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We’re just about getting to the end of semester’s block of teaching weeks, so my attention is turning to final assessment once again.
With my first-years I’ve inherited a module on the EU that used to be mine some time ago and for which I’ve stuck to the assessment regime through curiosity as much as anything else.
As I’ve discussed elsewhere here, we’re piloting our new computer-based assessment system on the module, so I was keen to see how that changed things. Much of my attention in that regard has been to do with the coursework, but we’re also doing the final exam on it too.
It turns out that this is an excellent opportunity for me to get into open-book exams.
My student memory of these are watching law students carting in a dozen or more lever-arch files (ask your parents) into an exam hall, usually with at least one person have the entire thing spill out across the corridor outside or (on one tremendous occasion) across a busy street and towards a near-by canal.
Happy days. But not very enticing.
But because so much of the work has moved online, not least the exam itself, this seems like a good moment to visit the format.
For those who’ve not encountered it before, an open-book exam is simply one where you can bring and use any materials you like during the exam period. The idea is that it’s much more like a situation you might encounter in real-life than sitting in a bare room, answering questions you’ve hopefully prepared for, but using only what you can haul from the back of your mind.
The reason it’s not been so popular has been a mix of the aforementioned mess, the fear that students will just copy out other peoples’ work and the vague air that it’s not ‘right’.
Of course, I’m a big believer in changing what you when situations change, so why not try an open-book format?
It’s helped by the system being able still to detect plagiarism (final submissions are run through the usual software), plus it can note when a student suddenly dumps several hundred words at once.
Moreover, giving an open-book exam removes any feeling of accommodation to students about factual errors: my lovely mnemonics will be left at one side should I meet anyone who tries to tell me about the Council of Europe in leading the EU.
Of course, an open-book exam – while superficially attractive to students – is a big bear-trap. The temptation to ‘go check something’ will be very high, taking time away from actually writing an answer to the question asked. As those law students used to discover (when we talked to them on our way to the bar), it’s one thing to have access to lots of information, but quite another if you don’t know how to find the right information.
So, we’ll see. My impression so far has been that a lot of my students haven’t really clocked the different issues involved. If nothing else, if they’re relying on my flipped lectures as much as I think they are, then they’ll discover rather quickly that those are in possibly the least-helpful format for an exam.
Let’s hope those lecture notes are in good order.
A few thoughts on my comparative politics course this year, now that the semester has ended:
Although I think my revised writing prompts made the intent of assignments more transparent, I forgot to preface each prompt with an overview of how readings related to the topic at hand. Also, for some assignments, it was obvious that students still weren’t reading items that I regarded as essential. If I don’t specifically refer to an author in the prompt, students often don’t read that author’s work. Since the relationship between the author and the question I posed was obscurely implied rather than explicit, I don’t have much justification for reducing students’ marks.
My Gerkhania simulation worked much better, in terms of student engagement, in a class of fourteen than it did in last year’s class of ten. Yet in each parliamentary session, students rapidly disclosed the roles they had randomly acquired to sort out how to construct coalitions that allowed the greatest number of them to “win.” I’m thinking of introducing two changes to the simulation next year that might reduce students’ tendency to default to rational actor behavior. First, keep students’ roles the same throughout the simulation, instead of randomly changing them for each session. This might cause students to develop a greater attachment to their fictional identities. Second, have students draft their own legislation instead of providing them with a a list of pre-determined bills.
Re-arranging course topics and pushing the qualitative comparative analysis deeper into the semester seemed beneficial, but many students still struggled with the assignment. They don’t, for example, understand concepts like “land productivity” and how measures like these can be used as independent variables. I need to continue separating the QCA into smaller components. Baby steps.
This guest post is part of a series linked to the publication of G. Pleschova & A. Simon (eds.) Learning to teach in central Europe: Reflections from early career researchers. This post comes from Theresa Reidy.
Shpend Voca provides an excellent resource for academics working with large student groups in this chapter on pair work. Building interaction into sessions with students can become a challenge when group numbers exceed the 40-50 mark but this chapter reminds us that innovation and engagement should not be traded when faced with larger student groups.
The chapter is important in four respects.
First, Voca strikes a chord with the opening discussion of the traditional lecture as a passive format and in referring to Bloom’s Taxonomy, highlights the low level learning outcomes which students experience and achieve through this approach. In this sense, the challenge that lecturers face with big groups is clearly set out in the opening section of the chapter.
Second, several examples of discrete engagement strategies which can be used with large groups are elaborated. This is perhaps the most important part of the chapter in that it provides specific options for teaching staff to use in their own practice. The options given include pausing during lectures to allow students to speak with the person sitting next to them to discuss the material provided up to that point, and clarify notes. This is a simple idea and one that could be especially valuable for early year undergraduate students. The author includes further options, which build on this starting suggestion.
The third noteworthy aspect of the chapter relates directly to the robust research design used to evaluate the use of pair work. A clear approach is taken with data collected through several routes. Student evaluations, final grades and a peer observation rubric are used in what is essentially a natural experiment, as there is also a control group taking the same module but without the pair work strategy. This multi-pronged strategy allows for a rigorous interrogation of the pair work and a persuasive presentation of the outcomes.
Which brings me to the final point, the chapter provides conclusive evidence that pair work in large groups enhances the overall learning experience of students. The student evaluations were positive, the learning dividend notable in the comparison with the control group who did not have pair work incorporated into their classes. Indeed, the author downplays the outcomes in the final discussion, they could have been more positive about the pair work given the solid evidence supporting its impact.
Introducing pair work was a small change deployed in a challenging classroom environment but one that delivered clear and demonstrable outcomes. That is the take away message from the chapter and hopefully will one that will be absorbed by colleagues seeking to make their own practice more engaging and effective for students.
This is an important and useful contribution to the scholarship of teaching and learning in the sciences. It is well written, in an accessible style and the structure lends itself to those who are interested in pedagogy and also to those seeking practical advice and guidance. It should be read widely.
Evidently, my existential rut continues.
Last week I had three separate occasions teaching on the same subject, plus also getting filmed talking about that subject too.
I’d been a bit anxious about this concatenation of coverage, even if it was on my research specialisation: talk enough about something and eventually you end up saying all you’ve got to say. Or worse, I might forget who’d I’d said what to whom.
In the end, that was not a problem: I’d been good about defining quite clearly what each session was focused on, so the internal consistency was fine, as was relationship between the different bits.
However, each time I was doing something quite different.
There was one conventional lecture, one set of seminars and one Q&A-type session to support a flipped lecture. Plus that filming.
Now I’m not one to blow my own trumpet, but I gave a good lecture: it flowed, it had coherence, the students were engaged (and occasionally entertained) and I even got a little round of applause at the end.
But it was also the session that I worried gave the least to the audience: they were passive recipients, rather than active learners. In the Q&A and in the seminars, the content was driven by their needs and learning processes: even the filmed lecture is going to become part of a more interactive package.
However, my ability to give lectures seemed to be better than my ability to give the other formats (not that they were bad, to be clear: just not as good as the lecture).
So what to do?
Stick with what I’m best at, or focus on what I understand to be best for my students’ learning?
Of course, I’m setting up a bit of a false choice here: my evaluation of my relative capacities is completely anecdotal, plus I know that the evidence about pedagogic formats isn’t completely nailed down.
However, the point still stands, because our subjective view of such situations shapes how we engage with pedagogy: I think we all know plenty of people who stick with what they know because they’re good at it, or at least better at it than some other approach they’ve not tried before.
The difficulty is separating our anxiety/indifference about new pedagogies from any more objective limitation on our ability to use them. My personal view is that just because I not smashing it in my seminars, it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be doing them: instead, I should be trying to identify and address my weaknesses.
Sometimes you discover something completely unexpected about how people perceive the world.
Back in February, students in my globalization course read the items below and wrote a response to “Is global trade a zero sum game — a process that causes some people to get poorer while others get richer? Why?”
- Daron Acemoglu, “Economic Inequality and Globalization,” Brown Journal of World Affairs 13, 1 (Fall/Winter 2006).
- Joseph Stiglitz, “The Globalization of Our Discontent,” Project Syndicate, 5 December 2017.
- Branko Milanovic, “Why the Global 1% and the Asian Middle Class Have Gained the Most from Globalization,” Harvard Business Review Digital Articles, 13 May 2016.
Nearly the entire class wrote that global trade is a zero sum game. In class, students advocated for trade barriers.Continue reading
I’ve just been reading I Am Dynamite!, Sue Prideaux’s very engaging life of Nietzsche, mainly because I knew nothing about the man or his work.
As well as being a good read, and to appreciate much better the intentional ambiguities of Nietzsche’s thoughts, it was also very striking to see a story of someone finding their place in the world.
From those of you unfamiliar with the details, Nietzsche was a brilliant philologist, in an age when philology was the very highest discipline in German academia.
After only three semesters as an undergraduate at university, Basle wrote to him in Leipzig to offer him a chair in the subject, on the recommendation of his tutor: impressive for a 24 year old.
But for me it was even more impressive that relatively quickly Nietzsche decided that he didn’t want to be a philologist, but a philosopher. Having tried to make that switch within the university system, and failed, he struck out on his own.
Now you may quibble that he only made his big breakthroughs just at the point he lost his mind and that these things might be connected, but the point still stands: life, for Nietzsche, was about overcoming yourself, loving your fate while simultaneously making the most of your situation.
I see this as a somewhat more positive message than my usual go-tos in philosophy, the Existentialists, who make the very good point that life is meaningless, but who seem to be a bit too “I’m having such fun” to ring quite true.
But what does this have to do with you and me?
I think it’s partly a function of the time of year: teaching’s coming to an end, we’re all exhausted, not least because of the pile of research activity waving to us from the other end of the desk. Talking with various colleagues, it’s the time of “why do I do this? should I be doing this?”
That’s a difficult conversation to have with yourself and with others: indeed, I’m regularly struck by people who I consider to be very able, competent and enthusiastic about their work who turn out to be not so sure it’s what they want to be doing. Success does not necessarily mean satisfaction, as young Nietzsche found out.
Even if we don’t have the idea to tear down the foundations of Western civilisation and thought, it is still good to recognise and engage with these feelings inside us,
I know that I derive great enjoyment from my work, in part because it is so varied and irregular, but I also know that this is a source of anxiety: what will come next? How will I cope? Where does it lead?
Thinking back to my previous post, it’s really essential to have a good support network, people you can talk with, frankly and openly. That can be friends, family, colleagues, it’s not really important who, as long as you recognise that you don’t have to tread your path alone.
As Nietzsche noted, it’s all too easy to fall back into comforting patterns of behaviour and not to ask yourself difficult questions, but ultimately it’s only by doing that you progress, a sentiment that shouldn’t be so problematic for academics. You don’t have to buy into the rest of it, but acknowledging your situation and what you want from it all isn’t the worst thing to do.
And if all that’s a bit heavy, wait until you find out what I’m reading next.
This post was inspired by an accidental encounter with an assignment rubric created by someone, or a committee, at my university. I do not know if the rubric is being used. I hope not, because it has 5 rows X 5 columns that contain a total of 860 remarkably ambiguous words, followed by a 362 word explanation — nearly four pages of information. No student is going to wade through such complex and lengthy verbiage for guidance on their work.
In contrast, I use a 3 X 4 rubric with 112 words. Much easier for students to decipher, but just as pointless if students don’t read it given that it is attached to about two dozen course assignments. So I decided to find out whether students do read it, with a third Post-It note survey, comprised of these items:
- How do I feel right now?
- I have read the rubric: a) before starting assignments, b) after receiving a grade for an assignment, c) both a and b, or d) I have never looked at the rubric.
- For your answer to the previous question, why?
Similar to the previous Post-It note surveys, sixteen out of the twenty-one students present, or nearly 80 percent, stated that they felt badly in the one-word check-in. Twelve of these students wrote that they were tired. Three had neutral responses, and only two reported positive feelings. I’ll write more about this recurring problem in a future post.
For the second question, only two students commented that they had never read the rubric, but one of them wrote that they had already taken one of my courses and were familiar with it — so in effect 95 percent of the students who were in the classroom that day had used the rubric at some point. Nine students wrote that they read the rubric before starting to write, while ten students said that they had read the rubric both before and after completing an assignment.
Students’ answers to the last question included statements such as:
- “So I know what to expect when my work is graded.”
- “Wanted to know before [starting the assignment] how to do it, and after to see if I did anything wrong.”
- “To make sure I can get the full amount of points.”
- “That’s what you’re supposed to do.”
This is all good — the rubric seems to be serving its intended purpose and is not wasted effort or based on an incorrect assumption on my part.
This guest post is part of a series linked to the publication of G. Pleschova & A. Simon (eds.) Learning to teach in central Europe: Reflections from early career researchers. This post comes from Silviu Piros
Barbora’s chapter provokes from the onset: ‘It Takes Two to Tango: How to get IR students engaged in their learning’. First, it provokes the reader to shift attention from a teacher-centred to a student-centred approach to delivering education. Second, it challenges the reader to consider innovation not for the sake of just ‘doing things differently’, but to solve an ever-growing real-life problem – in this case – increasingly lower attention spans and rapidly waning engagement levels. Finally, it encourages the reader to take own charge by equipping him both with a practical DIY-kit of how the design of such a course could look like, as well as critically observing and empirically evaluating its results.
The academic community is now giving a more attention to student motivation and engagement in the classroom. The instant and constant access to a ubiquitous mass of information has in turn diminished attention spans and the ‘digital natives’ or ‘Gen Z’ – who are now starting their undergraduate studies – are being the most affected group.
Continuously focusing for 90 minutes during a classic lecture, as well as thorough note-taking are becoming serious challenges undergraduate students are often struggling with.
On this backdrop, Barbora reveals her tri-fold challenge that required an innovative approach: to teach an optional course on a perceivably ‘exotic’ topic (Arctic Geopolitics), with an only pass/fail grade, to a mixed cohort of bachelor students with variable affinities and interest in the subject. Her approach aimed at systematically tackling all these perceived weaknesses through a strategy that would gradually shift students’ extrinsic motivation in the course (i.e. the engagement delivered through topic and classroom activities) with genuine intrinsic motivation (that is driven from within).
Thus, she designed and developed her course based on three pillars: expert skype lectures, in-class group work, and interactive mini-lectures. With this mix of methods, the danger of losing students’ interest and engagement in a 90-minute lecture was skirted, as each of the three components brought a different angle while keeping everybody constantly involved: be it through practical Q&As in the expert sessions, interaction with the course convenor in the mini-lectures, or peer interaction during group work.
The effort associated with building such a curriculum is praiseworthy. The risks associated with it, make is so even more.
The technology-enabled expert sessions are a great tool for creating momentum on a theme, and exposing students to real-life scenarios, however the failure of technology on the spot, or the sudden unavailability of the expert will have a serious impact on the overall outcome of the course and will impact negatively motivation levels, and therefore it needs to be factored in.
Similarly – and this is something the chapter considers – the importance of design in the group activity and the pitfalls of failing to keep students engaged during the group sessions should not be overlooked.
What makes this chapter a great and commendable reading is indeed its openness. Openness to challenge, to change, to reconsider. The key message Barbora conveys throughout this chapter is straightforward: the ever-changing needs of our students drive teaching and learning innovation, and with the right amount of commitment and determination, each new provocation will make for a great opportunity to move things forward.
Today we have a guest post from Susan Allen, associate professor of political science at the University of Mississippi. She can be contacted at shallen [at] olemiss [dot] edu.
This semester I am teaching a course on gender and international politics for the first time. The first half of the course examines gender and representation, while the second half explores gender in international politics. I aimed to bridge these two sections with a simulation that I created on child marriage—something currently on the agenda of the Office of the High Commissioner on Human Rights and a likely topic at the Convention for the Elimination of Discrimination Against Women (CEDAW) this summer.
Students have been working in groups by regions of the world to expand their knowledge base beyond their own experiences. For the simulation, they became spokespersons for their designated regions. As additional preparation, students read about CEDAW and an excerpt from Women, Politics, and Power by Paxton and Hughes. I did not inform them beforehand of the particular issue that would be discussed as part of the simulation, other than to say that the activity would resemble a communication from CEDAW.
During the simulation’s first class session, students met in their regional groups to research child marriage, making use of GirlsNotBrides.org. Each group formulated a regional proposal for what it would like the full class to discuss in the next two sessions. During these classes, a graduate student and I questioned students about their proposals to ensure they remained faithful to their roles. The ultimate objective was to collectively produce a single proposal to be presented at the upcoming CEDAW.
Based on post-simulation debriefing papers, students had mixed feelings about how little official private information was they received prior to negotiations and how much they had to rely on their own research to formulate a regional proposal. Perhaps as a result, discussion on the first day was a little slow to develop and their proposals were not as well fleshed out as I expected. On the second day, the majority of the students participated enthusiastically (and perhaps chaotically).
One of the most interesting things about this experience for the students was that they failed to come to an agreement in the time allotted. Many of them were concerned that they had “failed” the activity. When we debriefed the following week in class after they had written their papers, many of the students offered interesting insights about the difficulty of creating a proposal on something that they as American college students thought was an “easy” issue. The experience highlighted some of the practical challenges of creating laws that codify gender equality.
Next time, I might provide students with slightly more structured guidelines, but I don’t think I’ll do anything to make it easier for the students to create a unified proposal. I think the challenge and failure were essential parts of the value of the activity.
I’ve finally to attending a networking event for Early Career Researchers at the conference I’m at, having decided that I’m far enough down the line to have something useful to say.
(Why yes, I have recently had a birthday. Why do you ask?)
The idea is a pretty standard one: speed-dating round the room to make some contacts and share some ideas. It’s a really good format for semi-structured getting-to-know-yous.
Of course, me being me, I’ve spent a couple of days talking through ideas with my partner, who’s also an academic: what is the most useful advice you could give someone if you only had a couple of minutes?
Since I don’t see why I should limit my unburdening to the ECRs at the conference, here’s my shot.Continue reading