Keep it real
There is a sort of paradox at the heart of dramatic inquiry. The context we create in the classroom to frame the curriculum is entirely imaginary. Of course, it might be based on a real historical time or place, or be concerned with real-world science and geography, but it is, and has to be, a fiction, something made up for the purposes of learning.
Crucially, however, it is a fiction the students are aware of from the beginning. I could tell you some horror stories about the times I’ve got this wrong. You’ll find a couple in my book, The Beginner’s Guide to Mantle of the Expert. Cringe.
But, and here’s the paradox, it has to feel real. It has to feel as though it could happen and have an internal coherence holding it together.
We all know what it’s like when we’re watching a film or TV show, or reading a book, and one of the characters does something out of character, or something happens that feels contrived or too convenient. Our interest suddenly wanes: ‘Nah, that wouldn’t happen.’
This has nothing to do with genre, although some people have an aversion to fantasy. It’s about internal coherence. We understand that the rules of the fictional universe compel the characters to behave within the established framework of their values and beliefs. Events need a genuine sense of believability, with one thing following more or less logically from another. Sometimes that believability can be stretched and we’ll stay invested, if a little incredulous. But once it breaks, the audience is lost.
The same is true of the stories we create in dramatic inquiry. It doesn’t matter that the stories are fictional, or that the students are young. The narrative has to hang together. The motivations and actions of the characters have to make sense. Otherwise, the whole thing starts to fall apart.
Imagine, for example, a character in a dramatic inquiry context who needs help with their farm. They’re an experienced farmer with sheep, chickens, pigs, cows and crops. The story starts with the farmer milking the cows. The students are young, let’s say five years old. The teacher plays the role of the farmer. They show the students a picture of a cow and enact milking it in the old-fashioned way. The students are invited to join in. The teacher’s plan is that they will become ‘farm helpers’, milking cows, feeding pigs, fixing the fence around the sheep’s field and so on.
The problem is: why?
Why does the farmer need help? They seem to be coping perfectly well by themselves. There doesn’t appear to be anything wrong with the farm. So why call in the farm helpers?
At first, the students may not notice the problem. They’ll enjoy pretending to milk the cows, carry the buckets of milk and lead the cows into the field. But what has happened in the story to change things? What difference have they made?
It’s all rather superficial and, as a consequence, they are unlikely to stay interested for long. Soon, their minds will wander to something else, something that feels more enjoyable now they’ve played that game.
The crucial missing ingredient is coherence. Why does the farmer need help?
Answer that question and what follows is tension, motivation, purpose, concern and investment.
For example, imagine the same story starts with the farmer holding his back and wincing as he kneels down to milk the cows. Imagine him groaning as he stands and carries the bucket.
‘Oh,’ he complains to himself, ‘I’m not getting any younger. This farm is too much for one person.’
Suddenly, everything that follows makes sense. The farm helpers arrive for a reason. Everything they do makes a difference, and they are motivated by kindness.
‘Can you help me?’
They begin to develop a concern for the farmer.
‘It’s my back. I hurt it carrying a newborn calf and it’s taking a while to get better.’
Everything the students do around the farm now matters. Their work is urgent and important.
‘I’m worried about the fence around the field at the bottom of the hill. I think it was damaged in the recent storm, and that’s where the sheep graze. I’d hate for them to get out. Could you go down there and fix the fence if it needs repairing?’
Each job the students do helps the farmer. It makes a difference and confirms the kinds of people they are. The more they invest, the more they care, and the more they care, the more they want to invest.
This is what holds them and keeps them wanting to return to the story.
More than that, each activity they undertake, the signs they put up around the farm, the lists of instructions they write and the map of the farm they create, has meaning and purpose. They’re not just pretending to work on a farm. They’re doing it as if it is real.
Real, as my friend Viv Aitken says, in all the ways that matter.