Nothing is certain. Werner Heisenberg proved this in 1927 with
his development of the Uncertainty Principle, an idea that stemmed from the
work he was doing at the time on quantum mechanics, a then-new branch of physics. In his first paper on the topic, Heisenberg
used the German word Ungenauigkeit, which can be translated into
“uncertainty,” but can also be thought of as inexactness or impreciseness. Heisenberg actually preferred the invented
word, “indeterminedness.” Whatever the
name, though, the principle holds.
Stated broadly, it dictates that the more you know about one thing, the
less you can know about something else.
The
Uncertainty Principle introduces, for the first time, the idea that the
universe places a fundamental limit on what people can know, or on what
knowledge is accessible to humans. We
tend to find this constraint difficult to accept and the idea causes anxiety
for many of us: We
find comfort in knowing, a comfort manifested in the time we spend searching for the right
answers, and dismissing the wrong answers, all of which serves
the aim of more closely approaching a complete and absolute understanding. The Uncertainty Principle, however,
eliminates, at a fundamental level, the ideas of right and wrong, as well as
any hope of absolute knowledge. We
simply cannot know anything beyond a certain level.
When I examine the
forces that brought me to teaching and, later, to educational leadership, I
return time and again to the invitation presented by the Uncertainty Principle,
an invitation to push our relationship with knowledge to its furthest limits
and to push human learning as far as it can possibly go.
I love this. I love the idea that we can’t know
everything. I’m excited by the fact that
we are forced into a dynamic relationship with knowledge and by the idea that
as we gain perspective on one thing, this necessarily changes how we see and
what we know about something else.
Indeed, the need for
learning seems to be built into us from the start. In the days following the announcement of the
discovery of the Higgs Boson (a moment of great excitement for all
physicists!), a letter to the editor was published in the New York Times. It read, in part, "Our species benefits
any time we can say we know more today than we did yesterday." To my mind, this speaks clearly and simply to
the central and permanent role that learning plays in our lives. We are born to learn, and, as the Times
letter states, every time that we learn something, we are all better for
it. Richard Feynman put it well, saying,
“We want [to learn] so we can love nature more.
Would you not turn a beautiful flower around in your hand to see it from
the other directions as well?”
The
Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle crystallizes for me the primacy of learning,
and thus the importance of building great schools. As educational leaders, we are charged with
fostering the intellectual and emotional growth of children and we must, therefore,
develop schools that are worthy of this task.
In
working to build such schools, we, as teachers, as parents, and as
administrators, are faced with a number of responsibilities that will ensure
the creation of learning environments that are most conducive to the continued
growth and development of our students.
We must develop schools that are true
communities of learners.
The most successful
schools are those in which the continued growth and development of the entire
organization is supported, encouraged, and guided by an administration
committed to building a true community of learners.
In order to
accomplish this, students need to see their teachers engaged in learning of
their own. By modeling what it means to
be committed to a lifetime of learning, the faculty and administration provide
students with examples to follow in the development of their own academic
interests.
In my own life, both
as a student and as a teacher and administrator, it is those teachers and
school leaders who approached their work with an inquisitive and open stance to
whom I look as models now. By asking
good questions, they taught me to ask good questions. By challenging their own assumptions, they
showed me the value of doing the same.
By taking risks and inviting failure, they developed in me a sense of
confidence and a willingness to try and fail in the interest of growing. By asking me to teach, they built for me the
scaffolding of future leadership. These
models stay with me now as I work closely with students and faculty to create
the environments that best support the intellectual, emotional, and social
growth of children.
We must fill our schools with laughter.
I
am always somewhat taken aback when I walk through the halls of a school in
session and hear only the sounds of teachers speaking and chalk against the
board. Environments such as these seem
to me to be fundamentally antithetical to the process of learning. Learning is fun. Learning is funny. Learning should promote laughter and
noise. To be sure, it can also be messy
and sad and frustrating and aggravating, but the fact remains that learning
requires emotional engagement. Students
learn best when they care, when they have a connection to that which they’re
learning (and to the person from whom they learn), and laughter is a signal
that this is taking place in an authentic way.
Laughter
signals real connections between teachers and students, between administrators
and teachers, between all constituents in the school. Laughter is honest, and it requires that
people truly know themselves and each other.
It
is those moments, moments when I can share a laugh with a student, with a
class, or with a colleague, that most stand out in my memory. Whether we’re laughing at a good joke, a
great physics cartoon, or (as if often the case) at me, the relationship that
is built in that moment is invaluable to the learning process.
We must build collaborative communities
that reflect diversity of thought and experience.
Learning
is a team sport. Whether working on the
writing process, studying calculus, or playing an instrument, students very
often achieve
more when they work in collaboration with others. A peer group can provide the motivation to
challenge oneself, a context for new
ideas, a sounding board for a burgeoning argument, and moral support for
continued growth. The same is true for
teachers. Faculty teach more
effectively, see more engagement from their students, achieve greater positive
outcomes, and have more fun when they have the opportunity to discuss their own
teaching, pedagogy, and intellectual interests with their colleagues. My experiences team teaching, for example,
have been the most challenging, productive, and illuminating of my career. The opportunity to watch a colleague teach on
a regular basis, to gain understanding from his perspective while also sharing
my own has proven invaluable. I am a
better teacher and a better learner when I engage those around me rather than
working in isolation.
Collaboration
of this sort, however, is somewhat less transformational in communities that
tend toward the homogeneous. It is only
through open discourse with those whose backgrounds, perspectives, and life
experiences are different from our own that we grow. It is imperative, then, for school leaders to
build communities that reflect real diversity - diversity of thought, religion,
ethnicity, socioeconomic status, and family structure, to name a few. These communities are hard to build: they require thought,
creativity, attention, insistence, and careful maintenance. Nevertheless, the social and educational value
of developing this kind of school atmosphere, not just nominally, but in
substantial and sustainable ways, far outweighs the cost.
We must set high, but clear
expectations for the entire community.
In
discussing the roots of his students’ success, Frank Boyden, legendary
Headmaster of Deerfield Academy, wrote, “We just treat [them] as if we expect
something of them, and we keep them busy.”
While many of Boyden’s approaches to school leadership may now be seen
as antiquated, holding ourselves, our students, and our faculties to high
standards is an important, and lasting, ideal.
Students
thrive in settings in which they are expected to achieve at high levels and
then (and perhaps most importantly) given the tools and skills needed to do
so. Children are born wanting to learn
as much as they can and as they gain knowledge and understanding about their
world, the desire to learn more deepens.
The classroom must foster this innate curiosity, not merely require that
our students reach some mediocre standard of proficiency. Holding our students to high standards sends
a clear message that we not only expect their best at all times, but that we
believe that they are capable of great things.
Though subtle, this powerful message empowers students, enabling them to
push themselves and to overcome adversity with grace and confidence.
This
principle is no less true for a school’s faculty. Teachers, and through them the everyday
classroom experiences of students, are the core of any school. No school can be great without great
teachers, and teachers must be given the support, guidance, and feedback they
need to grow.
In order to foster
the continued development of both students and teachers alike, administrators need
to see school happening every day. They
need to see the school and to be seen in the school. They need to be in classrooms, both teaching
and observing so that they understand the daily work of the community. School leaders need to cheer in the audience
at the fall play and on the sidelines of the football game. They need to talk to students, teachers,
parents, and colleagues about their experiences every day. Administrators need to know their school well
if they hope to lead their school well.
Frank Boyden had his
desk in the middle of the front hall of Deerfield until the day he
retired. He was literally at the center
of the school. He expected the best from
his school, from his teachers, and from his students. Because he was connected to all of them in a
real, lasting, and substantial way, he got it.
