My U.S. government students were considering the 1787 gathering of state delegates that ultimately gave the nation its Constitution and current system of government. Twelfth grader Sadou asked: “Should the federal government have ultimate power over the states? Or would that get rid of state power too completely?”
Sadou’s astute questions launched the class into an energetic discussion of the delicate balance of power between a federal government and state governments. The class conversation, beginning with events of the late 18th century, landed us by design squarely in the present. Students debated the pros and cons of federal regulation, as political leaders do so often in the news today.
As a teacher, my drive lies in setting up such opportunities—openings for civil dialogue that demand students work at the edge of their capabilities without demanding so much that they become overwhelmed. It took me a decade of teaching to find and hone the right approach. For me, it’s been the case study method.
A decade into my teaching career and as part of my professional development, in 2016, I participated in a pilot program connected to Harvard Business School that explored the use of the case method in high school history classrooms. Traditionally in the case method, graduate students assume the role of decisionmakers in high-stakes, real-world scenarios. In a high school history class, this learning protocol helps students interrogate specific moments of crisis or transition, such as the Southern secession. Instead of focusing on dates or outcomes, students ask how and why something happened, weigh different perspectives, and decide how they would have responded.
I began using the case method that fall with my own students at Boston Collegiate Charter School, a 5-12 public school open to students from all over Boston. I saw that students retained information more readily and showed greater excitement about the material. They connected names and dates to the broader context underlying a given event.
The skills and understanding students gain in my class encourage them to debate complex topics with respect and integrity.
Take, for example, the Constitutional Convention. By unpacking the reasons behind the colonists’ revolt, probing the weaknesses of the Articles of Confederation, and analyzing the competing priorities of large and small states, students absorbed the “why” and “how” that ultimately informed the structure of our government.
When students put themselves in the shoes of important historical figures as part of the case method, they can see how history is shaped by individuals making choices under pressure from a myriad of options reflecting their interests and with imperfect information. That realization reinforces students’ ability to make decisions in their own lives.
Perhaps more importantly, the case method helps students appreciate different perspectives and engage with them thoughtfully. At a time when having civil conversations about opposing viewpoints can seem impossible, the skills and understanding students gain in my class encourage them to debate complex topics with respect and integrity.
The case method does not make my class easier. It makes the knowledge stickier, the content more engaging, and the takeaways more impactful. After my first year incorporating cases in my teaching, I compared student outcomes with those of students who had taken the class in years prior. Students who participated in cases spoke more in class and achieved higher scores on the same assessments, including an Advanced Placement exam.
Armed with this data and research compiled by the Case Method Institute for Education and Democracy—the evolution of the pilot program I was part of—I successfully advocated for Boston Collegiate to add a fully case-based course for 12th graders and I continue to integrate cases in all the courses I teach. We now use cases in all the social science department’s high school classes.
This year, in the final case for my case-based Democracy in America course, students explored the breakdown of ancient Athens to see how democracies can fail and can be rebuilt. Recognizing how many people were actually excluded from political participation, including women, immigrants, and enslaved people, students began to ask deeper questions that resonate with present-day debates about representation and civic participation: What does it really mean to have a democracy? Who gets a voice? What are the limits of majority rule? My students let me know that the conversations continued after class. It’s thrilling that they choose to wrestle with these complex, fundamental questions when not part of an assignment.
Recently, I spoke on a panel about how my school connects classroom learning to the challenges and opportunities students will face after they graduate. The panelists included Sadou. Having witnessed Sadou’s thoughtfulness in the classroom, I was impressed, but not surprised, by his response to a question about what it’s like to be a student at our school. He said, “The thing I’ve come to realize is, in all my classes, the teachers will push you to do things by yourself, even if you’re struggling, because, like, they want you to struggle—but struggle to success.”
Sadou managed, in just a few words, to crystallize a key element of my teaching philosophy: the importance of pushing students to find the point of productive struggle, where they can test their assumptions, extend their critical thinking, and take ownership of knowledge. Nothing is more meaningful than seeing a student like Sadou tackle a tough assignment and come out on the other side with a richer understanding of both the subject matter and themselves.
The “struggle to success” that proved so powerful for Sadou has made me a better teacher, too. When we are open to the struggle, we all learn.
