Learning

The other day my spirit guide to the world of learning Dr. Jane Bozarth got a question from a young person on the Twitters, who was looking for the person who “said ADDIE was great model for designing training, or building a strip club or invading a foreign land.”  Dr. B immediately suggested that it was probably me, and I confessed to saying something along those lines once upon a time.

(For those of you NOT in the learning industry, ADDIE is an acronym for “Analysis, Design, Development, Implementation, and Evaluation” — a design model first developed by William the Conqueror to write curriculum used to train his troops how to pour hot oil on enemies without burning themselves.)

Actually, there is some debate in the learning community that ADDIE may have been used earlier than that.  Some of us suspect that the project team for the big bang developed training materials and job aids using ADDIE because God was concerned that there might be user support issues.

When I said that ADDIE could be used for many other things than learning development, I was trying to use sarcasm to make a point. (Pause for shocked intake of breath by readers.) I’m not a big fan of the old girl, and was pointing out that you could really use this model in almost any kind of endeavor because it’s so generic and basic.

Tie My Shoes

Analysis:  Where are my shoes?

Design:  Criss-cross or horizontal?

Development:  Insert laces

Implementation:  Shoes on feet

Evaluation:  Attempt walking

Extreme Makeover

So — while it’s fun making fun of something near and dear to the hearts of many, and I love the angry comments and emails — how could we improve it?

Let’s rethink what the old girl might look like with a little lipo, some time with a personal trainer, and a few hours under the knife of a great plastics guy.

A is for “Amazing”

Let’s start with designing training that opens with something amazing.  Get your learners on the hook like a big ol’ catfish, so they can’t wriggle off.  It doesn’t matter what other good stuff you’ve got in that lesson if they’re not on the line headed towards the boat.

D is for “Delightful”

You’re gonna hate me for this, but all the other parts better be as good as the opener.  Today’s learners need to be engaged and delighted too.  Use videos.  Use humor.  Use fun, games, interaction, things to click on, multiple learning styles.  Yes — it IS all about the learner.

D is for “Doing”

Keep those little fingers busy.  If you’re teaching in person, have people working in small groups, get them moving in the classroom, have learners writing and giving responses.  If you’re online, you need to be taking polls and asking for input via chat and Twitter.  If you’re lecturing people are checking their mail and seeing who’s on Facebook.

I is for “Interactive”

I’m repeating myself because it’s so important.  Don’t lecture — ask leading questions, and let the students discover answers on their own.  Yes — I know it takes longer.  Yes — I know it’s messier.  Yes — I know it’s more work for you.  I don’t care!

E is for “Exhibit”

If you really want to measure the transfer of knowledge, you and I (the “learning professionals”) know that multiple-choice questions don’t mean squat.  Get your learners to exhibit what they know. Build a bridge, respond in a role-play, stage a server, or write a sales page.  That’s really the only way to measure if you taught them anything meaningful.

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So what do you think?  ADDIE 2.0 is slim, trim, and quite a sexy little number.  Want to take her home to meet the parents?

P.S.  ADDIE 2.0 would still be quite effective for running a strip club, I believe.

My wife (the big-time network admin) and I have great conversations in the morning as I drive her in to work. We’ve got two cars, but we both enjoy the time together, and we’re worried that there’s too much fossil fuel on the planet and we want to do our part. So each day I get to hear a little about the madness of life in a large school district and how the inmates are expected to keep the computers running with no money and little respect.

Today’s story revolved around a new printer control system (I’m gonna call it OOPS-Print, to protect the guilty) that their IT Director decided was the bee’s knees last year. It was so cool that it had to be installed on every single box in every single school in the district. (It’s pretty amazing — it lets you select a printer to use with your machine.) (Yes, I’m being sarcastic.)

The folks in the trenches weren’t very impressed, but like the guys flying the Kamikaze airplanes, nobody wanted their feedback on the flight plan. So they spent months and months planning, deploying, installing, troubleshooting, and generally getting this POS (Printing Organizational System) ready for the start of school this fall.

My love was a key piece of the puzzle, and worked long hours to make it happen. She then spent lots of time teaching the 30+ technicians who support the schools how to use it, how to install printers, how to troubleshoot — trust me, she’s ALMOST as good as I am at training. (If I get hit by a bus, she’d become “The Best Damn Trainer In The World”)

“Houston — We Have A Problem!”

So she was a little bit surprised, yesterday, when one of the suits in the Admin Wing walked in to the server room and announced to God And Everybody that OOPS-Print wasn’t working at an entire school. And it was all their fault.

Unaware that his life expectancy was now measured in seconds, my wife asked him for details. Where were the individual “trouble tickets” that everyone was required to file? Who had done the troubleshooting? What had they found?

Weeeeeeelllllll. Turns out there were just a few tickets. And the local tech closed them before they ever escalated to NetOps. Didn’t fix anything, just “closed” them.   (Smoke begins wisping out my sweetie’s ears.) So she and a couple other top level administrators drop the actual work they’re doing, saddle up, and head out.

Turns out that the techs had installed the OOPS-PRINT client on the machines, but failed to select a printer. I asked her if this was the version of the software with psychic powers that could reach into the user’s mind and determine which of the many networked printers they wanted to use. No, she said, they hadn’t purchased that plug-in.

For one reason or another, the techs assumed that because this was new software there really was no reason to even attempt to try any basic troubleshooting steps — like, could the computer “see” the printers? Could it print a test page? Could it print locally? Was the freaking cord plugged in? Were their underpants pulled all the way up to their ears?

This morning, The Only Woman I Will Ever Love will be in a meeting with lots of suits and network friends. I told her to start out the discussion with a suggestion that just because you put on new shoes doesn’t mean you should completely give up any future attempts to walk on your own. She told me sarcasm doesn’t help anything.

But in all seriousness, I see this often in education. A teacher gets a new ActiveBoard, and thinks all the rules of learning have now changed. Someone teaches in a Webinar and suddenly believes a 60-minute droning lecture would be a great idea. Or someone’s e-learning class uses stupid little games like Jeopardy and Match Game for low-level retention and they call it real learning.

Sam had it right in Casablanca. The fundamental things apply.

A Few Good Trainers

There have been lots of tweets and blogs and squawks about the collection, management and integration of feedback from learners floating across the Interwebs lately.  And, as I often do, I’ve turned to Jack Nicholson to get some sage advice on the subject — to share out with the tiny skulls of mush that come to my blog for the latest thinking on this thorny subject.

In the world of “assessment” — there are two broad divisions.  Measurement of whether the learner can actually do something:

• Learner can name the state capitals
• Learner can explain why sexual harassment will land him in jail
• Learner can assemble the nuclear warhead

…and the second, how the learner felt about the experience:

• Learner thinks she will be a better manager
• Learner felt trainer integrated his input into the final conclusions
• Learner experienced a feeling of value and appreciation for his presence

Let’s Look At Feelings

Today I’m focusing on the second.  Feedback from learners about the experience they had, their feelings on the session, what they think they took away, how the process worked, and whether or not lunch was tasty.

There’s a lot of focus, lately, on making sure that the learner leaves our hands giving us top marks on the experience.  They’re supposed to check the smiley face on the right margin, or give us 10 out of 10, or we just haven’t met the mark.  And I’m here to say that you’re headed off a cliff if you buy into that crap.  (I’m rarely accused of being subtle.  Ask Dave Ferguson.)

Yeah, I’m interested in what my audience has to say about my teaching.  I read those little sheets with just as much excitement as all of you do.  But all of the difficult lessons I’ve learned in my life (and I bet yours, too) came in situations were I wouldn’t have tacked a smiley face on the end if you’d asked me.  So I’m sometimes a little worried about making changes to what I do based on keeping people happy.

Have you ever:

1. Gotten divorced?
2. Stuck your tongue on a frozen pipe?
3. Dated a rock musician?
4. Driven drunk?
5. Burned yourself on a hot stove?
6. Voted Republican? (That’s for you, Dave!)

I bet you would have been pretty unhappy at the conclusion of the learning, but I’d also bet that it was very valuable and kept you out of lots of trouble in the future.

My own little experience with this was Private Pilot training many years ago.  After learning some basic skills, my Flight Instructor (with thousands of flight hours experience) said it was time for something called “Stall Training”.  He made me take the plane up to 5,000 feet, then point it up in the air — higher, and higher, and higher — until the little engine couldn’t lift the weight anymore.

At that point, the Cessna ceased being an airplane and immediately turned into a 2,000 pound chunk of metal with two big pieces of meat in it. Those of you who fly will support me when I say it’s probably the most gut-wrenching experience (well, next to a spin) that a student pilot goes through.

The Freaking Plane Is Falling Out Of The Sky, Out Of Control!

Now, of course, he’d told me exactly what to do.  Even demonstrated what to do. But the degree of pucker took over, I froze and screamed like a twelve-year-old girl.  He calmly said “my airplane” and soon we were flying straight and level.

He said once I’d calmed down and the adrenaline had burned off, we’d try it again. I told him I’d step out the door and walk back, rather than do that. It took him a good 15 minutes to even get me to take the controls.

We did it again.  And again. And again.  Over the course of several lessons, and several weeks, I finally got so that I could recover from the stall.  It wasn’t pretty, and he usually laughed at my efforts, but I could do it well enough that I wouldn’t die if I encountered a stall.

If offered a chance to give feedback, I would have said:

• He didn’t take my feelings into consideration
• My input was not valued by the instructor
• The design of the course didn’t suit my learning style
• The course content should be changed
• Stalls hardly ever happen, if you fly correctly (true)

So be careful what you do with feedback.  Don’t want any of your learners falling on my head while I’m sleeping in my hammock.

A few nights ago, on a warm summer evening, a bunch of us were out standing in the middle of our street down here in South Carolina.  One guy was talking about politics.  Another lady was talking about how she wanted to be the Mayor.  And I, as usual, was making snarky obnoxious comments and offending people with my caustic sense of humor.

It Will Just Be A Little Prick

Surprisingly, a crowd of people started developing around me — a couple of thousand.  Many of them laughed and enjoyed my humor.  Some didn’t like it, and headed down the street to where somebody had a solution to erectile dysfunction they wanted to talk about.  Even more surprisingly, some of the people enjoyed my shtick so much that they wrote down what I said and then sent it off to their friends to read — boy, was I impressed.

A guy in the house across the way came out, listened for a bit, and liked what he heard.  He asked if I would please come over to his house every single time I had something to say, and say it right in the middle of his living room.  Even if he wasn’t there.  Sounded a little crazy — I told him he could just get the jokes about zebras, or only listen to the stuff about peach trees — but he demanded every single thing I said. Even gave me a key to his house.

Then one day, I said something he didn’t like.  I don’t remember exactly what, but boy was he pissed!  “Where do you get off saying that?  There’s no place for that kind of talk!”  I reminded him that I had just been out talking on the street, and he had chosen me to invite into his home — but it didn’t help.  I told him that there was a big red button on my head he could click, and I’d disappear and he’d never, ever see me again — but that wasn’t enough, either.

He really wanted to make rules for the whole neighborhood.  Based on what he liked, what he thought was entertaining, and what he wanted to hear.

Oh — one more thing.  I lied.  It wasn’t my neighborhood.  I was talking about Twitter.