How to teach in a makerspace: a practical educational philosophy
There’s no doubt that the educational value of working in makerspaces is immense. Through making, modifying, and maintaining physical objects, students learn to acknowledge the unknown, deal with failure, and test their understanding of the world against external constraints.
These experiences are deeply empowering and humbling, and as a makerspace educator, I find new joy in sharing them with my students every day. Here are some key principles and practices that I have discovered from teaching in these unique environments.
Asking questions is more valuable than answering them.
My first encounter with a makerspace was at the Port City Makerspace in Portsmouth, NH: a wild, weird, and dusty community shop where I found the opportunity to pick up some practical skills that were lacking from my engineering education. In my years here, I got to work and play with tools that I wouldn’t have had access to otherwise, and got to test the waters of social teaching by observing nuances in interactions with other makers, for better or for worse.
For example, I quickly noticed that many of the other members, in particular older men, loved to offer unsolicited advice (“hmm, I wouldn’t do it that way”), which was often tied up in stories about their personal experiences (“I used to work for IBM so I’ve seen it all”).
I enjoyed socializing with my fellow makers, but I found this flavor of interaction to be uniformly un-helpful. They were making conversations about design and process about themselves, trying to convince me that they were experts on the thing that I was doing. This, I decided, is not good teaching.
When I first started running an academic makerspace (the Design Lab at Phillips Exeter Academy), I knew that I wanted to avoid falling into this ego-trap, but it was difficult. I was serving some pretty intelligent kids, and I wanted to prove to them that I was an expert who was worthy of their time and attention.
I was eager to give abundant advice (in areas where I could), and would often try to relate their projects to things that I had made. I was insecure.
Some major flaws in this approach presented themselves quickly. First, I found that I was completely useless in guiding projects that existed outside of my sphere of expertise. Second, by providing too much information on projects that were in my wheelhouse, I was depriving students of opportunities to fail and learn more deeply.
This didn’t seem right to me. I tried to correct this in two ways:
1. I figured out how to guide students past my own point of understanding on any topic in the shop.
2. I applied this approach uniformly to every project going on in the shop, including the ones where I had some expertise.
This has been incredibly successful. As I shifted from telling to asking (“What are you trying to make? What problem are you trying to solve? What’s your plan? How did you do that?!”), the quality of work increased across the board, and students were way more engaged in the process.
I had stopped trying to impress my students, and had started really helping them to figure things out for themselves. An added benefit to this approach is that my students teach me new things all the time, which makes my experience teaching even more rewarding.
Students learn better when they do things themselves.
I believe that people learn better by doing than by watching, so I don’t demonstrate anything for a student without having them replicate it themselves. This principle might seem straightforward, but it surprises me how many otherwise excellent teachers will grab whatever their student was working on and start accidentally doing their project for them. I don’t think this is a good way to teach.
Instead:
If a process is reversible, I demonstrate it, then undo it. I show a student how to chuck a drill bit into a drill, then I un-chuck it and hand the drill and bit over to them. I can demonstrate how to use a tool in Illustrator or a CAD program for example, then I hit undo until my presence is erased from their project.
If a process is irreversible, like making a cut with an angle grinder, I’ll ask them if there’s a piece of their material I can practice on. I’ll demonstrate the use of the tool on scrap or an offcut, then ask them to practice until they’re ready to commit to doing it on their piece.
Likewise, I don’t set up tools or clean up after students. If a student wants to use a tool, I hand them my keys, have them unlock it, set it up, get their material, and procure PPE. If they need it, I point to where all these things are — learning to look is a valuable skill too!
When they’re done, I point to the broom and dustpan and have them clean up after themselves. These are important parts of the process, so why would I teach them any less rigorously? Plus, I think it’s good for kids at elite academic institutions to push a broom every once in a while.
Intuition is an important and often under-practiced skill.
I encourage my students to guess all the time. For students today, who experience immense pressures to succeed, the prospect of getting something wrong is daunting, but being able to live with that risk, and to reckon with one’s wrongness or ignorance is essential, both as a maker and as a learner in any discipline.
Intuition is serious business when teaching students how to use new tools. After giving a demo on a tool, cutting with a bandsaw for example, I’ll have the student make a cut, then ask “How’d you do?”
Asking instead of telling forces a student to be critical of their work. They must evaluate what success and failure look like within a practice that is only minutes old to them. This is useful mental work.
Next, I ask “How did it feel? Did it feel safe?”
This requires the student to check in with physical sensations and define what feeling safe or unsafe really entails. These questions move students towards an understanding that they the ones are ultimately in control of their success or failure.
Once I demonstrate my trust in their intuition, they begin to see the significance of their attentiveness to the situation — this attentiveness will define the success of their project as well as their physical safety.
This balance in accountability between teacher and student can be seen as a metaphor for our roles in their education more broadly; we are both invested in their success, but only the student can guarantee it. Nothing brings clarity to this idea quite like a first encounter with a bandsaw.
I work on my own projects in the shop, alongside my students.
I’m not on my computer when I’m in the shop. I think it’s important to be physically and mentally present with my students, and I can’t do this deeply when I’m trying to write emails.
I admit that I had to learn this the hard way. When I first started, I was part-time and there was a lot to do, so I tried to multi-task, but I noticed that:
- I couldn’t really get anything done because I always had to be ready to help my students — they were the reason I was there, after all!
- My students were reluctant to interrupt me and would defer asking for help when they needed it.
This was unacceptable to me, so I decided to shut the computer, and committed to being completely present.
Often, I’m cleaning or organizing, but when that’s accounted for, I’m working on my own projects. There are three major benefits to this approach:
1. This is the best way to ensure that my students have access to my attention when they want it, but not when they don’t. It’s important to give students space, especially when they’re new. It’s easy to feel stupid in a makerspace, and it’s nice to not have someone watching you while feeling stupid.
By putting my attention to a project, I can keep tabs on what’s happening around me, while tuning out enough to let students fail in relative privacy.
2. I believe that the best way to ensure that a shop is well-stocked and well-organized is to work in it. I might not know that we’re out of CA glue or that one of the vices is broken, but if I need those things for my project, I will notice those problems and fix them immediately.
As a corollary, I actively take on projects in my weak spots, so that I am growing as an instructor and the shop shapes itself to accommodate needs outside of my comfort zone.
3. When I work in the shop, I introduce my students to new ways of making, failing, and problem-solving. For example, I love finishing objects with spray lacquer (this comes from my previous life as a furniture-maker), but most of my students wouldn’t think to reach for a rattle can until they see how easy and beautiful a technique it is.
I’ve noticed that many students think that their projects need to be big, ambitious, and “innovative” in order to use the makerspace, which serves as a barrier for a lot of students, especially those who feel like they don’t belong in an engineering space.
I try to break this down by working on simple, mundane, projects, particularly repair and maintenance — like giving my bike a tune-up or oiling my leather bag. I hope to demonstrate that making can be simple, and that the makerspace is defined by the things we bring to it.
Teaching in a makerspace is a deeply rewarding and humbling experience, one that offers lessons that transcend the boundaries of the shop itself. In these environments, students are given the chance to experiment, work, play, fail, and take agency over their learning, all of which translate beautifully into their lives as learners and young people.
For me, guiding students in this environment is an excellent tool for maintaining my curiosity and humility, and for continuing to learn and grow with them.
