When I began teaching, I carefully prepared for class, presented the materials and then asked if anyone had questions. Typically no one asked any questions, so I assumed that they understood. I was disappointed later when homework and exam answers showed a clear lack of understanding.
Did the students know they did not really understand the material? I believe so, based on these and similar feedback I received:
- “Sometimes if I don’t understand, I won’t ask because I don’t know what to ask.”
- “Don’t just assume that we don’t need help with something just because we don’t ask questions. The stereotype of programmers is introverted. Not always comfortable with asking questions.”
My initial response was a desire to prepare lessons so thorough and reinforced that no one could possibly have questions. This is a good goal, of course, but obviously ultimately insufficient. I can anticipate common questions but not every question that any student might have. I thought about this problem more and talked individually with some students, and found a deeper cause for this behavior. Students don’t ask questions because a question admits ignorance. Each student knows that he individually doesn’t understand a concept but doesn’t want to admit that in front of his classmates and even, to some extent, in front of the teacher. Since that realization, my goal has been to create a classroom environment in which students are comfortable asking questions.
A student is embarassed to ask questions when he believes that he alone did not understand, though it’s likely that several students have similar questions. In my classroom, I deliberately demonstrate that everyone makes mistakes. When we discuss programs written for homework, I often show several failed attempts by different students and then ask them how they can resolve the problems. Initially, a student is uncomfortable when his program is shown, but he quickly sees that many other students had problems in their own programs. Soon, other students will voluntarily speak up to say that they, too, encountered whatever problem is being highlighted. We can then talk openly together about different ways to solve it.
I also make sure that students see that I make mistakes, too. I tell them at the beginning of the semester that I will be writing programs live in class while we talk about concepts and that when I inevitably make some mistake, they have two options: (1) point it out right away and have the satisfaction of correcting the teacher, or (2) wait until I try to run the program and have the satisfaction of watching my program crash. Whichever approach they choose, I laugh at my mistake and encourage them to do the same.
This approach has been very effective. I often now receive feedback like these statements:
- “He is very approachable and I have no problem asking him anything.”
- “Nice and smart. Not stuck up even though he is obviously smarter than us.”
- “He is always willing to answer questions students may have and is not afraid to adapt the class schedule to fit the needs of the class.”
- “Very approachable. He’s willing to laugh at jokes and not take himself too seriously. Yet he still maintains control of the classroom and teaches effectively. He maintains a good working relationship with his students.”
We all have questions and we all make mistakes. I try every semester to teach my students that asking questions is the best way to get them answered and that mistakes are not embarassing. I hope they learn the course content and carry that forward with them; just as much, I hope they grow into people who can laugh at their own mistakes and not look down on others when they err.
Computer scientists are not perfect problem-solvers. We make mistakes, we recognize them, and then we use the backspace key. Humans are not perfect. We make mistakes, we recognize them, and God has given us a backspace key. He does not cast shame upon us for our sins, and neither do I want my students embarassed by their mistakes. This is one of the most important lessons that I can teach them.