The United States now commemorates historical crises with days of service. For the past decade or so the default celebration of Martin Luther King Day has been to carry out service. And this year for the first time September 11th was officially dubbed a "National Day of Service." Why is this? What does it mean that when faced with historic events that refer to a major crisis and its response (racism and the civil rights movement in one case, terrorism and the heroism of first responders in the other) the official apparatus of the state calls for service?
These questions interest me for two reasons. First, this is a relatively new trend. Dating back to the 17th century one common response to crisis has been calling on God. The Puritans did it in response to war, storms, disease, and political crisis. Their religious/political leaders deemed disaster as a sign of God's anger. And so the proper response was a period of fasting, mourning, and re-dedication to God. The trend continues until at least the late 19th century. Lincoln, for example, declared a national day of prayer in response to the crises of the Civil War.
More recently commemorations of crises have sparked marches, vigils, etc. This was the first tendency after MLK's assassination. Each year starting in 1969 and lasting until at least the mid-1980s the anniversary of King's birth brought about marches in DC and Atlanta, and prayer vigils in churches throughout the south. It was only when King's birthday became a national holiday that it also became a day of service. This was a political decision taken by the commission that oversees the King holiday and puts out a list of "official" MLK Day activities. (For an academic study of King commemorations, check out my book, Making Villains, Making Heroes. I say "check it out" because the only place you can get it is a very large library filled with very dull first books by academics. Still, it is a pretty good history.)
Now, only 8 years after 9/11, it too is officially commemorated by service.
The second reason I'm interested is that schools have taken up these calls for service and they are coming to shape the way colleges and universities do their community service and service-learning activities.
I understand the pull of joining a national day of service. But it seems like the sorts of service done on a single day lead far from the sort of reflection and action that would accurately mark events like the civil rights movement and modern terrorism. How can the very useful acts of service--clean-ups, house painting, tutoring, food drives, etc. get us anywhere towards understanding race and/or terror?
I've argued elsewhere that acts of menial service like those that fit in days of service can have substantial meaning. (If you want to read my draft essay, "Finding Meaning in Menial Service" where I try to put such acts into a religious/civic context send me an email to gdaynes@westminstercollege.edu and I'll email you a copy). But it seems like the way that we do it today gets us further, not closer, to understanding the crises of our time.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Kindle, E-Readers, and the future of books
Last week my wife gave me a Sony E-Reader for our anniversary. I picked it over the Kindle because Sony has access to all of the Google Books and its store has a way for me to check out library e-books. (I also picked it because I always try to pick against whatever seems to be the hot trend, and Kindle is definitely that.)
I'm in the middle of reading three books on the reader--a mystery, a non-fiction work on buddhism, and an 1823 publication on what we would call peer-led education today. (The latter is actually a fascinating book. Here is a link to the Google Books version.)
My verdict? That the reader is as good as the content that you load onto it. The mystery is outstanding, the buddhism book is a more touchy-feely than I think the subject merits, and the 19th century education philosophy book is a slog but worth it.
On one hand this is a pretty dull conclusion. But a lot of the discussion about technology and education ignores it, focusing instead on the medium. The question we ask is "how cool is the tool?" not "does the tool help students do what they need to do?" I understand the desire to "prove" that the Kindle is great, or that the I-Pod can be used for education, or that OpenCourseWare is the future of education. But too often the discussion gets no further, in spite of the fact that crummy content (think Liberace on the I-Pod) makes any tool useless.
Granted, I am already a multi-platform reader. No day goes by that I don't read a newspaper, magazine, book, and computer. So adding an e-book doesn't represent a barrier to me. And adding an e-book might present a barrier to certain people. (Though assumptions that technology will be an impediment to the poor and marginalized may not be true, if the examples of cell phones in the developing world are any indication.)
But if educators are going to make any meaningful use of e-readers, we will need to get past the debate over the technology. The medium is not the message. The message is.
I'm in the middle of reading three books on the reader--a mystery, a non-fiction work on buddhism, and an 1823 publication on what we would call peer-led education today. (The latter is actually a fascinating book. Here is a link to the Google Books version.)
My verdict? That the reader is as good as the content that you load onto it. The mystery is outstanding, the buddhism book is a more touchy-feely than I think the subject merits, and the 19th century education philosophy book is a slog but worth it.
On one hand this is a pretty dull conclusion. But a lot of the discussion about technology and education ignores it, focusing instead on the medium. The question we ask is "how cool is the tool?" not "does the tool help students do what they need to do?" I understand the desire to "prove" that the Kindle is great, or that the I-Pod can be used for education, or that OpenCourseWare is the future of education. But too often the discussion gets no further, in spite of the fact that crummy content (think Liberace on the I-Pod) makes any tool useless.
Granted, I am already a multi-platform reader. No day goes by that I don't read a newspaper, magazine, book, and computer. So adding an e-book doesn't represent a barrier to me. And adding an e-book might present a barrier to certain people. (Though assumptions that technology will be an impediment to the poor and marginalized may not be true, if the examples of cell phones in the developing world are any indication.)
But if educators are going to make any meaningful use of e-readers, we will need to get past the debate over the technology. The medium is not the message. The message is.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Politics in school: pandering, fear, and the need for hospitality
My junior high school daughter brought home a letter from her principal last Friday. In it he laid out the school's response to the Obama education speech today. Some teachers would show the speech in their classes. Students whose parents didn't want them to see it could opt out. Students who wanted to see it but whose teachers didn't show the speech could watch it during flex time.
At the end of the letter he added a bit of boilerplate about the importance of schools in training citizens in a democracy. Pleasant Grove JHS takes its responsibility to teach about democracy seriously, he wrote. because it does so he encouraged parents to teach their students about the importance of civic engagement. Or, seen in light of the school's waffling on the speech, "teach your kids about citizenship because you've made us so afraid that we won't do it."
Politicians have a long history of using schools to spoon out pablum about the value of education. In the 80's Reagan Administration officials visited schools on Martin Luther King Day (once it passed against their wishes) as if that somehow marked his legacy meaningfully. The recent President Bush was in a classroom in Florida when airplanes hit the twin towers. First ladies have spent countless hours reading in elementary schools. Candidates hold stump speeches in high school auditoriums all the time.
What do all of these instances suggest about the power of politicians talking to students? That they have almost no influence because their message (always some variant of "work hard in school--you are our future") is so weak that everyone suspects it to be a front for some secret nefarious hidden goal--to gut public education through NCLB, or to undermine the radical power of the civil rights movement, or, today, to establish socialism.
In other words, I'm suggesting that the educational pandering of politicians and the fear of educational conspiracies are tied together in an endless feedback loop. More pandering leads to more fear which leads, of course, to more pandering (at least on those occasions when a political leader manages to end up in a school).
How do we break the cycle? Probably not through more teaching about democracy, which is only a step removed from hypocrisy at the outset. And not by avoiding the subject by keeping controversy at arm's length. (This is Utah's speciality, where we value "nice" above nearly any other virtue.) Instead, I would suggest renewed attention to educational hospitality.
By hospitality I mean "welcome of guests." But I mean it in a deeper sense than merely opening school doors. I mean that schools (K-12 and HE) need to develop a commitment to welcoming outsiders (be they politicians, immigrants, community members or other outsiders), listening to them, and breaking bread with them. This commitment must be part of a school's DNA--built into their recruitment of students, their sporting events, their educational programs, their learning goals.
For as start down this path I would recommend Elizabeth Newman's essay, "Hotel or Home? Hospitality in Higher Education," in Budde and Wright, eds. Conflicting Allegiances: The Church-Based University in a Liberal Democratic Society. Newman's title suggests her argument--that schools are like hotels, keeping students, their parents, and matters of import at a pleasant arm's length. Instead they need the grittier engagement with other people who are at once strangers and fellow-citizens in the community of school.
At the end of the letter he added a bit of boilerplate about the importance of schools in training citizens in a democracy. Pleasant Grove JHS takes its responsibility to teach about democracy seriously, he wrote. because it does so he encouraged parents to teach their students about the importance of civic engagement. Or, seen in light of the school's waffling on the speech, "teach your kids about citizenship because you've made us so afraid that we won't do it."
Politicians have a long history of using schools to spoon out pablum about the value of education. In the 80's Reagan Administration officials visited schools on Martin Luther King Day (once it passed against their wishes) as if that somehow marked his legacy meaningfully. The recent President Bush was in a classroom in Florida when airplanes hit the twin towers. First ladies have spent countless hours reading in elementary schools. Candidates hold stump speeches in high school auditoriums all the time.
What do all of these instances suggest about the power of politicians talking to students? That they have almost no influence because their message (always some variant of "work hard in school--you are our future") is so weak that everyone suspects it to be a front for some secret nefarious hidden goal--to gut public education through NCLB, or to undermine the radical power of the civil rights movement, or, today, to establish socialism.
In other words, I'm suggesting that the educational pandering of politicians and the fear of educational conspiracies are tied together in an endless feedback loop. More pandering leads to more fear which leads, of course, to more pandering (at least on those occasions when a political leader manages to end up in a school).
How do we break the cycle? Probably not through more teaching about democracy, which is only a step removed from hypocrisy at the outset. And not by avoiding the subject by keeping controversy at arm's length. (This is Utah's speciality, where we value "nice" above nearly any other virtue.) Instead, I would suggest renewed attention to educational hospitality.
By hospitality I mean "welcome of guests." But I mean it in a deeper sense than merely opening school doors. I mean that schools (K-12 and HE) need to develop a commitment to welcoming outsiders (be they politicians, immigrants, community members or other outsiders), listening to them, and breaking bread with them. This commitment must be part of a school's DNA--built into their recruitment of students, their sporting events, their educational programs, their learning goals.
For as start down this path I would recommend Elizabeth Newman's essay, "Hotel or Home? Hospitality in Higher Education," in Budde and Wright, eds. Conflicting Allegiances: The Church-Based University in a Liberal Democratic Society. Newman's title suggests her argument--that schools are like hotels, keeping students, their parents, and matters of import at a pleasant arm's length. Instead they need the grittier engagement with other people who are at once strangers and fellow-citizens in the community of school.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Is it possible to "pay tuition"?
I was reading an op-ed last night about a new compulsory education law in India. The author wrote that students from middle-class families would do better in this system than would the poor because, "they get private tuition in the evening," whereas the poor do not.
This certainly isn't the way we use the word "tuition" in American higher ed, where it simply means "the money you pay to go to school." It turns out that the common usage of the word is historically new--dating only to the 19th century. Before that, tuition more commonly meant, "instruction or teaching" and at its origins in the 13th century it meant "guardianship." (For the etymology visit this site.)
You can trace the history of education through the history of the word "tuition." Today's usage suggests that at some point a word that described a key facet of learning--guardianship linked with instruction--came to mean simply the money we pay to get into school. And given the difficulty that many face in paying tuition, it also points out the risen centrality of money in the work of education.
I'm not a linguistic purist. But as a reminder to myself of the deeper meaning of tuition, I'll try from now on to speak of "paying for tuition," not just "paying tuition."
This certainly isn't the way we use the word "tuition" in American higher ed, where it simply means "the money you pay to go to school." It turns out that the common usage of the word is historically new--dating only to the 19th century. Before that, tuition more commonly meant, "instruction or teaching" and at its origins in the 13th century it meant "guardianship." (For the etymology visit this site.)
You can trace the history of education through the history of the word "tuition." Today's usage suggests that at some point a word that described a key facet of learning--guardianship linked with instruction--came to mean simply the money we pay to get into school. And given the difficulty that many face in paying tuition, it also points out the risen centrality of money in the work of education.
I'm not a linguistic purist. But as a reminder to myself of the deeper meaning of tuition, I'll try from now on to speak of "paying for tuition," not just "paying tuition."
Friday, September 4, 2009
What does a major mean?
Westminster is considering a new proposal for "contract majors." The proposal would clarify and simply the process that a student uses to create a major that is not on the books. It would also establish guidelines for all contract majors (all students in a contract major would have to complete a capstone experience, for example.)
I don't know how to think about this proposal, because I don't know how to think about majors anymore. I assume there was a time where the number of majors on campuses was relatively stable. The major topics corresponded with the way that academe thought of disciplines. You have a discipline? We have a major for it.
As sub-disciplines have expanded since the 1970s, so have the number of majors, but still in alignment with sub-disciplines. So where once you had only an engineering major, now you might have majors in electrical and chemical engineering, the better to train students to complete the research required by the disciplines.
At a school like Westminster, though, we have increased the number of majors substantially even though we aren't driven by research specialties. Instead our new majors grow out of a sense that a market exists, either because we believe students are asking for a degree in a particular field, or because we want to keep up with competitor schools. At a place like Westminster, that means we have a lot of majors, many affiliated with programs that have only one or two faculty and a handful of students.
Our desire to keep up means that many students will take classes in several disciplines in order to complete a major because we don't have enough faculty to house all of the classes in a single department. This is probably a good thing, because it leads to interdisciplinarity. But it also leads to the new contract major proposal, which looks like a way to multiply majors indefinitely.
So I'm torn. On one hand I don't feel any loyalty to the old majors because they don't necessarily represent anything except tradition (which isn't a trifling thing, I know). On the other, contract majors leave me cold because they suggest that students ought to be able to shape their entire educational experience and/or that they don't get sufficient leeway in an existing major in order to learn their way into their passions and their careers. And they undermine the community among students that is at the core of any good disciplinary experience.
What ought to be the basis of a major? Why would a school create a new one? Who should drive that creation--students? faculty? employers? Why have them at all?
I don't know how to think about this proposal, because I don't know how to think about majors anymore. I assume there was a time where the number of majors on campuses was relatively stable. The major topics corresponded with the way that academe thought of disciplines. You have a discipline? We have a major for it.
As sub-disciplines have expanded since the 1970s, so have the number of majors, but still in alignment with sub-disciplines. So where once you had only an engineering major, now you might have majors in electrical and chemical engineering, the better to train students to complete the research required by the disciplines.
At a school like Westminster, though, we have increased the number of majors substantially even though we aren't driven by research specialties. Instead our new majors grow out of a sense that a market exists, either because we believe students are asking for a degree in a particular field, or because we want to keep up with competitor schools. At a place like Westminster, that means we have a lot of majors, many affiliated with programs that have only one or two faculty and a handful of students.
Our desire to keep up means that many students will take classes in several disciplines in order to complete a major because we don't have enough faculty to house all of the classes in a single department. This is probably a good thing, because it leads to interdisciplinarity. But it also leads to the new contract major proposal, which looks like a way to multiply majors indefinitely.
So I'm torn. On one hand I don't feel any loyalty to the old majors because they don't necessarily represent anything except tradition (which isn't a trifling thing, I know). On the other, contract majors leave me cold because they suggest that students ought to be able to shape their entire educational experience and/or that they don't get sufficient leeway in an existing major in order to learn their way into their passions and their careers. And they undermine the community among students that is at the core of any good disciplinary experience.
What ought to be the basis of a major? Why would a school create a new one? Who should drive that creation--students? faculty? employers? Why have them at all?
Thursday, September 3, 2009
More on more in a classroom
Two great comments on the last post about what goes into a classroom. The first was from Peter Ingle:
One of things we learned about from k-12 is that the classroom setup does make some difference (how much is obviously up for grabs). But this has largely to do with how a teacher organizes the room. One of the things that we did in the SOE was to have dedicated rooms specifically for education classes. These classrooms have places to store materials, post things on the wall, and a sense of ownership for what is in there. Perhaps we are missing the boat a little when we wonder about the technology in the classroom and not about permanence. Where can I put up posters, art, excellent work, student projects, etc??? These are all good ways to help students know they are excelling and to provide a more 'inviting' classroom. I know.... that is for elementary school. I don't think so.
The second is from Bryce Bunting:
I don't have a story yet, but I am in a design course this semester where I think the classroom will make a difference. But, I think it has less to do with what is in the classroom (technology, etc.) and more with Peter's idea of permanence. The course is intended to be a studio where we create, share, and critique instructional materials that we each produce. The instructor found a room in the basement of the McKay Bldg at BYU that isn't being used by any other group or course this semester. That means that we can post things on the walls, store materials, and have our own permanent space. My sense so far (I've only been to class once) is that being able to leave and post things without worrying about them being taken down will make a difference in our learning. For example, we'll be creating a wall of shame/fame illustrating good and bad designs (our own and others that we have collected). On the wall will be instructional artifacts as well as our comments relating to why they are good or bad. My hope is that it will create an ongoing conversation of sorts across the semester about design. My guess is that if someone were to come in at the end of the semester they might also see a decent record of our group learning.So, the jury is still out, but I think that this particular classroom and the way it is used will make a difference. To answer your last question (what would classrooms be like if our campuses were about learning), I think that one difference we would see is that individual instructors would work much more closely with campus schedulers to find rooms that facilitate the type of learning they want to go on. In most cases I think those classroom assignments have more to do with capacity than anything. Additionally, on a true learning campus those that design physical space would spend a lot more time talking with the important stakeholders (faculty & students). I would be surprised if that happens very often at most institutions.
There is some really interesting overlap in these two responses. Both Peter and Bryce are technologically savvy guys. And both are leaders in helping their campuses and colleagues think about learning. But most interestingly, they both point to "ownership" of the classroom as a key force for learning.
This may seems strange to higher ed folks, but outside of education, the connection between "ownership" (or at least deep personal responsibility for a place) and that place's meaning is unquestioned. For example, a gravesite is a sacred place for people with a deep connection to the deceased. "Home field advantage" is unquestioned in sports. People return again and again to "sacred spaces" for solace and learning.
In education, though, the further you go through the system the less personal connection a student has to a space for learning. Why is this? Did someone once think it was a good idea for learning? Or is it at best a way to maximize the efficiency of space on campus?
One of things we learned about from k-12 is that the classroom setup does make some difference (how much is obviously up for grabs). But this has largely to do with how a teacher organizes the room. One of the things that we did in the SOE was to have dedicated rooms specifically for education classes. These classrooms have places to store materials, post things on the wall, and a sense of ownership for what is in there. Perhaps we are missing the boat a little when we wonder about the technology in the classroom and not about permanence. Where can I put up posters, art, excellent work, student projects, etc??? These are all good ways to help students know they are excelling and to provide a more 'inviting' classroom. I know.... that is for elementary school. I don't think so.
The second is from Bryce Bunting:
I don't have a story yet, but I am in a design course this semester where I think the classroom will make a difference. But, I think it has less to do with what is in the classroom (technology, etc.) and more with Peter's idea of permanence. The course is intended to be a studio where we create, share, and critique instructional materials that we each produce. The instructor found a room in the basement of the McKay Bldg at BYU that isn't being used by any other group or course this semester. That means that we can post things on the walls, store materials, and have our own permanent space. My sense so far (I've only been to class once) is that being able to leave and post things without worrying about them being taken down will make a difference in our learning. For example, we'll be creating a wall of shame/fame illustrating good and bad designs (our own and others that we have collected). On the wall will be instructional artifacts as well as our comments relating to why they are good or bad. My hope is that it will create an ongoing conversation of sorts across the semester about design. My guess is that if someone were to come in at the end of the semester they might also see a decent record of our group learning.So, the jury is still out, but I think that this particular classroom and the way it is used will make a difference. To answer your last question (what would classrooms be like if our campuses were about learning), I think that one difference we would see is that individual instructors would work much more closely with campus schedulers to find rooms that facilitate the type of learning they want to go on. In most cases I think those classroom assignments have more to do with capacity than anything. Additionally, on a true learning campus those that design physical space would spend a lot more time talking with the important stakeholders (faculty & students). I would be surprised if that happens very often at most institutions.
There is some really interesting overlap in these two responses. Both Peter and Bryce are technologically savvy guys. And both are leaders in helping their campuses and colleagues think about learning. But most interestingly, they both point to "ownership" of the classroom as a key force for learning.
This may seems strange to higher ed folks, but outside of education, the connection between "ownership" (or at least deep personal responsibility for a place) and that place's meaning is unquestioned. For example, a gravesite is a sacred place for people with a deep connection to the deceased. "Home field advantage" is unquestioned in sports. People return again and again to "sacred spaces" for solace and learning.
In education, though, the further you go through the system the less personal connection a student has to a space for learning. Why is this? Did someone once think it was a good idea for learning? Or is it at best a way to maximize the efficiency of space on campus?
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Do you want more in a classroom?
Westminster is in the middle of a campus master planning process. A design team has been asking administrators and faculty what they think they will need in our classrooms over the next 10-20 years.
I find this question nearly impossible to answer. I've taught in all sorts of classrooms. Some seat 900 movie theatre style. Others hold 10 chairs arrayed around a conference table. The room I'm teaching in this semester is cutting-edge. It includes a computer, projector, cameras, a monitor, movable tables and chairs. Our campus also includes classrooms with chalkboards, transparency projectors, and lecterns. (Those same rooms also include a computer and projector.)
These last rooms are the ones that have gotten me thinking. They are museums, if you will, of trends in educational technology. (They are also the source of a lot of good natured eye-rolling. A lectern? Come on!) But I'm not sure they've made learning better or worse.
This is of course contrary to nearly everyone's belief in the power of the classroom to shape learning. It is part of our pitch to donors (please give so we can have cutting edge classrooms). It is the source of a lot of spending (got to get those classrooms up to date). And "bad" classrooms are the source of lots of complaints.
So I'm asking--can you tell a story where a particular classroom made a difference, for good or ill--in student learning? Can you think of an instance when the classroom was so good or so bad that it had a lasting impact on the class? Or is concern about what goes in a classroom really evidence that the instruction paradigm continues to reign? If a campus was all about learning, how would we think about classrooms?
I find this question nearly impossible to answer. I've taught in all sorts of classrooms. Some seat 900 movie theatre style. Others hold 10 chairs arrayed around a conference table. The room I'm teaching in this semester is cutting-edge. It includes a computer, projector, cameras, a monitor, movable tables and chairs. Our campus also includes classrooms with chalkboards, transparency projectors, and lecterns. (Those same rooms also include a computer and projector.)
These last rooms are the ones that have gotten me thinking. They are museums, if you will, of trends in educational technology. (They are also the source of a lot of good natured eye-rolling. A lectern? Come on!) But I'm not sure they've made learning better or worse.
This is of course contrary to nearly everyone's belief in the power of the classroom to shape learning. It is part of our pitch to donors (please give so we can have cutting edge classrooms). It is the source of a lot of spending (got to get those classrooms up to date). And "bad" classrooms are the source of lots of complaints.
So I'm asking--can you tell a story where a particular classroom made a difference, for good or ill--in student learning? Can you think of an instance when the classroom was so good or so bad that it had a lasting impact on the class? Or is concern about what goes in a classroom really evidence that the instruction paradigm continues to reign? If a campus was all about learning, how would we think about classrooms?
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