I've been thinking I've been thinking

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Doors shouldn’t be hard to open.



Donald A. Norman agrees. His book, “The Design of Everyday Things” was my first peek at the principles of design. His book’s original title was, “The Psychology of Everyday Things,” and it was this psychology that entranced me, a young educator earnest in my desire to be more effective for more students. I was assigned his book in Visual Literacy, a required course in my Master’s program, a course I wish had been included in my undergraduate work. Its inclusion would have spared many former students the brain melting boredom of my early PowerPoint presentations.



“I have become famous for doors that are difficult to open, light switches that make no sense, shower controls that are unfathomable. Almost anything that creates unnecessary problems, my correspondents report, is a ‘Norman thing’: Norman doors, Norman switches, Norman shower controls.” – Donald A. Norman, “The Design of Everyday Things” (preface)



Doors shouldn’t be hard to open, but the door I found Tuesday morning was.



It was a standard issue commercial door made from glass and aluminum. Yes, I was distracted. Yes, I could have given this door more attention. Yes, I launched myself into it.



I bet I sounded like that grape lady, but louder and angrier. Less whimper, more cursing. Thankfully, I didn’t fall as much as collide; once an o-lineman, always an o-lineman. Coach Westre would’ve been proud.



“Gak! Stupid door!” I snarled.



But then I remembered, this is a Norman door. At once this warm realization washed my shame and embarrassment away. It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t need to feel stupid. I imagined him watching me perform this trivial task badly, and was encouraged.



“I have studied people making errors — sometimes serious ones — with mechanical devices, light switches and fuses, computer operation systems and word processors, even airplanes and nuclear power plants. Invariably people feel guilty and either try to hide the error or blame themselves for their ‘stupidity’ or ‘clumsiness.’ I often have difficulty getting permission to watch: nobody likes to be observed performing badly. I point out that the design is faulty and that others make the same errors. Still, if the task appears simple or trivial, then people blame themselves. It is as if they take perverse pride in thinking of themselves as mechanically incompetent.” – DOET, p. 34



Have you run into any doors lately?



Design Matters



We prove this by what we buy, how we furnish our homes, what we wear, and in the things we like. Well-designed objects and experiences permeate our identities because they make us feel as though they were made for us. As in just for us – bespoke. They make us feel understood, seen, valued, and known. The power of design is how it informs, and is informed by, our identity.



That power exerts itself in each classroom daily, either wounding or healing.



Design principles guide effective human interaction. Design teaches the user something; all design does this, not just good design. Let’s look more closely at the relationship between design and blame, specifically when a user doesn’t engage with the designed thing in the way the designer intended – like me drive-blocking that door, for example.



Norman’s story demonstrates the power of design to wound:



I was once asked by a large computer company to evaluate a brand new product. I spent a day learning to use it and trying it out on various problems. And using the keyboard to enter data, it was necessary to differentiate between the “return” key and the “enter” key. If the wrong key was tapped, the last few minutes work was irrevocably lost.I pointed this problem out to the designer, explaining that I myself had made the error frequently and that my analyses indicated that this was very likely to be a frequent err

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“Who is that 3D printer for?” Glenn asked me through a wry smile.



“What…?” I murmured back, throwing a quick glance in his direction barely acknowledging his sincere and challenging question. I went back to my task quickly, feeling that maybe this time I’d finally leveled the damn printer bed.



“Who is it for?” He repeated, this time in a pointy-er tone.



“Glenn…what!? It’s for the kids. What are you even talking about!?!” I snapped back, now frustrated with the printer AND my prying teaching partner.



“You’ve had that thing on your desk for two weeks now, fiddling with it. How many kids have seen it, let alone had the chance to use it?” He added.



“Um…” I stammered. “Uh, well… Casey maybe? Junia was interested so she helped me unbox it but… no one really I guess.”



Here again I was drawn lovingly into another important lesson in the care and safety of my partner Glenn Williams. Have I told you about the one time he enthusiastically told me, “that’s an awesome prototype!” Intending sincere encouragement but only succeeding in crushing me into a paste? I’ll have to tell you about that one too… It’s a doozy.



Glenn Williams is a master teacher in every sense of the word. If you know him, you already know that. But if you ask him, he’ll deny it. Which too, is part of his influence and charm. On our first day working together in our shared office he asked if we could make our space, “like a locker room.” Knowing Glenn to be a man of character, I quickly set down my initial fear that it was gonna get real misogynistic, real fast.



“You know…” he continued, “can we please just be honest with each other about everything and hold each other accountable?” What I didn’t realize that day was that he was setting a tone in which he could both invite my critique and safely offer his own. I didn’t know that because he chose to show me what he meant by making a self-deprecating joke about one of his very real insecurities. “Oh, so you want us to flip each other shit?” I asked. “Yeah he said, can we do that?”



I know now that wasn’t his ultimate goal, but he was an incredible teammate and team-builder who was intentionally leaning into our shared sports playing and coaching experiences and trying to build a partnership where we could both truly be ourselves. But if you ask him about that day, I doubt he’d remember it. He has so internalized what it means to be a good teammate that I doubt he put any conscious thought into it.



And so it was in the fall of our second year together, that one morning Glenn asked me, “who is that 3D printer for?” I felt safe with Glenn. Our relationship had grown tremendously beyond the initial bravado and one-upmanship that initially bonded us and still made us giggle. We’d been through deep challenges together trying to help build a unified Language Arts, Computer Science, and Humanities learning experience for high school kids in a new project-based school. Many of our days the previous year ended with Glenn saying, “Well, I need to wash my car before I go home. That way, at least I’ll know I’ve actually accomplished one thing before I go to bed.” Starting a school is hard. Learning to radically collaborate is hard. Being vulnerable ALL THE TIME is hard.



And so that morning, unraveled by his question, I was invited to be vulnerable again. I knew what he was getting at, but I’d prefer to ignore it. I wanted to learn to master that 3D printer. I was the one who did the research. I was the one who picked it out. I was the one who helped write the grant to get it. I… I… I… Me… Me… Me…



Looking back, I can see more clearly now what Glenn knew as he prodded me. My need to be the expert was keeping kids from learning. Let me write that again, please read it out loud, slowly.



My need to be the expert was k