning.

Here’s how it works.

Class One: The Dark Side First

In-Class Discussion: What’s Wrong With AI?

I begin where students least expect: with AI’s problems. We don’t soft-pedal this. Instead, we dive into:

  • Disinformation, propaganda, and the distortion of reality
  • The digital divide: How AI is only making it worse
  • Plagiarism and privacy issues: What happens to your data when you feed it to a chatbot? The impact on the art fields
  • Automated labor: The loss of human jobs
  • Climate Impacts: The carbon and water use
  • Stereotyping and bias: How does AI perpetuate harmful patterns? Tainted training data, averaging produces cliched results.
  • The replacement of thinking: What do we lose when we outsource cognition?

Only after we’ve thoroughly examined the risks do we shift to the possibility: When might AI ethically support learning?

This sequencing is deliberate. Students need to approach AI with critical eyes wide open, not naive optimism.

Homework: Real-World Consequences

Students complete two readings:

  1. “Your Brain on GPT” – An article grounding our concerns in neuroscience, showing how outsourcing thinking actually rewires our cognitive processes. This isn’t moral panic; it’s brain science.
  2. A current news article about someone caught using AI inappropriately in academic or professional contexts. Students must find their own source (from reliable news outlets) and answer: “What can you do in your own work to ensure that you use AI ethically and in accordance with academic integrity policies and professional standards?”

By having students research real cases themselves, they become investigators, not passive recipients of warnings. The consequences become concrete, not abstract.

Class Two: Why We Write (Before We Prompt)

Freewriting: Personal Writing Inventory

Before students can evaluate AI’s role in their writing, they need to understand their own. I begin class with a freewriting prompt:

“Why do you write? List all the reasons—for classes, for yourself, for others. How does writing help you? Where does it challenge you?”

This isn’t busywork. It’s groundwork. Students need to articulate their relationship with writing before they can recognize when AI disrupts or supports that relationship.

Homework: “Shitty First Drafts” by Anne Lamott

Students read Lamott’s essay about the messy, non-linear reality of writing. This reading does double duty: it normalizes struggle (writing is supposed to be hard at first), and it sets up our AI experiment perfectly.

Class Three: The AI Experiment

This is where metacognition meets practice.

Opening Discussion: Defining the Line

Before we touch ChatGPT, we discuss:

  • What makes AI use “cheating” vs. “learning support”?
  • How is asking AI different from asking a study group or tutor?
  • When does getting help become avoiding the work?

Students set their own ethical frameworks before experimenting. This primes them to evaluate their experience critically.

Activity Part 1: Comparing Human and AI Analysis

Students prepare by identifying from “Shitty First Drafts”:

  • 3 confusing passages
  • 2 main ideas
  • 1 personal reaction

Then, in pairs or small groups, they submit the Lamott essay to ChatGPT with two prompts:

  1. “Summarize this article.”
  2. “What are the main points?”

The comparison moment: Students match their own main ideas against ChatGPT’s. What did the AI catch? What did it miss? Whose interpretation feels more insightful?

Activity Part 2: Learning-Centered Prompts

Next, groups choose one of three more sophisticated prompts:

  • “I’m confused about [specific passage]. Can you explain what Lamott means here?”
  • “Lamott uses the metaphor of [X]. How does this connect to her larger point about writing?”
  • “I think the main argument is [your interpretation]. Does this align with the text, or am I missing something?”

These prompts model curiosity, not abdication. They’re asking for help understanding, not outsourcing comprehension.

Reflection Discussion

After experimenting, we debrief:

  • When did ChatGPT help you think more vs. think less?
  • Did any AI responses seem wrong or shallow? How did you catch that?
  • What’s the difference between “help me understand” and “do this for me”?

Students discover that the quality of the prompt determines the quality of thinking—and that AI can be a mirror, reflecting back the depth (or shallowness) of their inquiry.

Deep Reading Discussion

We transition to discussing Lamott’s essay more deeply:

  • What does Lamott mean by “the fantasy of the uninitiated” (paragraph 1)?
  • In paragraph 7, she “eventually let [herself] trust the process—sort of, more or less.” Why “more or less”? Is this wariness personal or universal to writers?
  • Is writing a first draft more about product or process? Do you agree for your own drafts?
  • How can writing serve as self-discovery? Have you experienced this?

These questions are discussed in class and require personal synthesis. That helps to integrate personal stories and prevent the quick AI fix.

The Final Reveal: AI vs. Student Voice

In groups of four, students give ChatGPT this prompt:

“Write a 500-word essay from a college student’s perspective on why you write. Reflect on personal motivations, whether for school, expression, or other reasons. Consider how writing helps you process thoughts, communicate ideas, or explore creativity. Discuss how writing has shaped your identity as a student or impacted your learning. Include specific examples.”

Groups post their AI essays to a discussion board, then compare them to:

  1. The other groups’ AI-generated essays
  2. Their own class 2 freewriting about why they write

The critical question: “Which key features suggest this was written by ChatGPT rather than a student?”

Students notice:

  • Generic “examples” that could apply to anyone
  • Lack of genuine vulnerability or specificity
  • Smooth, structurally perfect prose that sounds… hollow
  • Absence of authentic voice

The revelation: AI can mimic form, but it cannot replicate lived experience, genuine confusion, or original thought. And most importantly, students can tell the difference when they’re looking for it.

Why This Works

This sequence succeeds because it:

  1. Builds from critique to curiosity: Students approach AI skeptically but scientifically, not fearfully.
  2. Centers metacognition: Every activity asks students to observe their own thinking, not just produce content.
  3. Makes the abstract concrete: Students experience the difference between helpful AI prompts and thought-replacement prompts.
  4. Honors student intelligence: Rather than lecturing about academic integrity, I trust students to discover ethical boundaries through experimentation and reflection.
  5. Embraces messiness: By pairing Lamott’s celebration of “shitty first drafts” with AI’s too-perfect outputs, students see that struggle isn’t a bug; it’s the feature that makes learning possible.

What Students Take Away

By the end of three classes, students can:

  • Articulate when AI supports vs. replaces their thinking
  • Identify AI-generated text by its tell-tale smoothness and lack of genuine voice
  • Craft prompts that deepen rather than bypass learning
  • Defend their own writing choices with reference to academic integrity
  • Recognize that writing is thinking made visible, and that’s worth protecting

Most importantly, they’ve moved from “Is it okay to use AI?” to “Am I thinking, or is AI thinking for me?”

It is metacognition and digital literacy synthesized.

The most revealing moment? When students first realize we’re going to use ChatGPT in class. “Wait—we’re allowed to do this?” “This feels wrong.”

As we work through the activities, something shifts. By the end, students consistently tell me two things:

  1. “I can see how it can help with studying.” They recognize AI’s value as a thought partner—when used to deepen understanding, not replace it.
  2. “But I don’t want to use it to complete assignments.” Not because they fear punishment, but because they’ve experienced the hollowness of AI-generated work compared to their own authentic thinking.

This isn’t compliance, it’s wisdom. Students learn to ask themselves: Will this help me grow, or help me avoid growing? That question will serve them far beyond my classroom.

Resources Needed

  • “Your Brain on GPT” (or similar neuroscience article on AI and cognition). I like this one because the authors made it difficult for AI to summarize the article.
  • “Shitty First Drafts” by Anne Lamott
  • Access to ChatGPT or other AI (free tier works fine)
  • Discussion board for posting AI essays

Final Thoughts

Our students will use AI. That’s not a crisis; it’s a reality. Our job isn’t to prevent that use, but to ensure they approach it with clear eyes, ethical frameworks, and self-awareness.

This lesson series teaches students to think about their thinking, to value their own cognitive labor, and to recognize that the messiness of learning, the confusion, the struggle, the shitty first drafts, is where growth happens.

And that’s something no chatbot can generate for them.

*AI Disclosure: This blog post was conceived and written by a human, but refined and organized using Claude AI.

Write6x6

Crossing Cultural Divides with “Adversarial Collaboration”

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As we head into the future, there are many topics that cry out for consideration within the context of higher education.  One particular urgency is how our campuses will handle the increasing challenges of the political and ideological conflicts that continue to divide Americans.  Academics are not immune from this deepening division.  A recent article in Perspectives on Psychological Science articulates some of the damage done among academics in our culturally divisive moment but it also mentions a way forward.

Cory J. Clark is the lead researcher for “Taboos and Self-Censorship Among U.S. Psychology Professors.” 

This article details the results of a 2021 study of qualitative interviews of psychology professors regarding their beliefs and values.  These professors were asked to give their assessment to ten “taboo conclusions” by describing, “How confident are you in the truth or falsity of this statement?”  A small sample of the questions include:

  • “The tendency to engage in sexually coercive behavior likely evolved because it conferred some evolutionary advantages on men who engaged in such behavior.”
  • “Biological sex is binary for the vast majority of people.”
  • “Racial biases are not the most important drivers of higher crime rates among Black Americans relative to White Americans.”
  • “Transgender identity is sometimes the product of social influence.”

The participants were also asked:

  • “If the topic came up in a professional setting—for example, at a conference—how reluctant would you feel about sharing your beliefs on this topic openly?”
  • “Should scholars be discouraged from testing the veracity of this statement?”

The researchers documented that “for nearly all taboo conclusions, scholars who believed the statements were true self-censored more.”  This was due to the fear of consequences; professors were concerned about (1) being attacked on social media, (2) being ostracized by peers, and (3) being stigmatized or labeled pejorative terms.

A recent Inside Higher Ed/ Hanover Research survey further documents this tendency.  The researchers state: “The feeling that it has become riskier to speak freely has led many faculty to censor themselves.  Nearly half of respondents somewhat or strongly agreed that they were refraining from extramural speech due to the situation on their own campus and/or the broader political environment. More than a third said they weren’t communicating with students in or out of class about things they previously might have.”

This tendency toward fearful self-censorship is not good for the academic environment.  It is here that Clark, et al. articulate one way forward using the concept of adversarial collaborations.  They write:

“Adversarial collaborations might reduce interpersonal conflict by turning adversaries into sparring partners who improve one another’s science.  Adversarial collaborations can also reduce the use of inflammatory modes of dispute resolution—such as straw-manning and ad hominem attacks—that contribute to a needlessly hostile scientific climate and may contribute to professors’ fears of social sanctions.”

Even on heavily contested social and cultural issues, those on divergent sides can work together and in the act of adversarial collaboration can overcome unhealthy biases. 

As we consider adversarial collaborations it is helpful to find models of this.  I was recently invited to present a talk at ASU on the topic of abortion and the personhood of the fetus.  I began my lecture with a reference to the book Civil Dialogue on Abortion by Bertha Alvarez Manninen and Jack Mulder, Jr. 

Manninen and Mulder are long-time friends who find themselves on opposite sides of one of the controversial conflicts today.  They manifest a high-level of argumentation with a simultaneous level of evident respect.  They outline four needed traits and dispositions needed for fruitful discussion:

  • Humility
  • Solidarity with our conversation partners
  • Avoiding dismissive words and phrases
  • Leading with what we are for instead of what we are against

They also list out some basic rules for dialogue when they write:

“Thus, we might say that civil discourse occurs when people of sincere conviction (a subjective condition) who are willing (also subjective) to submit their opinions to the (metaphorical) court of argument and rational discourse (this is at least more objective in the sense that we can agree on certain logical rules that can be articulated for any debate) are therefore invited to the table of conversation and not disinvited unless they refuse to make their case in such a fashion.”

Our students and the larger culture desperately need to this kind of dialogue on critical and controversial issues modeled for them.  The future of education—and our culture—depends on this!

_________________________________

Write6x6

A Wild West Garden Adventure

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In the spirit of the upcoming Teaching in the Wild West CTLE Conference in April for my final Write6x6 post of 2025, I am hitching up my reflection horse and sharing a little of my trailblazing efforts. I hope you find something you can use on your own trails.

When my students got lost in the digital wilderness, I saddled up a semester-long trail ride through the Gaucho Urban Garden to lead them back to nature’s frontier. For several years, I have been working on an experiential learning experience that incorporates problem based learning for the students in my English Composition class. This year, I have expanded my approach in a way that I think is worth sharing. It all began in week one with the students tracking their digital technology use. Before heading to the garden, we had to face the truth about our digital habits—like recognizing when your trusty steed has become a stubborn mule. So, the students spent a week journaling about their technology use, using apps to track their time on their phones and paying attention to what they were doing with their time.

The week that followed was one of the more challenging ones. The students chose the most ornery of stallions to break, the technology they found was the most addictive. They broke up with that technology for seven days, journaling about their experience and about what they did instead of that habit. All the while, the students researched the mental and physical impacts of digital dependency. This part of the project culminated in an essay where they linked their research with their findings on their personal experiences. For many of the students, it was eye opening.

Next came the experiential learning component, the students began to work in the Gaucho Urban Garden. At the Gaucho Urban Garden, my students traded their digital spurs for garden gloves and learned that cultivating ideas requires getting your boots dirty. For one hour each week, the students would learn from a biology instructor about the care, maintenance, and upkeep of the garden. They planted seeds, harvested crops, learned about fertilizer and watering cycles, repaired sprinkler systems, and took ownership of an experience that most of them have never had before. All the while, they journaled about their experiences, what they were learning, and what foods they grew and ate. So many students ended up looping in their friends to the garden that we had more than just my students involved, and they kept coming back! This experience began as they were breaking up with their technology and continued through to the very end of the semester.

Then, the students began the research stage, where my students began to explore the possible solutions to digital dependency. My buckaroos rounded up solutions like skilled wranglers, corralling research into annotated bibliographies that would make any trail boss proud. They gathered sources, took notes, and explored solutions that would eventually be applied in their final essay. They got to know the skills they needed for the researching process and spent time in the library gaining new approaches from those friendly Gauchos, the librarians.

The next stage was a home based activity that also involved research and reflection. The home composting project. Their home composting adventures were like taming wild territory—turning kitchen scraps into gold just as surely as any prospector struck paydirt. The students researched what it takes to compost and began working on a small scale composting project that they digitally journaled about. The digital journals weren’t just campfire tales—they were carefully mapped trails showing others how to follow in their footsteps that led to the next stage of the course. Creating “how-to” TikTok style (or Youtube short) videos around composting or gardening, or in some way related to their suggested solution. Creating those ‘how-to’ TikToks was like learning to quickdraw—communicating their solutions faster than a gunslinger at high noon.

Once these stages were completed, it was time to bring together all the elements they’d gathered along the trail, like a skilled scout who knows how to read the landscape and find the clearest path forward. The students wrote an essay that brought together all of the ideas, the projects, and their experiences with the research. With a combination of metacognition, reflection, research, and rhetoric, the final essay hits every learning objective in the course. The students were able to demonstrate the skills they had learned in composition and apply those skills in a way that made it obvious why the skill was important.

Basically, in this wild west approach to teaching composition skills, these digital cowboys and cowgirls had learned to rope, ride and wrangle their way to a healthier balance between technology and nature. The students have told me that this has been an incredibly fun way to apply the things they need to know for future classes, and I have watched them grow as learners. As they ride off into the sunset, I know they are prepared for blazing their own trails.