Our trainer suggests-straight faced- that if we’re not happy with a student’s performance, we should tell our junior highers, “I just don’t think your data is reflective of your ability.”Īs Berry says, “Knowledge without affection leads us astray every time.”īerry’s lecture calls attention to the great harm done when “people of land economies are reduced to statistical numerals,” and I see the same danger in our schools, which often default to a corporate model, merely dubbing “test scores” over the word “profit.” We’re told that after we administer a two-hour, web-based assessment, we’ll be able to generate dozens of reports displaying our students’ deficiencies. My first day back at school, our staff is trained to use a program that promises to produce “data-driven lessons.” I’m not a farmer (in fact, I’m shocked my grocery-store basil plant has made it through the week), but as a teacher, Berry’s words resonate with me.

“Affection can teach us,” he writes, “if we grant appropriate standing to affection.” Affection, in his mind, is a powerful tool, one we discount too quickly. Instead of simply seeking profit, he argues, we must cultivate affection for the land and those who farm it. In 2001, Wendell Berry gave an NEA lecture called “It Turns on Affection.” In his own quiet, thoughtful way, Berry wages war on “the industrialization of everything” and on corporations seeking “the highest possible profit, ignoring the side effects,” devastating the land and the farming industry. I know I should be annoyed, but as I wipe out the graphite, I feel an overwhelming sense of affection for my students. Near the back of the room, I find another one: a heart tucked into a desk’s inner edge. (I worry for whoever carved “The End.” It seems so ominous. So far, I’ve found and excised the following: “I love me.” “Tim is fat.” “The end.” “Andrew + -” (the name is scratched out).Īs I scrub, I remember the students who’ve filled these desks-growing so fast, full of so much, trying their best (usually) to pay attention to my lessons while also trying to make sense of their emotions and their bodies and their world. A few have accumulated clandestine graffiti, the kind made by etching the top layer of wood laminate with the metal tip of a mechanical pencil. I’m armed with 409 and paper towels, wiping down the desks in my classroom.

Making Waves by Christina Lee