Note for my diverse audience of readers: The IB is the International Baccalaureate, whose diploma program “is an assessed programme for students aged 16 to 19. It is respected by leading universities across the globe.” It’s a total curricular program for 11th and 12th grades through which students can earn an IB diploma. This diploma can be used to apply to universities around the world, such as Europe or Korea. It was developed as a way for expat kids to get a standardized, externally assessed diploma and return to their home countries for college. (The US does not require an IB diploma for students to be admitted, an American diploma is sufficient, which our school offers. European Universities, on the other hand, require students to complete the IB diploma in lieu of the country’s own end-of-high school exams.)

My senior hoodie from last year says “I did the IB.” I’m not sure if when the seniors picked that there was a dig in there about how frequently I reminded them of this fact. I don’t care if there’s irony in their choice, I love my “I did the IB” hoodie unironically.

Yes, I do in fact have an IB diploma. I believe I’m currently the only adult on my campus with an IB diploma. I’m not going to claim it gives me magic perspective powers, but I do personal memories of what it was like take my oral exams, submit CAS hours, write a TOK essay, and sit the 3-5 hour exams for each class.

There’s a couple things that I can speak about meaningfully when it comes to the IB, that feel worthy of elaboration.

First, the IB diploma was really hard, but when I finished, I felt very ready for college. This was confirmed when I arrived at college, and it didn’t feel like a huge leap in challenge. I had learned how to work hard and manage my time.

One major factor in being able to handle the demands of college is the fact that I wrote an EE (extended essay). I wrote mine in Biology and it was 4,000 words about a pretty mediocre experiment I designed. Even though it scored a C (scores go from A to E), and it wasn’t really a success as an exercise in the scientific method, I learned a lot. I learned about process, resilience, and managing setbacks. Sure, I didn’t fail the EE, but don’t make me talk about the experiment I did on some really cranky hamsters.

Next, I completed 150 CAS hours (creativity, action, service). I had an abundance of hours in the creativity category because I was a theater kid who did 2-4 shows a year. But because I had to include hours in the service category, I joined a club that visited a nursing home in Caracas. We helped feed the residents, we talked, we played dominoes. I probably wouldn’t have pushed myself to do that had the IB not said, hey, you gotta do more than tap dance and sing.

Finally, I took the TOK (theory of knowledge) course. And I wish I could flex right now and claim I was a top student who saw the value in TOK from the first moment. I wish that I charmed my teachers and served as a role model for my classmates. No. Maybe you could argue I got there by the end, but that is not how I started.

Let me back up a step. In the IB, in addition to taking classes in the 6 core areas (roughly stated: primary language, secondary language, natural sciences, history/human sciences, math, arts) you take a seventh class called Theory of Knowledge. The purpose of this class is to examine and question all the knowledge that students are learning in the subject areas. TOK aims to show students how these areas are interrelated, and to push them question what and how we know what know. The ultimate goal is critical thinking and active participation in a community of knowledge.

If you are over 30, I wonder if, like me, this sounds awesome to you right now. How cool would that course be? Discuss the nature of knowledge, examine what you know, probe your own biases and perspectives. Okay, now imagine you’re 16. Maybe your one singular focus is college, and to get there you need the highest grades possible. And you happen to be in a place where classes are IB courses, and they are challenging. Now, I have to tell you that you don’t have 2 free periods, just 1, because in the other one you will be learning something called TOK. I can say whatever I want about how valuable it is, but students right away see TOK as an superfluous, less crucial thing that gets in the way of their primary goal.

That’s how I was. In year one, I bet I could have been categorized by teacher as annoying and less than enthusiastic. I think my arms were crossed; I was probably huffy.

And then we got to the natural sciences and we watched a Jane Goodall documentary. I’m not sure what clicked, but I was riveted. I could see how knowledge was developing, and the way that paradigms were shifting. I could see Jane’s struggle to be taken seriously in the scientific community despite her age and lack of science training. The discovery of knowledge was fascinating! In our study of the math area of knowledge, I got to write an essay about how much I love the puzzle of math. I talked about the satisfaction of the right answer, the feeling of falling into the rhythm all the way until the end. I didn’t really get to talk about that very much, and I got compliments on my writing. The metacognition of TOK finally made sense to me. In this class, I realized, we were thinking about thinking–about our own thinking, but also the history of the thinking of our subject areas.

I don’t totally remember the context, but at one point we had to study something on our own and then teach a lesson to our class. For reasons I don’t remember, I studied the human sense of smell. The things I learned then I have never forgotten. Did you know that the nerves in your nose are actually exposed neurons? They go straight to your brain. They are the only nerves like that in your body. Did you know smell is one of our most primitive senses? The parts of our brains that process smell are deep, related to the parts associated with emotion and memory. This is why smells make us have vivid flashbacks and emotional responses. I designed an experience for my classmates where I blindfolded them and had them smell certain classic things, like vanilla, and asked what memories came into their minds.

I’m not sure why all that stuff stuck so well for me. I guess it was because it felt like it explained a lot of the human experience to me. It was one of my early moments of interest in how the human mind learns and acquires knowledge. I felt a spark of interest that was unrelated to grades and college applications.

Now, here I am, teaching TOK. Perhaps my old teacher would call it fitting punishment for my initial attitude. But it’s also a chance to give to my students what he gave me: space and time and room to talk about what I knew and how I knew it. To question and dissect all the things I was learning in my academic classes.

Another reason I love TOK is that, in its essence, TOK is a writing course. The way that students process and share their thinking and answers to these deep questions is through writing. And I love this type of writing. It’s closer in style to the personal essay than the literary analysis or criticism paper. As the knower, they are by necessity present in all of their writing in some way. The best TOK work draws on a student’s own sense of wonder and curiosity.

Teaching TOK is both a challenge and a gift. I’m not taking it lightly, but I’m also can’t take it personally. I did, however, just show my students the 2017 documentary Jane (available on Disney+) and it was great to hear their oohs, as Jane sees, for the first time in scientific history, a chimp modify a twig to make a tool that pulls termites out of an ant hill. At one point in the documentary, I student turned to me and said, “How could they have not thought that chimps had personalities and emotions?!”

I’m working hard to engage students and inspire them. It’s not always a success and they’re still teenagers, but here’s hoping it does for them what it did for me.

To close, I’d like to share with you the letter of introduction that I wrote specifically for my two TOK classes.

August 11, 2024

São Paulo, Brazil

Dear TOK students,

Welcome to your first day of Theory of Knowledge! I feel like I’m welcoming you into a SpaceX ship that’s going to take you to Mars.  It’s going to last almost 2 years and it will probably be like nothing you’ve ever experienced before.  

Thank you for coming aboard, I am your captain, Mrs. Griswold!  This is my 7th year at Graded, and before teaching high school English and TOK, I taught middle school humanities.  Some of you were my students!  I’m so excited to see how my old students have grown and changed, and also to get to know new students.  I have 3 kids at Graded: a 2nd grader, a 5th grader, and a 7th grader.  My husband teaches high school math and computer science.  

I am originally from the US, but as a kid, I moved overseas for my dad’s job.  I lived in Mexico City and then I moved to Caracas, Venezuela.  In Caracas I went to a school like Graded and I got an IB diploma.  That means that I, too, have taken TOK.  The course looked a bit different then, but not by much.  I still studied the different areas of knowledge and asked big questions.  We wrote essays and discussed.  

One of the core concepts of TOK is perspective, and I think perspective is key with how this year will go for us.  You can approach TOK with the perspective that it is this extra class you have to do on top of all your other important work.  One of those woo woo things that teachers make you do but don’t have any purpose or meaning.  Something you suffer through just to get to where you need to go.  It only gets a “Meeting” or “Not Meeting” grade, so clearly it doesn’t really matter.  That could be your perspective.  You will dread each class, groan inside your head a lot (or out loud), and you’ll generally feel a lot of discomfort. 

To be honest with you, that’s how I felt about TOK myself at first.  

But there’s another perspective.  That perspective says, a class without regular 1-7 grades, so I can try new things without worrying about my transcript.  A class where I don’t have to memorize things for quizzes or tests.  A class where we get to talk about the things that really matter in life, not just high school. A time to hash out the questions that real people ask about their lives and their reality.  A class where I will get to share who I am and how I think.  It’s not about how the teacher thinks, or what experts of the past have said, but my unique perspective.  A class where I get to share my hobbies, my passions, my interests—the kind that may not come up in other classes.  Finally, a class where I can be myself and make my own choices.  

In the first perspective, you suffer, you strain, you generally hate every minute.  In the second perspective, you are energized, introspective, and you walk away feeling changed, smarter and more sophisticated.  This class can be one you forget immediately or one you remember forever.  So what makes the difference?  What decides which experience you have?  

You.  You decide.  And the truth is that it will take some faith and vulnerability from you.  It’s easier to close yourself off, cross your arms, and call the whole thing stupid.  It’s harder to open yourself up and bring your heart to this.  

And by extension, if we all decide we are in this together, then we all have a better experience.  Let me give you an example.  When I’m in Brazil and live music starts playing, all these people get up and start singing and dancing.  It’s infectious.  I’m on the dance floor, everyone is smiling and the joy is palpable. Could you argue that it’s Brazilian music that made us all have such a good time?  Yes.  Brazilian music is awesome.  But I’d argue that what makes a dance floor in Brazil so awesome is the people dancing on it.  The love, the open hearts, the joy they bring.  

So, trust me to bring cool things to read and watch and talk about.  Trust me to design this class to blow your mind, to make you think, to make you question.  And let me ask you to bring the joy, the curiosity, the openness, the willingness to dance.  

And now comes the part I will hopefully not have to say too much, but it bears repeating.  There are people who have to take TOK, because the place they want to go for college requires a full diploma.  I got you.  But if that’s not you, ask yourself why you are here.  Because of a parent?  Because of pressure from friends?  Or do you actually want the challenge of the full diploma?  Do you enjoy academic and intellectual challenges?  I already have an IB diploma, so I’m not here because I need it.  I’m here to help you achieve this.  I shouldn’t have to fight you.  If you don’t want to eat what I’m cookin’, you should get outta the kitchen.  I will high five you and send you down to OCC to let them know that you don’t think the full diploma is for you.  If you’re still here, then be here.  

Now that I’ve written and introduced myself to you, can you write me a letter back and tell me about you?  Who are you?  Where do you come from?  How are you feeling about TOK?  Are you feeling ready to dance or fly to Mars, or some other mixed metaphor?  What brings you here?  What are your goals?  What can you tell me that will help you be the best version of you this year?  

From here to the stratosphere,

Mrs. Griswold

When we were leaving Nashville and selling our house, I had a reaction to that massive change I didn’t expect. I got very worried about the landscaping in the backyard.

I had hired a local landscape architect to design a plan for our back yard. Then, David and I, with the help of many family member conscripted into the effort, dug up the beds ourselves. We drove an hour to a nursery that had great prices so that we could get all the plants ourselves. They were so tiny! To save money, I bought the smallest, youngest versions of each plant.

When we left, the backyard was thriving and lush. And I was struggling to imagine leaving it behind. What if the new owners didn’t prune the bushes at the right time? What if the crepe myrtle got leggy? Would they weed it and mulch it?

For a fleeting moment, I had this moment of insanity where I thought about digging up all the plants and selling them or giving them away to good homes. This is obviously nuts.

The only answer was that I just had to leave the flowers in the dirt.

This year, my fifth year of teaching 7th grade humanities and journalism at Graded, I started to think about something different. The world is scary right now, the pandemic is still reverberating, and in all the upheaval and uncertainty, we decided to consider our options. We started looking at job openings around the world.

Meanwhile, our kids are happy here. Matilda moved into the native-speaking Portuguese class. Everett is finally no longer saying he hates school. Calvin has friends and loves his teachers. This is the backdrop of our search. We watched schools post openings and each one led to the conversation: is this place good enough to leave Graded now? For most schools, the answer was no.

And then a high school English position opened up here. Before moving to Graded, I taught high school English for seven years at Harpeth Hall in Nashville. When we left Nashville, I was excited to return to middle school. Honestly, I didn’t want to hear the words “college” ever again. I wanted a break from high school problems. And for the past five years, I’ve loved working with middle school students again. Their joy! Their unbridled enthusiasm! Their silliness! A breath of fresh air.

Until the point comes when you are tired of silly noises, spacey students, forgotten materials. I started to feel myself needing a break from teaching students to use the TAB button and not the space bar five times. Reminding them to get their notebooks and folders for the 85th time. Telling them to stop very obviously mouthing words across the room to their best friend in the middle of my lesson. Threatening life and limb to the next person who blasts that annoying song from their laptop in the middle of silent work time. Sometimes students said or implied that they felt like the work didn’t matter, it’s just middle school anyway. Dare I admit that I wished someone might mention college and have it lend gravitas to the work?

I applied for the high school English job. I felt that panic again. What would happen to the 7th grade curriculum, or the journalism class? I needed to be there to guard these things I’d helped build. I couldn’t just let them go.

But I could. This is life, especially for teachers. The curriculum you wrote will be rewritten or thrown out. The new teachers will bring their own ideas and expertise. And? That’s beautiful. That’s life. That’s this ever-evolving field. It’s not meant to stay the same forever.

I went back and forth; I slept on it. I talked to some new teachers and some old ones. And I took the job.

I wasn’t sure if I’d done the right thing at first. That feeling changed when I started to feel some joy and appreciation again. This was, after all, the last time I’d be teaching The Giver for quite some time, maybe ever. It stopped feeling like, Ugh, fifth time with The Giver, here we go, and started to feel like, Oh, The Giver, you’re great. Let’s do this and move on.

Of course, this isn’t a grass is greener. The grass is just different, and I’d like a change of turf for a while. Yes, high school students have their own problems. But they’re different problems. Problems I’m not tired of troubleshooting.

We signed a two-year extension and the kids are elated. We are all happy that our time in Brazil and at Graded is not coming to an end yet. We have time for more Portuguese, more travel, more time working with and learning from these amazing educators.

I’m working on leaving the plants in the dirt and trusting that the next generation will do with them what needs to be done–including replacing them or letting them die. It’s alright; I’ve got a new garden to tend.

I haven’t written in a while because life is absolutely batty, which I don’t even really need to say, I guess because we are all living it. It’s weird. Normally, you’d have to compose a blog post or a social media post about going through some stuff, and sorry that I’m absent. Ha. No explanation needed. We all understand.

But, I wanted to give you an update on our lives. I’m going to start doing some more blogging about my teaching and things I’m doing to survive my teaching. But first, a personal update.

Our school works with a team of filmmakers and they asked me if I would be interested in working with them. They dropped off tripods and steady cams and an iPhone at our apartment. We spent about a week documenting what our life was like, teaching online and raising 3 kids. The film team, The Filmistas, edited it into this amazing final product:

I got so many amazing messages from parents, students, and other teachers. I basically cried every time a message came in. Every time I watch the video I cry. I cry a lot.

About a week and a half ago, we got the call that our school would not be reopening during this school year. David and I had been talking about next steps. It’s so hard to know what next week will bring and how I will feel about it. There are about 100 scenarios of what might play out, and I’m never sure how I’m going to feel.

We happened to have the May Day holiday coming up, which gave us a 3 day weekend to travel. We got yelled at by doormen for letting our kids play in the sand below the roped off playgrounds in our condominium. We both realized it was time to go.

I felt some guilt about leaving. Staying was a point of pride at first. Maybe I shouldn’t have felt pride at staying, but I did. Deciding then to leave felt a bit like abandoning ship.

But my admin was really supportive. They understood and they knew that we needed to do what was right for us. That gave me some peace. Just the idea of being somewhere different suddenly sounded amazing.

We have a key factor in place for us to leave: a place to stay. We have a townhouse in Minnesota that technically belongs to my in laws, but we’ve made it ours for the summers. We spent nearly 3 weeks here last year, and we put bunkbeds in it, beefed up the kitchen stuff, stocked it with art supplies.

So now we are hunkered down in Northfield, Minnesota, an incredibly cute and cool college town. It’s small, it’s quiet, and there’s lots of open space. There are only 2 cases of COVID here as of my last reading, and the governor is making thoughtful, careful decisions–in my opinion, at least.

Brazil is also getting bad. The cases are rising, the deaths are rising. More scary to me is the number of people facing starvation because of the shut-down economy. The government is not providing significant support. There is a quarantine in place, where only essential businesses were supposed to be open, but right before we left, we noticed lots of businesses on the street open.

I don’t want to get into a whole big debate, but let me tell you where I always go first: the children. Bear with me while I explain. When you shut down all retail–all malls, bars, restaurants, stores, etc–that is a huge segment of the Brazilian population. They live hand to mouth. And they have children. What happens when the money and the food run out? If you want to keep the economy closed, then the government has to feed those kids. I don’t see that happening. (To be clear, I am not minimizing the death toll. I am just afraid of those other deaths, the children facing malnutrition.)

Okay, so, on Friday night, May 1, we flew out. We snagged a cheap upgrade to business class and jumped on it. Business class was full, but the seats are very separated. In coach, there were empty rows between passengers. The airports were ghost towns. There were maybe 40 people on our international flight, and 20 on our domestic flight.

As soon as we rented our car and got the house, our kids hopped on the bikes in the garage and went around the block. We walked to a playground that wasn’t roped off with caution tape. I almost cried watching them play.

I have more to say and more stories to tell, but I’ve got to go teach my 7th grade class via Zoom.

Signing off from the prairie,

Meg

Last summer the most common question we got was, “Are you staying?”

The answer is yes! We signed a new 2 year extension of our contract. It’s odd because we signed in October even though we aren’t even through our second year. Decisions about hiring are made early in the international teaching world because orchestrating international moves means visas, translating documents, wading through multiple governments’ bureaucracies, and sometimes shipping belongings.

Calvin is in the 2nd grade now, and we’ve committed to staying until the end of his 4th grade year. In October of his 4th grade year, we will decide if we want to sign on again for 1 or 2 years, if we get offered those extensions.

We came into this thinking that we wanted to find a school where we could stay for 4-6 years, so it’s a good feeling to have that hope and expectation fulfilled.

I think that many people heard our plans and thought there was a pretty good chance we’d come back to the US after 2 years. Maybe I’m wrong in that assessment. For people who live in the US and always have, I think it sometimes gives them anxiety to hear about people who leave.

We’re in it. I don’t see an end date to our international teaching careers. I’ve met other teachers or expats in different professions who are eyeing a return. They feel the distance from family, the glitter has worn off, they are looking for a change. I completely understand that feeling. That may come for us eventually, but I can’t imagine it. With the ability to change up our whole life every 5-6 years, our love of change and novelty will always be satisfied.

What we have gained as a family make it hard for me to imagine returning to a life in the US. Our kids’ excellent education at the same school where we teach. The language learning that happens for them and us. The travel, the adventures, the experiences. I’m also really loving this community. I work with smart, funny, committed, wise, innovative teachers and admin. They’re seekers and risk takers, and I feel accepted and valued by them.

So, here we go!