October 9th
The rules of the activity were simple: You’re going to get two feathers, three inches of masking tape, a straw, and one regular sized piece of paper. From there, you’ll have ten minutes to brainstorm, ten minutes to sketch, and fifteen minutes to build wings for a paper cutout of Icarus. Whoever can make the Icarus cut out fly the farthest wins.
The particular brainstorm map I used follows the Problem Based Learning Model, where instead of students being presented with a question that has a strict path or formula to success, they are encouraged to explore a problem through knowing the solution. This form of learning has been found to be highly effective for forming long-term problem solving skills and knowledge retention. I, as foolish as I found it the last time, still brought in research to back up what I was doing. In the event a wandering superintendent was around, I was certain to be prepared.
The solution that I presented them was my own Icarus that I had made following the stipulations that I provided them. I showed them how it flew, but didn’t show them how I’d constructed it. I made sure to mention that they could make their wings however they liked, but this was proof that my activity was, indeed, possible.
The time I gave them to brainstorm was quick for some, ten full minutes of excruciating mental anguish for others. A few students chattered under their breath about how they didn’t need the brainstorming time, that they already knew exactly what they were going to do. Curious, I released them to begin sketching out their wings on the paper, drawing models about where every piece of tape would go.
One thing I learned the instant I gave them the enthusiastic go ahead to begin building was that, if there was a loophole to be found in any activity, one of these students was absolutely sure to find it. On the front of the activity I’d given them was an image of wings. I thought it was just a nice piece of decoration so as to not fill up the page with just words and numbers.
One intrepid student used those wings for his Icarus. When I gave him a look to say “you got me,” he grinned and raised an eyebrow. Not only did he find the loophole, but he enjoyed solving the problem in such an out of the box way as to stump even the teacher.
Creative uses of straws were turned into bones for the wings. Features were added to his feet to help with the lift. Another student folded his paper into an airplane for Icarus to ride in, taping him down and using the straw as a lap bar. While it didn’t exactly far into the parameters of the activity, I didn’t disqualify the creation. I was impressed by the creativity, and selfishly, wanted to see how far it would fly.
When it was time to measure their flights, the results were shocking by two fold. The first curiosity was that they were actually quite good. Most flew farther than my own creation. The second, and far more interesting to me, was that they not only cared about the activity, but about being kind to each other. I was raised in a cut-throat high ability program. I was surrounded by the same fifty-odd kids for twelve grades. GPA was competitive starting in the 4.3 range. We learned to fight for our successes and quietly celebrate when we clawed ahead of another.
These students? They cheered for every single flight. When one took an occasional nose dive at the thrower’s feet, there was a polite giggle before they clapped for the student and told them that it was alright, that it was just an unlucky throw, and that their wings certainly looked pretty. The students in the lead were graceful when another displaced their victories. And, when the winning student came to claim the awe-inspiring prize of a sticker, they all clapped.
Sure, it was loud, nearly overwhelmingly so, but they were so proud of each other that it was hard to be upset about the volume. And their success was my success. I’d finally found my footing. That, and, I was ready to triple check my lesson plans for any loopholes to be manipulated.
