My first job was working as a lifeguard and swim instructor at a local pool. Sixteen years old with a whistle and an attitude, I was ready to take on the world while simultaneously getting a great tan. I didn't know anything about effective communication, but I was well-versed on pool rules. No running. No chewing gum. No chewing gum while running. No diving in the shallow end. No horseplay. No fun. (Not really.) I had been trained to teach swimming, save lives, and watch for danger. As I climbed up into my chair on that first day, I couldn't begin to know how much I would learn about effective communication that would carry me through an entire career.
Use Your Whistle Sparingly
While there were plenty of reasons to get the attention of some wayward swimmer, I learned quickly that if I kept blowing my whistle, people stopped listening. Instead, I decided to learn names and make personal connections so that I could catch swimmers' attention in other ways. It is easy to ignore an anonymous whistle; it is much harder to ignore someone calling your name. I also had to think long and hard about what would cause me to sound the alarm. If I didn't use the whistle that often, it was much more powerful when I did. When I did let loose with a loud screech, everyone looked to see what was going on because they knew something big was happening.
This same philosophy was so helpful to me in the classroom. I can't say that I never raised my voice, but I did so as infrequently and as powerfully as I blew the whistle. I learned all of my 160 students' names within the first three days of school. I intentionally made personal connections with every student, and it wasn't long before we could communicate with just a look. They knew my look of "please get to work" and the shake of my head that clearly said, "Absolutely not!" Likewise, I knew their look of "I don't get this at all" and the look that indicated "I get it … let's go!" I made it a habit to praise outright, limit criticism, and redirect silently. In short, I learned there were better ways to communicate than relying on my whistle.
Get In the Water
Getting in the water allowed me to physically demonstrate skills by modeling them. I could even move kids' arms and legs to mimic the correct posture and technique as I talked about each movement and why it was important. When kids tried on their own, I was there to provide support, talk them through what they were doing, and teach them how to improve. "Turn your head and breathe!" "Kick your feet!" "Bend your arm, then reach!" The feedback was always specific and focused, but I would have never known what they needed if I wasn't in the water with them. Standing on the side of the pool barking instructions wasn't nearly as effective as being in the water, close to the action. At the same time, I knew that I couldn't swim for them. I also had to allow kids the freedom to learn from their mistakes. This was critical because—trust me—if they stopped kicking their legs or moving their arms, natural consequences took over fast.
In the classroom, it came as no surprise when I discovered students learned best when I was right there with them. Rarely was I behind a desk or a podium. I would write while they were writing, verbalizing my thoughts as I put words to paper. I would read when they were reading, modeling the processes I used to make sense of information. Throughout the year, I always made sure to incorporate an assignment that another teacher would evaluate. Remember what my swimmers learned about natural consequences? That can be taught in the classroom as well. When someone else is putting a critical eye to your work and communicating expectations, that experience can provide a powerful motivator to do your best. Through it all, communication was the glue that held everything together. I knew the feedback my students needed because I was in the mix with them.
Get Them to Trust You, Then Themselves
To be an effective instructor, I had to convince my swimming students to trust me. Whether they were just learning to let go of the wall or jump from the diving board, I knew that if I could get them to trust me, I could get them to do anything. The next logical step then was that if I could get them to trust me and try, I could teach them the skills they needed to learn something new. I had to get them to understand that the ability to swim wasn't innate and available only to certain kids; swimming was something that they could learn to do well. Rollins (2014) found that it is this belief system that often separates low and high achievers; high achievers believe that their success directly results from hard work and effort while low achievers believe their need to work hard signals innate weakness and inadequacy. Somehow, I had to tap into that high-achieving belief system and convince my novices that everyone could learn to swim.
Researchers have long linked efficacy to achievement. Stiggins and Chappius (2004) posit that for students to believe in themselves, they must first experience credible forms of success when tackling challenging assessments. If I had asked my swimming students to cross the length of the pool the first time out, they would have never gotten in the water. If I had asked my English students to write a 20-page paper during the first week of school, they would have laughed in my face and shut down immediately. Instead, we experienced small successes together, scaffolding skills in such a way that students attributed the improvements they made to their efforts.
Set a Target, and Then Surpass It
Sometimes kids who are just learning to swim don't trust themselves enough to test what they can do. There were always a few kids who hung on the wall and claimed helplessness when I knew they had the skills to do so much more. So I tricked them. I told them I needed them to swim to me, and that I would let them decide how far away I would go. With a few exceptions, kids wanted me to be far closer than they needed, both because they didn't trust themselves and because they didn't want to work that hard. The first time they swam to me, I honored our agreement. The second time, I tried to negotiate a farther distance and honored that as well. The third time, however, was all mine. I set a target distance, but as they swam close to me, I kept moving backward until I sensed they had come as far as they could. Then I lifted them up and showed them the side where they began. "Look how far you came, all by yourself!! You don't need me—look at what YOU can do!" Once students see how much they are capable of accomplishing, something clicks. Their teachers no longer serve as lifelines but as mentors, coaches, and an important source of feedback as they strive to get better.
This was a bit harder to pull off in the classroom, but not impossible. If I assigned a five-paragraph essay, invariably a student would complain that the assignment was too long. They had already learned the skills necessary to write all five paragraphs, but five just seemed unattainable that day. After talking with them to determine the cause of their angst, I would sometimes ask them to give me three paragraphs: introduction, body, and conclusion. Happily, they would return to their seats to write and later come to me with the three paragraphs. I would immediately read what they had written and offer specific feedback. Then I would tilt my head to one side and ask a question that would require another body paragraph: "Surely you could go back and write one paragraph about that, right? Just one more." I would repeat this process until the five paragraphs were written and written well. Afterward, the students were generally surprised and proud of the work they had accomplished, realizing that they would have never known what they could do if I hadn't moved them beyond their own expectations and communicated with them each step of the way.
Tan lines fade, but the lessons for effective teaching endure. That summer taught me that communication skills not only set the environment for learning, but also draw out the swim team potential in even the most tentative beginners.