Welcoming Surprise
The view from Barb Sorenson’s kitchen window is reason enough to stay home, as is the quiet pace of retirement, but there’s another reason as well. Anywhere she goes in Thetford, VT, people are drawn to her. The mere sight of Barb fills people who know her with delight. In the hardware store and at the Post Office, former students approach her and relive memories, from both inside and outside of the classroom. “Remember the prison project?” “Remember when our classroom adopted the litter of abandoned kittens?” Barb is a teacher who didn’t just teach; she cleaned the lens, giving students a new perspective on their world.
Topics and questions that others would avoid were like candy to Barb. She had no fear of touching third-rails, including one of the hardest things to discuss: socio-economic class. When I was a student intern in Thetford in the early 2000s, class issues were present everywhere. This extended to the high school’s parking lot, which was somehow filled with both Saabs and snowmobiles. In hallways and classrooms, kids coexisted, but class differences were always there, just below the surface.
I had no idea how Barb would approach a unit on class. She admitted that she wasn’t sure either. She had collected a few relevant essays, and she had recently come across a thought-provoking documentary. “But really,” she said, “we should just open things up and see where it goes.” She assumed that kids would be hesitant, but as soon as the unit began, it became clear that this stuff was relevant to everyone in the room. Each student had observations, and questions they’d never been able to ask.
But it was also obvious that they were living different lives. One student was from the wealthiest family in town. Another lived in a barely-heated trailer. As curious as they were, students didn’t really understand each other’s realities. At one point, when a classroom discussion drifted into awkward silence, Barb pulled the needle off the record. She smiled ear to ear, swept her arm outward, and asked, “Why don’t we visit each other’s homes?” After a long moment of silence, students began to smile too. This teacher wasn’t kidding. She was serious. “Really?” a boy asked. “Sure,” she said. “Why not?”
What emerged was a shared commitment: Before having any more classroom conversations about socio-economic class, students would visit the dwelling of each of their classmates. The block schedule allowed enough time for this to happen during school hours, but still…there were eighteen students in the class. Was it even doable? Students were determined, and they got to work, writing permission slips, scheduling the series of field trips, and answering a host of questions. (“Should we visit teachers’ houses too?” The answer: “Sure, let’s do it.”) Students even made a sign-up sheet for who would bring snacks, although after the first visit, a new tradition was established: each host would serve cookies.
As soon as the home visits began, the conversations about socio-economic class went from being abstract and conceptual to being personal and real. Students began to make complex connections to dozens of related topics–including zoning and development, property taxes, school finance, the identity of Vermonters vs. “flatlanders,” minimum wage, college access, hunting, accents, and even the importance of boots. None of these topics were introduced by a teacher. They emerged from the hearts and minds of learners, who became more and more vulnerable. One student cried in his kitchen, after sharing that his dog had just died; another offered a tour of the cars and trucks spread across the front yard that his family salvages for parts. Every expedition held countless revelations. And each day, a different student said something like, “I can’t believe we’re actually doing this.”
Without a doubt, the subject of socio-economic class was interesting in and of itself. Nearly twenty-five years after this project, it remains a fascinating topic. But with the benefit of decades of hindsight, it’s clear to me that the driver of this unit’s deeper learning wasn’t its content. It was the unique way that Barb created the conditions for shared discovery. She knew that nothing fuels learning more than experiencing the unexpected. Ask someone about the most memorable part of their weekend, or a recent vacation, and the answer is likely to be the thing that was unforeseen. It’s the moment of serendipity, the moment of spontaneous delight. Even those of us that crave routine grow more interested, alert and alive in the face of something we didn’t plan for. Our senses turn on, and our intellect sharpens. Barb knew then what I can now see clearly: people are awakened by surprise.
When Barb recalls the “class tour,” there’s a twinkle in her eye. While I’ve never attempted to replicate that unit, the story continues to be a lighthouse in my own practice as an educator. Many of my favorite memories from the past two decades have been events that I myself didn’t plan. I remember one moment in particular, when a former city leader walked unannounced into our Burlington City & Lake Semester [BCL] classroom, followed close behind by several of his out-of-town colleagues. He began an extemporaneous speech, sharing his pride about how diverse Burlington is, thanks to a robust refugee resettlement program. The interaction could have ended there, but he proceeded to call on nearly every non-White student, one at a time, and ask them, “Where are you from?” At one point, a student chose not to answer, and instead responded, “What do you mean?” The visitor quickly led his guests out of the room, and the door clicked behind him. After a full inhale and exhale, the room exploded. “What the hell was that?” “Who does he think he is?” Students were offended. Many were incensed. The conversation that followed became the curriculum, and led us into a deeper exploration of identity, power, and privilege. I couldn’t have designed that event, or the learning that flowed from it. It just happened.
BCL student lightshow projection, circa 2018
More recently, a different set of BCL students responded to a call for help from a University of Vermont researcher. We had been told that a local beach which had once been a key nesting site for a threatened turtle species was now covered in driftwood and rapidly-spreading willows, and we planned a day of service. The goal was to restore turtle habitat by pulling vegetation and clearing debris. Students moved a massive amount of material, but as the day unfolded, it was clear that no one really understood why this effort was necessary. It didn’t make sense to me either. After all, in another year or two, the beach would be covered again. One student was courageous enough to ask why we were doing this project, and the answer stopped us all in our tracks. For hundreds of years, the lake and its tributaries would freeze. During the spring thaw, massive chunks of ice would clear the beach, shaving the land like a razor. Due to climate change, the lake doesn’t freeze anymore. Our labor was replacing the work that the seasons used to do. Eyes widened, a few jaws dropped, and suddenly, we were having a completely different conversation about sustainability–one that was complex, messy and gray. Earlier, before that moment of discovery, we had been talking about sustainability in terms of action vs. inaction; now, students were bursting with questions about ethics, resilience, and intergenerational justice. The whole semester took on a different tenor.
Giving future baby turtles easy access to the lake
As teachers, we are always trying to create “Aha Moments.” There is nothing more satisfying than when eyebrows go up, and lightbulbs go on. Pedagogy is profoundly experimental, and every time a teaching plan works, the facilitator gets a huge dopamine hit. We feed on these moments, and we design for them. It makes sense that we do our best to craft these results, whether it is in a lab, a simulation, or with a keen writing prompt.
I’m not immune from this urge. I often find myself designing activities and lessons so that their conclusion seems like spontaneous insight–all the while working hard to hide the marionette strings. And yet I also often find myself thinking about something that Matt Schlein, a lifelong place-based educator told me. “So often,” he said, “as teachers we already know the answer and we dangle it out in front of kids...” At this point, he pantomimed holding a small invisible object between his fingers, shaking it temptingly, and then quickly hiding it behind his back. “We give our kids clues, and maybe they find their way there... but at the end of the day, it’s something that the teacher already knew. The discovery isn’t real.” He then exaggerated dropping the imaginary object entirely. “It is so different,” he continued, “to walk shoulder-to-shoulder with a kid into the unknown.”
Real discoveries can’t be faked, and they can’t be crafted. They aren’t a prize to be unwrapped at the end of a well-designed lesson. They are unscripted, and they arrive on their own terms. Everyone loves a scavenger hunt, but our students know the difference between a well-designed activity and a true adventure. The former can be planned; the latter is remarkably rare. In our standardized, outcome-driven institutions, and in our algorithm-curated media bubbles, honest-to-goodness surprise is hard to come by. When it does arrive, we can feel the difference in our bodies. It’s electric.
It’s taken years for the inspiration of a small town with Saabs and snowmobiles to grow into a core part of my practice as an educator. It hasn’t been easy. In fact, every step of the way has been what Brené Brown would call a “streetfight.” As a trained experiential educator, my default is always to design for meaning-making. It’s unsettling to loosen my grip on the reins. But it’s strange: whenever I do, magic seems to happen. When the experience feels less like the Mouse Trap board game, and more like a road trip, my students show up differently. They are more curious, more open to reflection. They take more risks. Interestingly, so do I. This may be my own unforeseen discovery: that somehow, as liberating as this shift is for learners, it’s liberating for me as well. I find myself softening, trusting the process, and sharing what I’m learning with more openness, and more ease. When we’re in it together, there is a sense of shared wonder. Something Barb knew twenty-five years ago is something I’m still learning – that the truest, most authentic surprise can only happen when it is mutual, when we experience it together with our students.
