Turning iPhones into Microscopes

By Laura Moore

As I sat in the Active Learning Lab and observed Jordan Walker's biology class construct their microscopes, I couldn't help but grin.

Back in 2005, when I first embarked on my career in education, I recall the effort administrators and teachers put into preventing students from using their phones. In Dublin, to avoid any chance that students would be unable to resist the temptation of their device, students were asked to leave their phones inside their lockers. In Upper Arlington, even though students have been able to keep their phones with them for as long as I've taught in the district, they were discouraged from pulling them out during class.

Though the rigid phone rules have softened some over the last few years, the Upper Arlington Student Rights & Responsibilities Handbook still states that "Students may use wireless communication devices (WCDs) before and after school, during their lunch break, in between classes as long as they do not create a distraction, disruption or otherwise interfere with the educational environment, during after school activities (e.g. extra-curricular activities) and at school-related functions."

It still paints a picture of phones as an obstacle to learning.

And it still suggests they should only be used outside of an educational environment.

But what if devices were actually central to the educational environment?

What if phones were just as vital as paper, pens and books?

In an effort to make use of resources, many teachers at Upper Arlington High School have found productive and innovative ways to incorporate what was once the enemy into the fabric regular classroom instruction. From surveys and quizzes, to study apps and vocabulary apps, potential uses vary from course to course, but what Jordan Walker did last Monday in her biology class, seemed to take the concept of phone-as-an-educational-tool to a whole new level.

She showed her students how they could use their device to literally magnify life.

At the start of class, Ms. Walker asked students to get into pairs and then she passed out materials and instructions pre-packaged by her former Metro School colleague, Dr. Andy Bruening, who, in conjunction with working for Metro School is also the PAST Foundation's Director of Bridge Programs. Walker said that Bruening showed her a picture of what he was doing with his students and she presented the idea to her department. Inspired by the prospect of what the activity could unlock for students, her department secured funding to purchase supplies so every biology class had access to the experience.

Once students had their supplies, she told them they would be constructing microscope platforms so they could use their phones to explore specimen slides located at the back of the room.

Groups worked at their own pace, discerning instructions, spinning screws, lining up boards. Some took the entire period to put the platforms together. Others flew through the directions quickly and found themselves with ample time to gaze at samples ranging from grains of sand, salamander tails and blood smears, to a cross-section of a chick cell.

Slide after slide, students were encouraged to follow their curiosity, to choose their own specimens and to look at them for as long as they were interested in looking. Some even decided to create their own specimens, sliding erasers and fingertips beneath the lens, looking at the way both objects in their backpack, as well as the stamp of their identity, appeared beneath the glass.

As they studied each one, Ms. Walker asked them to record their findings on the board: the samples that worked and the ones that didn't. She also asked them to take on the inquiry challenge of determining the magnification of their phone-based microscopes.

Some took guesses based on the magnification of the microscope in their classroom. Others took a more methodical approach. Mr. Warren Orloff, whose classes would be building the microscope at a later date, was in the room observing. As he circled around and looked at what students were doing, he told one group to place a ruler under the lens so they could see how big a millimeter was. Then he showed them how to use that information to find the magnification.

While all groups worked at varying paces, regardless of their microscope construction speed, the number of slides they viewed, or whether or not they were able to estimate the level of magnification, all groups had the experience of making something--of grappling with the challenges of building--of following a third-party's set of directions, pulling pieces from a bag and determining how to put them together in an effort to make something magnificent. They experienced what it was like create a device and then use it, rather than merely walking up to an already manufactured device and taking the existence of it for granted.

As I watched students manipulate the hardware, the boards and yes, their cell phones, I was terribly moved by the power of innovation, by the prospect of imaging what could be and allowing students to see the ways those what-if ideas could become reality. I was moved by the fact that these students had the chance to use their fingers, their eyes and their brains to create a lens through which they could look at the world, and I am enormously excited for the potential of what's to come.

A Day to Honor Our Veterans

By Laura Moore

WWII Vet, John Bergmann speaking to students and fellow veterans seated before him

When United States Marine, Honor Flight Guardian and self-proclaimed "push up guy" Dave Schott stood before a gathering of veterans, active service men and women and students this past Wednesday, he shared an excerpt of a speech called "Peaches and Poundcake" given by Retired Army Major General Robert H. Scales at the Harry S. Truman Library & Museum in Independence, Missouri, on September 12, 2009.

"It’s sufficient to talk to each of you about things we have seen and kinship we have shared in the tough and heartless crucible of war. Some day, we will all join those who are serving so gallantly now and have preceded us on battlefields from Gettysburg to Wanat. We will gather inside a fire base to open a case of C-rations, with every box peaches and pound cake. We will join with a band of brothers to recount the experience of serving something greater than ourselves. I believe in my very soul that the Almighty reserves a corner of heaven, probably around a perpetual campfire, where someday we can meet and embrace all of the band of brothers throughout the ages, to tell our stories while envious bystanders watch and wonder how horrific and incendiary the crucible of violence must have been to bring such a disparate assemblage so close to the hand of God."

For those of us non-military folks who happened to be unaware of the significance of peaches and poundcake, Schott followed up the quote by explaining that after being in the field, getting the chance to indulge in that dessert was heavenly, that it was a favorite treat soldiers could share together. 

And so the image he painted with Major General Robert H. Scales words--one of a campfire where valiant men and women would gather around and tell stories, surrounded by every box there was of peaches and poundcake--smoldered in my mind for the rest of the day and into the night: an image of diverse faces, with diverse experiences, people with enormous passion, grace, bravery and conviction, people brought together by the cause of our country, the cause of defending our freedom.

And as it lived there, I couldn't help but paint the individual faces I had seen on the logs around the fire: Mike Knilans, Andy Frick, Michael Rutland, Crista Sturbois, John Bergmann, Milt Mapou, Dave Schott, Bill Richards. I could help but fill the air of my mind with their experiences, their advice, their answers, their transparent quest--despite all they have already given to us--to give us more, to share some of the hardest, most challenging moments they endured, to pass on to us their part in history, to allow us to bare witness to the violence that brought them all together, and the kinship they shared in the tough and heartless crucible of war.

I couldn't help but fill up with their stories.

Stories that often took years to emerge.

Upper Arlington resident and World War II veteran, John Bergmann, had to wait 43 years before he could speak. A mathematics student at the University Pittsburgh, Bergmann was recruited by the military to come to Washington D.C. and serve as a code-breaker, as one of the crucial minds who helped us win World War II. For 43 years his family believed the story he was forced to tell them--that he was a payroll clerk--even though he was central to the effort to break Japanese and German codes, codes that changed every 24 hours, giving the code breakers a mere day to solve the pattern before it changed once more. He interacted directly with Franklin Delano Roosevelt and Winston Churchill, but his experiences had to exist in his mind as secrets until 1985 when the British started telling their story, and Bergmann asked if it was finally okay to tell his.

A second World War II veteran, Milt Mapou, talked also about the repression of story. As a Pearl Harbor survivor, he said soldiers were not allowed to talk about the attack. They could send postcards home that said, "I am in the hospital, but I am well." They couldn't, however, give details, they couldn't say where they were or give specifics about their injuries. They couldn't process what they endured with the people they loved most.

As Mapou told his story about growing up overnight, Bergmann emphasized how important it was for people at home to write to the men and women serving us. 

"If you have family members overseas, send letters to them," Bergmann said, "I've seen grown men in a corner crying reading letters from home."

When U.S. Navy Veteran and Honor Flight Guardian, Bill Richards spoke during 8th period, he started off by saying, "What a gift to be in the same room with World War II vets. Get a picture to share with your kids."

He went on to talk about the power of Honor Flights, of giving veterans the opportunity to visit their memorials, to share their stories and to give them the homecoming they deserved. This is particularly significant for Vietnam veterans who returned to a country in protest, a country who didn't grant soldiers gratitude and respect for their sacrifices, sacrifices many of them never chose to make in the first place.

He talked about one man who wore his greens on the flight, and when Richards praised his effort to keep his uniform in such mint condition, the man said he didn't. When he got back from Vietnam he destroyed his uniform. The one he wore on his honor flight was brand new. And when he got off of that plane, he said, "today, I come home."

Toward the end of his speech, Richards said, "we all have a story to tell." 

And he encouraged us to listen. 

To these men and women and to extend ourselves to meet others. To come out and greet the honor flight participants, to clap for them, respect them, to give them the dessert of human connection.

From beginning to end, the Veterans Day Celebration, organized by teachers Betsy Sidor, Mark Boesch, Nate Palmer and the rest of the Upper Arlington High School Social Studies department, was a moving example of the power of telling our stories, of gathering around a figurative campfire and listening to the people who have come before us, the people who have made tremendous sacrifices, sacrifices that enable us to walk into our school, sit in our desks and learn.

While the soldiers didn't get a truck filled with peaches and poundcake, our students and staff tried to honor them with the best of their gifts. From performances by Ed and Gretchen Zunic's symphonic orchestra, to Eric Kaufmann's vocal ensemble, to George Edge's drum line, to contributions from Kim Wilson and her classes, Mark Boesch and Kelly Scott and the class officers, Kim Brown and student council students, Judy Miller who coordinated lunch with Rusty Bucket (Easton) General Manager Dave Redenbarger, and Karen D'Eramo and the UA Rise baristas who made coffee for the veterans to enjoy, Upper Arlington High School made every effort to welcome some of the greatest people any of us will ever meet.

Thank you, veterans, for all you've given and continue to give. You are an inspiration to us all.

WWII Veteran John Bergmann speaking to students

Intelligent Failure

By Laura Moore

When the bell rings for lunch, most students flood the parking lots and sidewalks, making their way home, or to any number of local eating establishments. Some stay behind in the cafeteria, others dive into their studies in the library and a few others crowd around the auditorium lobby, lounging on couches, munching on food, diving into pop culture analyses, high school drama, or philosophical bantering.

Last Friday, however, Upper Arlington High School's Community School students were gathered in the orchestra room, engaging in an emergency class forum run by the student "chair" they elected to lead them.

This emergency meeting occurred three days into their new unit, but the process that brought them to that point started a few weeks before when their language arts teacher, Melissa Hasebrook, charged them with a mission to brainstorm ideas for the next unit. Beginning with passion and curiosity, students listed ideas they had interest in studying. Then, they gathered in groups with others who shared that interest so they could explore it, identify essential questions about it, and locate both potential book titles as well as satellite texts (movies, TV shows, articles, artwork) and accompanying visuals for analysis (comics, posters, memes).

The set up sounds like a dream for students, but having been in the classroom for twelve years, I will admit that my palms grew misty just imagining all of the potential ways this openness and freedom could travel off course. See, while student choice is important, I know it can also be dangerous. It can lead to inappropriate pursuits or undesired outcomes. It can make people uncomfortable.

But it can also lead to tremendously valuable learning.

And that's exactly what happened in Hasebrook's class.

As student groups formed and energy built, it became obvious that there was tremendous interest in the development of a unit focusing on serial killers.

Hasebrook said there were about five students who had sincere interest, but they were able to bring their peers on board and after three rounds of voting, three classes landed on this topic as the one they wanted to pursue. The process itself was lengthy: students were tasked with developing their position with research and then presenting those ideas in front of the class. Hasebrook recorded the presentations and posted them on the class Schoology page. Once all ideas were presented, students picked the top three, whittling the field to 10 and then they voted once more, narrowing the field to four. Once the final four ideas were identified, they voted one final time, arriving at the unit they most wanted to pursue.

While kids have always been fascinated by fringe ideas, Hasebrook said this was the first time a group managed to get a fringe idea through and win. And when such a reality unfolded, she said she had to make a decision about how to handle it. Should she stop it before it started and give them the unit she wanted to teach or should she honor their wishes and forge onward?

True to her commitment to giving students experiences that enable them to learn authentically, she decided to let her students learn, to let them wrestle with their decision, to let them find their way out of where they managed to land.

At first, only four students approached her with concerns and she worked with them to design an alternative unit that explored how story impacts an understanding of the world. But as students started reading, the group of four grew. Parents expressed concern, people started having nightmares, regret started creeping through the cracks.

Mrs. Hasebrook spoke with the chair and vice chair and they decided to call a meeting with all three classes. At that meeting--which occurred during lunch--a room packed with students shared their positions. As each person spoke--facilitated by an intentional, methodical process led by a student-appointed chair--the room listened.

Even though some students still felt passionately about going on with the chosen unit, 50% felt uncomfortable; therefore, the group decided to halt its progress, to go back to the drawing board with new unit ideas, and over the weekend, they had three rounds of voting, rounds that landed them on Kafka and his novel The Trial. 

Some naysayers might look at this particular lesson and scold the power of student choice, but I look at it as a prime example of what Amy Edmondson calls intelligent failure in her Harvard Business Review article "Strategies for Learning from Failure." In this piece, she asserts that "failure resulting from thoughtful experimentation that generates valuable information may actually be praiseworthy."  She says intelligent failure "occur[s] when experimentation is necessary: when answers are not knowable in advance because this exact situation hasn't been encountered before and perhaps never will again."

This particular "failure" was intelligent because the effect of these students' choice was not knowable in advance for them. But, by being allowed to go through the process--by being allowed to actually live with this particular choice--these students learned, very deeply, about the weight of it. In a safe space, they got to see how individual choice can impact others in real and powerful ways. They learned to speak up and out. They learned to respectfully listen, to come together, to build unity despite differences. Instead of being told why that's important, over the course of a few days, students learned a lesson wider-reaching than the Common Core could ever hope to go. They learned that while the freedom of choice is empowering, it comes with real consequences. They learned that certain things cause visceral reactions in others. They learned how to manage their emotions and how to feel a sense of responsibility to members of a community.

And they learned all of this because Hasebrook let them.

She didn't issue blame. She didn't demean their curiosity. She didn't stop their progress and save them with the answer. She let them feel and dig and empathize. She let them wrestle with a challenging predicament and learn how to be civically-responsible beings. And then, she let them find their way out.

In the opening lines of her article, Edmondson tells us that "the wisdom of learning from failure is incontrovertible. Yet the organizations who do it well are extraordinarily rare."

We, at Upper Arlington High School want to be one of those organizations.

And while there are countless other examples of how we experiment and fail and learn and grow throughout the high school, today, I wrote about Hasebrook's class because I think her lesson captures perfectly why intelligent failure it is such an important ideal to pursue.

The Power of Laughter

By Laura Moore

My eyes scanned the room as I wiggled uncomfortably in my seat. From "vibrato" to "güiro" to "audiation," terms were flying left and right and students were either nodding at the epiphanies those words helped produce, or they were laughing, imagining their orchestra teacher, Ed Zunic, in a whole host of vulnerable situations.

I jotted notes furiously, intending to meet with him later so I could clear up my confusion and translate what felt like a foreign language into plain spoken English. But as the period wore on, I found that what was happening around me quickly moved from foreign to unmistakeable: bit by bit, anecdote by anecdote, detail by detail, I could hear music evolving. I could see learning happening. I could--despite my lack of musical acuity--process precisely what was going on: kids were taking risks, having fun, and pushing themselves to make adjustments so their own personal sounds would make the entire class sound just a little bit better.

And strangely enough, what initially felt so foreign suddenly felt familiar, suddenly reminded me--unexpectedly--of my days playing sports: dribbling drills before learning a new offense, spin drills before taking the mound, digging lines before 6-on-6 scrimmages. Laughter and playfulness cropping up between moments of intensity, where joy has space to emanate and camaraderie has room to grow. And as it all unfolded, Mr. Zunic's pep-talks, his mini-challenges, his ability to manage a room of 80 kids masterfully reminded me--very clearly--of the best coaches who guided my life.

He isolated the violins and the violas, the cellos and the basses, and group by group, he asked them to test out finger plucking and vibrato (which I learned was a technique to produce warm, richer sounds that feel more human, interesting and pleasing).

"If one person uses too much bow it can all fall apart" he told them, drawing awareness to the details of finger position and bow position, challenging them to perfect their form.

"Watch how the bows line up," he said scanning the room, "we need to play like one giant organism."

I sent my eyes across a space dotted with 80 students holding 4 different instruments, and I observed them struggle and excel. I watched them test and grow, experiment with vulnerability and laugh.

And then I watched them laugh some more.

In fact, despite how beautiful the music was, it was that laughter that gripped me the most, laughter that seemed to come at all of the right times through anecdotes and puns.

In discussing vibrato, Zunic gave them a mini history lesson about its origin, concluding his story by saying, "it goes Bach that far."

Later, sensing insecurity, he connected with them using an anecdote from his own life. Students had been working on audiation skills, and Zunic asked them to play a portion of a song, and then play AND sing that same portion, and then drop the instrument all together and just sing the music itself aloud. Some kids--the brave ones--acted without thought; others adopted a silent lip-moving whisper. My own insecurities about singing in public instantly sent a flash of empathy through me as I put myself in their shoes, but before I could tie up the laces, Mr. Zunic had stopped them and told them about a moment in 4th grade when his teacher assigned him to play the güiro--a fish-shaped instrument--in his class's rendition of the Don Gato song. 

"You don't need to sing," his teacher said, apparently recognizing his less-than-stellar singing voice, "just play the instrument." 

The students laughed, and Zunic continued. "I can sympathize," he said very sincerely, "with those of you who aren't strong singers."

It wasn't surprising that the next round of "play, play-sing, sing" sounded a little louder than it did the first time. 

And after watching Ed Zunic's class, it also wasn't surprising that I understood far more than I expected to when I walked into the room. From lacing his lessons with metaphors and analogies about escalators and elevators, to easing anxieties with laughter, to admitting his own challenges, Zunic has a way of making music feel accessible and fun, powerful and important and chaotically beautiful. He pushed them and pulled them and kept them on their toes, persistently looking for ways to make simple tasks complicated, to build a better mouse trap. 

He says he does this by learning from and listening to teachers in all different disciplines, looking for new methodologies and ideas to help students polish skills, to push them beyond the literal and help them embrace the details, the dynamics, the "fun stuff." 

The stuff that makes music--and life--art.

That night when I went home, I felt a little braver than I did when I left for school in the morning. Plopping myself down at our family piano, I put my fingers on the keys. Pressing against them, I tested out the sounds, sounds my two-year old son has no problem playing, but sounds that had previously seemed out of reach for me. I had no idea what I was doing, but the minute I started risking, the minute I dropped my inhibitions and let myself laugh, ideas surfaced. The discomfort inspired me, motivated me, pushed me. 

And even though I was lightyears away from making music like those students in Ed Zunic's 8th period class, as I sat before that piano, as I recalled the challenges they tackled that day, I realized that musically inclined or not, I was a better human being for having been present in the room to watch them.

On Creating a Place Where We All Want to Wake up and Go

By Laura Moore

"I love learning, but the last time I loved school was elementary school."

For as long as I live, I'll never forget her words, her face, the confession she gave as she sat in front of 27 of her peers, 16 teachers, a counselor and an administrator at a Design Thinking Workshop in the Graf Center yesterday.

Her words inspired all of us to dig deeper, to open up wider, and to connect more meaningfully with each other as we, collectively, shed our inhibitions, broke patterns, and imagined ways we could bring joy back to the classroom.

Before we got to that point though, Daniel Paccione, the IB Coordinator and Director of Global Studies for EF Academy in New York, Oxford and Torbay, invited us to participate in several ice-breaker activities where teachers and students drew one another in 30 seconds, determined how to get from point A to point B on a image he projected, identified the what, how and why in another image, and reflected on how we are creative and what motivates us to solve problems.

Throughout these exercises, Paccione reminded us of the value in diverse ways of thinking and experiencing the world, and he encouraged us to appreciate the value we bring to the process of creative problem-solving. As he did this, he also worked to dispel the myths of creativity: that only some people and some ideas are creative, that something has to be complicated or important to be creative, and that creativity is stifled by school.

Paccione then led us through the six stages of design thinking using the gift-giving process as a starting point. We conducted empathic interviews about the last time our partner gave a gift, and through those interviews we strove to understand their perspective: what motivates that person, inspires him or her, drives him or her and/or frustrates him or her.

After listening and learning, we narrowed down and defined what we heard, identified what needed to be addressed, and embarked on a boundless ideation process, where we came up with as many ideas as possible to help our partner improve his or her future gift-giving experience. Ideas in hand, we consulted our partner for feedback, learned which ideas resonated and what we needed to improve, merge or eliminate. Then, we pursued a rapid prototype construction of the most promising idea and handed it over to our partner so he or she--and eventually the entire room--could see the physical manifestation of our concept.

Beginning the ideation process

              

Constructing a prototype

Putting all of our prototypes in the center of a circle

As we reflected on the process, people shared differing reactions. Some found the entire experience liberating because the partner check-ins made it feel more collaborative. In other words, they felt their imperfect design belonged to more than just them. Others felt okay with the messiness because everyone else was in the same boat. And still others struggled with offering up a product before it was perfected.

As we discussed our experiences, Paccione made a case for why it's okay to have imperfect ideas when you're prototyping, because failing early allows you to learn and adapt before you invest a lot of time and emotional energy on something that isn't going to work. Then he went on to share examples of how rapid prototyping has helped Apple and other technology companies in the real world.

Primed and ready for something substantial, he told us it was time to take the process we had just experienced and apply it to our lives. Hoping to task us with something that resonated deeply with students and staff, he called up one of the teachers and asked her to identify what she most wished for in a school. Then he brought up a student.

The two spoke eloquently and passionately and the overlap was unmistakeable.

The Teacher's Wish List is on the Left; The Student's Wish List is on the Right

From here, we identified a list of How Might We questions to address those concepts, and during lunch, Paccione asked us to put a post-it note on the HMW question we felt most passionate about.

"HMW Bring joy back to the classroom?" is on the left;
"HMW break the status quo without causing an uproar?" is on the right.

Two questions stood out from the rest, and we decided to combine them: How might we break the status quo to bring joy back to the classroom? With our mission on the table, students and teachers came alive. We conducted empathic interviews of one another, learning how much we had in common in our wishes and dreams, how much we both felt the pressure, the dullness, the desire to do bigger things, to spark curiosity and passion, to learn rather than test.

During one of our breaks, a student told me, "It feels so good to know teachers get it, that they understand, that they care about the same things we do, and it would be so awesome if we could really make a change."

Another student told me she wanted time to learn, to think, to explore, but she is so overloaded with what she has to do, she doesn't have time to learn what she wants to.

On one of the post-it-notes a student said we needed to "grade over time not in time," and countless others wrote about how much they yearned for the opportunity to get to know their peers and teachers as human beings, but because we have so many standards to cover, they constantly hear, "you need to know this for the A.P. test."

The entire room itched with the desire to harness what is already human nature: to question, to learn, to understand, to play and to explore. And over and over again, they dreamed of creating a learning space where all of us--teachers and students--come wildly alive.

A place where we all want to wake up and go.

Unfortunately, the bus arrived at 2pm to take this group of brave, insightful and passionate teenagers back to the high school, but the conversations have been preserved on paper and in images, and the spark has been ignited. We are just starting this process, but the potential is limitless and I am so excited to be part of this journey.

Cracking Open the Fear

By Laura Moore

Dena Little, Children's Librarian from the Upper Arlington Public Library

At the end of your next staff meeting, imagine your boss issuing a blanket assignment:

"Next week, before we discuss our new business updates, or any policy changes, all of you are going to stand up in front of your co-workers and assume four different character voices--gestures and all--and recite your favorite children's book."

I can imagine a snapshot of the crowd: eyes wide, brows raised, fingers massaging a sea of temples.

You've got to be kidding me, many of your coworkers say without words, although a few manage to open their mouths and argue about the absurdity. Your boss, however, remains vigilant, "It's good for you," he or she says and then leaves the room.

Despite the fact every last person has crossed the threshold from adolescence to adulthood--and stereotypes tell us that means they have, in theory, left their awkward years and insecurities behind--the crowd throbs with anxiety.

I'm going to look ridiculous...

What if I forget what I'm supposed to say...

People are going to laugh at me...

It doesn't matter how old we are, fear and insecurity are powerful entities in our lives, and we must all learn to face them both, to embrace them, to manage them, so we can find a way to triumph, to overcome.

And when we do, authenticity, connection, and growth often emerge.

In an effort to equip her students with what it takes to overcome fear and insecurity, Amanda Fountain has assumed the role of boss, and she's issued the aforementioned assignment. Hoping to help her classes realize the we way we beat the monsters in our lives--the way we control them--is to hold the reigns, to embrace our vulnerability, to wrestle with being uncomfortable so we can learn to manage the discomfort.

By the start of second quarter, she said her public speaking students have had the chance to develop skills through an introductory speech, a demonstration speech, a "review" speech and an informative speech, but Fountain has noticed that many kids still struggle with ease, with letting go and allowing their personality to leak out on stage. They're often stiff, overly concerned with how their peers perceive them, and have a resistance to use gestures to enhance the messages they're delivering. For that reason, Fountain assigns the vocal variety speech at the start of second quarter. In this assignment, students have to assume at least four different voices as they interpret a children's book for the class.

Over the years, after assigning this speech, Fountain has noticed students were often held back by the first choice they made: which book they wanted to use. To make life easier, many would pick a board book from home without worrying about whether or not it was fitting for the assignment, and others would "forget" their book altogether, losing valuable prep time in an effort to prolong the inevitable.

This past June, while teaching the 4-hour blocked summer school class, Fountain thought of a solution. When it came time for the vocal variety speech, she advised students to bring their library cards and then she walked them over to Northam Park, up to the main library and into the children's book section. There, high schoolers stood beside children as both groups poured over the stories, and Fountain stepped back as it happened, watching kids engage as they never had before. Later, when students stood up to present, she noticed the performances had much more texture.

Eager to carry the energy over to the school year, Fountain reached out to Tracie Steele, the librarian she worked with over the summer. Strapped by our 48 minute class periods and the implausibility of walking students over to the main library during that time, Fountain searched for a way to bring the books to her students. Tracie connected her with Dena Little, one of her colleagues, and Dena arrived  eagerly, with a table full of stories, a device to check them out, and a plethora of advice.

She talked to students about getting into character, about the importance of making yourself comfortable, of letting loose and being silly, of recognizing that everyone was going to be in the same boat, feeling the same discomfort.

But she not only told them, she made herself vulnerable. Instead of choosing stories that catered to her strengths, she exposed an area she admitted was a weak.

"My Irish accent isn't great," she told them, after using it for one of the characters, "but I'm trying it and that's all that matters."

She talked to them next about helping the audience.

"When the speaker is uncomfortable," she said, "it's awkward. The more crazy and outgoing you are, the more your audience will get into it."

She went on to show them how to use their bodies to reflect the character's own body language and she advised them to break the fourth wall, to address the audience directly if it seemed appropriate, if they needed to give context or wanted to ask listeners to connect to the events in the story.

When she finished, students rose from their seats and crowded around the table of books, flipping through pages, making their way through stories. And the entire time I watched, not a single one widened his or her eyes, raised his or her brows or rubbed his or her temples.

Instead, they were laughing, reminiscing, searching for the perfect set of characters, the perfect entry-point for their performance.

They were digging right in.

Facing challenges head on.

Accepting the call to adventure--just like the characters in their story--crossing the threshold and beginning a journey that will make them just a little bit more brave, a journey that will allow them to crack open their fear, and let their personality leak out onto the stage.

Before They Walk into the Boardroom

By Laura Moore

Students performing the Mintanan Greeting

I still remember the silence.

My team huddled around a black speaker phone set up in the center of a windowless conference room on the twelfth floor of a high-rise in Midtown Manhattan.

It was my first job out of college and I was working in account management for an advertising agency, sitting beside a slew of creative people who had been tasked with presenting a new campaign concept to our counterparts in Asia, Europe and Australia.

My boss gave a briefing, highlighting the goals of our client, before instructing participants to open PDFs and view concepts.

That's when the phone line went dead.

After what seemed like days, the group from Asia spoke first.

"I'm not sure," the person said slowly, "this will resonate with our audience."

Silence cloaked us for a long set of seconds before a discussion actually ensued, one that picked apart the core of the concept, the underlying assumption that the American ideal of winning--of outright declaring that your goal is to beat the competition--was not something other regions, particularly Asia, embraced.

Sure, the companies wanted to succeed, wanted to rise to the top of the heap, wanted to increase sales numbers and perceptions of excellence...

But not at the cost of suggesting others were somehow less.

As a 22 year old former collegiate athlete who spent her entire life up to that point striving to win, I remember sitting there, flabbergasted. I remember thinking, for the very first time, about the danger of seeing the world through a singular lens, and from that point forward, I made it my mission to better understand other points of view.

Fortunately, the students in Eva Frustaci's Higher Level International Baccalaureate (IB) Business Management class won't have to wait until the stakes are high before they grapple with reality.

This week, she and her student teacher, Kyle Davis, walked students through a cultural business simulation developed by GlobalEDGE. In this activity, students were split into two groups: the Americans and the Mintanans.

At the start of class, Mr. Davis took the Mintanan group to the Active Learning Lab and briefed them on their role, their business and the ideals at the heart of this fictitious culture. They learned the importance of family, the norms of business interactions, and the numbers required to secure a satisfactory profit in the deal. They also learned the Mintanan greeting involved crossing two hands, palms out, in front of your face, rather than extending your right hand in pursuit of a handshake. The American group stayed behind with Mrs. Frustaci, and she briefed them on their roles, their identity and their goal: to negotiate a deal at the lowest possible price.

Because the Mintanan culture respected hierarchal authority, students were told to embrace certain behaviors: they should expect that a top executive would attend any new business meeting, subordinates were not supposed to sit down until superiors gave them permission, and the president's thinking should never be questioned. Further, they were advised to act in the company's best interest at all times, and if the other company sent lower-level executives, the Mintanan junior executives should expect to carry the brunt of the negotiating.

In addition to these practices, the Mintanans believed in slower negotiations, opting to "haggle" for the best price, rather than settle right away. For that reason, regardless of how attractive an initial offer might be, their cultural norm is to engage in a back and forth exchange. Additionally, decisions about price should based on trustworthiness rather than numbers. The Mintanans were told to look at the way the other company behaved and from their observations, determine whether or not the group was respectable. If the company proved untrustworthy, then regardless of their offer, the Mintanans should not accept it.

The American group, on the other hand, was simply told to close the deal; therefore, their briefing primarily included information about prices and the goal they had to hit to save their company money. They were also told that the president of their organization had no interest in attending the meeting and demanded they go instead. Neither wanted to be there because of rumors they had heard about the authoritative culture in Mintana; however, to inspire efficacy, they were offered an excessive travel budget and promised a $40,000 bonus if they closed the deal. Unfortunately, the junior executives knew nothing about Mintanan culture, and because they arrived late the night before the meeting, their negotiations would be the first interaction they'd have in that country.

Once the two sides were briefed, the American group joined the Mintanan group in the Active Learning Lab. Instructed to engage in meetings and arrive at a deal, the class was split into four smaller groups that were now composed of both Mintanans and Americans. They held meetings for 15 minutes, and by the end, every single group arrived at a deal. Surprisingly, only one out of those four groups agreed on a contract that represented the best interest of the American company.

Following the exercise, students reflected on their experience. They acknowledged the significance of understanding other view points and norms when conducting international business, and they recognized the potential impact a lack of understanding might have. This ranged from greeting preferences to bigger things like hierarchy or behavioral norms that influence perceptions of trustworthiness and respect. They saw how all of those elements could come together to influence outcomes, and how things one group might not find to be a big deal, might be a deal-breaker to another.

While this exercise only filled 48 minutes of these student's lives, the impact has long-lasting potential. When these IB students go off to their internships, or step into roles at their very first jobs, hopefully they won't find themselves in a real moment of silence, a real moment of misunderstanding, a real moment where two groups exist on an entirely different page. As they venture out into the real world, hopefully they will be equipped to shift their lens, to question, to dig, and to understand before they walk into the boardroom.