g!;!:!!!!’.z""‘ wart!!! , 2.3“?" q! .» n .7. p .133!!! (Ci VI 5. r r: .xzpf‘li..3 2.. .3 :y)... : (r. .l (.3 :u~ 9.5;}.{2’}? . if PIS-.1251 it! elw.v..ctO >0) 79 A. Yeah! 0. Was it scary? A. Not really. I can’t really remember. (Interview, 2-19—86) In support of my earlier assertion that writing was prominent in the life of this school and this classroom, then, were the data I’ve cited in this and other sections of this report. In these data, writing occurred in the concrete sense of student activities and production, and in the more abstract sense of its presence in the minds of students, teacher, principal, and visitors. Arrangement of the Room I have mentioned that all students in this classroom did write. Figure 3 is a photograph of a school hallway; Figures 2 and 4 are of the "writing corner" of Josie’s classroom. These photos represented the concrete presence of writing as school life at Pine Park, both in the classroom and in the main artery of the school. Display of Writing Elementary students, even these first graders, have a curriculum that includes art, music, math, reading, physical education, and social studies. Noteworthy in the first photo was that (a) there were "projects" by gyggy student in the classroom, and (b) each one of the projects involved a display of student writing. By featuring these projects in such a prominent way, the school was proclaiming that "Every student writes, and every student work is worthy of pride." This feature provides more support in evidence of this school’s curricular emphasis. Additionally, the "writing corner" (as so designated by Josie and known by the 80 students) occupied a prominent section of the classroom, in the front, right of the room. There were other locations in which this writing activity could have been located, but it was found in front, right. As I entered this room during my three months of observations, I sat in the back and--naturally, it seemed—— immediately looked to the front to locate important agendas. In the middle, front was the chalkboard, at which Josie frequently explained, wrote, and coordinated the classroom affairs. At the left, front was the teacher’s desk. In a map of the room (see Figure 5), this front, right writing corner seemed to be not only prominent, but unique in that it was the only area of the classroom that was carpeted. All of these features seemed to coincide with the fact that it was the only area of the classroom in which a special section was reserved for a specific subject matter. This location seemed to be a marketing decision. Much of the success of selling a project is based on its location in the supermarket. In this first-grade "supermarket" of subject matters and curricula, display space was at a premium. What would constitute the most optimal display space? Possibly eye-level (we’re talking first graders, remember!), front-right, in a "flat" display--that is, with the project standing in the shelves so that the covers were identifiable. Note in Figure 4 that this was the location of the published "books" that the students had written. (In the photographs, look to the immediate right of the globe.) £31 .Eooc m.w_moa »o an: .m «L:m_g mxaom :uuuwczuacmvaum mo ha—nm_= aco:_lesn «gauge ~_a~p Jae: w M . M ___xm 2:2 A Carpet «Lev—ob mnluaw acmumhx won: many: ungaam c _~=Wflwwwww mamua ugev=am c Lou_ux~a>h Icon—>—n . mama: Heweaum e mama: sgau=am e mason “cavaam . mawva u=wt=um v any: m.~_mca mvxoa—_~z ugwusum been mLoJUOA 82 Again, this physical location of writing-related paraphernalia argued for the prominence of writing in the life of this classroom. Finally, visible in all photographs of Josie’s room, there is one chair that was higher than all the others, even the teacher’s chair. This chair was known by all as the "writer’s chair," and was used pply when a student writer was reading a story he or she had written. If first graders have a certain reverence for height and size, then the desirability of this chair--sitting in it, doing associated work, and so on--would become apparent. The short vignette that follows should support the notion that these first graders revered height and size. Early in March, I was present for an indoor recess. An indoor recess occurred in cases of inclement weather and involved all students (not just the ones with earaches, etc.) remaining in for the time period during which they would usually have gone to the playground. In this specific recess, the teacher, Josie, instructed the students that she was going to play an exercise record and that all of them would participate. Many eyes went back to me, and many students wondered aloud if I would participate, also. I did, and as the portion of the record grew near in which all were to jump and touch as high as they could with both hands, all eyes were on me. I jumped, and touched both hands to the ceiling. These little people were both awed and excited, and remained buzzing to each other about the six-foot "giant" in the back of the room who had touched the ceiling. 83 If you were a tiny first grader, wouldn’t ygg be excited at size and height? And wouldn’t you associate anything that could make you taller than your classmates with a positive, good feeling? I thought so, and believed as "small" a thing as the height and location of this writing chair contributed to the status of the writing program in this classroom. Writing was a prominent feature of this classroom and this school and, as such, influenced the students to pursue writing. And these students wrote, and produced writing in accordance with their concept of the term. Good evidence for this production was incorporated in the published "books" themselves. I noticed an impressive number of books written by the students. In interviews, both the teacher and the students assured me that "Everybody writes!" (Dirk, 2-19-86); that Josie thought she was "reaching most of the kids . . . that they understand the job" and that "they all will make an effort" (Interview, 2-28-86). As I mentioned before, both students and teacher were referring to writjgg as meaning, consistently, a sort of story-writing that somewhat resembled adult "nonfiction novels" or "new journalism." As Randee put it: A. If you had to tell me what writing means, what would you say writing is? Writing is what? A If you think of something that you like very much, um, you take a pencil and we have paper and we write it. 2. What kind of subjects do you like to write about? We like writing about our dogs, or our mom and dad. We write about school. (Interview, 5-7-86) 84 This realistic approach to finding subjects was seconded by Nate in another interview, in which he said: "She usually asks us if, um, it’s real or not. She usually knows right!" (Interview, 2-26-86). However, when asked if she accepted fiction, Josie replied with an enthusiastic "Oh, yeah!" (Interview, 2-28-86). At a later informal meeting, when I told her of the students’ perception of "appropriate topics, she was incredulous. Apparently, she had no idea that they felt realism, or autobiography, was the only appropriate subject. I’ve included a complete story (see Appendix G) from rough draft to final "book“ stage, with adult peer-reader revisions and corrections visible. In this story by Marcy, one can see her notion of an appropriate subject: a personal account of her recent visit to relatives "up North," to celebrate Easter. This story resembled a "nonfiction novel" in that the author took some liberties, possibly, with the literal and complete truth. If an adult were writing in this form, of course, he would be aware of truth and divergence from this truth. As Marcy and other class members wrote, however, they diverged from truth, possibly due to lack of verbal and intellectual development. As they tried to tell the whole truth about their experiences, they lacked the vocabulary and the control of verbal structures necessary to be completely accurate. For example, on page 7, Marcy wrote: “My cousin Bryan has a bunk bed. I will sleep in the top bunk." These are simple structures, with a minimum of single—word modification. To get any more completeness, hence accuracy, she had to develop vocabulary and precision in 85 structuring clauses and phrases. This simplicity might be more obvious in her illustration accompanying that page of text: The drawing had stick figures who were sleeping, apparently, side by side, instead of on that bunk bed of the text. Overall, this writing was a very impressive account of an incident in Marcy’s life, and in its production, Marcy performed remarkably well, considering she had been alive in this language environment for only six years, and in school for less than two. She used basic sentences, some modification, and completeness in relating an event--all structures that she could build on in later language development. And I thought that she--and the rest of the students-—enjoyed this writing: Note that many of the illustrated people are smiling. Also, as Nate said: 0. How do you feel when you’re writing? A. I really felt good! I felt I was the only kid in first grade that ever did that. (Interview, 2-19-86) Teacher Workload All of this detail is to support my assertion that all students in this classroom wrote, and they wrote in accordance with a set definition. However, some students seemed to write more than others. As I would weekly search through the finished student books, some names were always represented; some weren’t. Several students seemed to have material in rough-draft form available (in their folders--see map in Figure 5), but never managed a final book. Josie, however, assured me that all students had produced at least one book by January, when my observations began. I have reason to 86 believe that one reason more books were not in evidence was due to the teacher workload associated with this process writing program. Typically, in repeated instances in which I visited this classroom while process writing was going full-tilt, I saw the teacher attempting to do many things at once. Most of these things involved a one-to-one talk with a student (about rough draft, completeness, readiness to publish, spelling, etc.). In an interview, Josie talked about this hectic classroom life I repeatedly saw: If there is one component about the program that I think is real threatening to anyone is . . . [ she] really has to be committed to it, it demands teacher time. . . . It demands being involved, looking at their writing, seeing how you can help on a one—to-one [basis], trying to figure out if a group situation would work. Every day is a little bit different. There is a pattern on how you do the job, but the experience is different every day; their writing is different every day. It demands so much thought by the teacher. (Interview, 2-28-86) In other words, my observations and interviews generally spoke to the success of the program in that "all students wrote," but the evidence of completed books on the shelf argued, apparently, against that. From my observations of the classroom, coupled with my experience as‘a writing teacher myself, however, I can disregard this apparently discrepant case as a disguising of evidence resulting from technical limitations in this classroom situation, a situation that put a productive (but complex) writing program into combat with a willing but besieged teacher. 87 Teacher Control of Writing In this classroom, the students wrote, but they did not do so exactly freely. Rather, the students received writing time and materials as allotted by the teacher. First, let’s listen to Dirk: Q. How do you know when it’s time to start writing in the classroom? A. She tells us. 0. When does it happen? Once a day, once every other day, or what? A. Every day, or once a day, or both. 0. She does it sometimes more than one time a day? A. Yeah, sometimes. 0. Do you ever start writing on your own without Josie telling you to do it? A. We can’t. Q. Why can’t you? A. I don’t know. 0. So, if you got in there, picked up your paper, and started writing in the middle of the day, you’d be in a little bit of trouble? A. Yeah, we don’t even know where the paper is, so we can’t! Q. Is that right? A. She has to cut it! And we don’t even know where the stamps are . . . or anything like that. [The stamps referred to are the date stamps that were used to stamp rough drafts, to keep track of students’ progress.] (Interview, 2-29-86) This interview with a student supported the assertion of teacher control of the writing process. Also supportive were two environmental qualities, so pervasive that they might easily be overlooked. First, Figure 2 showed the writing corner, and the map (Figure 5) showed the geographical arrangement of the classroom. In my observations, Josie exhibited the power to make decisions about this geographical arrangement of the classroom, including the movement and arrangement of desks, the placement of children, the decoration of bulletin boards, and the suspension of artwork from the ceiling. Second, Josie-~in one of my initial, exploratory, 88 informal interviews back in January-—asked me just what I wanted to observe. When she perceived that I was more interested in writing than anything else (a perception that may or may not have been true at that time, but was probably based on the fact that she knew I was a writing teacher), she offered to teach writing at a time during the school day that was convenient for me to observe. Add to these observations another interview response, this one from Randee, a student: A. How do you know when you’ve finished a piece of writing? A. What you do is, um, you see if you want anything else in there, and you go tell your teacher that you might be finished. She’ll meet with you; she’ll read it with you and see if you want it to be published. And if she says yes, you go put it by the typewriter. (Interview, 5-7-86) And from Mike, another student: 0. When do you put in the drawings? A. She’ll say: "Mike you need to illustrate and publish." (Interview, 5-7-86) My inference, based on this evidence, was that writing in this classroom-—materials, time, location, procedures--was controlled by the teacher. Rules at Pine Park Additionally, this classroom was part of a rule-dominated environment. The students were continually aware of what constituted proper and appropriate behavior in a particular situation. For instance, during an early observation (2-12-86), the students were making a lot of noise getting ready for recess. Josie, frowning and refusing to engage in "small talk" with the students during this informal moment, raised her voice. "Head! 89 Hands! Mouths!" she said. All students stopped what they were doing and engaged in this ritual: Talking stopped. They put their hands on top of their heads, then covered their mouths with their hands. When they were thus "muffled," Josie talked to them in a calm voice about their behavior, which she labeled as inappropriate. She--at this time, and others--told them, "You’re not acting like first graders!" A related incident that involved student awareness of rules occurred on the playground. During a May 7 visit, I responded to the students’ entreaties to join them on the playground. As I walked toward them, many students came running up to me, wanting me to play various games with them: "Duck, duck, goose" and kickball. It had been quite a while since I had played kickball, and I felt that, somehow, "Duck, duck, goose" had been inadvertently omitted from my childhood game experience. When I told them of my ignorance, they assured me that they knew the rules and would be happy to teach me. In kickball, they led me to a long line around home plate. I became aware that most of the figures around me were males, and I felt that any girls playing were responding to the special nature of the situation by participating. (This was reinforced when a first- grade girl kicked the ball and ran the wrong way on the basepaths, to the shouts of the boys.) However, all knew quite a collection of rules: One stood in the long line, kicked the ball rolled by the pitcher, ran the basepaths to try to get home, and the ball was 9O fielded by the individuals on defense. They tried to prevent the kicker from reaching home. Also, several informal rules were implied: First, girls didn’t play this game, and second, girls lined up in small groups behind first and third base, and cheered the players. (They did this, in unison: “Go, Michael, 90! Go, Michael, 90!") During all of this kickball, many rules were followed, but only a few of then1 were spoken-~mainly to correct rule-breaking actions, as in the situation of the girl running the wrong way. And now back to "Duck, duck, goose," a game of which I was totally ignorant. First, it was obvious that this game was for girls-—most of the boys remained playing kickball. The participants sat me down in part of a circle, and one girl slowly went through the rules for Inez Stand up, walk around the circle’s outside, touching the top of each participant’s head and chanting "Duck . . . duck," as I touched each one. They assured each other than I should not be first, because I was just learning the game, and that Katy should, because she said, "After all, I’m the birthday girl." They knew which way to run (clockwise), and they knew to run if someone was tapped at the same time "Goose!" was uttered. If the chanter was caught by the person who was tapped and labeled "goose,“ the chanter had to repeat her duties. If not, the new person started chanting. One little boy stood watching, and while encouraged to enter this game, would not. These students proved good at rules: They seemed to display an eagerness to learn just how to behave--in games and in the 91 c1assroom--and to retain such rules as they were given. The rules were many: In the classroom, the students automatically lined up single file before they exited the room for recess or at the end of the day. The teacher put "sn" and other graphemes on the board, and the students said words like "snake," to learn a phonics rule. At a Valentine’s Day party, I overheard students saying, "Thank you," as they received a valentine from someone. On one of my first participation days, as I was helping a student with her rough draft (2-11-86), I was determining what word she meant, and tried to write the correct spelling of that word overtop the original. (See Marcy’s story-—the rough draft--for a look at the process.) This girl corrected me: "My teacher usually prints the words." (I was using cursive.) On 2—12-86, Josie asked me to stand by the outside door in the hallway in order to escort the students in from recess. About three-fourths of them looked quizzically at me, and many questioned just what I was doing there at that time. My role had changed; I was not following the order (rules) that they had become accustomed to. Rules for Writing So, both inside the classroom and out, and both formally and informally, the students participated in a rule—dominated environment. It was normal to expect that certain rules pervaded the actual writing of these students. The students wrote primarily about experience. First, consider what Nate said in his interview: 92 0. So you sat there and wanted to make up something that never happened. . . . Could you do that? A. Yet, but usually she asks us if, um, it’s real or not. She usually knows right! . . . . 0. But it hp; happened to you. Okay, that’s good. (Interview, 2-26-86) And in a later interview with Randee, a student: 0 What kind of subjects do you like to write about? A We like writing about our dogs, or our mom and dad. We write about school. 0. If you had to write now, would you have a good topic? A I would write about my dog. I would write about the time when I went to Kensington Park. (Interview, 5-7—86) And in an interview with Josie, the teacher: . . When they write, what I want them to do is to take their own language, their own ideas, their own thoughts, and to put it down on paper so it has meaning to them, and in that sense it is a language experience. (Interview, 2-28-86) All respondents--teacher and students--seemed to agree that this is how writing subjects were chosen: If these subjects began in personal experience of the students themselves, the subjects were appropriate. My observations reinforced that this is what the students wrote about: trips (like Marcy’s Easter trip——see Appendix G), pets, car accidents, cut lips. Their writing world of the first grade was thus a very realistic, personal, autobiographical one. Additionally, these students’ classroom environment was characterized by a question-and-answer pattern. At one time I was present (2—28-86), a student was reading to the rest of the class from a professionally written book. She was pausing after every page to show them the illustrations, and during this time, Josie (the teacher) was asking aloud, "What is this girl [character in the story] thinking?" and "What is she getting her grandmother?" She 93 would constantly interrupt the reader-audience interaction with questions like these, and would wait for student answers. I noticed also that students periodically would make guesses at the progress of the story, in the nature of what was going to happen next. (This type of response was something like a question, in that the student "tossed out" this type of comment and waited for an answer from the other students, the teacher, or from the natural evolution of the reading.) Additionally, the students would make comments that affirmed what they had just heard, but possibly stated it in their "paraphrasing" language, e.g., "She threw her out! She threw her out the door!" Again, this type of comment is similar to straight question-answer in that they seemed to wait for head-nodding by the teacher, which would signify "That’s correct" to their question- paraphrase. During another visit (2-2—86), Josie was working at the chalkboard. After reading a story about Samantha, Josie stated (in writing, on the board), "I like Samantha." She then orally remarked, "What information can we add?" And the kids answered this question with "She is a cat!" and "She is dead!" Finally, during the visit mentioned before, the indoor recess, in which Marie in informal play assumed the role of the teacher, this student drew the girl (Figure 6) on the board, enlisted another student to be her "student," and immediately asked him, "What is this?" She felt that this "teacher" was supposed to ask questions, and she expected the "student" to give an answer. 95 Students also developed a knowledge of certain story concepts and terminology, including idea, draft, complete, publish, and book. In a 2—28-86 interview: 0. How do you know when you’re finished with something? A. Well, you write until the first things are taken to get published. Nate used the term published correctly here and implied knowledge of the sequence of rough draft, final copy. In a May 7 interview with Kelly and three other students: 0. How do you know when you are finished with a piece of writing? A. What you do is, um, you see if you want anything else in there, and you go tell your teacher that you might be fin- ished. She’ll meet with you; she’ll read it with you and see if you want it to be published. And if she says yes, you go put it by the typewriter. Here, the students implied knowledge of draft, complete, and book (which resulted from placing the text next to the typewriter). And recall Randee’s comment of May 7, in response to my question about the nature of the writing process: "If you think of something that you like very much, um, you take a pencil and we have paper and we write it." She had a notion of the place of creative ideas in this writing process. Taken together, the interviews supported the assertion that the students were correct in their use of certain writing terminology. Supporting this assertion also were many instances during my observations in which I would ask a student exactly what he was doing at that moment. At all times, that student would clarify for me at what stage he was in the writing process-~draft, illustration, revision. These students also could 96 and did guide me physically to locations of their "books" and "drafts," and proved able to explain just what was what in the writing process in this classroom, as it involved them. Did the students "draft" manuscripts, in the adult "polish, polish, polish" sense of the word? Examine two "stamp histories" evident from the date stamps used on their rough drafts: Casey: 9-16-85, 9-18-85, 9-23-85, 10-21-85, 10-23-85, ll-6-85, 11-13-85 (book published) Katie: 9-16-85, 9-18-85, 9-25-85, 10-14-85, 10-23-85, 10-28-85 (book published) The students, it seemed, saw "writing" as something that evolved through drafts, changes, and refinement over a period of time. If they learned this process well (and I have every reason to believe that they did, in that they seemed especially receptive to rules), I think they would learn a valid, adult concept of "How Writers Write.“ (See the reference to Malcolm Cowley’s study in my "Summary and Conclusions" section.) Student Enthusiasm Finally, the actions of this group of students were often enthusiastic. For support, consider this vignette that occurred in the classroom during the time Josie was absent and a substitute was in charge (5-7-86). It was at the end of the school day, and the substitute teacher said that she needed some help--two kids--to help clean the classroom. "I need a sweeper!" she exclaimed, and from her standing position, scanned the room for volunteers. Ten students or more (out of the 20 present) immediately raised their 97 hands, extended them to full length, and waved them from side to side. The goal of this hand-waving seemed to involve interrupting the sub’s field of vision and extending one’s hand higher than one’s classmates. During this waving, I heard many voices, most of which were saying, "Me! Me!" with intonation and implied enthusiasm or desperation. After about ten seconds of hesitation and watching the hands go up, the teacher said, "Mike wins!" At this point, analyzing the last comment in isolation, I might have thought that this incident was a kind of contest, with financial or grade award. However, looking at the whole incident, the award was one of-- apparently--the thrill or honor of helping the teacher with the menial housekeeping tasks of the classroom. Before long, after a succession of such "awards," a boy was washing the higher board, a girl was washing the lower board, a boy was placing chairs up on desks, a boy was sweeping the floor, and another two boys were placing the dustpan in the appropriate place on the floor. Another student was behind me (as I sat at my vantage point in the back of the room), filling buckets for different scrubbing tasks. After three or four minutes, with eight or ten students helping in communal clean-up, some others were still saying, "Can I help!" As I took notes furiously on this interesting scene, a couple of girls looked over my shoulder and asked what I was doing. One--Marie--was singing and patting me on the shoulder to keep time. I said, "You kids have this place really clean! You should clean my house!" They laughed and responded, "We do it all the time!" 98 As I observed that day--the clean-up and the universal singing of "John Brown’s baby had a cold upon his chest/and they rubbed him with camphorated oil" during the few minutes until the bell--the enthusiasm of this class impressed me. As a high school teacher, I found the contrast between a typical group that I would teach and this group to be startling. If I, that day, had made the same request for clean-up help to any of my classes, the students’ reaction surely would not have been the same as the reaction of these first graders! My first vignette supporting the enthusiasm of the first graders involved a nonacademic area; my second, shorter, support was from the academic area of writing. On an instance when Nate read one of his stories aloud to the class (2-13-86), he finished less than ten minutes before the bell. Granted that these students imperfectly tell time at this point in their development, but they had been operating during a full day of school, with no naps to rejuvenate them. Yet five or six students had questions for Nate, and their straight postures and eye focus implied attentiveness and concentration. They, as a whole, made no moves back off the carpet toward their desks to pack for going home, and communicated nothing else--either verbally or nonverbally--that would suggest they wanted to get out of this writing and listening activity. Here, too (as in volunteering for clean-up duties), the students’ postures, expressions, and active involvement signified enthusiasm for this first—grade experience. 99 Pine Park Revisited NEQQLiéLiflQ_B§§flL£1 I called Dr. Cunningham about one year later. I told her that I needed to supplement my research efforts with a second series of visits to her school, and that I needed a classroom for a research site. She made a few queries, then told me that she had located a third—grade teacher who would be comfortable with having me as a regular visitor. The teacher, Joleen, was new to Pine Park. About my age--late thirties, early forties--she had recently moved from the Pacific Northwest and had managed to interview and obtain a job teaching at Pine Park, a short distance from her new home. The principal emphasized that Joleen’s thorough preparation and enthusiasm had greatly contributed to her winning the job (Interview, 5-31-88). Later discussions with Joleen added that she, as a prospective employee, had seemed willing to "buy into the program" (2-1-88). The “program" in question was, of course, the Pine Park writing program. The purpose of my visiting another classroom at this same elementary school and establishing a second research site was to establish a sense of distance from my initial (Josie’s) classroom. I had hoped certain behaviors and structures would surface that would serve as catalysts for my thinking about writing and curriculum. 100 Description of Joleen, Her Students, and Arrangement of Her Third-Grade Classrpom On my first visit to Pine Park’s third grade, I saw a familiar arrangement of classroom furniture: The teacher’s desk sat off to one front corner (to my left), the student desks were arranged in groups to the right of a sight line between me and the teacher’s desk, and individual study carrels were located to the left of that line. The bulletin board, blackboard, and most of the painted concrete walls were used as display boards, announcing daily activities and mottoes (for instance, "You are the key to a good classroom, with a picture of a girl holding a key), and identifying "centers" in the room (see Figure 7). Since my research questions at that time primarily concerned writing, I centered my attention on a niche close to my observation location, near-right, that was labeled the "writing center." It was a niche formed from the natural contour of the concrete wall separating the classroom from the hallway, and was about two feet deep by four feet wide. Similar to a "writing corner" in Josie’s first-grade classroom, this area featured two posters. One said, “5 Steps to Good Writing: (1) Choose a Topic. (2) Write. (3) Revise. (4) Proofread. (5) Make a final copy." Another advertised "Guidelines for the process of writing" and gave four major steps and 27 substeps. This center, additionally, had ten dictionaries, old, loose computer paper (which I discovered was proper for children to use in writing "drafts"), crayons (for illustrating stories), a "conference box" (used to store drafts and keep track of 101 Figure 7. Joleen’s room at Pine Park. 102 conferences on these drafts), scissors, and completed stories, typed, illustrated, and bound for display. This center was located between the door to the hallway and the student lockers, and was characterized by easy accessibility. During every visit including this one (2-1-88), students entered the writing corner and took what they needed back to their desk for work. (See map of the classroom, Figure 8.) Joleen, at my arrival, always seemed to be standing in the front, right of her class. She usually seemed to be actively involved in some teaching function: leading a discussion, answering questions concerning seatwork, writing instructions on the board. Joleen, from my first visit throughout the duration of my observations, greeted me with a smile and a glance, and always seemed happy to use me as something more than the "writing man," but as a contributor to the learning activities of the class. Two other things struck me immediately, other than these impressions of friendliness and activity: The spatial organization of the classroom was very similar to Josie’s first grade that I had previously visited, and the pattern of writing activities through time (the chronological organization) also was similar to the first- grade pattern. Compare and contrast the map of Joleen’s classroom (Figure 8) to my earlier map of Josie’s classroom (Figure 5). Note that many visual structures were similar: Desks were arranged in groups, each room had a writing center, and each room featured displays of writing as well as of traditional holiday projects. In addition, the processes involving the students were approximately Window 7 Student Carrels 103 4 Student 6 Student Desks Desks 8 Student 7 Student Desks Desks Art Supplies Figure 8. Map of Joleen’s room. $131301 Ja1uaa Bugqgun 104 the same: On this visit (2-1—88), two students were distributing "writing folders" to their owners. One student, Janey, took it upon herself to explain to me (without prompting) what the red folders were, and to whom she was giving them. As Joleen, the teacher, handed out Xeroxed writing prompts (from a commercially prepared package), I began to reflect on the sameness at Pine Park from class to class, and grade to grade, that was reflected in the rooms’ layouts and in the roles played by the students and teacher during “writing time." Also, I began to realize that the students had been acculturated into this writing program, and realized what their proper roles were. For example, I conducted a later interview with Aaron, whom I observed often out of his seat, moving from place to place throughout the classroom, apparently without academic purpose. Both the elementary classrooms I visited over the years had "stars" in them: children whom the teacher selected to read reports while I was observing. (In fact, Marcy was selected to read—-and she did so beautifully--while I observed her as a first grader, and again when she was a third grader.) Aaron was never selected for these performances, and, in fact, was characterized by his third-grade teacher as a hyperactive child who was a real source of discipline problems in the classroom. There were two reasons I decided to interview Aaron. One was that Aaron reacted to my presence as an observer every time I was in the room, doing things like leaving his desk and coming over to 105 mine, trying to read what I was writing, and showing me his work-in- progress. I therefore had to notice him, and felt obligated to learn his name. The second reason was that I empathized with Aaron’s teacher and felt that my time with Aaron--interviewing him out of the room--wou1d take some pressure off her. And yes, there might have been a third reason: I had begun to like the kid. One day I walked in to observe on an odd day--my schedule had been disrupted earlier in the week. "I thought you came in every Monday!" Aaron protested, as I attempted to enter the room quietly and begin my work. As an observer (or a person), it’s nice to be noticed. The interview began as Aaron, dressed in grey sweatpants and blue sweatshirt, first wondered, "What’s that thing (”1 your chin?" "A. cleft," I responded. During the interview (5-10-88), Aaron insisted on drawing a representation of the classroom. This rendering included the "writing table" (see Aaron’s first drawing, Figure 9), a posted writing assignment, and what looked like the box that served as a repository for student writing folders (see his second drawing, Figure 10). Aaron, upon direct questioning, also was able to reconstruct a typical sequence of events that would occur when his teacher said, "We’re going to write today!" He knew this sequence: "First get the book out. Second--whether math, science, English, Social Studies, or anything. Third, what page to turn to» Fourth, she goes over it with the class. Fifth, sometimes she assigns next 106 ng of writing area. drawi Figure 9. Aaron's 107 .mpmh acmumsz we acwzagv m.:osm< .op mgammu 108 page, sometimes not; and sixth, sometimes we do it in class, sometimes homework" (Interview, 5-10-88). Similarities in Writing Curricula What the classroom showed me, coupled with what Aaron drew and said, related to some of my research questiOns. First, writing was being done in this, Joleen’s, third-grade classroom, just as it had occurred in Josie’s first-grade classroom previously, at the same elementary school. My observations of the physical arrangement of the room, the processes undertaken within that room, and the comments of interviewed participants reinforced the occurrence of writing, and delineated the nature of that process and curriculum with some consistency, some sameness from classroom to classroom, teacher to teacher, and year to year. Each participant displayed some consistency in defining the ways in which the writing process occurred. When Joleen asked for "quiet writing," a student asked her, "Can we conference?" Later that day (5-10-88), as I listened to students "conference," I noted that they had internalized the procedures involved in conferencing: They searched for a willing listener, politely asked, "Can we conference?," stood and read their drafts, and afterward listened for criticism. Included with their awareness of different steps in process writing, they displayed knowledge of the circumstances in which writing should occur. For example, Aaron, the low-achieving student, said during an interview that writing would occur "whether Math, English, Social Studies, Science, or anything" (Interview, 109 5-10-88). Joleen (his teacher) defined writing, in part, as a method "to find out how much they know about the subject" (Interview, 5-16-88). And the students seemed to have an internalized definition of just what constituted ”writing": At one point in my observations, Joleen called for the students to work on "Spelling Devils.” One child immediately complained, saying, "I thought we were going to have writing!" (Fieldnotes, 4-18-88). Later that day, Joleen attempted to interject a discussion of "their/there/they’re" into a writing assignment. Aaron protested, saying, "This isn’t English class!" In other words, to these third graders, "writing" wasn’t spelling and it wasn’t lessons in correct word usage. Additionally, both student and teacher implied that writing ‘was used across subject-matter boundaries. And, in an interview with the principal of this elementary school, Dr. Cunningham, when asked, "What and how do you think a good writing teacher should teach?" she answered, "I like writing across the curriculum" (Interview, 5-31-88). This consistency of writing curriculum across different sites and times led me to believe that the teaching of writing in this elementary school was characterized by a certain regular, possibly regulated, set of performance and curricular expectations directed at the students and teachers. I was reminded of an earlier comment of Joleen’s--that she had felt she must ”buy into” the principal’s program in order to obtain her teaching job. And the principal’s program, in part, was this writing curriculum: 110 Q. Do you feel that there is a writing curriculum used in classes here? What is the nature of that curriculum? A. It’s in print--every teacher gets a copy. It’s a process writing booklet available to all teachers here. (Interview with Dr. Cunningham, 5-31-88) This consistent writing curriculum, based on my observations, occurred at Pine Park, even within the "closed classroom" alluded to by Cusick (1983). During the same interview, Dr. Cunningham alluded to similar barriers to consistent curriculum: 0. You are familiar with the saying, "When the door closes, I teach what I want to teach." Do you think that this hap- pens with your writing teachers? Is it good or bad? A. I don’t think we have a whole lot of that at Pine Park. We have a lot of discussions across grade level. They see parents have a right to expectation of similar content of third grade. Teachers talk twice a month. One-half the staff has visitors. We take this public! Hallway Writing Displays In addition to interview responses and direct classroom observations, a tour down common school hallways provided me vfith evidence of this consistency in writing curriculum at Pine Park. My visits to Pine Park over the years had conditioned me to observe the hallway displays, and I had, faithfully. In fact, this habit had spilled over into my observations of the other buildings, so that I systematically contrasted the nature of selected schools’ hallway displays (see Figure 11). I had known that Pine Park’s hallways seemed functional in that they offered me a sense of what the students were doing in their classes. As I examined them more closely and contrasted them with hallways of other schools I visited, this "functionality" seemed to be a representation of curriculum. Other schools offered hallways that were sanitary 111 Site-Ordering Meta-Matrix: Source, Length, and Topic of Writing Displayed in Common School Hallways Paragraph (three to six sentences) Essay (seven sentences or more) School Source Length Topic Pine Park St S Unicorns St P Chinese New Year St P Animal types St W Self-portraits St P Constitution St P February holidays St S Hearts St E "How to" process St P Problem solving St P Winter St E Succeeding in puzzles St S Home life/autobiog. St P "If I were president, I would. . . ." St P Families Maxim St Ph Advertising packages N S "March Is Reading Month" N S Summer programs N S Motivational posters: "Feel Good About Yourself" Central N S "Exit," "Staff" Point N S Commercial advertising poster: Crest, Pert Key: St = Student written N = Not student written W = Word Ph = Phrase S = Sentence P: E = Figure 11. Contrasts in hallway displays. 112 corridors; Pine Park had hallways that "taught" things in ways noticeable to the visitor and, more important, to the students. A visit to Pine Park, remember, began with a drive down Pine Park Road--featuring the "Center for Writing Excellence" sign-—followed by admission through the main entrance (by the office’s glass wall, through which the visitor could be observed), proceeded down these hallways, and culminated in the classroom. I thought about my attention to hallways and, in an autobiographical section of my notes, reflected that: I noted . . . a slight change in the hallway display Monday. Do I note it because I’m conditioned to looking at bulletin boards/walls there as an approach to my classroom site? Or is it because everything is on a smaller scale—-I don’t have the immensity of school populations, size of the individuals, or number: of' classrooms and influences/distractions to contend with? In other words, focuses can be established and clarified in a smaller school setting! Could this imply that a smaller school setting can be conducive to control, purpose, and direction? (Fieldnotes, 4-13-88) Certainly, the hallways of Pine Park displayed a singularity of focus. The main hall outside the office had a "Quiet, we’re writing the constitution" mural, complete with texts and writing utensils (Fieldnotes, 2-1-88). As I progressed down toward the classroom, the hallway display changed emphasis to displays of student writing projects: wild animal reports, with one-half of the page showing the animal and one-half writing describing the animal. This idea of hallway displays as a type of publishing was alluded to in various interviews I had done. First, Pine Park’s principal--the same person responsible for hiring the writing consultant, Ruth Nathan, and the one who had established the 113 "program" of schoolwide writing emphasis that Joleen as a teacher- candidate had had to "buy into”--responded in a manner consistent with this student publication as she responded to this question: 0. What and how do you think a good writing teacher should teach? A. I like the steps in process writing. [The "steps" referred to commonly contain--for example, in Donald Murray’s work-- "publication" of student work.) I like teachers who will give part of writing time to students’ topics, and I like writing across the curriculum. (Interview, 5-31—88) In an interview with the new teacher, Joleen, I asked her: 0. Is there a unified, agreed-upon "program" or curriculum of teaching writing at your school? How is this program in evidence? Do you "buy" into it? A. Yes! Very much! Dr. Cunningham says in the announcements, "We will have writing visitors today. Would you please update and attend to your projects." There’s that added pressure. She’ll leave them notes. . . . This is her baby. She’s very proud of it. (Interview, 5-16-88) Pine Bark Summarized Therefore, by combining my c1assroom observations (over time and two different sites), external grounds and hallway observations, photographs taken of these structures and displays, and interviews with student, principal, and teacher participants, 1 can assert that at Pine Park "writing" existed in a consistent and recognizable form throughout the school. I believe that this emphasis on including the subject matter of writing and organizing how writing was taught —-the "writing curriculum"--was largely determined by a principal who possessed clear educational goals, acting within an educational structure--Pine Park Elementary School-~that was accommodating to her influence. This curricular emphasis on writing was reflected by 114 learned processes, by classroom organization and behaviors, and by display focus in the common areas of the school. In Pine Park Elementary, then, the "enacted" curriculum seemed quite similar to the writing curriculum as it existed conceptually in the minds of the principal, teachers, and certain guiding documents. Additionally, the nature of this writing curriculum was directly observable in that it was reflected in the proxemics of the classroom, and in displays of student work both within individual classrooms and in school hallways. These displays seemed to work not only as advertisements of what students had been doing, but as an establishment or reaffirmation of focus on writing as a whole- school curriculum focus. As such, the displays and other visual data of the school established an "implicit" set of curricular guidelines for learning at Pine Park. Maxim Junior High School My visits to schools other than Pine Park served to provide some "conceptual levers" that brought these assertions about writing curriculum into clearer focus. Maxim Junior High School sat about two and one-half miles from Pine Park, one of its feeder schools. Maxim was a sprawling, single-story, yellow-brick building, located close in) a busy intersection. While Maxim retained a view of a golf course to its front and a large subdivision of middle-class residences to its right, two new strip malls, with K-Mart, Burger King, and their offspring, seemed to be encroaching upon the school’s atmosphere. 115 Nagotiatinq,Entry My initial contact with this school was through the principal, Mr. Barstow. As I stated in an earlier chapter, while my entry became progressively more difficult as I encountered schools other than Pine Park, I nevertheless soon found myself winding my way down long, windowed hallways in my search for Mrs. Wilson’s classroom. Mrs. Wilaon’s Seventh-Grade Classroom A view of this room gave me this: eight tables, round, with three or four student chairs at each one. Most of the tables had two or three students sitting there; two had one student each. The teacher’s desk, with a table next to it, stood at my left as I entered the room. The room had a blackboard at one end--my right-- and a rather puzzling glassed-in enclosure to my left. Ordinary windows straight ahead of me faced a courtyard. The teacher, Mrs. Wilson, stood facing her class, leaning some of her weight on her desk, conducting a discussion concerning medieval projects, and planning a day devoted to role-playing some of the characters and concepts they had learned. Arrangement of the Room Visually, this classroom offered additional detail: On the walls were posted large (average size about 20" by 30") posters, cut in somewhat irregular outlines, and displaying information on armaments, castles, knights’ armor, tapestry, scrolls, the Black Death, and coats of arms (see photo, Figure 12). .All information '\‘ ’ mm» «my... Figure 12. 116 Displays in Mrs. Wilson’s room. 117 posted on the walls was directly relating to the class study of the Medieval Period. As I took notes on the decorations and proxemics of the classroom, I also noted what students seemed to be doing at these round tables. The 18 students present during my initial observation were doing similar work, in that all topics represented something relating to medievalism. I saw several reading books and taking notes from ‘them, several stenciling and pasting projects together, and I heard most of the students talking throughout whatever they were doing with their hands and eyes. I later learned that the writing involved in this assignment gave students a choice of 40 options. All 40 involved student writing in some form, including producing a "list," "labeling," "writing a letter," "writing a short play," or "making a program for a tournament" (Fieldnotes, 2-17-88). To get a closer look, I changed seats, asking permission of two girls, Tammy and Kahlia, to join them at their table. They smiled at me and let me watch them putting together a medieval diary and menu. They had burned the edges of their diary pages before this class, and shared with me their plans for cooking medieval recipes for their eventual day-long banquet (Fieldnotes, 2-3-88). As I sat there, I noted that of the 18 students present that day, most were bent over their tables’ work surfaces and appeared to have a medieval-related project under way. Additionally, I heard frequent conversational fragments from nearby tables, in which problems of research and preparation of projects predominated as topics (Fieldnotes, 3-16-88). 118 Student Writing: Some Contrasts and Comparisons These characteristics of proxemics (see map, Figure 13), project orientation, and interdisciplinary study combining "language . arts" with art and other areas, notably history, continued to be evident throughout my observations at Maxim in this classroom. Writing was an enterprise of this curriculum, but Mrs. Wilson’s classroom demonstrated a curriculum that somewhat contrasted with what I had previously seen at Pine Park Elementary. Specifically, whereas the proxemics of the students’ seating was similar, writing projects maintained more of a classwide content focus. In this case, for instance, all students in Mrs. Wilson’s classroom worked with the Medieval Period. At Pine Park, the students were sometimes given "story starters"--a commercial aid designed to prompt imaginations and writing in elementary schoolers--but most often were instructed to write about their lives, about what interested them, on an individual basis. There was some similarity, also, in that the students in each situation were sometimes called upon to research subjects for writing. The third graders, in one Pine Park visit, were involved in a "scavenger hunt" that took place during a pleasant spring day on the playground. On this day, we hunted spiders, leaves, ants, and the like, and these objects were used as objects for writing. This "scavenging" I see as a type of direct, "hands-on" research, culminating in the students’ writing about science. (hi the other hand, the seventh graders of Mrs. Wilson’s class researched more Displays 119 Art Supplies Windows to Storage (30% 00 00 Figure 13. Map of Mrs. Wilson’s room. Teacher's Desk Keldsgg SMOPU1H ap1s1no 120 formally, by taking their individual topics to the Maxim library, and by examining print media for relevant information. On many observations, the students in Mrs. Wilson’s class wrote rough drafts, and after consulting with a "reader"--often another student, often Mrs. Wilson herself, sometimes me--produced a final copy. This final copy was, then, somehow "published": During the Medieval assignment, material was often posted for others to read. Occasionally, material was in the form of a script (see Figure 14) and was acted, or in the case of the two girls’ recipe, was cooked and distributed to classmates. In summary, the writing curriculum in Mrs. Wilson’s class assumed a definite form, and that form was relatively consistent over time. To illustrate, I have a newspaper article dated approximately one year before my period of participant-observation at Maxim that recounts a similar assignment. Mrs. Wilson and her students researched frontier life in 18505 America, and the students "invented their parents’ occupations, some historical background and lifestyle. . '.- Dress was as authentic as could be fashioned. . . . No plastic wrap was allowed and all items were wrapped in cloth napkinsfl' The writing that occurred here involved individual or group "projects," involving in—depth study of a negotiated (between student and teacher, and between student and student) area, reseaarch in different modes, multifaceted student participation, and a p1“esentation in front of peers. In my interview with Mrs. Wilson, PUNCH: COOK: PUNCH: GUARD: PUNCH: GUARD: PUNCH: GUARD: 121 SKIT Scene 1 Punch introduces himself. Hello everyone! My name in Punch! But of course I know all of you know me already! I am here to steal the King’s crown. I have been wanting to accomplish this stunt for a long time and now I am about to succeed. Scene 2 Punch goes into the castle. He runs into the cook. Oh, excuse me! I’m quite sorry for running into you. I have to get back to my stew before it overcooks. You know how the King is when his stew is overcooked. The cook exits. Whew! (Wipes his head.) That was a close one! Scene 3 Guard enters. You there (pointing to Punch)! What are you doing here!? What is your name?! I am here to see the King! On what basis? Well . . . (pause) A messenger sent for me and said that the King wanted to see me right away! The King has not sent for anyone. He is in the throne room right now! (pause) I’m going to have to arrest you for entering this castle without permission! Punch then hits the guard on the head. Guard screams "AH." PUNCH: KABOOM" sign goes up. Now to find out where the King is! Figure 14. Student script. 122 Scene 4 Punch moves down the corridor to the throne room. The Jester stops him, carrying a scroll. JESTER: Where are you going, sir? PUNCH: (In a cruel voice) Nowhere! Punch bops the Jester over the head. Jester screams "AH." "KABOOM" sign goes up. Scene 5 Punch goes to the King. KING: Punch, what are you doing here? This is surely a surprise! It has come to my attention that you have been wanted in Germany, and in many other countries as well, for hitting people on the head with your stick! Is this true? PUNCH: Well. . . . All of the sudden, Punch hits the King on the head, which knocks the King’s crown off. Punch steals the crown. PUNCH: I have succeeded! Mmmm. . . . What’s that down there? Punch leans over the side of the castle. All of the sudden the crown falls off Punch’s head and into the moat. PUNCH: NOOOOOOOO! My crown! My crown! It’s just fallen into the moat and it’s floating away! [Punch starts crying!] THE END Figure 14. Continued. 123 she had some comments on how this curriculum was shaped in her classroom: 0. How would you define writing . . . as it is taught in your class? A. It is expressing yourself and being creative. 0. What forces do you see at work shaping the way you teach A writing? I love writing and always have. I have no pressures from anybody. I do this totally myself . . . because I’ve never taught much writing before. There has to be a way for everybody to be better. I try to make it fun. 0. How do you utilize classroom time, shape, and design to reflect your values concerning the teaching of writing? A. I make up 90-100% of my own assignments. . . . I love it in here. I need freedom of movement for us to relate to each other. If they put me in a desk with rows, I don’t know what I’d do. 0. Have you changed the way you have taught writing in the several years you have taught it? What has influenced you to change? A. Change has been continuous! And I did that with art, too. I get real bored, really easy! (Interview, 6—2-88) Influences on Writing Curriculum Elsewhere, in less structured conversations, Mrs. Wilson told of her background and training as an artist, and of her years spent teaching art. Additionally, she alluded to her recent training at a summer workshop, the Oakland Writing Project (also mentioned by Josie of Pine Park’s first grade as an information source). Earlier, also, Mrs. Wilson mentioned her proclivity for workshops: One was in the works for "Writing on the Right Side of the Brain," as was a mini-grant awarded to this teacher, in order that she teach process writing to teachers at Maxim Junior High who had not had adequate writing training. In fact, Mrs. Wilson stated that she had been to lots of workshops in seven years--she "knows a lot!" (Fieldnotes, 2-17-88). 124 Here were indications of knowledge of writing and consistency in writing curriculum. The writing of the seventh graders in Mrs. Wilson’s classroom always reflected uniqueness and individuality-- both in the types of assignments being completed and in the children’s treatment of the assignments. In addition to the individualized writing activities I related earlier, I also observed that students tended to identify with their published work. For example, many of the wall decorations, scrolls, and the like posted during my early observations were not only one-of-a-kind, unduplicated by anyone else in the class, but were invested with the names of the students who produced them. In one exemplary case, the students had drawn "A Map to the Castle," and had named landmarks after the students who had worked on the project: "Castle Roberts" and "Lake Sam," for example. Just as the writing project was unique (and a source of pride for the teacher), so did the students pride themselves on the uniqueness of their responses (Fieldnotes, 2-17—88). Also, there was a continual murmur evidenced from the class as a whole, as the children’s voices farther from me blended into a background of seventh—grade voices, male and female, punctuated frequently by "Mrs. Wilson!" requests made at a noticeably higher level. Occasionally during my visits to Maxim, there were exceptions to this apparent harmony of purpose and method. Once, as Mrs. Wilson and I were returning from a short, semi-private conversation 125 in the doorway to the classroom, she loudly said, "Be quiet, or move!" At that moment, she moved rapidly among several of the eight tables, pointing her fingers at different chairs, and motioning with her hands and eyes to indicate a new arrangement of students at those tables. At that point, Mrs. Wilson spoke even louder, and established a rule--that all students must raise their hands to talk. Then, all murmurs that were usually present during this class ceased, except from one girl. Mrs. Wilson then demanded, "Shut your mouth and listen!" I left the room to copy some student materials, and I felt some relief as I started down the hallway. Writing did occur in Mrs. Wilson’s classroom, then-—not without interruptions, but with some regularity and consistency. This curriculum was identifiable in its emphases by my observation of how the students and the teacher spent their time, and was reinforced by perusal of related documents from a time before my period of observation, and by my direct observation of more implicit qualities of the setting, including proxemics and student publications. Mrs. Wilson’s interview responses--both formal and informal--might indicate that she had had less training than I felt she had: Other, noninterview evidence pointed to the shaping of her writing curriculum through workshop attendance and grant involvement. I feel that Mrs. Wilson’s formal interview responses—- in which she more or less denied the presence of outside influences or pressures--can be understood in light of the writing curriculum that she enforced: The woman highly valued creativity and individuality in her students, her assignments, and herself. 126 Therefore, I can understand her tendency to, possibly, understate the influence that outside forces had had on determining writing curriculum in her classroom. Additionally, interviews with students indicated that, among other things, they were familiar with this writing curriculum and could tell me some of the salient details of it. For example, Jeannie (grade 7), when asked to define the writing process, said it was "putting down your personal thoughts about anything, really." She thought that Mrs. Wilson gave "creative assignments-~I think [she] does a good job! I like the art combination" (Interview, 5-11—88). Mark, from the same class, responded that this class represented the majority of his school writing assignments, and all "creative" writing assignments. Whereas other teachers had made him "copy stuff down from the book and everything," Mrs. Wilson let him do "creative stuff," and he said, "I like creative betterfl' In Mark’s case, as in Jeannie’s, he had a ready definition of writing: "Putting down your personal thoughts about anything, really." In both students’ cases, these definitions did not include spelling or grammar (InterView, 5-11-88). Shawn, age 11, added that writing was "ideas in class--the teacher gives a schedule-—today idea, tomorrow outline." And his ideal writing classroom would be arranged "pretty much like sixth hour [Mrs. Wilson’s class]. A leisurely atmosphere. You could ask friends questions. You could be more laid back“ (Interview, 5-6-88). I found the interview with Maxim’s second-year principal, Mr. Barstow, extremely interesting. A young man, probably in his middle 127 thirties, Mr. Barstow responded to a series of questions I asked him: 0. Whathand how do you think a good writing teacher should teac ? A. It’s a skill that improves with experience. One of the keys is to see good examples of it and to hear it. You have to have a good teacher, like anything else. I see a teacher who has objectives and methodology. . . . It’s okay. Is the teaching of writing a priority of yours? Explain. I’ll be honest with you. There was so much shit wrong with this building, only now am I getting--in my third year—- around to curriculum. flaw, it’s a priority, but I feel it’s right up there with three or four other programs. 0. Do you feel there is a writing curriculum used in classes here? A. Yeah . . . it’s growing. People are finding some success with it. Process writing--one more bandwagon——but if teachers are finding some success with it, that’s okay. 0. Do you, in any way, exert power and influence in this school to ensure that students become better writers? A. Yeah. I’ve gone to people individually to say, "Please go for workshops. Go to Oakland Schools, or we’ll have a workshop here if you don’t feel like leaving." 0. You are familiar with the saying, "When the door closes, I teach what I want to teach." Do you think that this hap- pens with your writing teachers? A. Not as much. I’d say that was true years ago. Part of that was due to the curriculum leadership. I think that you’re paid to do a job. I think somebody needs to be in charge. I think if curriculum is to go anywhere, it has to have some supervision. If you plant enough seeds, this happens internally. You can’t ram curriculum down teach- ers’ throats. (Interview, 5-6-88) >13 Maxim Summarized This research at Maxim Junior High indicated that writing was taught in the seventh-grade class I observed, and it was presented consistently and regularly, with observable salient features. These features were identifiable to the participant-observer, and also were familiar and consistent in the internalized definition of 128 selected participants in this setting. This systematic definition and presentation of writing as a subject was part of the writing curriculum. This writing curriculum in existence in Mrs. Wilson’s seventh grade was somewhat in contrast to the curriculum at Pine Park. I shall discuss these contrasts later in this report. Whereas both Pine Park and Maxim sites evidenced the occurrence of writing in classrooms, each separate school displayed a distinct set of features that implied just how writing was taught. Pine Park, in both classrooms I observed, had similar writing programs. Similar proxemics of classroom furniture existed, as did similar wall decorations. Watching the students engage in writing activities showed me that these children had internalized a consistent set of rules that governed their activities during "writing time"; these rules and expectations were verbalized by the children during interviews, and similar sets of rules and expectations were related in interviews with the two teachers and the principal of the school. Additionally, touring Pine Park’s hallways and grounds provided more evidence for this consistent writing curriculum. First, all hallways of the school were relatively filled with documentation (i.e., student papers) that supported this consistent writing curriculum. The exterior grounds of the school even revealed this emphasis on writing. It was in this "extra-classroom" consistency that an important feature of Pine Park’s writing curriculum was observed: This writing curriculum was emphasized schoolwide. 129 Classroom to classroom, up and down the hallways, on the sign in front of the school: All of these locations prominently related to some aspect of the school’s writing curriculum. The triangulation of these physical features of the school with results from interviews (with various participants), and with my participant- observation of two classrooms, convinced me that the writing curriculum at Pine Park was a schoolwide writing curriculum. I originally hoped to achieve "conceptual leverage“ with my participant-observation at Maxim Junior High School. I feel that I did just that: While my classroom observational site (Mrs. Wilson’s room) provided me with similar rich data on writing and the writing curriculum, other types of sources made me notice certain contrasts between the two schools. For instance, my cataloguing of hallway displays and other external evidence of writing curriculum turned up a comparative absence of writing data (see Figure 12). Subsequently, my interviews with the principal and with the teacher indicated that the writing curriculum at Maxim was not determined schoolwide and was not consistent from classroom to classroom, or grade to grade. Neither was writing curriculum mandated by textbooks, or by formal curriculum documents at the building or district level. Rather, the writing curriculum was determined by independent influences, such as personality and background of the teacher, and workshops encouraged and attended. 130 Central Point High School I regularly visited a third site, Central Point High School. As I became a participant-observer there, I began to form an understanding of another writing curriculum, its enactment, its reflection in the more concrete aspects of school and classroom life, and the forces that were at work shaping that writing curriculum in this school. Note two things: I was at the third school, in hopes that these visits would "jar" my thinking a bit, and would serve to make me notice important features of all the schools of my observations. Second, by the sum total of my participant-observations, I hoped that I would become more knowledgeable about how curriculum "works" in schools. My initial walk into Central Point was a familiar one, in contrast to my first days at Pine Park and Maxim. The reason was that Central Point was my home school: I had been employed there for a number of years. Additionally, students who attend Pine Park usually attend Maxim Junior High, then progress to Central Point. A Difficult Entry Based on these facts, I might have expected that it would have been easier for me to obtain entry to Central Point than to the other two schools, and that a certain curricular uniformity would be evidenced at all three schools in the same district. Neither was the case. The first expectation of easy entry was rather quickly eroded as I attempted to alter my role as teacher at the school. As 131 I extended overtures expressing my interest, not in teaching but in becoming a "participant-observer" in another English teacher’s classroom, I was turned down. The teacher I had chosen-—a relatively new hiree--looked at me, then avoided my eyes and started shuffling some papers on the top of her desk. Finally, she spoke: "Yes, you can come in . . . I guess . . . but only if you promise not to do any backbiting." She continued shuffling papers while I tried to explain that I would never consider "backbiting." I left the room sure that she had had a recent bad experience with the staff at Central Point, and unsure of my status in that room as a participant-observer. I felt that I would be under an obligation to prove-—daily?--my altruistic motives and my good character. I decided to try my second choice, Mrs. Burr. Mrs. Burr’s Eleventh-Grade Class Mrs. Burr was an experienced English teacher with whom I had had a professional relationship for many years. She formerly had been assigned many of the remedial-reading classes at Central Point, but had more recently been assigned relatively advanced classes in literature and writing. I had begun at Central Point guided by the premise that my observation would be somehow more valid if I watched someone (and a classroom) who was unfamiliar--that this "strangeness" would be obvious to me, and that my notes and conclusions on writing, curriculum, and so on, would effortlessly take shape. As I began my tenure with Mrs. Burr’s sixth-hour class (British Literature, to include student writing instruction), I felt 132 that my primary task would be "to make the familiar strange"--in other words, to remove myself from the familiarity and predictability of the classroom life enough to escape easy assumptions, and to see the real social processes that were at work there. An Awkward Role I gradually came to realize that, ironically, this setting (at my own high school) was the most difficult of the three schools for me to enter, and the most difficult of the three for me to observe. In addition to my (first-choice) teacher’s assigning me a role in the ebb and flow of department politics (and showing hesitance in letting me put that role aside for one as participant-observer), my observations presented a special sort of difficulty. For support, I would like to offer this portion of my intellectual autobiography: Even during breaks it is difficult to talk to Mrs. Burr. I think it is more difficult on this level because each sound has meaning to me, a high school teacher. Also, I feel more uncomfortable in this high school classroom: I think it’s because I hear the material said and see the actions as I’m in the back of the room, and I’m always alert to proper and improper behavior. Whereas in the other two rooms, I’m more of a true observer, or maybe a participant in a scientific sense, here, I’m a "lifer"--a lifelong English teacher in high school. My sense of propriety in methods and student behavior runs deep. Hard to objectify. This could explain my surprising discomfort at observing here. (Fieldnotes, 3—18-88) In other words, there were real problems in trying to undertake naturalistic observation within my familiar "home" school. Whereas, in the other schools, I had established very few prior judgments about what was proper and improper behavior, at Central Point I had established a veritable encyclopedia of standards--standards for 133 maintenance of a good English classroom, if you will. And when I saw one of those standards being violated, something in me demanded that I notice the rule-breaker and restore my version of "order" in by class--by my pointed glances, frowns, and other oft—practiced techniques. Additionally, as my first abortive attempt at establishing an observational site showed me, I was seen by others at this school not as a "passive observer” or "the writing man," but as someone who had a personal and professional reputation, and a system of social ties with other human beings. All of these contrasts served not to negate the quality of my observations at Central Point, but to give an interesting "conceptual lever," which I had anticipated in the first place. Before I was able to explore much in the way of writing and curriculum, however, this conceptual lever caused me to reexamine the basic relationship of a participant-observer and his research site. Hallway Writing Displays My first familiar—unfamiliar walk down Central Point’s hallways as a participant-observer showed me displays that were markedly different from those at the other two schools (see graph, Figure 15). The nature of the hallway displays at Central Point showed either no display at all, or it showed data concerning school activities (sports, yearbook sales) or college information (see chart, Figure 11). Posters, when I saw them, were mostly located in the top one-half, glass sections of classroom doors, and were turned IWHB WSPLHf ME HHLUMHT 134 ',I1"'4|1 a. U 1__I 1333 HHEHH EWBHWHHH iTED E M [MSPLF j UMHTHW -::irn .3: int C1 E] CentralF Hallway wri ing displays at three schools. Figure 15. 135 to face inwards. The only other writing I saw was of a more functional nature: signs saying "Men'I or "Women" stenciled in green paint on lavatory doors, or signs saying I‘Exit" or the like, posted over certain areas of the hallway. I saw no student-produced writing in Central Point’s hallways. As I entered Mrs. Burr’s class for the first time, I had a difficult time finding a place to sit. At my other two sites, I had located a place to sit that would offer a view of most of the class, and a certain unobtrusiveness. In this class, one glance assured me that the students were seated in rows and that most or all of the desks were full (see Figure 16). As Mrs. Burr was located near the entrance at her desk, I had a choice: sit near her in the front of the room, or sit in back on the floor. To me at that point, I felt that I could (a) be a "teacher," or (b) be a rather uncomfortable participant-observer. I chose the second alternative. Arrangement of the Room As my classroom map and photos indicate, the proxemics of Mrs. Burr’s class contrasted with that displayed in the other two classrooms. Her roonl displayed posters of Jack London, Stephen Crane, Thoreau, a literary map of the United States, and a diagram of Shakespeare’s Globe Theater. All of her bulletin board displays represented "writers" and "places significant to writers and writing" but no writing, student-produced or other (see photos, Figure 16). As can only be implied by the map and the photos, I felt that--in contrast to Pine Park and Maxim--I was more of an 136 Mrs. Burr's class. Figure 16. 137 intruder here. There seemed to be a noticeable structure in Mrs. Burr’s room, with all desks in rows, and all rows facing the teacher’s desk. This structure contrasted with the structure I had seen at my other sites. As an observer, I was the player of a role that was not that of a teacher--even though some of the students had probably identified me as a teacher in the school--and not that of a student. (I felt that as I entered the room for the first time.) Several occurrences in that room solidified this impression. Classroom Activities Mrs. Burr had written a list of literary terms on the board and was engaged in leading the students in a related discussion. These were the items: 1. setting 2. character/characterization 3. protagonist/antagonist 4 plot-climax 5 foreshadowing 6. irony 6 conflict 7. theme 8. symbolism 9. figurative language 10. style--use of soliloquy ll. mood 138 Mrs. Burr had written two ”6’s" in the above list, and in the course of the rather lengthy discussion of the terms and definitions, not one student mentioned the error. Additionally, as Mrs. Burr asked the students for answers, several students contributed oral responses without being called on by the teacher. Mrs. Burr ignored all responses other than that of the person she called on by name and reinforced by visual contact. As the discussion progressed, Mrs. Burr had to I‘shush" them once only, and this correction was aimed at murmurs and whispers produced by several students. From my vantage point at the back of the room, I could see about 17 students’ desks, and 14 of them had note-taking equipment on their tops. The discussion continued until three minutes before the bell, at which time the murmurs increased in volume, until quieted by Mrs. Burr with a "Shh! I’m not done." At some point, however, about a minute before the bell marking the end of the school day, several students (about 9 out of the 25 present) stood and began walking toward the exit. At this time, Mrs. Burr had stopped talking to the class as a whole, and she did not offer any disciplinary comments but spoke quietly about the assignment for the next day. Certain Rules What this classroom showed me this day (2-19-88) and others was that Mrs. Burr controlled the classroom environment with a set of implicit rules that were generally understood and followed by all 139 the participants in this setting. Specifically, most of the instruction was teacher centered, with the teacher lecturing, assigning, or--most commonly--leading a discussion. Mrs. Burr’s role was apparently to stand in front of the five straight rows of student desks; to write study guidelines, assignments, and vocabulary words on the board behind her; and to monitor "proper" activities by her students. During the majority of class time, the students’ proper activities included staying seated, facing the front of the room, taking notes on the subjects being discussed, participating in the discussion (also according to implicit rules), and eventually passing some form of "test" on covered material. For example, in a class session involved with the banquet scene from Shakespeare’s Macbeth, Mrs. Burr, standing in front of the rows of students, asked: "What does that say about Lady Macbeth? Lady Macbeth responds to Macbeth’s performance in what way? What does that tell about her character?" A student responded to the last question with: "She’s the dominant one." During this class session and others, this pattern of teacher and student talk remained about the same, with the teacher--from her physical position, centered in the front of five straight rows of students at their desks—-generally asking questions of the students, waiting for a volunteered answer, then paraphrasing the student answer. The teacher seemed to guide the discussion into areas she felt necessary to cover. During the class session described above, I kept track of the ratio of teacher talk to student talk for a 140 two-minute period. In that time, the teacher was responsible for 100 words, the students for 51 (Fieldnotes, 2—26-88). An interesting aside presented itself on this period of observation: By this time, I found myself sitting behind a student, Mark, whom I had had in class before. Mark, a small, quiet boy with a good intellect, I felt was out to impress me with his ability to comprehend Shakespeare. At any rate, on this day (2-26-88), Mark raised his hand and, in an uncharacteristically loud voice, asked, "Couldn’t he have seen this coming?" Not only was the volume of his question unusual for him (and for student responses in this class), but also unusual in that his utterance was phrased in the form of a question and was not a short response to a teacher question. His comment was greatly noticeable in this setting because it contrasted with the established pattern. I believe that, had it occurred at another one of my sites, it would not have been at all unusual. Writing in Eleventh Grade The nature of the writing that occurred in Mrs. Burr’s class coincided with the nature of these oral instructional patterns I have noted. For example, as the students studied Macbeth from their large, hard-bound textbook, Mrs. Burr notified them that they would have an examination over the material. On 4-22-88, she presented the test, a "written" examination. In this "Literary Analysis Test," Mrs. Burr had, by and large, set forth the stimuli for writing in the form of quotations, symbols, literary terms, and application of the lessons of the play to modern society. The 141 students, while required to write rather than to fill in the blanks or to mark multiple-choice responses, were asked to complete ideas that had been formulated by the teacher. Most of the required student responses would be rather short. The form of the writing I saw taking place in Mrs. Burr’s junior-level English class, then, took on characteristics that were in agreement with Applebee’s (1984a) study. Mrs. Burr, during the course of my observation at Central Point High School, required much writing of her students, but much of that writing was to complete assignments, notes, and tests that the teacher structured. As I observed there, I noted that Mrs. Burr used a large textbook and, upon examination, that the textbook contained literature from Beowulf to Margaret Atwood, a contemporary writer. Also, that text contained writing exercises at the conclusions of most of the numerous literary selections. Additionally, the students possessed another assigned text to be used in Mrs. Burr’s class. This book was a grammar and composition text. And finally, I observed Mrs. Burr frequently make use of Central Point’s "dry copy" service to produce nontextbook assignments from various reproducible sources, including teacher handbooks on vocabulary and usage. The point of this aspect of my observation is that, in Mrs. Burr’s class, writing took on a definition different from that I found enacted in any of my other observation sites. At Central Point, Mrs. Burr seemed to feel responsible for a myriad of language issues. Some of the more identifiable of these included (a) teaching important literary works; (b) giving the students literary biographies; (c) memorizing 142 important dates and places of literature; (d) building vocabulary; and (e) inculcating correct grammar, punctuation, and usage habits. She was attempting to teach to these implicit objectives (there was no formal curriculum guide) in 188 school days, one hour a day. Influences on Writing Curriculum My interview data with Mrs. Burr reinforced most of my perceptions. For example, when I asked her, "How do you define writing?" she responded, "Writing is a thinking, communicating, problem-solving process." Her definition seemed to back up what I had perceived happening in her class. Mrs. Burr, in the same interview, remarked that there was no "unified . . . ’program’ or curriculum of teaching writing" at her school. Her analysis coincided with that of the Central Point principal, Mr. Stoddard. During an interview, he stated that the notion of' curriculun1 was “so nebulous" because of the district’s "not putting enough dollars into it." Even though he thought a common writing curriculun1 was a good idea, he acknowledged that presently there was "no common curriculum" (Interview, 5-31—88). I would agree: With the exception of the written assignments evidenced in the textbooks used, I saw nothing resembling a formal writing curriculum. Also, as I asked Mrs. Burr to explain the determinants of the enacted writing curriculum in her class, she remarked that she was currently influenced by: 143 1. Graduate work--research into current writing theory. 2. Time--It is impossible to integrate a comprehensive writing curriculum into a general literature class. 3. Constraints--Too many students--too many papers! It seems that while Mrs. Burr was extremely knowledgeable about current writing theory, certain limiting factors within the school structure caused her to fall short of her own stated ideal writing class, in which students would write "three to five times per week" (Interview, 6-27-88). Therefore, in this English BB class--which I believed to be representative of a "writing" class at Central Point High School, in which most of the junior students learned and practiced writing—— "writing" was defined for the students in a way much different from that I had seen at Pine Park Elementary and Maxim Junior High. Even though these schools were--in order--"feeder" schools for Central Point, the writing curricula offered jarring contrasts. These contrasts seemed to have been the result of several content determinants, of which most of the respective teachers and principals were aware. I have attempted to display this array of content determinants graphically in Figure 17. The determinants of how these teachers taught writing varied greatly, but most of them gave weight to classroom experience and to practical constraints as significant influences on their teaching. During my observations in Mrs. Burr’s room, I became aware of other rules that the students followed. For example, whereas the students were seated, facing the front, and many of them were taking 144 Perceived Influences on Classroom Writing Curriculum v1 OJ H U? U C .E \ C '0- 0 = E .2 2% H 'l- l- L “O U f! 3 d) Ul—l 5” ‘- 8 S S 3 EL 8 '— L L L 1.1.! DO) 5. >, L 1.1. L a. U) Q. .44 :01 W 8 PM .2 v- U-H ML 0.) run. O 6', in : LO LU! O U C C ‘- I—QJ 3"" :44 L -1- 01" .D '1- 0 ME WL 111: v1 +30 - *‘ .t’ .2 E8 83 82 8 8.58 3‘) L C 00 L: Lru :— Ll—OJ l- 3 D I-l-D 0.4.!) 1D- U QVV Pine Park Elem. (Josie) Y X (Y) X X (Y) (X) (X) Pine Park Elem. (Joleen) (X) Y (Y) X X (Y) (X) (X) Maxim Jr. High (Mrs. Wilson) (Y) (X) Y Y Y Y X (Y) Central H.S. (Mrs. Burr) X Y (X) Y Y Y X X Key: X = Influence claimed unambiguously (X) = Influence claimed ambiguously Y = Influence denied unambiguously Influence denied ambiguously (Y) Figure 17. Content determinants. 145 notes during the majority of class, toward the end of the class (and of the day’s school because this hour was the last one of the day), several clustered around the door, both seated on top of desks and standing (Fieldnotes, 2-19-88). Unassigned Writing An interesting alternate level of communication seemed operational during Mrs. Burr’s classes. This level was student-to- student and generally involved the writing and passing of notes. As I mentioned in the preceding paragraph, I frequently observed students in Mrs. Burr’s class taking notes. Once, I had an opportunity to skim a copious set of "notes" taken during class by a girl seated near me. These "notes, in fact, actually were a one- and-one-half-page personal letter (Fieldnotes, 4-22—88). During one of my later observations (2-26-88), one girl passed a note across three rows of students to the recipient, seated near me. The passing of the note had a ripple effect, with students who had maintained the semblance of being a rule-following class being aware of the passing of this note, with one boy observed smiling at the receiver. As the receiver wrote an answer, then sent the note back, this same smiling boy acted as an intermediary, helping pass it on. Later in the same class session, Mrs. Burr looked down at her book for a minute, and then a student seated in my row threw a piece of paper across the room. The note-writers and the paper-thrower were not noticed or disciplined by Mrs. Burr. 146 I compared my perception of class rules with that perception gained by interview responses. I decided to talk to Candy, a slim girl of 16, because I did not know her and because she was one of the people I had seen writing notes and letters during class. 0. Describe the best writing situation that you can imagine: How many students are in the class? Where is it located? What are the topics? What forms are encouraged? A. It’d have a few kids--but enough for class discussion. I’d prefer tables and not desks. You’d have to be talking, and we’d need some noise-~a radio? We’d not get into so much depth on history of literature. We’d have freedom to go outside, to lay on the grass. 0. If you could change the way you write in your English class, how would you change it? A. Eighty percent of our time is spent on reading the story, and only 20% (not even) is spent on writing. I like to write more than that. You should be able to write in Coleridge’s style. (Interview, 4-27-88) Another student--Sam, in the same class--said it more directly: "The teacher sets the writing class guidelines" (Interview, 5-6-88), but both students alluded to the same thing--that certain rules and procedures were followed in that class, and these rules and procedures became an assumed part of the class’s activities. Both of these students seemed aware that these rules were not consistent from teacher to teacher, even within the same school, Central Point. For example, while Sam spoke of the existing rules in Mrs. Burr’s class, he added, "We hardly do any writing in history—-or any other class." Candy added, "Mr. Hammond gives you more writing." Central Point Summarized So just how were writing and writing curriculum enacted at Central Point High School? I think my data point to a set of rules that were in operation there: 147 1. The teacher--reacting to an independently perceived set of influences--defined writing in her classroom. 2. Much of this definition was revealed by what happened in that classroom on a daily basis. 3. This definition was reinforced by the more concrete visual appearance of the classroom--the implicit curriculum, in Goodlad’s words. 4. The classroom was governed by a set of rules and proce- dures, most of which seemed to originate with the teacher. 5. Little "formal" curriculum was available or used. The closest thing to this formal curriculum was the set of structures provided by the textbook. 6. There was little consistency from class to class in the way writing was taught. 7. Writing was learned and used primarily in English classes. 8. The writing classes and curriculum were not a schoolwide or a districtwide priority. This lack of emphasis was implied by interview results and by visual observation of common areas of the school, including hallways and bulletin boards. 9. The writing classroom functioned independently in the school. The only connections the classroom had with larger networks of subject matter or curriculum involved the teacher’s individual responses to more nebulous pressures or "determinants," for instance, feelings of professional responsibility. Summar Each of my four observational sites, then--Josie’s classroom and Joleen’s classroom at Pine Park, Mrs. Wilson’s at Maxim Junior High, and Mrs. Burr’s at Central Point High School--offered a unique environment for study. By the conclusion of my time spent at these four sites, I felt that I could draw some valid conclusions concerning writing, curriculum, and content determinants. CHAPTER V SUMMARY AND CONCLUSIONS This investigation has been a description of "how children and students grow in language" (Chorny, 1984). A naturalistic or qualitative study seemed ideally suited to the study of writing and writing curriculum. The researcher would be present during some aspects of curriculum that happen through time; for example, the ebb and flow of organizational pressures, and the advent and enactment of change. My presence as a researcher for the longer periods of time required of qualitative research also made possible my noticing features of these four sites that possibly could have escaped another, less qualitative researcher: room arrangements, student and teacher behaviors, and so on. Moreover, my choice of the qualitative mode of research enabled me--at the same time I was accessing increasingly intimate knowledge of four classrooms-~to acquire a participant’s more knowledgeable feeling for the continuous meshing of lives and subject matters that comprise the classroom. As Eisner (1977) wrote, one must be a "connoisseur" of the classroom to appreciate the features of life in that site. My mode of research helped me to blend my role as researcher with a participant’s understanding of life in those four sites, and to acquire--in the words of Borg and Gall (1983)-—“an in-depth 149 150 understanding of a single instance of the phenomena under investigation." Necessarily, the study gradually provided insight into such important and contemporary educational issues as literacy, school improvement, curriculum, and classroom ecology, as well as into writing itself. Research Questions Reviewed My research initially involved this question: What constituted "writinq" in various classrooms? hi my first contacts with principals and teachers of three schools, I stressed that I was interested in observing a classroom in which writing was occurring. I was concerned not only with definitions of writing, but also: Did the various participants in the classroom define the word writing differently As I spent time in the field, I also became involved with the question: What forms did writinq take in classrooms? What contextual formats were associated with each mode of writing instruction? Finally, I concentrated on: What were the pressures and influences that appeared to influence the teacher’s definition of' writinq? These questions guided me iduring my initial explorations. My investigation, however, gradually came to concentrate on: 1. How does writinq occur in the classroom? 2. What is the nature of the writing curriculum? 3. Who or what determines the writing curriculum? Writing soon proved inextricably linked to writing curriculum, and to how that writing curriculum was shaped. In other words, 151 what I initially perceived as researchable content perhaps separate from the people in the classrooms became, under study, very much linked to the teacher, the students, and other individuals charged with the enactment of a writing program and the production of this writing. Writing was--as Clark et al. (1981) wrote, a socially enacted entity, subject to certain pressures, and incorporating a potential for change. Consequently, I would like to consider each of these simplified and "evolved" research questions, in order. How Does Writing Occur in the Classroom? During my observations, I found that "writing" was representative of a variety of formal and informal activities, and thus assumed several definitions. In each classroom site, students spent time writing, and this uniting occupied instructional time. At Maxim and Central Point, the definitions of writing and related appropriate/inappropriate behaviors seemed to originate with the classroom teacher, and all participants--teacher, students, principals-~recognized that writing did not occur similarly in other classrooms of their respective schools. However, in both observed classrooms of Pine Park, "writing" was both a subject matter given instructional time and a process that involved distinct and orderly stages of production, revision, and publication. Especially at Pine Park and at Maxim, the mode in which the students wrote (and interacted during writing) reflected the "environmental“ mode mentioned by Hillocks (1984) as being the most effective organization for student writing achievement. The students--even 152 those in first grade--gave me evidence both that they had internalized much of this structure for writing, and that they had a voracious appetite for rules and propriety in many activities, including writing. In addition, the stages of writing learned and practiced by the students were essentially the stages recounted for me by other participants at that school, including the teachers and the principal, and were similar to the stages presented in the written, formal curriculum of Pine Park. All Pine Park participants seemed to expect a similarity in this definition of writing as they moved from classroom to classroom. Much of this student writing at Pine Park Elementary and that at Maxim Junior High, while produced in a teacher-orchestrated environment, was produced not only for that teacher, but also displayed for peer/student audiences, and for the writer himself. This direction of student writing contrasts with the predominant direction found by Applebee (1984a) in his study of secondary schools, in that most student writing was aimed at the teacher-as- audience. In addition, most writing at Pine Park and at Maxim seemed to combine Britton’s (1978, 1987) three purposes for student writing: to build a good relationship with the teacher, to organize knowledge, and to provide a unique representation of the writer himself. What iathe Nature of the Writing Curriculum? Writing was never a sterile, stable definition of a subject matter, but was continually defined and redefined by the teacher in 153 the classroom into a teachable subject matter, or writing curriculum. Writing was sometimes studied for its own sake, and sometimes it was used as a way of learning other subjects. This definition became part of the understood culture of each classroom. This quality reinforced Krashen’s (l984) observation that the study of writing should not be limited solely to that "study of writing." Rather, writing is only part of the language environment of a classroom: This classroom included reading, displaying, listening, and other language processes reflected in the classroom’s daily life. Many students learned this operational, many-faceted definition of writing--in some cases one that was unique to a site or teacher--and wrote in ways that accommodated this operational definition. This definition--varying from site to site in this research--is a product of a subject matter being administered by the teachers, who individually are responsive to varying influences. In two cases out of the four studied (Maxim and Central Point), the teachers themselves formed "writing curriculum" by mixing professional background and judgment with situational realities. At Pine Park, this mixing was superseded by intervention of the principal and certain formal curriculum documents. Pine Park was the only site to imply continuity in curriculum--from room to room, grade to grade--affirming that in spite of popular beliefs concerning closed classroom doors and ingrained independence of teachers and curriculum, curriculum can extend beyond the individual classroom. These findings show that "educational improvement plans" 154 called for in studies critical of education might begin by agreeing on definitions: Writipg, literacy, and related terms are defined differently, even by the individuals who staff our schools. Also, Pine Park’s example illustrates that curriculum modification gap occur on a district or building level, and eventually be enacted on a classroom level with some fidelity to an overall plan. As I noted earlier, my focus soon changed from the analysis of the writing product produced by the students, to an analysis of the writing process as it occurred in the classrooms being studied. Following the suggestion of Krashen, I cultivated heightened awareness of certain environmental clues that indicated how writing was presented and used in a particular classroom. For example, in two classrooms at Pine Park, I photographed similar displays representing the writing process; I observed and mapped out similar patterns of movement among the students as they engaged in writing. In my observations at the junior high and high school, I found these external manifestations of the "how" writing was defined, taught, and learned to be different from that at Pine Park and these "local meanings" were recognized by the students. For example, at Central Point, a student would have appeared out of place initiating this process: raising her hand, asking to share her paper with the class, then requesting wall space for displaying it. At Maxim, as well as at Pine Park, these requests would be honored and accepted socially. Also, Pine Park classrooms consistently featured prominent areas devoted to the writing process, and the students demonstrated that they knew how to use these areas. 155 Displays both in the individual rooms and in common school hallways featured student writing. In Maxim Junior High and Central Point High, however, there was not such a singularity of purpose evidenced in either area allocation inside the classroom or in hallway displays (see Figure 19). At Central Point, the display emphasis seemed to be on literature, including some writing about that literature. This difference does not reflect a necessarily "good" or "bad" curriculum or teaching practice. It does, however, reflect varying definitions of writing curriculum. It appears, therefore, that an informed observer can focus on overt processes and on static classroom and school arrangements and displays, and subsequently approximate the operational definition of curriculum. Who or What Determines the Writing Curriculum? True to the evolving nature of the rest of my report, this question developed into one that embraced more than a static definition. Instead, it grew into a look at the enacted writing curriculum working within an associated classroom context. During the course of my observing first-, third-, seventh-, and eleventh-grade writers, teachers, and the visible environment for writing in the same school system, I found that while the elementary teachers were establishing a consistent definition of writing and a similar enacted writing curriculum, such consistency seemed absent in the transition from these grades to junior high, and subsequently to high school. The literature on teacher interaction, including 156 Cusick (1983) and Lortie (1975), implied both classroom insularity and classroom interdependence and reactivity to certain school and societal pressures. My observations pointed to cooperative, interdependent classrooms at the elementary level (Pine Park), and more independent, insular ones at the junior high and the high school. The elementary site was just over 300 students; the other schools at the time of my observations were four to five times as large. There was one principal for these 300 elementary students, whereas there were two for the 600—plus students at Maxim Junior High and three for the 1,400 at Central Point High School. It seemed, then, that the "individual vision" of a motivated principal might more readily find emphasis and enactment in a smaller school setting. My interview data from Pine Park teachers and principal pointed to the existence of this individual vision of the principal as being the precipitating force behind this writing curriculum reform. This force shaped a great deal of the educational environment of this school and, in time, controlled and reinforced curriculum change and influenced many of the other actors in the school (see Figure 19). The data from the other schools showed highly trained and dedicated principals who were drawn to a multiplicity of goals and endeavors, but who did not share this elementary principal’s singular goal of emphasizing writing. I observed four teachers, beginning with Josie at Pine Park. Josie, a firmly entrenched, secure teacher, while initially influenced in her teaching of writing by a visionary principal, subsequently became guided by her own sense of what was “right" for 157 her to teach. Josie gradually became an active participant in Pine Park’s schoolwide writing emphasis, to the point that she is now a one-half-time writing consultant for the district’s elementary schools, in charge of converting other teachers to Pine Park’s process-writing curriculum. Joleen, the other teacher I observed at Pine Park, was a comparatively recent hiree at this school. The principal, while a strong influence on Joleen, displayed this influence in a contrasting way: Part of the screening process for job applicants involved the principal’s giving Joleen a chance to "buy into" Pine Park’s writing program. Joleen felt that she should buy into it during the interview, or give up hope of getting this job. Both of these Pine Park teachers, then, emphasized the principal’s role in determining the writing curriculum that was presented in their respective classrooms. That influence was a continuing one in that the principal--through time--encouraged staff work on proposals and grants, hired a consultant, and refined and publicized the program. This principal and the teachers’ professionalism, in concert, appeared to be predominant curriculum determinants, in lieu of pressures provided by formal (district- level) documents, textbooks, specific coursework, or parental influences. The other teachers I observed provided some contrasts. First, Mrs. Wilson at Maxim Junior High said that she felt no pressures from anybody. She asserted that her curriculum was entirely self- determined--that, for her, curriculum change was continuous, an 158 expected part of her professional life. The writing activity in her room seemed to reflect, more than anything, the teacher’s personality and unique job history: lengthy project-oriented, involving multimedia art and dramatics in conjunction with the more expected writing features, including research and publication. Her classroom writing curriculum--apparently not shared by anyone else at Maxim—-seemed to reflect her personal valuing of creativity, uniqueness, art, and presentation. In contrast to Pine Park, no school—specific curriculum plan was present, just as there was no formal curriculum emanating from central district offices or government level; no pressures seemingly felt from parents, other teachers, or administrators; and no guidelines from writing textbooks. Mrs. Burr, of Central Point High School in the same district, echoed the lack of any specific, formal writing curriculum. She did, however, mention that there was a central administrative mandate that writing be taught in conjunction with literature at this level. She, more than the other observed teachers, used a textbook (that was almost wholly literature), but stated that she was primarily influenced as a writing teacher by her recent graduate work in literacy and writing. More than any of the other teachers, moreover, she emphasized that the practical realities of time, number of students per class, and workload combined to shape how she taught writing, and to explain why the observed writing curriculum differed from the ideal curriculum that she had discussed with me. 159 Like Maxim, Central Point High School exhibited little in the way of schoolwide emphasis, or classroom-to-classroom similarities in the teaching of writing. Mrs. Burr, like Mrs. Wilson before her, was working largely independently of the other English Department members and other teachers at Central Point. Implications for Educational Reform In my time spent at these four sites in one district, then, I found distinct contrasts from school to school in the operational definitions of "writing": Teaching methods, content, processes, and arrangements reflected these contrasts. My time spent in one school, smaller than the rest, showed me that writing curriculum can be consistent from classroom to classroom, and that an empowered individual working within a favorable setting (in this case, the school principal) can precipitate a consistent definition and shape of writing curriculum. Most writing classrooms (and, moreover, the human shapers of these classrooms) are also greatly influenced by their unique professional backgrounds, and a related process of reflection of their teaching. Additional Speculations What can be learned from this study, then, relates to the issues of educational reform, literacy, and writing with which I began Chapter I. I would like to review some implications of this study, which--after more than two years in the making--seem obvious, but should be clarified: 160 First, there will be no "quick fixes" in curricular reform. The classroom is a place rich in life and detail, and defies quick analysis and description. Classrooms are not all alike. Definitions and activities are not necessarily shared, even among classrooms and teachers in the same district. Second, qualitative research (and researchers) should be included in addressing educational problems. Necessary in "educational reform" is a realistic understanding of how classrooms function and how meaning is shaped in those classrooms. Third, this realistic understanding can be achieved by a trained teacher conducting a long-term participant—observation of individual classrooms and schools. The teacher is the "educational connoisseur" who can provide a realistic feeling for the complexity and activity that constitute life in the classroom. Only then, with this necessary understanding and "feeling" for the way classrooms and schools function, will subsequent curricular work in those classrooms and schools be possible. Fourth, anyone who studies curriculum has to "open the doors" and experience the curriculum as it is enacted by the teacher and experienced by the students. Formal curriculum documents and pronouncements by supervisors might not always reflect what is actually occurring on the classroom level. Fifth, the pressures faced by the teacher are myriad, and any discussion of curriculum has to take into account the nature of these pressures-—including the organizational pressures of the school-—and how they affect the teacher’s enactment of curriculum. 161 Finally, commitment of the principal seems to be necessary for curricular emphasis on a school level. The principal incorporates certain powers that prove to be enablers for schoolwide curricular reform. Get to know well both the situations and the participants, I believe, and only then can a human enterprise be understood and, if necessary, modified, and only then will emotion be replaced by reasonable efforts at improving education. APPENDICES APPENDIX A PERMISSION LETTER 162 2745 Haley Rd. Milford, MI 48042 January 31, 1988 Mr. John Doe lll Anywhere S. Middletown, MI 48221 Dear Mr. Doe: I’d like to introduce myself: My name is Ed Hara, and I’m an English teacher working in the Walled Lake School District. Recently, I’ve initiated some research involving the teaching of writing in our schools. As part of this research, I am observing classes and interviewing selected students. At all times, I am participating in the regular instructional pattern of the classroom, attempting to not only aid the teacher and students, but also to understand the significant patterns of behavior that are occurring. During the one-semester duration of my observation, I will attempt to record not only what formal documents say about writing, but what "writing" means to the students. Should I select your son/daughter for a short interview about what he thinks concerning writing, I would talk to him briefly within the classroom setting or immediately adjacent to it. Your son/daughter is free to decline to participate, and will not be penalized in any way should she decline, or decide to terminate the interview at any point. All results will be treated with strict confidence, and the subjects of my interviews will remain anonymous. I think that this increased focus on classroom writing will prove to be helpful to teaching in our district in the future, and I certainly hope to receive your consent for this interview. Won’t you please send the enclosed card to me at your earliest convenience? If” you have questions, please call me at home (698-4517) or at school (624—1523). Sincerely, Ed Hara APPENDIX B PAGE FROM INTELLECTUAL AUTOBIOGRAPHY 163 1 1 ‘ . 319'“ l . . g (:1 . . _ 5 E "3 Hess cm0 _ - a as " 15 __;’=€4~_/.z. .4. 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