Writing a curriculum plan isn't easy. And, really, it shouldn't be. When you have a certain skill set, and you're asked to teach those skills to other people, it can be tempting to make haphazard plans for lessons and workshops because you know what you're doing. You know the material, as well you should if you're teaching it, and, like most teachers, you're pressed for time, so planning takes a backseat.
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Post-it notes, books on theory, and scribbled notes on pedagogy. |
But, by sketching quick plans with little to no theoretical justifications, you're doing yourself a disservice, and worse, you're doing your students a disservice. Educators need to practice critical reflection on teaching methods because we have the immense and immeasurable responsibility of influencing lives. Knowing the ground on which we stand and the positions that situate our knowledge frameworks empowers us to make conscious choices about not only the way we teach, but why we do it. To that end, continually asking ourselves "why?" ...have I structured my lessons as I have, ...do I hold the views that I do, ..am I teaching at all, encourages us to be open to transformation. After all, education is not just about passing on facts from teacher to student. At its best, it is a process of humanization, by which teacher and students become, as Paulo Freire wrote in 1985, "more conscious of their presence in the world."
As I was sitting at home with a cup of coffee and revisiting my curriculum plan for The Salima Project, I began to ask myself what this project is about. I began thinking about how I'm going to introduce myself and my team and how I'm going to frame the week-long program in those nervous first few moments when I walk into a room full of people with whom I won't share a spoken language and who, no doubt, will have all sorts of expectations for me and for this program that, I have to admit, I'm scared I won't be able to meet. Where do we come together to begin this work?
The answer, I think, rests in love. For my part, I come to this project with a deep sense of love for the human capacity to create art that can be transformative on both an individual and a collective level. By 'love,' I don't mean a kind of puerile happiness or infantile optimism; rather, I mean a love that is rooted in humility and courage because both are required of teachers and students, and in particular of artists, who wish to confront oppression and open themselves to transforming society.
For a fabulous overview of Paulo Freire's pedagogy, see Antonia Darder's
Reinventing Paulo Freire: A Pedagogy of Love.