Journal Entries 16-20
[I note that there are no dates for these entries because, sometime near the end of March, my brain turned to complete mush. Therefore numbers, in general, became inaccessible to me.]

UDL, or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Let Everyone Have a Chair

Today I fell down the rabbit hole of Universal Design for Learning. Again. Every time I think I “get it,” I discover another layer, like UDL is a pedagogical mille-feuille baked by a neurodivergent pastry chef who loves equity and chaos in equal measure.

Let’s start here: I didn’t learn this way.
Nobody scaffolded anything for me.
You either memorized the German verb conjugations while Frau Mixon scowled at you—or you failed. That was the system. The only “choice” was whether you cried before or after class.

So when I first heard about UDL—this idea that you plan for variability from the beginning—my first thought was: “Wait, we’re allowed to do that?”
Followed by: “Oh God, I should have been doing that already.”
Followed by: “How do I resign from my own class?”

I think part of my resistance comes from Imposter Chan™, who sits in the back of my mind eating Nacho Cheese Doritos and whispering things like, “Real professors don’t need frameworks. They just know how to teach.”
Imposter Chan loves a vague standard and the crushing weight of legacy.
UDL, on the other hand, says: “Let’s make learning suck less. For everyone.”

And when I calm down, I realize UDL is not a threat to rigor.
It’s a threat to gatekeeping.
Which, honestly, is why I’m here.

So I go back to my Choice Assignment and look at it with new eyes:
Does this offer multiple ways in?
Can a student with anxiety or dyslexia or a broken laptop or a completely different cultural frame of reference still succeed?
Can I give feedback that doesn’t feel like I’m grading their worth?

Some days I get it right.
Some days I write six pages of instructions for a five-minute in-class exercise, because I’m terrified someone will say, “This isn’t real pedagogy.”
Shut up, Heather. (Heather is Imposter Chan’s assistant and my own inner critic. For context, here is Heather: https://youtu.be/m_qL0HG2WVc)

But here’s the thing I’m learning:
UDL isn’t a checklist.
It’s a posture. A lens.
It’s not about making it easier. It’s about making it possible.

And maybe, on the best days, it even makes it joyful.

Drafting Choice

It began with a blank page
and a flicker—
not inspiration exactly,
but responsibility.
A question disguised as a task:
How do I let them choose
and still teach them something
real?

The shape of it came slowly,
a spine made of verbs—
anatomy of learning,
each muscle flexing
toward autonomy.

I named outcomes
like planting flags in soft ground,
each one a place
I hoped they’d reach
but with their own map.

Rubrics whispered structure,
rubrics argued clarity,
rubrics said:
“Let them know you see them.”

Somewhere in the drafting,
I forgot I was proving something
to a system.
I got interested.
I imagined them
laughing at the absurdity
of one option,
grappling with the weight
of another.

I rewrote.
I doubted.
I asked for help.

I fought my own ghosts—
the voice that says
it’s not rigorous
if it’s joyful.
The one that fears
chaos will slip in
if I open the door too wide.

But then I remembered:
they are not broken.
They do not need
rescue.
They need
a room where they
can make a mess
and call it learning.

Now, the thing exists.
Still breathing.
Still flexible.
A framework, not a fence.

And when they step into it—
when their choices shape
what the assignment becomes—
maybe that’s the real curriculum.
Maybe that’s the point
of all this work.

Some (Dis)Assembly Required: Scaffolding as IKEA Instruction Manual

Today I tried to scaffold a lesson plan.
I say “scaffold” like I’m casually throwing up steel beams on a job site.
In truth, it felt like assembling a very earnest bookshelf from IKEA called the LEKTSIÖN.
It came with 48 steps, zero screws, and a cartoon guy shrugging.

The learning outcome is clear(ish):
“Students will analyze the role of power in theatrical staging choices.”
Great. I like it. Bold. Meaty.
But now I have to get them there.
Without losing them.
Without boring them.
Without turning into the professor I once had who explained Brecht with all the charisma of a damp index card.

So I begin laying out my steps:

• Activate prior knowledge (i.e., remind them they know stuff)
• Introduce vocabulary without killing the vibe
• Use examples (yes, that one production of The Maids counts)
• Give them a chance to try it, mess it up, try again
• Check for understanding without sounding like a parole officer

Each piece clicks together until—oops—one leg of the lesson is shorter than the others.
I forgot that one student processes better with visuals, another needs verbal instruction repeated,
and a third has an access need I didn’t plan for.
Back to the box. Adjust. Re-tighten.

Scaffolding, it turns out, is not a straight staircase.
It’s more like a jungle gym.
You build it so they can climb in whatever way works for them.
You plan it so they don’t fall.

I’m learning that it’s okay to design a beautiful plan
and then throw it out halfway through class
because someone asked a brilliant question that broke the frame.
I think that’s actually the point.

Next time, I might even draw my plan in crayon first,
just to remind myself that flexibility doesn’t mean failure.

And if all else fails, I’ll just call it a limited run immersive experience in pedagogical design.

Staring Into the Carole Ann Abyss (And Waving Hello)

Today I completed the peer review process with Carole Ann, and friends, it was…
humbling.
Not in a “we are all life-long learners” kind of way.
In a “oh god, have I been faking it this whole time?” kind of way.

Carole Ann’s work was stunning—clean, clear, and somehow managed to be both rigorous and kind.
Her scaffolding made sense.
Her assessments sparkled.
Even her learning outcomes had narrative arcs.

Meanwhile, my lesson plan looked like a very sincere cry for help written in the margins of a director’s prompt book.

She wrote like someone who’d taken the time to read all the course materials, and possibly invented a few of her own just for flair.
I wrote like someone who’d had too much coffee and decided “student-centered” meant “throw them into the deep end and hope for growth.”

I know I’m supposed to take inspiration from this.
And I did.
Eventually.

But the first thing I took was a long walk around my apartment muttering things like:
“She’s amazing.”
“I should quit.”
“I wonder if she’d let me audit her class.”

Imposter Chan had a field day, obviously.
Heather brought snacks.

But once the pity parade packed up, I sat down and actually read her feedback to me.
It was thoughtful. Constructive.
She didn’t point out all the flaws I saw—
just the places where clarity could grow.
The choices I made that were strong but needed support.

It’s wild how the same voice that sings “you are garbage”
can’t hear someone else gently saying,
“Hey, here’s a way to make this stronger.”

So yeah, Carole Ann is brilliant.
But she’s also generous.
And maybe the real lesson here
is that comparison is inevitable
but not especially useful
unless it leads you back
to your own work
with new eyes
and a little less fear.

And hey—
maybe I’ll steal some of her scaffolding ideas.
Because if we’re going to steal,
let it be from someone whose teaching sings.