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dissertation entitled

BECOMING A TEACHER EDUCATOR:
The Problems of Practice of a Novice Teacher Educator
in an Undergraduate Liberal Arts College
in the Mid-West of America (1986-1987)

presented by

GEMETTE RUTH REID

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BECOMING A TEACHER EDUCATOR:
THE PROBLEMS OF PRACTICE OF A NOVICE TEACHER EDUCATOR
IN AN UNDERGRADUATE LIBERAL ARTS COLLEGE

IN THE MID-WEST OF AMERICA (1986-1987)

by

Gemette Ruth Reid

A DISSERTATION

Submitted to
Michigan State University
in partial fulfillment of the requirements
for the degree of

DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

Department of Teacher Education

1992

Abstract

BECOMING A TEACHER EDUCATOR:
THE PROBLEMS OF PRACTICE OF A NOVICE TEACHER EDUCATOR

IN AN UNDERGRADUATE LIBERAL ARTS COLLEGE
IN THE MID-WEST OF AMERICA (1986-1987)

by

Gemette Ruth Reid

Working with forty-five undergraduates in teacher education in
a small rural liberal arts college in my first year as a teacher
educator I addressed the intellectual problems of my practice. What
did students know, what did they need to know to become teachers and
how could my pedagogy help them secure that academic and
professional knowledge? In this work, referring to classes in
elementary social studies methods, secondary English methods,
introduction to educational psychology and the education of the
exceptional child, I explore, juxtaposing my journal record with
student writings, our tensions and my dilemmas of practice. These
tensions and puzzles centered on different interpretations of the
nature and importance of knowledge in teaching. That difference had
tenacious roots in the wider culture, in students' socio economic
class and in high school learning, and haunted us in the college

classroom, and in observation experiences associated with these

Gemette Ruth Reid

courses. I suggest my need to suspend judgement on student thinking
offering authentic experiences for students to reconstruct the

meaning of teaching and learning.

Copyright by

GEMETTE RUTH REID

1992

DEDICATION

This work is written for
Patricia Albjerg Graham
and
David R. Cohen

who kept believing in my dream,

and in loving memory of
Robert John Reid

(1905 - 1962).

My dad wanted to be a doctor.
He may have had the gift
of healing--

but no one dreamt him there.
Manning Hope Clark

inspiring my dream to be a writer

prompted my exile.

iii

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Commitment to a project like this is by no means automatic and
I am not short of people to thank. I announced in 1983 to Pat
Graham and David Cohen I wanted to write a book. Once I admitted
the obsession these teachers and friends never let me forget my
commitment to myself and my commitment to their faith in me. I had
much to learn. I needed to read in a new field in a new country.
David R. Cohen helped me find my direction--the light that would
educate me with John Dewey, William James, Cubberley, Waller,
Cremin, and countless other lifetime friends. Sharry Floyd took me
on many intellectual tours of America revealing in her
conversational agility what might really matter. Teri Kuhs urged me
to stop writing from time to time in the healing waters of South
Carolina.

Inevitably, as I acknowledge my teachers I focus on that small
group of hardy souls who gathered on May 5, 1992, for my defence as
members of my committee. David R. Cohen, my thesis director and
major professor, was joined now by Helen Featherstone, Henrietta
Barnes and.Bill McDiarmid and as invited guests two special helpers,
Sharon Feiman-Nemser and Joseph Featherstone. I had been stubborn

along the way not seeing what experience makes plain and all of them

iv

knew my failings better than my strengths. They exacted from me all
I could give and there is no finer teaching and friendship than
that. Without conversation with Arnold Werner and Linda Tiezzi and
support from Australians (Don Baker, Pat White, Joan Marsh, Bill
Marsh, Christine Simmons, Annette Sainsbury, Roger More and John
Lewis) I could have faltered.

Barbara Reeves helped make my work professional and taught me

to be calm about matters beyond me.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER I: CHALK AND CHEESE

Views of Knowledge .

My Novice Ideals . .

Equally Entrenched Assumptions .

The Problem . . . .

Ideals and Constraints .

So Much to Grasp .

My Experience with Data

Student Reactions to the Method .

My Contribution to Teacher Education Literature

CHAPTER II: LISTENING FOR THE LARK .

Introduction .
Shy Students .

Entrenched Assumptions about Social Studies Content

and the Content of Social Studies Methods .
Students' Views of Content and Preference for
Direct Instruction .
I Call on Lemleck and the Spiral Curriculum
More Literature and the Meaning of Knowledge .
Undeterred, I Try Another Authority
Teaching Content and Method in Unit Plans
Conclusion .
Appendix .

CHAPTER III: PEDAGOGY REVISITED

Introduction .
Dissonance in Interpreting Knowledge and Pedagogy
Student Views of Content . . .
A Diagram to Create a Shared Understanding
about Teaching

vi

27

27
29

31

37
41
45
49
50
60
62

65
65
67
71

72

Performance Classes: Teaching and Reflection . . . . . 75

Methods' Students as Readers . . . . . . . . . 79
Teaching Drama--I Struggle to Make My Point . . . . . . 89
Preparing Students for the Uncertainty of Practice . . . 93
Old Assumptions Reappear in Student Exam Responses . . . 95

How Congruent Was Observation in the Schools
with Secondary English Methods? . . . . . . . . . . 101
'Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 106
CHAPTER IV: THEORY AND PRACTICE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108
Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108
Kendel Rejects Theory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113
Wendy' s Emotional Flight . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114
Chris' Confusions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115
Inexperienced Thinking . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117
Anchoring Theory? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 122
Paula' s Ambiguity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 128
Joyce and Kendel' s Misperception . . . . . . . . . . 129
Final Educational Psychology Class Meeting . . . . . . . 130
Disquiet . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132
Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141
CHAPTER V: MORE AUTHENTIC LEARNING . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143
Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143
Annette: Sense of Theory . . . . . . . . . . .9. . . . 144
Nan and Dewey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 148
Authentic Practice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 152
Paula's Own Theorist . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155
Mathew . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157
Role Playing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161
Down Syndrome . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163
Parent's Story of Loss . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167
Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 171
CHAPTER VI: HINDSIGHT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 173
What Would I Try Now? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 178
New Directions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 189
BIBLIOGRAPHY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 191

vii

CHAPTER I

CHALK AND CHEESE

If others cannot see the world as we do, or if we
cannot enter their world to begin to help them see
ours, then we cannot share experiences in a meaningful
way. To recognize that understanding different worlds
is possible is to be in a position to do something
about it . . . to recognize it is to be in a position
to seek ways to understand empathetically and work with
another's world to build bridges of reasonableness
between the two. (Soltis, 1981, p. 5)

Views of Knowledge

At Bunbury College's education department in my first year as
teacher educator, my students and I were as alike as chalk and
cheese. In all parts of teacher preparation, foundations and methods
classes, observation and student teaching, we looked differently at
the world, specifically the world of knowledge. Education majors
saw knowledge to be contained by the unit of study, to be certain,
and to be determined by external authorities such as the text, the
syllabus, and the teacher. Dedicated to description, analysis, and
reflection in making sense of teaching and learning, I was in love
‘with the open curiosities of knowledge. I was excited.by
disciplinary and interdisciplinary subject matter knowledge and
teaching strategies. While students were looking for certitudes,

practical knowledge, and guides to action not reflection, I believed

in the power of reflective inquiry in exploring the problems of
teaching and ways of coping with its dilemmas. For me, teaching was
an intellectual affair. My students saw teaching as a matter of
management.

I wanted to make a difference in the way my students looked at
themselves and their life's work. Intuitively, I looked to build a
bridge of reasonableness between us for I did not begin work as a
teacher educator recognizing that distance. I gradually unearthed
that insight, seeing by August 1988 (at the beginning of my second
year as a teacher educator) that, indeed, distance between my
students' and my own assumptions about teaching and learning to
teach dominated my novice year. I hoped students would finally join
me in assuming we had in common two main objectives in our work: to
reestablish the importance of academic work in public school
classrooms and reverse pupil disengagement with learning. Chapters
II and III on teaching elementary and secondary methods reveal
tension in my objectives. Prospective teachers' minds construed
knowledge to be less significant than controlling pupils and
fostering pupil engagement less important than their self identity
as nervously emerging teachers.

In Australian National University undergraduate work in history
and philosophy in the '608, I learned from Manning Clark that
knowledge was poetry where fact, compassion, thought, and emotion
were interwoven. Harvard's Graduate School of Education in 1982
valued practicing teacher(s) and school teaching as a career no

longer felt cause for apology. There, I studied John Dewey and

William James. I collected treasures from conversations with David
K. Cohen, Patricia Graham, Frank Keppel, Chester Pierce, and Noel
McGinn. So, with my head full of rich, undigested intellectual
optimism, I passed through Bunbury College gates in 1986.

Bunbury, one of five, small residential work schools in the
United States, attracted students from surrounding, depressed, rural
areas who wanted an education with assured employment. All students
labored on campus. In my first year there, I had 45 students aged
between 19 and 26 years. This group included five male students, no
minorities, no blacks. One student came from a suburb in Chicago
and one from New Jersey. Seventy-five percent of these students
were first-generation, working-class college entrants and almost all
were markedly unassertive about their learning. I was overwhelmed
with first-year teaching assignments including elementary social
studies methods, secondary methods in English, social science, and
mathematics; introduction to educational psychology; the education
of the exceptional child; foundations in American education;
supervision of independent research on teacher questioning; and
student teaching supervision.

My preconceptions about fine teaching and responsive learning
originated in my selective high school which creamed off, by
intelligence and aptitude tests, the district's top elementary
school pupils. We worked hard in English, mathematics, chemistry,
physics, French, and Latin competing with each other, not
necessarily for understanding, but for points in tests and top

average scores announced in assembly. Curious, but pressured by

competition, I negotiated, at 15, to finish my final year in
independent study but before that I learned analytical power and
self-discipline from inspired teachers. It was hard to erase those
images as a young school teacher in 1967 or in becoming a college
professor in 1986.

Teaching in three Australian secondary schools, for over 15
years, I became more thoughtful about engaging pupils with content
noticing in my preoccupation to be a responsible teacher that I
sometimes ignored student learning. This thoughtfulness turned to
what one headmaster called ”unorthodox practice” (working with a
keen eye on student participation and imagination) and I came to
teacher education determined to foster my "unorthodox” interests.

Bunbury College students knew teachers should instill content
without ambiguity. Teacher education would teach them to perpetuate
classroom practices observed in their own schooling. I had been
learning to rethink but my students would resist the discomfort.
Rather than liberty, synthesis and poetry, knowledge was powerless,
scattered, concrete. Students looked forward to action not
reflection. But ggtsidg formal schooling, my students ggzg on the
hunt for personal independence, conversation, liberty, and
synthesis. My insights about schooling derived from Wollongong High
School's academic, competitive, elite beginnings and undergraduate
work; rewarding, imaginative responses to human affairs; my teaching
memories in Australian boarding schools; my richly ambiguous
graduate school life. My tentative beginnings in foundations and

methods teaching at Michigan State University's College of Education

in 1984 and 1985 were worlds apart from my challenges as a novice
teacher educator at this college.

Despite my teaching experience, I felt unsure how learning to
teach and teaching prospective teachers could be resolved. I
responded tentatively, sometimes courageously, sometimes with
pig-headed determination to change students' views. In elementary
social studies methods, I felt troubled I had no elementary school
teaching experience to capture the tensions and excitements of that
work. Nor was I familiar with American social studies curriculum
and when I unearthed it in local schools I felt disheartened. I
felt more confident in secondary English methods, having insights to
share from knowledge of literature and experience teaching teenagers
but my confidence wavered as I talked with Penny, Judy and Dan. How
could I share my insights? Hesitation redoubled with a sense of
inadequacy about educational psychology theory but I stumbled on the
idea that this course was about human development and the
relationship between theory and practice for beginners.

My practice evolved from student constraints, my hesitations
and paralysis. Often silent, I learned to intervene. My hesitation
and my easy accessibility gave students the chance to fall into my
silence, revealing themselves in journal letters, conversation, and
class discussion. As I steadied, I could respond. Together we
develOped a style of continuous discourse in class, in letters and
other writings which took me close to Dewey's injunction that

education is the reconstruction of experience. Unconsciously,

direction in my novice year became the basis for more mature

practice.

Novi e de 5

Ideals of a novice teacher educator would hit hard against the
much more practical expectations of teacher education students.
Other writers predict such resistance (see, for example, Neufeld,
1988; Gomez, 1988). The same theme is intricately threaded through
Zeichner and Tabachnick's work, (1979-1980) and underscores an
insightful essay by Lasely, Applegate, and Elison (1986).

In my ideal view of teacher education, I wanted graduates to be
inventive, self reliant, resourceful, and see the wider implications
of their studies but students assumed no need to rethink teaching or
be critical of their preparation. I intended my students would be
working toward creating rigorous inquiry in classrooms while
supporting weaker pupils' attempts to learn. I believed any student
of mine would foster equal opportunity and equal access to
knowledge. But I had not allowed for teaching candidates'
experiences of schooling and the power of years of modeling teachers

had performed for them, inhibiting my rhetoric and example.

u e d
More significantly my assumptions and students' assumptions
were gggglly entrenched. Realizing, for example, that teacher
authority can impede learning by intimidating students, I thought

teacher authority was grounded in subject matter knowledge,

pedagogical expertise, and commitment to pupils. Moreover, I wanted
to suggest in methods classes the value of sharing authority with
pupils, recognizing the teacher's dependence on student commitment
to school work. Sharing classroom leadership and encouraging more
interaction among students would invite connections in knowledge and
create a community of learners.

But my prospective teachers saw the teacher as the authority on
content who would instruct pupils with the necessary facts. This
view of authority heightened their anxiety about content. Without
the facts (as they saw knowledge) they would lose control (as they
saw teaching). My suggestions sounded alien. As an alert student
in elementary social studies methods in my first term put it.

This methods class is very different from any we

have had before, or even what we expected, so some

people might not be learning as much as they should,

only because they aren't open to the new method yet.

(Senior, Journal Letter, September 22, 1986)

In exploring these entrenched assumptions I draw on journal
letters, observation reports, examination scripts, and informal
conversation of 45 prospective elementary and secondary teachers
ranging from sophomores to seniors. Seventy-five percent were
f 1 rat-generation college entrants. Few candidates were children of

teachers. I do not claim that the student sample was representative
Of teacher education students across the nation, but my reading
C Cotton, 1988) suggests many students do hold the key assumptions in
my «3 tory. For these students, teaching was clearly telling and

leJEDJZi'ning passive and unquestioning listening, devoted to

acetltnulating the teacher's desirable facts. For my undergraduates,

knowledge itself was concrete, scattered, and relatively lifeless.
Affording no intellectual power nor delight it was organized by
teachers in courses and evaluated by credits. Content always given
to them was accurate if the teacher or text determined it so. They
had never initiated looking for it, and there was no reason to
question the teacher's judgement of selection, organization, and
evaluation.

Rarely intellectually engaged in content, students' concern was
to amass propositional knowledge not puzzle over concepts and
procedures. Nor was teaching rated as an intellectually demanding
career. Rather than expecting teacher preparation to be an
intellectual adventure, they approached their learning stolidly—-
seen for example in Chapter IV where educational theory held little
appeal. As with liberal arts learning, students expected well-
defined boundaries in the work, objective testing, little writing,
and teacher talk (not teacher questioning) in class. Stitched into
my undergraduates' expectations about their preparation and about
learning generally were traditional notions of authority determining

their interpretation of the knowledge and skills they needed to
teach. Not thinking of teaching as the joint construction of work,
where teacher and pupils might share agendas and the student voice
be cultivated, they wanted to control students, to dictate

activities, to be successful in teacher-centered ways.

Mam
Tensions stemming from our disparate assumptions about
knowledge crystallized. These assumptions determined views of
teaching and teacher preparation. Students' past experience of
knowledge as accumulated facts led them to expect to learn to teach

similarly. They saw knowing content to be critical. More facts

would help (as indeed'they would) but they anticipated pedagogy to

be far less valuable than content, whereas I began by seeing

pedagogy to be more essential. This imbalance caused problems in

Chapter III in secondary English methods. Wanting to work with
students on strategies and purpose in their teaching, I falsely
presumed they would already know content in teachable ways.

Our conflict began, therefore, at the very beginning of our

discussions. Nor was I always clear where I stood. Technically, I
was wedded to the indivisibility of content and pedagogy which might
make me seem equally concerned about both but, in fact, I assumed
subject matter knowledge to be someone else's responsibility. This
idea of the indivisibility of content and pedagogy possiblytaken
out of context from Dewey's writing throbbed in my mind like an
infallible truth. In Chapter II I try to explain this truth to
methods students, exemplifying the powerful pieces of rhetoric we
take to teacher education our sincere, unquestioned beliefs muddying

the waters. Meanwhile, for students the methods class was a chance

to focus on knowing more content not on learning how to represent

1:11 ovledge .

 

10

dea 0

Our dissonant assumptions made us chew over significant issues
in the teacher education literature. My interest in the
relationship between content and pedagogy had been quickened by
Dewey's (1916) thinking about the nature of method and subject
matter. Dewey explained: ”Method means that arrangement of subject
matter which is most effective in use. Never is method something
outside the material. . . . Method is not antithetical to subject
:matter; it is the effective direction of subject matter to desired
results" (p. 165).

I took this to mean that content and pedagogy would make little
sense, one without the other, but I was sure they needed to be
separate for their effective analysis. I wondered if the
relationship between the two was at the heart of the transformation
of knowledge but I could not readily see how to teach such a thing.
I felt warned by Dewey's prediction: ”If content and method are
separated, method itself will become cut and dried, a matter of
routine“ (p . 165).

Shulman (1987) illuminates the ideal about content and

lsbeuiagogy.
The key to distinguishing the knowledge base of

teaching lies at the intersection of content and

pedagogy, in the capacity of a teacher to transform the

content knowledge . . . into forms that are

pedagogically powerful and yet adaptive to the
variations in ability and background presented by the

students. (p. 10)

It: *‘heas attracted to the idea of the indivisibility of content and

be dagogy without knowing exactly what that might mean for a teacher

 

ll

educator's work. It seemed a wholesome, responsible way to think of
a teacher's intellectual development. In my secondary school
practice as a history teacher, I recognized my best teaching
occurred when the depth of my knowledge united with exciting ways of
representing knowledge for pupils. I imagined I could present that
unity to education students without stopping to wonder what I really
meant. I imagined I could translate these unprocessed wanderings

into my daily practice.

0 uc o as
As a preliminary tactic in understanding teacher education, I
interviewed six teacher educators, College of Education, Michigan
State University, faculty members listening for insight into ideals,
goals, and problems they experienced in their practice. I unearthed
tension between idealism and realities of a teacher educator's
practice but I also stumbled on a significant difference between the
novice and the experienced player. These faculty members could
insist on high standards of teacher preparation and commitment to
s tudents on the one hand and on the other accept the inevitable
approximations of their work in creating teachers. These experts
had discovered ways to sort out the tension between ideals and
cOnstraints but I found this lesson hard to make my own. I felt the
power of Dewey's (1933) words: ”To understand is to grasp meaning .
- - and till we understand . . . we'll be baffled, curious and
t:":‘<=>1..1bled" (p. 132). For soon I saw I would only understand 119211.

AS I puzzled over which tensions in creating teachers constituted

 

12

inggllggtggl problems of practice, my research became closely allied
to my teaching.. I was looking to record and analyze incidents of
practice that would help me understand my work. I felt baffled
about what had happened and its meaning. How did students learn to
teach? How did my experience as teacher and researcher make me a
developing teacher educator? How did my experiences compare with

other teacher educators?

WW

Writing from the inside on my teacher education practice as
‘novice seemed particularly daunting as Whyte (1943), a participant
observer in other circumstances, summed up.

Often we have the experience of being immersed in

a mass of confusing data. We study the data carefully,

bringing all our local powers of logical analysis to

bear upon them. We come up with an idea or two. But

still the data do not fall in any coherent pattern.

Then we go on living with the data and the people until

perhaps some chance occurrence casts a totally

different light upon the data. This pattern is not

purely an artistic creation. Once we see it, we must

reexamine whether the pattern adequately represents the

life we are observing or is simply a product of our
imagination. (p. 279)

In my case, I wrote weekly Journal Letters based on a daily
diary recording my professional activities and my analysis of them.
33:? included work in classrooms, in field observation supervision, in
private conferences with students, discussions with colleagues or
p racticing teachers, and records of teacher education departmental
the etings. Several themes competed for my attention, including the
I31"—‘<>fessional identity of the emerging teacher educator and the

emerging classroom teacher, differences between the expert and the

l3

novice, and my place as a teacher educator in the wider institution.
From 1987 to 1988, I focussed on the different assumptions my
students and I made about knowledge and teaching having critical,
dramatic impact on our work. I asked students to contribute to the
research in significant ways. Every second Monday they handed in an
ungraded confidential statement, "What I am learning and how I am
learning that?" These rich statements simply became known as
Journal Letters.
I've never done anything like this before but it
sounds like it will be beneficial to both you as a
teacher and myself as student. Hopefully it'll help me
in organizing my notes to better understand. (Junior,
September 8, 1986)
I deliberately chose the informality of letter writing to help
students become both freer and better at analyzing their progress.
It was a novel experience for all of us. We were all writing
Journal Letters because they were writing for me and I was writing
for my professor. Student responses influenced how I taught and
'that teaching influenced the next response. My research was part of
Jan evolving teaching process where students described and analyzed
ttheir reactions to class content and to my teaching. They explored
‘t:heir doubts and needs, other students' ideas and, less frequently,
the literature's stance. To keep these missives alive and to use
tzlnem.to promote student learning as well as my research, I replied
to them using that opportunity to provoke further thought and
jL‘rlqniry. Other pieces of important data include observation reports

(written in response to classroom observations in methods and

educational psychology). final examination scripts in all subjects,

l4

and in-class pieces about issues or concepts in particular classes
were helpful both in the immediate teaching and in understanding
students' intellectual development. These data helped me
tentatively squirrel my way into students' assumptions about
teaching and learning to teach.

My stories for this work were selected gradually. Initially, I
wrote up small case studies from the journal data speaking to a
specific problem of practice or describing a student's reactions to
my teaching. From this store of examples of practice, I made new
selections based on pertinence to my theme or instances of practice
where I was still puzzled. Once stitched into the theme, these case
studies carried their weight or not and were reselected. Finally, I
worked and reworked student experiences in observation trying to
determine if similar intellectual problems of teacher education
occurred with school pupils as well as in the college classroom. I
use some of this material in Chapters 11, III, and IV. My stories
always touch our entrenched assumptions about the nature of
knowledge as I write about subject matter knowledge, pedagogical

'knowledge, theoretical knowledge, and dispositional knowledge.

WW

Some student concerns were far from either the literature or
the teacher education program and Journal Letters gave me access to
these distractions. Paula alerted me to some external pressures on

itlaavely-married teacher education candidates.

I wish I could trade places with him for about a
week and see how he would like it. Let him go to

15

school, worry about getting time to study, do the
laundry, cook the meals, do the dishes, clean the
house, and feed the cat and fish. I wish I could go to
a job for eight hours a day, come home and enjoy the
rest of the day. (Senior, September 8, 1986)

Paula fell back in the class and seemed careless about the readings
yet she remained definite that she wanted to manage the
responsibilities of teaching. Her Journal Letter gave me the chance
to talk with her about how she was organizing her time, her
attitudes to her career, and her preparation for it. The
conversation led me to think she was a bright student who had never
been called to account for her talent. I became less compassionate
and more exacting and her work and attitude improved. Other
'students were complimentary and thoughtful.
As I look over the last two weeks, I feel as if

I've learned a little that can be used now, and a lot

that can be used when I actually teach. It's a good

feeling to know that we aren't focusing on

memorization, but instead focusing on skills that we

will continue to use the rest of our lives. (Senior,

October 6, 1986)
Others accepted my invitation to be critical.

The activity where we divided into groups to make

up unit plans was premature. Applying what we read was

appropriate, but researching an actual unit takes a lot

of thought, research and organizing. The time we were

allotted was not enough for our best work. I felt

underqualified to write a unit about local community

without doing research on the topic and on the age

group capabilities, likes and dislikes. (Senior,

October 8, 1986)
.As such letters became natural, students wrote unsolicited letters,
'taking me even closer to their concerns. In one of these

carristopher expresses anxiety about student rights.

I'm concerned that my teaching style might be too
intense for some of the classes . . . is it right for

16

me to want to influence my students with my opinions
because I feel they are best? How can I work on being
more open minded without giving up ground on issues I
feel very strongly about? (Christopher, September 18,
1986)

I replied.

You will care what your pupils think, feel, know

and believe. You will not be able to arrogantly impose

your opinions and values on students . . . Whenever in

doubt check with your professional objectives. You are

there to educate, to lead students from ignorance into

knowledge. (GRR to Christopher, September 18, 1986)
I responded to his letter and together we discussed both documents.
That became part of my method as a teacher educator as I grappled
with students' different assumptions and as I tried to understand

what learning to teach was like. As my research and teaching

dovetailed, it became engrossing, difficult work.

My gggtributgog to Teachet Educatiog Literatutt

The value of my writing to the teacher education literature is
that it is a first-hand account of incidents of teacher education
practice experienced in the novice year. It is a commentary on my
daily struggles against new, puzzling odds, revealing my
inadequacies and recognition that the uncertainties of teaching are
doubly present in teaching teachers for teaching practice becomes
the subject matter knowledge. My account mixes a researcher's
personal discipline in recording her journey and compiling an
account reliant on student voices. I raise more questions than I
answer .

In trying to wring sense from my own experience with

undergraduate teacher education, I was challenged to record a year's

17

teaching insights. I did not pose my research question before
entering my site but collected my stories and worked on them not
always knowing which would become significant. I grappled with dual
uncertainty, that is, uncertainty in teaching and uncertainty in
writing and I had to practice interrogating selected evidence.

I felt, nevertheless, I was slowly groping toward the truth
just as Paley (1981) did in Wally's Statigs. His stories have many
similarities to mine. Paley and I were both constrained by
approximate understandings of the way children or students learn. A
clearer grasp of these approximations, without solutions, emerge
from our stories of practice. I often wondered how Paley felt when
Wally told her that ”rulers are real" and people are not (p. 13).

In similar circumstances, we grappled with rival ways of looking at
the world and with our charges we had to determine our role, whether
to confront and argue the truth as we saw it or nurture students
with gradual challenges and respect for developing abilities.
Battling with this distinction I erred on the nurturing side. I
would learn the need to be relentless for prospective teachers
similarly drift between two worlds. Paley's writing inspired me to
press on. Cazden, appreciating Paley's power, wrote in her foreword
to HBllIL§_§£211§§. "Behind the lines of the revealing, sometimes
poignant episodes, we catch glimpses of the teacher's complex role
supporting the children in their imagined worlds and providing firm

anchor points to a more stable reality as well" (Unnumbered

foreword) .

18

In gathering my data I tended to wring too hard on my
experience, emphasizing misperceptions rather than understandings.
At times I overlooked the obvious. Sometimes a bridge of
reasonableness, to use Soltis' expression, was right in place. I
found it hard to appraise a crisis for its research value and
simultaneously deal with it as teacher. I was perturbed about the
relationship between my research and my affections for particular
students. How unbiased was I in collecting evidence and in choosing
my focus both in teaching and writing? Inevitably, I came closer
to some students than to others in the normal course of teaching and
I wondered if those students did not figure predominantly in my
findings at the expense of others. Certainly, some are major
characters in this thesis. I tried to be careful and in the end
realized affection helped me better understand these growing minds.
All these difficulties had their trade-off. I was on the inside of
undergraduate teacher education. Like Paley and Lampert I felt,
thought, and acted in the story I wrote.

In placing my account in teacher education literature, my
clearest literary affinity rests with Lampert (1985) in her
examination of dilemmas springing from her work with grade school
pupils. I took my model from her intricate weaving of subject
matter, teacher, students, and classroom climate and her capacity to
stitch incident and analysis together. Lampert's idea that we hold
conflicting parts of the self in teaching provided a pocket of
serenity for me, helping me live the life, see the story, and find

courage to write it. Lampert suggests that “Figuring out who to be

19

in the classroom is part of my job; by holding conflicting parts of
myself together, I find a way to manage the conflicts in my work”
(p. 183), and later, ”Even though the teacher may be influenced by
many powerful sources outside herself, the responsibility to act
lies within" (p. 180).

Lampert's account of the internal conversation about her
teaching is an example of the internal dialogue at the heart of this
sort of writing and is not easy. ”She debates with herself about
what to do, and instead of screening out responsibilities that
contradict one another, she acknowledges them, embraces the conflict
and finds a way to manage" (p. 190).

Puzzling over my role as teacher educator is implicit in this
thesis and like Lampert I concede the necessity to frame that role
in ways that respectfully embrace (not exclude) student needs and
dispositions. My internal conversation debates the intellectual
problems of practice. Why and how did I intervene? Why did I
sometimes remain silent in bringing my students to understand they
must think hard about teaching?

All teaching faces tension between nurturing and intellectually
challenging students. It is a common thread in the literature on
teaching from Waller's (1931) classic statement. Dennison (1970)
explains that in the experience of First Street School in New York
City--a small, low teacher/pupil ratio, low cost school and in which
conventional structure was reversed. ”We conceived of ourselves as

an environment for growth, and accepted the relationships between

20

the children and ourselves as being the very heart of the school"
(p. 4).

My account depicts students who are trapped by the disparate
assumptions I describe and their limited intellectual background.
Hawkins (1967), pondering the student/teacher/subject matter
relationship, emphasizes respect for student potential and
illuminates students aspiring for autonomy.

Until the child is going on his own the teacher

can't treat him as a person who is going on his own,

cannot let him be mirrored there, where he may see

himself as investigator or craftsman. Until he is an

autonomous human being who is thinking his own thoughts

and making his own unique, individual kinds of self-

expression out of them, there isn't anything for the

teacher to respect, except a potentiality. (p. 57)

Dennison's (1970) emphasis is on freedom where detached
teachers stand by ”. . . out of the way of the formative powers
possessed by others." For Dennison the school belongs to the
children in particular ways. "Now what is so precious about a
curriculum . . . or a schedule of classes . . . that these things
should supersede the actual needs of the child?” (p. 17). That
tension exists in my piece. How can my students' needs be defined,
understood and be met? Do such needs vary with every prospective
teacher? How could I interpret their needs as I perceived them
within the confusion of the liberal arts college and a reality of a
troubled public school system? How could I clarify my commitment?

Dennison's work (1970) and Lampert's essay (1985) admit tension
between the incidents of practice and their analysis. Dennison is

more willing to separate the incident from the analysis, making his

work a chronicle of a different order from Lampert's interwoven

21

writing. Looking for powerful writing, I try to ensure the incident
has significance and the insight comes hard on the heels of that
record. Dennison also writes schools could be used in ”a powerfully
regenerative way” (p. 6) but eventually I was not concerned with
wider reform of either schooling or teacher preparation seeing
myself as a less effective change agent than I had hoped or
imagined.

Wigginton (1985) concerns himself more specifically with
curriculum, knowledge, and student engagement in his fascinating
account of teaching through writing a magazine. Knowledge and
student engagement in teacher education were also key issues for me.
Wigginton's prose sings with a teacher's voice and for me there were
times when my well tuned teacher voice would sing regardless of all
the confusions.

Every year I try new approaches, tearing apart

lessons and activities and putting them back together

again, living for the moment when my classes transcend

the ordinary and soar. It is a never ending process,

but it makes the job interesting and it keeps alive my

sense of anticipation. (p. 199)

All writing on teaching can be important as we try to
understand teacher education. For example Wigginton writes:

The best teachers also know how learning takes

place; and thus they are living embodiments of a

parallel principle: all young people can learn. This

conviction is at the heart of the teaching profession.

(p. 201)

As a teacher educator I both espoused and held back from these

lofty aims. Despite my determination to find out, I was not totally

22

sure how undergraduates learn to teach nor was I sure all candidates
could succeed.

Several pieces on teaching and teacher education have been
collected in a Special Issue of Ihe_Eerxard_Edusa£ignel_Eezieg. I
resonated with much of this writing. McDonald (1986) calls
attention to the value of anecdotal evidence on teaching seeing in
these stories a theoretical significance derived from a deep sense
of shared experience. Some stories had a richer theoretical value
than others. Some were readily related to Waller and Dewey or other
authors. From some, a theoretical insight emerged. I am unsure
what sort of theoretical significance about teacher education could
be drawn from my work but an insider's story is a valuable check on
generalizations about our trade. Dewey was my chief theoretician
and I share with my reader attempts in practice to approximate some
of Dewey's ideas about content and pedagogy, theory and practice,
and education as the reconstruction of experience. Anecdotes, as
McDonald argues, may also mitigate the effects of professional
loneliness. I hope my stories provide meat both for teacher
educators at work and those in training.

Britzman's (1986) essay in this collection employs as I do
quotations from student teachers. But rather than focus on the
exchange with the teacher educator, Britzman writes to support three
cultural myths arguing everything depends on the teacher, the
teacher is the expert, and teachers are self made. I have not
‘written to support any theoretical positions but to gain insight

into the problems of practice helping us improve our art.

23

Yonemura's (1986) reflections in the same volume demonstrate the
importance of tracing her origins for empowerment just as I might
trace my attitudes to knowledge and pedagogy. The piece is not
supported, however, with journal evidence nor are her ideas
complemented by student voices. There are many ways to write in
teacher education and I make the point of this comparison to find my
place in the field not to be critical of others' valiant attempts.
Some researchers have turned their attention to their own
teaching in teacher education courses or grade school to sharpen
their sense of purpose, to examine their assumptions about teaching
and learning, and to explore student perceptions. I hope my piece
would find its place among these with the proviso that my '
assumptions and sharpened perceptions are read as those of the
novice. I offer a candid account of what it was like to be
inexperienced, teaching prospective teachers, and still do the work.
Insiders' reports differ with the insider. I am particularly
indebted to McDiarmid (1990) for his reminder that I need to see
students' assumptions in their web rather than separately. I
present in Chapter III, Dan slow to come to awareness of how he
thinks, Jenny's reconfiguring the idea of teaching to be performing,
and Judy's rejection of the mind over heart. As I worked with these
three students, I focussed on one assumption they made at a time
oblivious that the web itself slowed growth. McDiarmid suggests, ”I
would argue, in fact, that teacher education students rarely become
aware of the assumptions under which they operate. Instead they

either reconfigure ideas and information they encounter to fit their

24

beliefs and understandings--or they simply reject what doesn't fit"
(p. 4).

Wilson (1989a) writes on an introductory education course using
stories from practice and calling for deeper research in teacher
education. Wilson highlights the serious, sensitive work we do and
foreshadows the significance of a study like mine.

Just as close examinations of teachers have
illuminated our collective understanding of teaching,
so might microscopic studies of pedagogy and curriculum
in teacher education contribute to our knowledge of the
education of educators. There is a secret garden
there, a frightening tangle of belief and folklore that
lies under the surface of program and course
considerations. (p. 10)

Work in third-grade mathematics teaching and teacher education is
compared by Ball (1989) who suggests the following.

Having a different notion of what "knowing”
entails may make a difference in what prospective
teachers try to learn as well as what they strive for
with their students. In this way, the experience of
learning mathematics can serve to break the continuity
of their experience with the subject in ways that have
potential to affect both their past and their future.

(13- 12)
Another piece among the experts is that by Feiman Nemser, McDiarmid,
Melnick, and Parker (1989). Language here is far more confident and
technical than mine. Whereas I stumble rather painfully to know
what was at the center of my difficulties as a practitioner, these
senior researchers write with force. Listen to the tone of their
self assessment.

We looked for evidence of change in students'

thinking, coding responses along the four dimensions

that represent major themes in the course: (a)

traditions of teaching, (b) the relationship of

teaching and learning (c) the contexts of teaching and
(d) the knowledge required of teaching. (p. 2)

25

In this field, my work will be valuable for its lack of
sophistication: for its record of meeting the issues we all face
for the first time. I compare it to Duckworth's (1986) agile essay
going well beyond the bounds of my thesis, for she is able to take
us to the heart of teaching and equate it with research. While I
grapple with articulating differences between myself and my students
to document and interrogate, Duckworth, a more experienced teacher
and teacher educator, moves directly to understand the essential.
focus for the teacher researcher must not be on what she has to
offer. ”The important job for the teacher is to find out what sense
the students are making" (p. 489). My research method gave me the
chance to try to uncover what students thought and why. That
uncovering is the substance of this work.

I contribute unusual work as a participant observer tackling
the advantages and disadvantages of proximity to my culture and the
desire to write about teacher education from the worker's viewpoint.
I applied the canon of historiographical research I learned at the
Australian National University to get inside the minds and hearts of
my subjects--including mine. My results are not objective but their
validity is real enough. If teacher education is about human
development, then subjectivity is not to be feared.but disciplined
and exploited. I felt reassured by Dewey's (1916) definition of
research: “All thinking is research, and all research is native,
original, with him who carries it on, even if everybody else in the
world already is sure of what he is still looking for” (p. 148).

This thoughtful compilation of instances of practice could be a shot

26

in the arm for teacher education practice. Work like mine exploring
the nggitg teacher educator with students outside the research
institution offers instances of practice over a teaching year that
other practitioners might use as windows into the tensions,

intellectual, and joys of their daily work.

CHAPTER II

LISTENING FOR THE LARK

Inttgdgttion

Before arriving at Bunbury College in August, 1986, I drew up my
tentative elementary social studies syllabus, realizing I had yet to meet
students whose needs would shape my work.

In my course I am stressing the possibility of excluding

none of the purposes of social studies which seem foolishly

grouped in rival camps (cognitive, socialization, and personal

development). As the conversation unfolds I will plug for an

interdisciplinary approach and global awareness. This may be
easier said than done and depends on my students' agendas
(GRR Journal Letter, July, 1986).

Not fussing unduly about those student agendas, I was happy with my
work. I had depth in the course and I had tried, be it ever so quickly,
to understand something about this philosophically confused subject
matter area. I remained optimistic, thinking social studies teaching
could benefit from interdisciplinary and global emphasis. Excited to
explore elementary school children's needs, I was curious how they might
prompt me to reassess my methods teaching. I regretted I had no personal
stories to illustrate my point for I had no experience being with the
same children all day, shifting from one subject area to another.

In August, 1986, fall term began, and in 16 weeks our conversation

addressed problems of teaching social studies in elementary school with

varying finesse. We stumbled over teaching values and using textbooks.

27

28

We tackled education students' shyness and hesitance to think critically.
We confronted the idea that learning might occur socially, in groups with
specific tasks. We experimented with group assignments in our college
class and examined tensions in teaching between individual and group
needs. We had guest speakers who helped us think about gifted and
anxious children. We wondered how to motivate children and how work is
constructed in the classroom.. The tension in our work arose from student
preference for facts and direct instruction and my wider interpretation
of both knowledge and pedagogy. More finely, I had to work with the
different constructions my students and I placed on social studies
content and the content of elementary social studies methods.

Within three weeks, my students were placed with teachers in town.
I was dubious, anxious but also a little exhilarated in supervising these
field experiences. As a stranger in a small country town, I looked at
the teaching in these two little elementary schools, wondering how I
could incorporate observation in my methods instruction. I was keen to
teach students both how to observe and how to think about what they saw.
One of my seniors found that helpful.

I really liked the way we discussed what to look for in

classroom observation. The discussion about what observation

is and how to observe was really helpful. It helped me realize

that I should put more thought into the way I observe. It gets

really routine and after a while you do not think about what

you are doing. This was a good reminder to me to think about

observation more deeply. Also we came up with quite a few good

questions to ask the teacher that would give us insight into

the class, the students, the teacher and the purposes of the

lesson. (Senior, October 6, 1986) ’

My senior's admission that students get bored while fulfilling this

lO-hour requirement helped me understand students did not always

automatically share my classroom fascination. Moreover, from the excited

29

conversation in class over placements, I suspected observation was a
chance to dress up and help the teacher with bulletin boards, correcting
papers or even teaching a segment of the class (GRR 15 Journal Letter,

October, 1986).

Shy Studegts

I had nine students ranging from 19 to 22 years including five
‘juniors and four seniors. One student came from Hacketstown, New Jersey,
tone from Burbank, Chicago and the rest were local ladies whose ambitions
ranged from the doctorate in elementary education to £2§£h£1.fl2£h2£- All
‘had at least four years' proficiency in a high school language. None was
'black or a member of any minority group. As we introduced ourselves, I
tried to share my ideas of social studies by telling some Australian
stories of the significance of the land, of explorers, aborigines, and
migrant cultures; and my listeners seemed compassionate, if conservative.

After two weeks, several students admitted shyness in their first
journal letter. "The first time I met you I was intimidated” (Senior,
October 27, 1986). Did they expect I would retreat . . . be less
demanding? Shyness was real enough but a time-honored way to avoid
thinking or reaching out to a new view of knowledge and teaching. I
decided to confront shyness partly because I believed shyness could make
teaching harder and also because I thought I knew how to help. I may
have suspected that if I met these needs, I could make my demands with
more credibility. Sounding compassionate but firm I declared speaking to
be a vital teacher's tool: teachers who had to take the lead with 30

others in the room could hardly afford to be shy but needed to speak

F:
‘I

 

.<."

30

clearly and act confidently. I shared what I knew about projecting the
voice and often before class I would remind students that whenever we
speak or read aloud we must remember that as teachers we must be clear,
articulate, and engaging. A primary task of the methods course, I said,
was to enhance self confidence for the sake of the children you'll teach.
I would ask students to write down a summary sentence of our conversation
then share it with a classmate. I would call for each student's sentence
using it to develop the case and to help students speak out. We
practiced entering the room and beginning class, speaking as if the
teacher. Prompted by my research concern to understand students, I asked
each student to come and see me in the office for an individual informal
interview during the third week of class. Meg was still so shy we opted
to walk and talk instead. But more able to face the meeting, Helen
commented:
I have been thinking a lot about the talk we had in your

office. I really liked the idea of you having us come in to

talk to you. It showed me that you really cared what we

thought and how we felt about your class. Teachers don't have

to do that and it made me feel that you consider this class and

teaching as important as I do. (Junior, September 22, 1986)

I thought the time well spent although I learned less than I
anticipated. Students gradually became more confident and it excited me
when one thought of the class as a conversation. “I'm surprising myself
how much I am talking in class and being able to defend my points and '
opinions however they might fit into the conversation” (Junior, September
22, 1986).

.After a month or so students began to call by my office to chat

about their unit plans, classwork, or becoming teachers. These visits

gave me opportunities to get to know young people from quite different

'1.

u-

31

backgrounds than mine and helped me develop a more integrated sense of my
practice. These visits also relieved a deep loneliness on the job.

These little interchanges make my day. They extend class
and journal conversations; they show enthusiasm for our work;
they legitimize my asking questions to write about what they
are learning and how they learn it; they know what they have.
written and they know I have read it. (GRR 17 Journal Letter,
October 27, 1986)

In class I pushed and probed in my gentle way, insisting on more
thought and more recourse to confidently figuring out teaching rather
than relying on past expectations. I detected a friendly resistance. I
respected the shyness but having worked on it I discounted it and forged
ahead. Finally, I could walk into class giving an individual student the
chance to lead the discussion without notice.

Near the end of the class period I invited the student to
explore her experience--which questions worked and how she
felt--what would she do next time to improve the discussion? I
congratulated her on her good work and she thanked the others.

(GRR 15 Journal letter, October, 1986)

Offering these opportunities was one of the best ways to deal with
shyness, and Alicia, the worst afflicted student, commented: ”I do feel

as though I have overcome my shyness as time has gone on” (Alicia,

September 30, 1986).

WWW
MW

Students were less shy but we still thought differently. I recalled
a whole world opening before me in thinking about my Australian primary
(elementary) school experience in social studies. An avid reader, I
enjoyed the adventures of other societies and felt we travelled to

foreign lands in grade school. Early conversation revealed my students

32

were unsure what they learned in elementary school social studies or how
they were taught. Short memories of both content and method cut our
early conversation off at the knees for these autobiographical
reflections were my intended starting place. Then, as soon as we went to
observe in schools, I noticed among our collaborating teachers uneven
attitudes and skills applied to social studies in their curriculum. I
wondered why that was so and what impact it might have on my prospective
teachers. I deduced my methods teaching needed to infuse a new approach
to learning--an approach that gave knowledge more value, more credence as
a way of bettering the world we live in.

I was also supported by my positive experience in 1976 as Social
Studies Coordinator at Geelong Grammar School in Australia where I saw
the point of blending facts (as we thought we knew them) with values of
tolerance and empathy to counter prevailing ignorance and discrimination
against aborigines, migrants, and the poor. I thought the American
elementary school teacher had similar responsibilities. I assumed I was
free to apply my latest readings in social studies curriculum--
interdisciplinary thinking in elementary schools and the importance of
enhancing school pupils' views of the world. I would demonstrate both
direct and indirect teaching methods and variations of simulation and
group work, thinking simulation's combination of the imagination,
intellect and emotion in learning particularly valuable in teaching
social studies. I assumed we would create a lively discussion of “good”
social studies teaching enriched by students' previous learning of
content and pedagogy in math, science, language arts, music, and art

methods.

33

In students' minds, ability to teach flowed naturally from knowing
content so the methods course was another serious chance to amass
essential facts. Having little respect for pedagogical expertise,
students believed they just needed enough stuff to teach--why relate one
methods course to another when teaching was managing content?
Underestimating the powerful drive for facts, I imagined I explained the
nature of teaching, the problems of practice, and ways of thinking about
integrating social studies instruction with the rest of the curriculum.

To some extent, the entrenched assumptions my students and I held
became clearer through the field experience. I hoped students might
explore teachers' presentation, diagnosis, reflection, engaging pupils,
uncovering content, interaction, communication, role playing, creative
play, and multicultural insight. Although there is nothing inappropriate
'with this ambitious list, it failed to understand volunteer cooperating
teachers who like me were novice teacher educators. I wanted so much
(too much?) for my students. ”I want students to be continually niggled
into thinking about teaching as work, as a way of life, as problematic.
Students, however, prefer to find things to imitate in their classroom
placement" (GRR 20 Journal Letter, November, 1986.).

On a more practical note, it was certainly my task to foster a
questioning attitude to what went on in the classroom. I sensed the
subtlety of that.

How does one teach observation? What sort of assignments

for students doing observation really work? How can I avoid

clinical supervision or checking off lists like some party

game? How can I encourage students to use their journals as a

place to explore their reactions to what they see? (GRR
Journal Letter, 12 September 1986)

34

I was unsure time spent in schools would help my students think
about teaching. Would students grasp intangibles such as classroom
tension over ability or the teacher's internal tension between the need
to control and the need to foster pupil autonomy? Would students simply
integrate the class with past experience rather than be receptive to the
new dimensions of teaching I might stress, especially interactions among
teacher, children, and content or my interdisciplinary emphasis? How did
I know what my students' past experience was and where new insights
began? How could I engineer a break from that experience while retaining
what was valuable in it?

To combat the idea that teaching was easy (we just need stuff to
teach), I set assignments for observation designed to elicit teaching's
tensions reflecting my enthusiasm in understanding teaching as tension.
I don't recall wondering if these tensions could be accessible to those
who have not yet taught. We had 10 one-hour visits in the schools so I
prepared a chart of 10 questions signalling attention to subject matter
knowledge, specific teaching methods, questioning procedures, use of
praise and blame, principles of classroom management, teacher-student
interaction, student-student interaction and so on. I was nervous about
the assignment. I had no understanding that some of these puzzles were
harder than others. Nor did I understand that an observing student
concentrates for about fifteen minutes before fading.

I distributed a list of 10 elements of practice. Students
were free to write up any one element on a classroom visit.

This seemed water-tight until I visited Jenny in fourth grade.

I sat beside her on a small chair and after some time asked her

what element she was focusing on. ”All of them“ she replied.

And I knew I was in trouble. She could see all the elements at
once. (GRR 13 Journal Letter, October 6, 1986)

“a

an

, w.
6..

~L

‘v

id

35

Anxiously, I called Dr. Henrietta Barnes, head of the department of
teacher education at Michigan State University's College of Education and
a member of my doctoral committee. I explored my work in observation
with her. Appreciating my concerns, she suggested I think of ways to
avoid students being simply anecdotal. Teacher's purpose could be a key
lens showing the multiplicity and complexity of the teacher's goals.
These could be dealt with one at a time then kaleidoscoped. What I
needed was an overlay, templates or schemas giving structure to
reflection. She urged me to keep probing for new conceptions, new
understandings (GRR 15 Journal Letter, October 1986).

Dr. Barnes stressed the need to articulate the learner's view in
classrooms and find evidence for it. The teacher's intentions must be
probed. After observation, debriefing must address these two issues and
the common fault that teaching is an expression of the teacher's
-personality. Heartened my difficulties were legitimate, I still found it
hard to implement this advice. My impatience didn't help. Just like my
prospective teachers, I wanted recipes not grounds for further thought.
Some of the terms confused me. Schemes and templates appealed to me but
how could I fruitfully represent these structures for reflection and how
could I explain.;tf1ttt1gn to Meg? I failed to imagine how to integrate
nine different learners, nine different classroom teachers, and a unified
assignment. Near the end of the semester I still lived in doubt.

A problem of my practice is that I have no well developed
philosophy about what I want students to learn (or more broadly
experience) from classroom observation in conjunction with
pedagogy courses. My possible objectives are legion. Are they

consistent with one another? (GRR 20 Journal Letter, November,
1986)

L.’

In

In.

36

I tried, however, to follow Dr. Barnes' advice in the following way.
In one methods class, I examined teacher purposes by asking students to .
imagine a balloon representing teacher's thinking in the last class
observed. Below the balloon, I asked them to record an instance of
teaching then draw lines up to this balloon suggesting teacher intentions
in that instance. I develOped a blackboard summary of these balloons and
teaching instances. Inferences about the teachers' purposes were
predictably vague but together we were able to take each case, tease out
the practice, and fill out the balloon. These balloons filling up with
what looked like such a motley lot of purposes were helpful. With the
balloon exercise, I felt more in command. I relied on my own resources
and working from students' experiences as if that were the text and
authority brought us closer together. Trina concluded the following.

Many times when I observe, I only criticize the teacher
without thinking about the pressures she might be under. Doing

this exercise has helped me realize that there are a lot of

uncontrollable factors in teaching. (Junior, November 15,

1986)

Jesse, referring to this exercise, later worked out, "I

feel social studies is not important to my teacher. There is

no fixed time for it. It is done usually at the end of the day.

Mrs. P does not care for the book yet she follows it closely.

(Junior, Final Observation Report, December 12, 1986)

But in thinking about field placements, our dissonant assumptions
about knowledge resurfaced. The following example from observation
nicely illuminates different assumptions at work. I intended my visit to
find out more about what students in general were thinking and was
astonished by the difference between us, in retrospect a difference

simply representing our experience in thinking about teaching, a

difference arising between the person who set the task and the person

.8

4.x.

37

interpreting it. This incident taught me what I needed to try to do as a
professional teacher educator but not how to proceed. In the rush of the
week, I could only begin to wonder if I had uncovered something
significant or not.
When I walked into fourth grade social studies on Tuesday

morning I sat beside my observing student. We experienced the

same reality. Her construction of that reality (knowledge?)

differed from mine. I could tell that by comparing what she

wrote down and by our conversation after the experience. She

was constructing her own reality. I was constructing mine.

Mine is presumably better informed or more professional in some

way. My task is to lead her closer to my professional

interpretation of what is worth noticing, what is significant,

what is provocative and so on. (GRR 14 Journal Letter, October,
1986)

ud ' V ew e
ec r t t

I always thought social studies was primarily concerned

with a geographical context. (Jill, September 8, 1986). I

thought social studies was learning the states but poetry would

be a change to use. (Didi, October 6, 1986)

But how exactly were students seeing content? Prospective teachers,
despite their intentions to do fine work with children in classrooms,
were not easily persuaded that the value of facts lies in their
'interconnections and that teaching was little more than presenting and
testing facts and controlling behavior. Views of content were allied to
less articulate views of pedagogy seen as a preference for direct
instruction. In this section of the chapter, I explore Jill's views of
scientific knowledge for teaching and present my parallel for social
studies. I illustrate Trina's misgivings of my teaching about tensions

in teaching, Meg's awakening about content and pedagogy, and Jesse's

struggle to at least think more deeply about content. Looking then at a

:2.»

~51

38

college classroom discussion, I illuminate what I saw as a relationship
between the factual view of content and traditional interpretations of
the teacher's role.

Students relied on teacher, syllabus, and text to determine whether
something was worth knowing. Content was scattered lifelessly across the
curriculum and commitment to content by teacher or pupils was little
understood. I use the following quotation of a social studies student's
fear about science for its insight into the ways she expected her
knowledge of subject matter to work for her.

One of my biggest fears is--how can I teach something
necessary when I'm not confident about it? I face this

question when it comes to science. The instruction that I have

received here and throughout my life is lacking and I am not

confident nor am I excited about it. I'm afraid I will cheat

the kids out of what could be the most interesting part of

school. I've been reading books to try to catch up on what

I've missed, but now I'm finding it hard to get the subject

matter to an elementary level. I'm hoping that it will all

fall into place once I start teaching. (Student Letter,

November 10, 1986)

This letter shows my student thinks good teaching is confidence with
facts. Good teaching does not cheat children out of specific interesting
content. When I first received the letter, I detected a winging tone;
Jill was angry her science has been poorly dispensed. She was
desperately trying to remedy effects of poor teaching in her own
schooling and hoping things will fall into place when she teaches. She
did not, however, know how to learn alone. I came closer to students'
attitudes to knowledge when I thought through Jill's concerns. I was
troubled by Jill's lack of real curiosity for scientific knowledge. She

feels she will cheat children from knowing facts, not from understanding

science. I attacked the expectation that things fall into place when we

it

St

:3.

39

teach. I urged her to talk with local teachers about science teaching,
warning her against thinking about subject matter in limiting ways such
as ”at the elementary level.” I thought she needed to understand the
principles behind the content to be able to help pupils inquire
scientifically and think like scientists. I saw no alternative but hard
work. Similarly, I wanted her to teach social science to help children
to think like social scientists, not to do topics. ”I want to learn what
social studies topics are appealing to students, which are necessary and
when each should be taught" (Jill, September 22, 1986).

Trina had meanwhile compared notes with a recent graduate who
complained all they did was content and learned nothing of our concerns
for strategies and tensions in teaching.- Trina shares her concern,
speaking awkwardly.

It still concerned me a little that we were not doing any
social studies in class but after talking with you and then

talking to a girl who graduated last year, she told me to be

thankful we were being taught this . . . I now feel better

about what we are doing in class. Also after talking with you

about it I see how dry the class would be if we just did social

studies and nothing else. (Trina, October 22, 1986)

Trina sensibly placed content in a special position in teaching, ”It
seems like the whole melting pot in which teaching starts is content.
‘You have to know what and how you are going to teach before you actually
do it” (Trina, September 8, 1986).

Other students shared confusion, concern, or changing conviction
about content and teaching. By October Meg conceded a balance was needed

between content and pedagogy. “Content is very important of course but I

feel methods the teacher uses to help her students learn will either

40

spark an interest or deflate the motivation for students' (Meg, October
22, 1986).

Trina and Meg have moved from wanting lists of things for definite
ages and Jesse in thinking more crisply about content presents a teacher

who still tells and the pupils receive.

The educator uses his or her own technique to present
information, or the content. Content is the substance of
teaching. It is what one teachers. The teacher must first
know the content and then decide the best method to present it
to the class. Content equals information plus interpretation.
You present the information to the children and wait for them
to think about it. Content is the basis of everything we do.
(Jesse, September 9, 1986)

One class period, we divided the blackboard space for two stick
figures representing the traditional teacher on one half and on the other
the teacher aiming to facilitate resources and inspire individual and
group effort. We made distinctions between direct and indirect
instruction and ways each type of teacher might look at their purposes,
‘planning, and strategies. Students were immediately attracted to the
direct instructor. This was a place where I hit hard against background
experience and even students who felt oppressed or bored in school
accepted that was how it should be. School, after all, is school. They
attributed their preference to the need to control children and content.
‘We compared ways such teachers handled their authority, subject matter,
discipline, evaluation, and the pupils' work. My most positive student
response was to take the attributes of the traditional teacher, then
self-consciously add one or two elements of the alternative, not from
conviction but constrained by the need to please. I asked which stick
figure was me. The indirect instructor--they replied laughing. Did I

not mix direct and indirect instruction? Students countered by

‘I

‘-

41

suggesting they saw my departures from traditional teaching not as a
useful model but as idealistic--my practices would be unmanageable in an
elementary school.

I wondered aloud with the class if the non traditional teacher might
be better equipped to deal with classroom ability differences and
cultural diversity. Here I had to push against students' perceptions
that all children would soak up information equally well if they were
well behaved, that is, under control. I imagined and shared cases of
resistant, slower learning, minorities and gifted or talented young
peeple. We practiced simulations of teacher thinking about content,
strategies, and individual purposes with some of these youngsters. By
‘now--ha1f way through the semester--students had begun to enjoy the role-
playing but I knew factual content and preference for the traditional
authoritarian direct instructor's role would take longer than one course

in teacher preparation to shift. And that was the significant lesson for

me.
1W
I want to try to use the literature to develop deeper
understandings, integrating literature, experience and class
conversation. (GR No 3 Journal Letter, August, 1986 )
One of our earliest pieces of literature was Johanna Kasin Lemleck's
(1984) 1

 

prepared study questions for a crucial 20 pages covering criteria for
selecting social studies experiences, the typical grade level sequence
for social studies instruction in the United States, and the skills

developed in social studies and ways of evaluating social studies growth.

..
F...

42

Study questions were unfamiliar to me and I offered them hesitantly,
feeling they would help students feel more secure.

Students liked their direction, working happily in pairs to produce
answers in the 98 degree heat and high humidity. The chapter looked at
ways to develop a curriculum devoted to intellectual and emotional growth
of children but classmates were not disposed to think of themselves as
curriculum builders and skimmed this valuable material for helpful

practical hints to apply with comforting facts.

Nevertheless, we kept working within the structure of the spiral
curriculum. For approximately a month we went through each grade, from
kindergarten to grade eight, clarifying likely pieces of curriculum;
discussing a variety of methods including simulation, debate, mapping,
excursion, film, creative writing; interviewing the locals; and library
research to help learn and connect facts to a growing understanding of
the social self. We paid attention to Piaget's stages of cognitive
development studied in introduction to educational psychology and
Kohlberg's stages of moral development from my introduction. At each
level, I tried to illustrate what might be studied and how it might be
connected to language arts, math, music, and science but I also worked
‘hard.t0'inspire students' confidence to devise their own themes and
connections.

In about the fifth week, I asked students to pair off to discuss and
develop a curriculum idea for one grade, each suitable for several
continuous classes. We drew the results together to see what the
curriculum would look like across the board. What would a child going

though the grades learn? Students, although polite, were less engaged in

l‘

43

this analysis (a general view of social studies instruction across
grades) than in specific pieces of work they could imagine using for
particular grades. I took this as a sign that lack of curiosity about
disciplinary knowledge carried over to professional knowledge. Most
students were already definite which grade level they wanted to select.
Here our different views of content crystallized. Students looking for
recipes for teaching displayed their over-arching preoccupation with
simple, well ordered, well organized subject matter that children could
accumulate--content that was easy to grasp rather than important to learn
(names of rivers, early explorers, state birds, and so on) rather than
tackling questions like why explorers risk their lives in what they do.
At a loss to know how to address these curtailed ambitions to fully
explore content and teaching methods, I kept asking, to student
irritation, ”Why are we teaching this content?” (GRR Journal Letter, 12
September, 1986).

Using the spiral curriculum as my base was not without its
difficulties. Expecting facts for teaching, my students were wary of
values beyond interpreting the course goal, socialization, as cheerfully
sharing the classroom pencil sharpener. Introducing teaching strategies
I did not have a precise notion what beginners might know nor did I
expect that some teaching methods would be harder to envisage than
others. I did not discriminate between what novice and experienced
teachers might see as useful strategies. Could students command
simulation and synthesis? I had not sorted this out. Students side-
stepped this talk of methods by expressing more anxiety about content

they did not know. This deficit made them uneasy with values, with

‘4

 

 

'5
a.

44

interdisciplinary emphasis and with teaching for global awareness.
Different understandings of knowledge and teaching were influencing our
work. Berliner (1988) speculates a stage theory about the development of
expertise. In the novice stage, common places must be discerned and only
marginal performance is expected. Berliner alerts me to enthusiasms to
teach a new view of knowledge, a new perception of pedagogy, and new
teacher student relations too early in the undergraduate program.
I am also suggesting that preservice education may not be
the appropriate place to teach some things, and therefore we

may have to extend our programs of teacher education for some
time after our students have entered practice. (Berliner,

1988) .

But my insistent purposes led me to confront values head on. Like a
‘bull in a china shop, determined to draw students' attention to the
distinction between facts and values, I asked students to choose a
specific grade and prepare a three-lesson sequence, teaching a value in
the third lesson. I sketched a dramatic example of the Australian
aborigine on the board--a lesson about origins of this people, a lesson
about cave paintings and rituals, a lesson about respecting diversity. I
thought many parallel examples would come to mind (GR 8 Journal Letter,
September, 1986). These lesson plans also'had to show how they would
benefit from connections with other disciplines. I could have let
integrating the curriculum ride for the moment but I felt driven to
attend to my agenda (all of it, every teaching encounter) a source of my
tension and student frustration. I asked students to think through the
teacher's puzzles with the material and the children's anticipated
difficulties, such as how much material to introduce each class, how to

represent it, how to pace the work for the less-able, how to create

45

opportunities for pupil choice, how to make links with earlier and
anticipated material, how to engage all children in both facts and
values.

These tactics failed. I had forgotten to establish whether students
were clear on the meaning of xgltg. I distracted students with too much
choice in the lesson content. I asked beginners to fuss about three
lessons in a row when they could hardly determine one. Our knowledge of
school children was so tentative that we had no firm sense of a context
in which to prepare the class. The following student excerpt illuminates
how part of this confusion about the children proved a justified
distraction from blending facts and values.

I never really thought about how I would handle the
accelerated students. It's a big fear. How does one keep
accelerated students interested? What age is the acceleration
known? How far should this type of student be pushed?

(Senior, Journal Letter, November 26, 1986)

This is a nice example of my continual temptation to tackle far too
much at once. I'm sure it became difficult at times to see which issue
we were working on since I placed such a plethora on the table. Even
better students were irritated. Students produced three lesson plans
that looked as though we had discussed none of the issues at hand but
things would improve later when constructing unit plans, I saw it my

responsibility to help students with the research, to assuming some

responsibility for directing content as well as pedagogy.

tu d w e
I
.But my immediate response was to return to the analysis of why we do

what we do. We needed to take the meaning of knowledge seriously. I

46

talked with my class at this point about Rita, Lampert's (1985) teacher,
and Linda, her pupil. I particularly wanted to share Lampert's work with
my students because she teaches and writes about her practice in
thoughtful, careful ways. I wanted the idea of dilemma management in
teaching to threaten students' views of telling facts. I wanted to
highlight the teacher's emerging self identity. "One needs to be
comfortable with a self that is complicated and sometimes inconsistent”
(p. 193). V

Thinking all my students were potential Ritas, I thought to meet her
might be educative. I asked one student to become Rita and another her
student Linda, giving them a day or two to prepare a re-enactment of the
incident Lampert describes. I was doubly fascinated since the exercise
was like arranging a reenactment of our different teacher-student views
of knowledge in this education class. I hoped I would come closer to
understanding that collision. Since this session especially provoked me,
I present the passage used from Lampert in full.

Science lessons in Rita's classroom often consisted of
students reading their workbooks, looking at the drawings and
diagrams in them, and answering questions and checking their
answers with the teacher. The topic of one such exercise was
”The Cycle of Water." The workbook presented the students with
a picture of a cloud, and next to it a question.“ Where does
the water come from ?' Rita said it seemed obvious to her from
the illustration that the answer was ”clouds," and so she had
"marked it right” when students gave that answer. (She checked
other answers which were not so obvious to her in the teacher's
guide before she judged them right or wrong.) Rita was,
therefore, a bit perplexed when one of the girls in her class,
Linda, came up to have her work corrected and declared with
unusual confidence that “the answer to where water comes from
is thg,gtg§n.' Rita indicated on the girl's paper that this
answer was incorrect, but Linda was surprised by this judgement
and insisted that she was right.

47

Rita was hesitant to contradict Linda because the girl was
so confident about her answer. Although Rita disagreed with
her, she sensed a conflict brewing and wanted to avoid it. So
she tried to understand more about what Linda was thinking." I
said to her: "Well I don't understand. Explain it to me.” I
was fumbling around and I was trying to figure out what she
meant. It finally turned out that she knew, but she couldn't
verbalize it for quite a while. After asking her questions and
having her look at the workbook page, (Linda) said, ”The clouds
pick the water up. I don't know how, but it puts the water
back in the ocean from the clouds.” Rita decided in this
exchange that Linda knew what she was supposed to learn from
the lesson even though her answer did not match the answer in
the teacher's guide.

The potential conflict between perspectives on what it
means to ”know” something was momentarily resolved when Rita
agreed with Linda that her answer was indeed correct. The
equilibrium between Linda's understanding and the book's
standard of knowledge was short-lived, however, when the other
students in the class took an interest in Rita's judgement. As
Rita recalled, ”Linda went running back to the rest of the
group and told them she wasn't wrong. The other kids started
arguing with Linda because they saw it the way I saw it and the
way the answer book saw it. But Linda could prove she was
right." Rita had exacerbated an underlying contradiction in her
classroom when she told Linda that her answer was correct. The
conflict came to the surface because Linda was a member of a
group of students studying the same material. Moreover, they
had all been using the teacher's guide as the standard by which
.to judge the correctness of their answers. Their complaint was
that Rita had applied a familiar standard to judging their
answers but had used another standard to evaluate Linda's.
Unless Rita did something to manage this conflict, it
threatened to become a more difficult classroom problem.

One student, Kevin, confident that hifi answer was right
.because it matched the answer in the teacher's guide and
because Rita had told him it was right, led the class in an
argument with Linda and, by implication, with their teacher.
In Rita's words: “One of the kids, Kevin, said Linda was
really dumb because the ocean was where the water started out,
and it ended up in clouds just before it rained. It wasn't
that he didn't get her explanation, but he just dismissed it
because I had told him earlier that his answer was right and he
also knew that was the answer the book wanted. That's why she
came up to me in the first place to get confirmation that she
‘was right because Kevin had said she was wrong.“ Like Rita
Kevin got Linda's explanation. Yet her individual
traderstanding of the matter was not his concern. He
“dismissed" Linda's explanation (as Rita herself had done at
first) because it did not match what the book and his teacher

48

said was "right” and he began an argument to settle the matter.

If the teacher and the textbook were to be taken seriously, he

argued, Linda could not also be right.

Rita's job . . . might be viewed as requiring a choice

between dichotomous alternatives. If she were to practice

”child-centered" teaching, she would favor defending Linda's

way of thinking while rejecting the textbook's authority. If

she were to practice "curriculum centered” teaching, she would

judge Linda's knowledge using the written curriculum in the

teacher's guide as the standard. These students whose answers
agreed with the book's answer were pushing her toward the

latter, while Linda was pushing her toward the former.

(Lampert, 1985, pp. 186-187)

Now we shared a window into important classroom tensions. In
response, my students became more articulate-~letting me see their views
of knowledge and teaching. We wondered what it means to Eng! something,
and what it means to mark things right and wrong. Both Rita and Linda
troubled my students who wanted certitudes, control of knowledge, and
ways to control children. Our re-enactment of the exchanges between Rita
and Linda attacked their beliefs. Rita did not know what to do. Some
students were convinced that she was not actually teaching because she
was so indecisive and many were appalled that she allowed Linda to
threaten her. One student was appalled that a text, especially a science
text, could let Rita down so badly.

In introducing Lampert's essay showing teaching as a process of
managing not necessarily resolving dilemmas, I was trying to help my
class see that knowing content alone did not enable one to teach and that
teaching was uncertain. My task was more exacting than I understood. I
thought that given Lampert's text, classroom enactments, and our analysis
that my point was inescapable but students on the whole were interested,

attentive, then condescendingly sorry for Rita. Her conflict was not

readily admitted but her competence doubted. She lost control of the

49

content and the children. Maria, on the other hand, gives evidence of
learning the point.
In any class, if a child can explain how they got their
answer, they will be better off than saying tight or EIQDE-
Through their explanation, the child may discover on their own

where they went wrong, or the teacher may discover that the
student is right. (Maria, September 21, 1986)

e e ed 0 h A t 0

Just after establishing the spiral curriculum in our conversation
and explaining Rita's story, I introduced a diagram linking content,
pedagogy and classroom management. I thought my diagram indicated
Dewey's writings and calling on Dewey connected me with my graduate
school teachers' legitimizing my assumptions. In my enthusiasm to get
things right, I declared content and pedagogy to be indivisible. I
thought my undergraduates could and should grasp the indivisibility of
content and pedagogy in teaching.

In the same breath, I saw pedagogy as my province and content
someone else's responsibility. I felt I should try to integrate
students' content with thinking about how to teach that but they were
still amassing their desired knowledge.' I relied on my authorities to
support my view. Two rival theories existed as students tensely believed
their theory that knowing the stuff was what mattered and I tensely held
my abstract, confused dreams about the indivisibility and intersection of
content and pedagogy. And, in fact, we both passed over indivisibility
as students emphasized content and I emphasized pedagogy. I was caught
off guard, for example, when students quickly demanded more facts,

eschewing interest in explaining the nature of teaching and problems of

50

practice. Contrary to all I had learned from Dewey, I saw myself as a
teacher educator specializing in the value and intricacies of teaching
methods--divorcing content and method. By the end of the third week of
the semester, however, I assumed more responsibility for content in this
pedagogy class. I now admitted my students' need to have specific social
studies content before they could think intelligently about using texts,
using group work, creating lesson plans, and so on. Still sounding a
little muddled, I wrote, "Now I do not see tension between content and
pedagogy. Rather I think of them as held in separation for the sake of
teacher preparation” (GRR 10th Journal Letter, Sept. 21, 1986).

I was adamant, however, that I should not simply dispense facts
because I saw that reliance as a weakness in my students' view of
knowledge and good teaching so I incorporated opportunities for students
to do pieces of research on content simultaneous with exercises designing
its use. Students grumbled about extra work but their passion for facts
helped them do the research even though I was requiring a different sort
of knowledge, a way of organizing facts to make sense of them. With this
unity of research and search for strategies, we came closer to better

work.

e t e
To encourage students to think about content and strategy
simultaneously (or more approximately simultaneously), I helped them
figure out a unit plan or series of five to ten lessons around an elected
theme for a specific grade. Here we found our bridge of reasonableness.

I am not sure how transparent my intentions for this work (stated for the

.‘I.

51

first time) seemed, especially when I read Alicia's messy description of
my introduction in her journal.
On Monday we discussed what should be included in our unit
plans. We learned our plans must be I2211§£1£"1n accordance

with time and not just entertaining . . . We must consider the

academic and social needs of the class . . . this class helped

me get a grip on a unit plan but I'm still scared of the

assignment. (Alicia, November 10, 1986)

Despite student obsession for facts, my promise of guided research
as a hidden compromise between our two agendas seemed to cause more
distress than joy. Some anticipated the thrill of the chase and looked
favorably on the prospect of discovering ways to represent social studies
material. Sounding as if aware of dissent over writing unit plans,
.Maria wrote. "I want to work on my unit. I may be the only one looking
forward to it but I like to get my hands on creative stuff" (Senior,
October 27, 1986). But others feared the project--both the research and
sharing the findings with classmates. I felt disbelieving, even
resentful that my students wanted to be teachers but feared independent
learning and research. I noted the dependency stitched into this
response, "Lesson and unit plans have been discussed. To me the project
will be a long hard challenge. I like the idea of photocopying other
students' work. I am scared of the whole project” (Junior, October 27
1986). On the other hand, others now began to come closer to real
interest in their material. ”Social Studies has not always been my
favorite but by starting this unit I am getting very interested and my
view of it has changed a lot” (Trina, November 10, 1986)..

In unit plan preparation students adopted differing stances about

content. Preparing a second grade unit on groups, Susan saw her purpose

to teach the difference between the group and the clique. Thinking of

52

social studies in different ways from the rivers and mountains early in
the term, she devised inventive schemes to make her point, using the
classroom itself as her resource. Her opening plan was to ask students
to crumple paper and drop it over the floor by each desk. One volunteer
would pick up all the trash. She then would ask pupils to crumple the
paper and throw it on the floor then debate how, as a group, they could
help one another with the clean up. From there she planned to discuss
family groups and groups outside the family to combat loneliness and
enable more effective work. ”As a child it is hard to learn that there
is a difference between belonging to a group because of common interests
and belonging to a clique" (Susan, Purpose of Unit, November, 1986).

Devising her own method for teaching a class to create a tomb
painting, Jesse had a chance to experiment with us and her observation
sixth grade class. She expected her sixth graders would learn, '.
about the geography, history, society and economy of Ancient Egypt and
students would understand and practice tomb painting” (Jesse, unit
purpose, November, 1986).

Also interested in ancient Egypt, Ann thought eighth graders would
benefit from comparing ancient and modern cultures. Whereas Susan, Jesse
and Ann connected facts to wider perspectives, Maria, perhaps my
brightest student, retreated into factual content--'the whos, whens,
wheres, and whys of the American Revolution” (Maria, unit plan, November
1986). I focus now on that irregularity.

In my unit on the American Revolution for grades five and

six I am playing it safe--I mean I am dealing with facts not

concepts. I know I will introduce freedom briefly but I don't

think I should get very theoretical. (Maria, November 27,
1986)

53

Maria was uneasy:
As far as the unit goes, I always have doubts while
writing it--that I'm leaving out something important, or
working in an area that should be held to a later grade . . . I

think that's why I played it safe and took, or chose, a togtegt
t9_p_1t--the American revolution.

Maria and I were quite close. This senior met with me almost daily to
work on an independent study on teacher questioning. She seemed
intelligent and animated and our conversation touched more widely on
pedagogy's excitements and frustrations. I was intrigued then that when
she felt concern with her unit plan, she didn't tell me her problems or
seek advice. As class leader she might not have wanted to come forward
in class as others did but she had many other opportunities. What might
her reticence compared with Ruth's nagging remarks mean?

Now let's talk aiminute about the unit. My only problem

with it is this: I know what I want as my topic, I'm confident

that it would be a successful unit and pupils would learn from

it but how do I know its the type of unit you would like? We'll

talk about this. (Ruth, November 10, 1986)

It may suggest that she was so imbued with the power of facts and
factual content in teaching that she saw their W to be the
difficulty and she could tease them out with time. In my thinking, the
unit plan was to forge a combination of content and pedagogy but it may
have been that Maria did not really believe there was such a thing as
pedagogical expertise (an issue dominating parts of secondary English
methodanhapter III of this work). If so, questions to me would serve
no purpose. She determined she needed experience.

I do believe . . . that after teaching a grade I will be
able to find their level of intelligence and what they are
capable of doing. I should think I should be able to find this

information about my class in a matter of weeks. (Maria,
November 27, 1986)

ll

54

I asked Maria to lead the class presentations of the unit plans. I
wanted students to share their research, reflecting on difficult
decisions made. I was meeting students' need for more content and
creating a conversation about methods and that content. Maria was my
natural choice as leader, since she was the smartest student, and I
thought she would set the reflective tone I was after. I was wrong. She
taught the opening lesson in her unit to us, illustrating her purposes
and methods. The lesson itself contained 21 factual items, some of which
were complicated (for example, tgttt1gg_githggt_ttptt§tntatign). Pupils
would be given a dittoed sheet to fill in on which they must achieve 80%
accuracy. Too much was covered with too little connection. Maria played
the dominant role and felt learners should absorb content. Even when
role-playing was designed in the third class on the prerevolutionary
period, the teacher again held the dominant role. "The pupil can better
understand the war if they can associate with the feelings, which is what
role playing is all about. It will probably be easier if the teacher
takes the side of the British" (Maria, November 27, 1986).

In part these were sensible moves with pupils playing the parts of
Tories and Whigs but in the same session as the role-playing two dittoes
were to be completed. I could have helped Maria by talking through
pupils' capacities and judging how much content to what purpose in each
class. I could have helped her sort out the conflicts making her feel
uneasy. This was instructive to me. My purpose had been to forge the
combination between content and pedagogy but there was some hazard in
letting students loose on research they wanted to do to appease their

hunger for facts, pretending this was automatically 'researdh for

55

teaching.” Maria's methods thinking was catch-as-catch-can, based on
memories of classes she attended and her own wishful thinking for the
future but she still thinks she is learning to teach.
I'm worried about content, time, lack of knowledge in a
subject area and who to teach to--high, middle or low

achievers. I'm hoping that all these things will become easier

to understand as I get more experience. I know I can get

content anywhere, and I am learning the ways to teach in these

methods classes, so I'm not quite as petrified as I used to be.

(Maria, November 27, 1986)

My college students were politely bored and Maria's journal
interpretation of the day was: ”I guess that is just a matter of
expecting more of myself than I can actually do?" In some ways I thought
Maria was working well. She made interesting comment on the use of
texts.:

I wish I wasn't relying on the text so much. Actually I

am not relying on it per se but using it as a guide. And, it

is not just one text but three. Somehow I do believe this is

OK for I am adding to the text and enriching it. But this is

where I worry about what group of students to aim for. I was

in an enriched program, so I keep trying to diversity my

activities. I don't think there is any reason lower children

can't gain from this enrichment But I certainly don't want to

be far above them. (Maria, November 27, 1986)

Although I do not have documentation to illuminate how I responded
to.Maria's letter in November, 1986, I would have felt some joy that she
puzzled over the use of the text or texts and their enrichment, I would
have been interested in the way she acted on implications of her own
schooling in advanced programs, and I would have interpreted the puzzle
about pitching material in teaching to be worth perusing. I would not
have considered I should intervene. .I thought all this puzzling, however
painful, would bring results. For example, already feeling the pressure

of all this content Maria pens a rationale.

56

There is a lot of information here . . . if it does seem
too overwhelming for the pupil some information can be cut
back, but I'd rather have too much and have the option of
cutting back than have too little and be unable to. (Unit plan

P- 2)

Other unit plans did mention reasons for strategies. Susan chose
group work, group singing, small group assignments and Eve aimed for
joint construction of her unit with many procedures designed to involve
teacher and pupils in decision-making. What did I deduce from all this?
Caught in the gap of our assumptions met for the first time, I was only
beginning to learn what I wanted from the work I required of my students
in observation or in unit plans. Until I determined my purposes I

encouraged student autonomy.

There were lighter moments. Maria, Eve and Jesse were given
opportunities to teach by collaborating teachers. This seemed an
exciting extension of the practical part of our work. Maria wrote with
gusto about her own teaching recreating life on the E train in New York

City for young rural children in Farmsville.

I would like to tell you about my lesson on New York. It
went well and pupils loved it. How did I know that? They paid
attention, asked questions and sat up in their seats--simple,

right?

We discussed the elevated train and the subway. They
asked if people really sprayed paint on trains. They had never
heard the word graffiti. I had a drawing of a subway car and
took markers and graffitied it. Amazing how I got a reaction
from that. Then we set up the chairs to look like the insides
of the train. I had the entire class get into this one section
and told them if they had more people it would be rush hour.
‘You should have heard the moans . . . I had the girls pretend
they were on high heels and the boys were dressed in three
piece suits. Then the train started. Some one asked if there
were anywhere to hang on. I told them about the handles over
the seats. The people in the middle hung on to each other. I
wasn't sure how it worked but they enjoyed it. (Senior, Final
Observation Report, December 12, 1986 )

57

Eve summed up her experience.
I have gained a lot of ideas from Mrs. B. She is easy to

talk to and offers me tips very readily. I feel I could be

just like her one day, just starting off and discovering

things that work and things that need readjustment. She really

works hard and I can see from her example the amount of time

that goes into teaching. She has shown me that you have to be

determined and a person on track to be effective. (Final

Observation Report, December 12 1986)

When Mrs. B invited Eve to teach a class, I wondered if Eve were
ready and how I would know. We all agreed to think it over. Eve
stumbled on the perfect plan that she and I could co-teach one session.

I was intrigued and nervous. Eve decided she wanted to teach DEEIIQELSQ-
I could contribute an understanding that people from other countries such
as Australia were patriotic. Mrs. B could not see patriotism in the
text. Eve argued her case, only to find teaching values was by no means
simple. We trapped ourselves in abstract ideas of loyalty, hope, and
national identity.

I was introduced as the patriotic Australian. I shared my passport
around the room and several passport stories emerged from children who
had travelled with their parents. I was then asked by Eve to talk about
my countrymen and when they would feel patriotic. I described
international cricket matches, yacht races, royal visits, and wars. Eve
then.1ed the class in discussion of American patriotism in baseball
matches and in Washington, trying to point out similarities. For all our
combined efforts, I could see that these youngsters loved having visitors
and like engaging with us but the idea of patriotism sailed over their
heads. It was a nice frustration for Eve to encounter in the safe

environment of my analysis and Mrs. B's agreement that we did not pin

students to specific understandings. Eve was crestfallen and I was

58

disappointed but we learned together the difficulties in representing
values in grade school. Our collaboration with Mrs. B felt like ”real
teacher education" to me because we illuminated the importance of
reflection and digging deeper into what we observed in the classroom.
Other students were less lucky in their observation placements (GRR
Journal Letter, December, 1986).

Eve's unit on patriotism particularly interested me for its attempt
to go well beyond the text, to face the task of developing values and to
commit herself to educating pupils in social studies for democracy.
These three features revealed growth in the course, even if hard to
implement. She felt conscious that she was not writing a typical unit

writing in her evaluation:

The facts are not cut and dried and it is a value

developing unit. This is the hardest type of unit to evaluate.

I will not grade the unit but evaluate through participation in

discussion; a quiz on the Articles of the Constitution or the

Bill of Rights; creative writing and essays. I will have

children write daily ”What I learned and will remember today."

This will show me they got something out of the daily session

and it will also help me evaluate myself.

There were reasons to be cheerful in this assessment. Eve looked at
factual knowledge now with more sophistication, trying to create an
experience for pupils that will change their view of the world or enhance
values they already held about democracy. In her evaluation, Eve
employed various strategies for different skills and helped her pupils
reconstruct in systematic ways their own experience in the class.

Eve's research included citizenship, loyalty, freedom, heroes and
heroines, slavery, songs and symbols, the American flag, and patriotism

in other countries. Eve intended to introduce spies and traitors ("I

will show that some misuse these freedoms“) and wanted to introduce the

59

limitations and responsibilities to choose what we do, where we live,
where we worship, and so on. To illustrate the freedom of the press she
planned to "Have two class papers with opposing opinions or different
views to show the freedom of the press--the subjects can be minor. I'll
let the children decide.”

Eve integrated music with songs to illustrate freedom and loyalty.
She planned guest speakers and trips to the seat of government. This was
ambitious, thoughtful work and I wondered how much sooner I could have
used this practical reconstruction of the problems of teaching social
studies, stitching my theories into the conversation rather than trying
to impose them more abstractly. Eve might have gone close to this
quality thinking earlier. Then we might have worked on strategic
refinements.

Perhaps exhibiting displaced frustration, my journal entry, late in
the semester, expressed my dissatisfaction with the unit plans and
students' class presentation. I complain this had been a major piece of
work for each student and I had allocated class time to share findings
and teacherly thinking. Students, however, were restless during
presentations, unable to see they could learn from others' work. Some
students felt differently.

Although you said that you didn't think that our teaching
lessons were helpful, I did otherwise. When I presented my

lesson I had some questions about what time of year to do it,

how to respond to pupil's questions and questions to ask them.

I thought Ruth was very helpful in answering my

questions--besides these practice lessons are getting me

excited about teaching. (Eve, November 27, 1986)

They showed considerable insight, ”I especially liked unit planning--I

began to realize the teacher has the choice between going by the book and

60

doing all the talking or she can involve the pupils and let them learn by 7

experiencing” (Jesse, November 20, 1986).

mm

In graduate school seclusion, I happily prepared my lark song far
from Bunbury College, retaining my conviction that social studies is an
inquiry stitching together factual interpretation with values. I
sustained my song that interdisciplinary adventures and global concerns
could and should be at the heart of social studies instruction despite
the deeply embedded assumptions students clearly held about facts in the
elementary school classroom and the accumulation of facts the methods
course should offer.

As I pursued my interests to help these young people become good
teachers, I did not try to understand their views of content but tried to
work against them. I managed to be helpful with shyness (a matter of
disposition) but with our dissonant assumptions I tended to exacerbate
the dissonance as a solution, leaving me with no lever. In the unit
plans some students heard parts of the lark's song I heard in graduate
school. Sustaining my authorities in my mind, I could have developed
exercises extending the unit plans as supervised forays into practice:
small building blocks in the bridge I wanted to build between us.

But this is what I now see. At the time I felt tired but no wiser.
I still felt optimistic that by battling away in teacher education,
something could be achieved but like my secondary school teaching, I took
my pleasure from individual student triumphs. I seemed to work very hard

at things that matter without reward. I did not know exactly what had

61

happened here. I did not have specific lessons learned to take with me
to the next methods course and Chapter III. I felt dispirited because my
authorities had appeared to let me down. I had not yet stumbled on the
insight that I had to figure out how to use not simply invoke them. If I
were learning a new song, I was straining to hear it.
Despite some visible results I feel hollow . . . I am
pleased with some students' progress but we are winding up as

if the business is finished when really it has just begun.
(GRR 20 Journal Letter, November, 1986)

62

CHAPTER TWO APPENDIX.

SYLLABUS: Ed 303 Elementary School Social Studies Methods.
Gem Reid Syllabus. Fall, 1986.

COURSE OBJECTIVES.

1. To identify and understand key concepts central to elementary social
studies programs.

2. To demonstrate alternative methods for teaching these concepts and
for managing the classroom appropriately for these alternatives.

3. To develop the ability to use deductive and inductive reasoning in
preparing classroom instructional material.

4. To identify and use cross disciplinary thinking and global awareness
in social studies at the elementary school level.

COURSE OUTLINE.
WEEKS ONE AND TWO.

This discussion approaches the relationship between the students'
content and the pedagogy appropriate to that content. The point of the
discussion is to raise in relief the difference between content and
pedagogy and the relationship between the two. I argue for their
indivisibility. This course is constructed with this interpretation in
mind.

WEEKS THREE THROUGH SIX.

In the analysis of lesson and unit planning we will face the reality
that the best planning is flexible. At this point we will think about
the value of the reflective practitioner's capacity to examine practice
in action and change plans accordingly. The traditional teacher—centered
approach may have limited value. We will discuss the alternatives in
class and activities for learning outside class. Organization of field
trips and library research exercises will be explored. Educational
objectives in measurement and evaluation will be central to the
discussion of planning. Students will be required to write different
types of tests and explain where and why they could use them.

63

WEEKS SEVEN AND EIGHT.

Techniques in classroom management will be consistent with the view
that classroom climate and interpersonal relations may counteract some of
the likely difficulties of the disengaged student. Management then is
seen as a practical interpersonal problem which must be continually
reassessed while teaching is in progress but which can benefit from
careful early policies. This analysis will include work on managing
groups and exacting the highest potential from student interaction.

WEEKS NINE AND TEN.

Motivation might be one of the most elusive aspects of pedagogy. We
will think about motivation holistically related to the quality of
presentation and the principles of management evaluation. We will also
look at the issue psychologically and in terms of the nature of our
subject matter.

WEEK ELEVEN

Review.

WEEKS TWELVE THROUGH FIFTEEN

This discussion on discipline and professional control will flow
naturally from earlier sessions. Students will be encouraged to analyze
the sort of discipline they want to develop. We shall examine the
teacher's right and responsibility to graciously discipline other
people's children. We will examine the subject matter discipline to see
if there is a relationship between that and classroom control. We shall
assess the different needs for the different ages in the school, and the
different ways teachers have of reacting infractions, insolence,
disengagement and so on.

WEEK SIXTEEN

Review.

ELEMENTARY SOCIAL STUDIES METHODS ASSESSMENT.
My evaluation consists of four parts:
1. Journal Letters 20.

2. Lesson and unit plans 20.

 

64

3. Essay tests including
the final examination 40.

4. Final observation report 20.
Class attendance and excused absences.

I consider teaching to be a special form of conversation. Its rules
are based on courteous respect for classmates and teacher. Tardiness is
therefore inexcusable. Since the continuous thread of this conversation
is so significant, absence seriously impedes both individual and class
learning. Any occasion for legitimate absenteeism must be discussed as
soon as possible with the instructor and together we will determine
appropriate action. If students foresee an absenteeism they should drop
me a note to that effect for their file to avoid any confusion in later
evaluation.

CHAPTER III

PEDAGOGY REVISITED

Inttgdgttion

My secondary English methods students and I thought differently
about knowledge and the characteristics of good teaching. Students
understood knowledge to be factual not interpretative, certain, not
ambiguous. Good teaching was telling (helping pupils amass
information) rather than transforming knowledge. Could that
difference be creative? In exploring our views of knowledge and
pedagogy, I track attempts to help prospective teachers break from
these two beliefs that pedagogy was mechanical not intellectual and
that knowledge was certain. My intent is clear in the following
statement headed the syllabus given to students:

This course is designed to refine your

understanding of secondary school teachers'

instructional responsibilities in English. We will

investigate teaching skills, strategies, and ways of

thinking and talking about teaching, recognizing the

characteristics, needs, and potential of adolescents in

the academic setting. The course is designed to

provide opportunities to prepare teaching units in

writing, poetry, drama, short story, and novel.

Students will have an understanding of the content

knowledge and strategies to teach composition, language

and literature in the secondary school. (GRR EN 409
English Methods Syllabus, January 31, 1987)

65

66_

Writing my syllabus I assumed students were well prepared with
subject matter knowledge. That was not so (posing my initial
tension) but I had no awareness students in their major could be as
uninspired by content as the social studies methods class described
in Chapter II. Should I direct students' reading of literature
(which I thought not my job) or should I direct reading and thinking
on teaching methods for that literature? I began the course
discussing content and pedagogy in students' past experience,
uncovering powerful student views that pedagogy was mechanical and
procedural and content knowledge of English literature and language
was intimidating even though students had successfully negotiated
college courses in literature and composition.

My plans included developing theories of classroom management
in the secondary school and two weeks on process writing and
grammar. In the fifth week, I planned to focus on the essay as a
literary form. I allocated the seventh week to teaching literary
appreciation, especially the novel, followed by two weeks devoted to
drama teaching. In the second half of the course, I anticipated we
would chose segments from the local secondary school English
curriculum to plan, prepare and present in the methods class.
Pressing for engagement I valued speeches, competitions,
collaborative projects, writing newspapers, and thoughtful homework
procedures.

This syllabus fairly represents the first half of the semester.
.After that items covered were determined by student needs and

responses and as I saw more persuasive openings to preach

67

adventurous teaching. Stitching into the conversation likely
differences between different aged learners in high school I
addressed different capacities and dispositions among children in
the same grade. I clarified my intended evaluation of student
performance, unit and lesson plans, observation reports, Journal
Letters, and final examination. I listed articles I would draw on
during the term.

In my planning, I hoped for imaginative responses from English
methods students. I wanted them to believe learning English to be
empowering for all age levels. I wanted my ”graduates" to emphasize
careful attention to the text showing that the story in the poem,
the novel, or the drama in question represents human experience
which readers share or might never share. I intended students to
draw on pupils' experience in writing and in thinking about
literature. I intended students to model good speech and quality

writing.

c e t ow ed d da
I wanted students to be like me, that is, enthralled by

knowledge, always curious, always seeking connections, captivated by
literature and by the mysteries of writing. But I wanted more than
overflowing enthusiasm for Penny's sensitive understanding of
English and American literature and grasp of grammatical rules and
procedures and I was dedicated to enhancing her teaching performance
not to sharing understandings with pupils. Dan fell into teaching

English as the most manageable college major and because he liked

68

drama. With little college course work in hand, he was learning to
teach high school English based on his memories of minimal factual
content in a tiny rural high school. I wanted him to surmount those
origins. Not enthusiastic, he was understandably nervous.

Taking this four hundred level course was

unnerving . . . I wonder if I would have been less

nervous if I didn't know I was not supposed to be

there? (Dan, Letter, May 4, 1987)

I worried about Dan from our first meeting:
Dan's assumptions about teaching and learning to

teach were less formed compared with the other

students. He was in no position to understand what he

might be trying to teach. (GRR 13 Journal letter,

February, 1987)

Then I realized Dan was not exceptional. Except Penny, none of
these students had thought independently or appreciatively about
English language and literature. Dan had not thought about the
nature of knowledge for teaching but neither had Penny nor Judy. I
feared enthusiasm for content based on flimsy understandings would
make them retreat to telling pupils what they've read and how they
should respond. I wanted to change Dan to make him capable of being
different in the schools not someone who would perpetuate current
practice. I wanted an understanding of knowledge that would go
beyond this statement:

I will take my guidelines from the textbooks in

the high school. I expect to rely on little wider

knowledge, or anything more than the major. (Dan,

Journal Letter, March 15, 1987)

Judy was also limited--devoted to one approach.
I still hope to achieve my objectives through ‘
speech communication. Selecting material seems very

hard and I will ask for help. I envy Penny's

confidence with subject matter. (Judy, Journal Letter,
April 11, 1987)

69

Judy felt if she taught speech she could have access to pupils
without undue fuss over content. I wanted her to understand the
whole curriculum and be capable of wise choices of content and
appropriate pedagogies for particular children. She resisted the
intellectual effort to meet this challenge. And students for the
most part thought thinking about teaching methods was mostly
unnecessary and expected orthodox procedures, tricks, and set
methods to apply to easily identifiable circumstances. Knowing
teaching to be routine, students wanted to learn to teach without
acknowledging hazards like student disengagement or pupils'
inabilities to learn, or alternate strategies. There in comparison
was my joy.

My teaching is the whole of me at work. The

intellect, imagination, emotions, are synthesized and

energized by my purpose to provoke thought, awareness,

skill, and commitment. (GRR Letter to DKC January 6,

1987)

I hoped methods students could share that synthesis and energy
in understanding teaching secondary school English. Penny, Judy,
and Dan began methods knnging the teacher's task was to tell
students what they knew and test that regularly. Ihty_g1g_nnt
ex2sst_£2_shangs_£ha£_xis!1_ I wanted to break this tendency to
reproduce knowledge. Expecting rigid lesson planning and
assessments students believed methods courses held little
intellectual merit or difficulty. Believing most children were
alike (and much like them), Penny, Judy and Dan were not looking to

'understand diverse children.where I wanted to foster ability to work

with diversity .

70

For Penny, pedagogy presented well-organized facts. She would
tell what she knew, quite beautifully, paying scant attention to her
audience. Her own schooling had rewarded skill with facts and as
teacher she would reward the same competence. Without implying she
would reach out to children Penny declared, "No student should fail.
The teacher's enthusiasm should win the battle. My students will
enjoy English like me" (Penny, Journal Letter, March 8, 1987).

Dan's pedagogy appeased disciplinary fears. Judy, obsessed
with compassion for the underdog, was emotional rather than
intellectual in thinking about pedagogy. She thought kindness was
the key. Teachers must not give up on children. Teachers shape
pupils' emotional futures and that almost txtlnsixgly is teaching.
Her own experience proved her point.

When I was in grade school I could not read. I

was lucky I had two good and caring teachers who spent

a lot of their time with me teaching me to read. What

if these teachers had given up on me? What if I had

begun to think I was dumb and could not learn? (Judy,

Journal Letter, October 6, 1986)
and now,

I want to be a teacher. I hope I'll be a good

one. I want to be a teacher who cares, understands and

helps students to learn about themselves and the world.

I want to give them power and hope to continue on.

(Judy, Journal Letter, February 6, 1987)

Judy resisted any scientific discussion about teaching,
claiming confidently for example.

I also believe there is no such thing as htight or

319! students. All have approximately the same ' '

learning ability. It is the label that causes the

students to perform in either slow or bright fashions.
(Judy, Journal Letter, February 6, 1987)

71

My task had widened in' unexpected ways. "I am really concerned by
the task of teaching students to change their perceptions of
teaching itself as well as conquer certain skills and knowledge"

(CR 45 Journal Letter, March, 1987).

tu V ews t

My question "What is your content?" dominated the first
secondary English class. Could students explore the content they
hoped to teach in high school classrooms? I wanted an idea of
students' reading so I could build on familiarity with these
readings as we discussed teaching strategies for poetry, novel,
short story, and drama. I asked Penny, Judy, and Dan (all currently
English majors) to describe English subject matter, itemizing
qualities which might make English language and literature difficult
to teach. Students responded in general categories like grammar,
composition, novel, drama, and poetry. No crucial fascinating
themes emerged. Judy and Dan had no favorite authors they wished to
teach. Penny would imagine telling pupils about novels and authors
but short passages only would be read. No one had thoughts on
difficulties in learning English.

My elementary social studies and secondary social science
methods classes in the fall had little feeling for content they
could offer to children and no awareness of misconceptions that
could make any piece of work hard to understand. I hoped students
who had chosen an English major might appreciate their disciplinary

studies for I wanted to establish in this class a lively enthusiasm

72

for content and an ability to select from a wide variety of sources.
Allowing shyness to account for poor responses, I was still
bewildered that authors' names were not on the tips of students'
tongues. What surprised me most was that all these silences and
this lack of vivacity about the academic major caused no panic. I
became cynical . . . "Students in their attitudes to content seem
concerned for certification not understanding and their commitment
to teaching is not intellectual“ (GRR 46 Journal Letter, April,
1987).

I felt dispirited because it had been so hard to shift my fall
methods students away from their factual approach to knowledge and
their lack of commitment to an intellectual pedagogy. Under-
estimating the tenacity of prior convictions but feeling the
strength of my area and experience, I was even more determined to
succeed with the English methods class. I intended to stitch into
my methods course reasons for taking content seriously, for enjoying

it, for believing it had a specific educative purpose.

 

I looked for a common ground. While students thought teaching
a matter of controlling content and children, I thought teaching
created opportunities for inquiry and imaginative problem solving.
I needed ways to explain my idea and promote the sort of teaching I
wanted. I thought a diagram could create an image, a way of
speaking, linking us in our present and later confusions. Placing

content and pedagogy on the left hand side of the drawing in a

73

circle signifying their unity, I drew a main line from that circle
to a square holding decisions to be made make about classroom
arrangements, evaluation and discipline after content and pedagogy
choices. Students energetically copied the diagram and I suggested
they leave room around the edges to record our conversation as I
created a little case study. Suppose the teacher wanted to teach
grade seven how to write a paragraph? She would chose her method:
she might decide on group exercises, spreading more restless and
less able students; she might decide she should choose the topic for
this paragraph or she might think that one paragraph with one main
idea might be better chosen from pupils' own experience. All these
considerations stemmed in my diagram from her desire to teach
specific content. Students were less engaged in the case study than
I thought they would be. For common ground, I invited them into
teachers' shoes but this did not come easily and in my rush to
understand I detected resistance rather than learners slow to warm
up. I needed to slow down and discover where they stood. Students
squirmed as if I were preaching to save their souls as I talked of
open-ended, interpretative rather than factual knowledge. I favored
ambiguity. Dan thought I sounded messy, that I made teaching harder
than it need be. Bemused by the fuss, he explained, '. . . content
means being able to pass objective tests, and pedagogy demands
appropriate factual material be given to pupils' (Dan, Journal
Letter, March 15, 1987).

Alluding further to the diagram, I promised all sorts of

puzzles weave in and out of content and pedagogy in any

74

classroom--puzzles about timing, about the individual pupils'
behavior and progress, about whether pupils understood, about
linking this knowledge with prior knowledge and so on. These
puzzles demanded a teaching response--a strategy with an appropriate
purpose. I explored the puzzles present in 2n; class where a new
teacher was trying to find common ground with new students and
Penny's excitement peaked. Startled by her sudden interest and
participation, I suddenly declared that with this diagram "We wgte
a t e e t of a sformi ow ed e" (GRR Journal Letter,
February, 1987) meaning dramatically to acknowledge that
transforming, changing knowledge for others was central to teaching
high school English. I was so keen to win the class over to an
enlightened view of their work as teachers that patient wisdom
escaped me. I immediately knew from students' faces this sudden
reference to what was theoretically central to my course was not
pedagogically sound. Language useful to me had to be transformed
for students.

In class, soon after, we debated the critical qualities of
teachers who can motivate pupils. We talked about the variety of
ways the teacher might enticingly represent knowledge. I suddenly
noticed all ideas and excitement were mine for students had drifted
away. I felt I should persist in stressing the lively, hopeful
engagement between teacher and pupils that transforms knowledge but
Judy, as if suddenly realizing she had no interest in disciplinary
knowledge, confessed, ”I really do not know enough or care enough

about English in teaching” (GRR 31 Journal Letter, February, 1987).

75

Judy's admission did not surprise her peers. I was now
fascinated both by Judy's unabashed declaration and her peers' calm
response. All shared little regard for knowledge of English in
teaching. Nor were these attitudes temporary. Writing at the end
of the course, for example, Judy enthused about motivating less able
students with drama in costume but left the choice of play itself as
a casual after thought. ”The play I would use? I don't know, Maybe
Romeo and Juliet if they haven't read it yet?" (Judy, Final Exam

Script, May 4, 1987).

e o ance Cla seS' so a e ect o

If I were to help students recognize they needed to know a new
content and pedagogy to teach secondary school English (the central
thread of my course), I could see I needed to experiment with a
variety of powerful pedagogical strategies. An early idea was to
teach about teaching through students' teaching one another. I had
a small class and I thought preparation to teach, present, and
reflect on that work might kindle the essential questioning I wanted
about knowledge, pedagogy and pupils. “Now we had grist for our
mill. What was adequate pedagogy, what was not and what was the
difference?” (GRR 32 Journal Letter, February 1987).

In one version of students teaching one another, we focussed on
small parts of teaching at a time, for example, the beginning or end
of class, setting homework, or questioning techniques. We would.
brainstorm some ideas in class, questioning how our strategies would

‘help children learn. Then I would call on one student to

76

demonstrate a task which might only be several minutes long but
grist for our mill. That student's performance would be explored by
the others, becoming gradually attentive to aims, intentions, and
method. Later, when students were more at home with content and
method, they could experiment with a full teaching period. I had
two other intentions. I wanted to elevate student self esteem and
figure out how to teach prospective teachers how to act and reflect
on that action.

Penny seemed stronger academically and emotionally than her
classmates so I chose her to do the first piece of teaching and help
me by her willingness to model accepting criticism. I invited Penny
to prepare the beginnings of a class for grade ten. I deliberately
gave no advice. My idea was that she should be free to reflect what
she thought was good teaching unburdened by terms like kngnltggg
ttntngnttinn or knnwledge ttangfotnatton which might be more
confusing than helpful. After her teaching experience she might be
able to see the difference. She chose the introduction of the short
story from the local high school grade-eight curriculum and prepared
an accurate, technical, deadly little academic lecture. She used no
examples to support or enliven her definition (which she intended
pupils would memorize).

Penny gave me an excellent opportunity to question lecturing
and the disadvantage of simply telling pupils what you want them to
know. Penny's lack of examples allowed us to focus on why examples,
analogies, and stories are useful in lively teaching. Penny's

performance allowed me to lead a discussion about the relationship

77

between the teacher and the pupils. Penny was teaching without
regard for the learner. Since I espoused the value of mutual
respect of teacher and pupil, it was important that I keep hammering
away at the old authoritarian image and help Penny see herself as a
co-worker in the room.

I criticized her opening showing there was nothing to catch
attention, to engage pupils' minds or emotions. I was able to
convince Penny that this technical definition and elevated language
would hardly touch pupils' lives and that the place to start might
be with their own stories. Very responsive to this individual
attention, as I predicted, Penny demanded another turn, implementing
principles just discussed. She challenged us with small open-ended
group work on the short story's significance in daily life. I asked
her to reflect on her decisions in each case and her reasons for
changing strategies and it was clear she had learned the difference
between a lecture and a more vital exchange. More importantly she
was thinking about what she was doing. I described my purposes.

I try to encourage students who are standing in

front of me teaching to see that they can at the same

time be assessing what they are doing . . . Penny

eventually got there. It is like putting half your.

thinking on hold to sharpen up what the other half is

aiming for. It is glnnfit like the internal dialogue

experienced when writing is moving along . . . (GRR 49

Journal Letter, April, 1987)

Judy and Dan appreciated the differences in these two
performances. I called on Judy to explain her plans for a new

composition with the eighth grade. I was in a quandary because of

her interest in speech communication and flair for performance

78

without a serious interest in substance so I chose language rather
than literature. I found some strength.
Judy stands and walks to the front of the room and
suddenly we are under her spell. Her face becomes

alive. She speaks to us as she would to the eighth

graders in her mind. Then she is able to insert her

reflections on what she is doing returning without

blinking to the imaginary audience. She smiles to

check we understand. She has expressive hands. We

criticize her, she thanks us and remedies that on the

spot. (GRR 36 Journal Letter, February 1987)

In using performance students were unevenly endowed but I
determined over the semester to use this strategy to good purpose
with all three. It seemed impossible to have suitable strategies
for all students and I only had three. I respected Dan's shyness,
asking him to teach later in the semester and he acknowledged my
kindness. I saw hope for performance classes where students were
challenged to act, think, and respond to criticism because the proof
of the pudding was in the immediate eating. Ideally, I would need
sufficient time for the learning to become habitual, for students
experiencing small specific pieces of teaching could forget these
lessons, succumbing to earlier mechanical views. They could lack
the courage for radical change. Dewey shows that for intellectual
growth I needed to create a climate where reconstruction and
remaking would be natural. "But there is no intellectual growth
without some reconstruction, some remaking, of impulses and desires

in the form in which they first show themselves” (Dewey, 1916, p.

64).

79

W

Deciding to teach high school English literature over a three
week period early in the course, I anticipated students would be
able to apply principles of instruction and management in one branch
of literature to another. I developed the short story as
representative of similar problems of practice occurring in short
story, novel, drama, and poetry. I was not fretting my students
understood how knowledge was transformed but I wanted them to think
about teaching less mechanically and more creatively than they
currently found satisfying. I wanted them to uncover content with
pupils by asking more probing questions and accepting ambiguity
rather than massing details. I wanted them to think deeply about
the short story as a serious attempt to capture life, worth
examining in its parts and as a whole. Students expected something
easy to teach, somthing quick to read and easy to prepare.

I posed recurring puzzles in teaching literature methods,
including what to teach, what strategies to employ, how to energize
material, how to encourage pupils' participation especially
disagreement, how to meet the needs of individuals and the group,
how to revise with fresh vision; how to judge class pace, how to
review and examine while still fostering pupil autonomy, and how to
connect learning with previous and future studies.

'Do you read short stories?“ I asked them. Judy and Dan could
only vaguely remember high school short stories without names or
authors. Penny was more scientifically able to draw on college

studies. I set the task of reading one quality short story per week

80

then drew back from that controversy, teaching features of the short
story, including the single minded theme, the clarity in
characterization, the surprise often stitched into the conclusion,
the sense of unity, and language carved to its special purpose. I
suggested some stories lend themselves better to classroom analysis
than others explaining that teachers like to deal with quality short
stories where the logic is ruthless or sweetly concealed. We would
need to read with an eye to the pupils' level of comprehension and
interests. I explained that analytical techniques previously used
with the novel, that is, introduction, development, climax,
denouement, and conclusion would still apply with a sharper, quicker
conclusion. And they wrote these things down.

I thought literature appreciation and writing could be
combined. I wondered how we would structure the class for writing a
short story in groups of four. Students willingly tried this
exercise. Dan gave his pupils titles (chief writer, critic,
illustrator, organizer). How would we monitor that they were really
writing a short story and not an essay? Penny decided to allocate
the characters and the opening scene to her pupils. Who would
choose the topic of the story? What if the pupil's topics were
impossible? How long should pupils be allowed to work on this
project? How could this group work be graded? Could it be
ungraded? I needed to keep showing group work was valuable for my
students were suspicious of its rationale. Dan trembled at the
thought of an observer catching sight of disturbed furniture and

noise.

81

Despite superficial amenability to this direction, I felt
students had ways to protect prior knowledge and prior dispositions.
Creating intellectual disagreement in class was troubling and my
idea of gng;gizing_m§§ggigl was mysterious for students who were
devoted to simply ggtgigg_1;_§g;gg§ and who had not studied the
short story in memorable ways.' Dan's fear of adolescents confused
his developing sense of purpose in teaching literature. It made him
negative and closed to the suggestion that an interesting English
teacher engaging her classes with stories might know some American
Indian tales and Greek myths and legends and 19th century Russian
delights.

"I need to return to the stories of my practice, there’s
material there I could be tapping . . ." (GRR 33 Journal Letter,
February, 1987). Class incidents of my secondary school English and
history teaching brought life to our proceedings which I expected
would have come from a shared love of literature. I shared these
stories to provide a wider perspective on teaching practice and
provide the chance to question me about my thinking as teacher. I
talked about Nick, a rather limited seventh grade English student,
with three purposes in mind. I wanted to exemplify imaginative ways
to teach composition. I was anxious to illuminate a common tension
in teaching between the needs of the individual and those of the
group and I wanted to provoke debate about my actions. In this
case, I had wheeled a rusty bicycle to the front of the room,
declaring it had been involved in a recent crime and the police

commissioner called on his top detective squad (my seventh-grade

82

English class) to look for clues and present a written description.
He offered a reward--a $20 raise--to the most helpful, most
carefully written description. I explained to the methods class
that these 17 students were far happier to do their composition work
if there were some spark of adventure in it.

Girls and boys were examining the bicycle or beginning to write
their report when Nick walked into class after Mr. Sweeney's
remedial English tutorial. I did not welcome Nick because he hated
to be noticed when late. I explained to the methods students that I
found Nick hard to read and hard to incorporate into this lively
class. Dan asked what Nick did with Mr. Sweeney and I explained
that in one lS-minute session Mr. Sweeney would help Nick work on an
exercise to help comprehension and writing skills but as I told Dan
I did not really see the difference in his work. Mr. Sweeney and I
kept in touch informally at morning tea about Nick's progress and it
troubled me that I did not know more about remedial work or how to
decide what parts of my work to give to Nick. Penny was amazed I
could be so vague.

In thinking about Nick, I revealed the teacher not always
knowing what to do, I saw myself coping, struggling, and
experimenting with ambiguity. My students imagined an assured
confident, direct person who would see things clearly and always
know what to do. The case gave me an excellent chance to show that
although I stressed the importance of subject matter knowledge and

pedagogical creativity, the child himself is unpredictable.

83

Returning to the case, Nick suddenly cried out angrily, ran to
the front of the room, slammed the bicycle to the floor and kept
.running into my arms. I drew my methods students attention to
tension I felt between looking after Nick and calming a startled
group of seventh graders on the verge of giggling. ”What would you
do?” I asked, giving in to pleas to finish the story first.

In the story, I hugged Nick until his sobbing subsided then
negotiated with pupils to return to work while I took Nick outside
to counsel him. I explained though risky to leave my class I was
focussed on Nick. Nick's frustrations flowed freely revealing some
of his emotional distress for his father was dead, mother thought he
should stay in school and his temper.

But what were my responsibilities? I had been teaching 14
years but I was not a counsellor. Did Nick need professional help?
This question provoked debate from the methods students. It was the
sort of debate I hoped for, showing the teacher's role is not always
clear. There is more to teaching than controlling the class and
telling pupils what they need to know. Judy saw what I did with
Nick to be the teacher's real role, more significant than academics.
Penny concluded Nick needed to learn to behave properly: the
teacher's responsibility was to punish him and insist on
improvement. Penny wondered if there were difficulties with my
imaginative method disturbing Nick's routine. And Dan was already
wondering, ”How can I control children with emotional.
difficulties--can I send them out of class?“ (Dan, Journal Letter,

April 6, 1987).

84

Some case studies from my practice really puzzled my methods
class in what I hoped were educative ways. I shared with them, for
example, the story of my affluent year-ll American history class
which resisted me with growing intensity over the academic year. It
was a story of professional failure and personal anguish, failure to
win pupils to be engaged in subject matter, and a failure to
establish a learning community or to effect a decisive intervention
against the resistance. Dan appreciated my candor. ”She really
wrote this, felt like this, is willing to share it” (Dan, Journal
Letter, March 12, 1987).

But my purpose was to illuminate how crippling student
resistance can be. These American history students were extremely
rude. I explained that I let pupils force down the quality of the
work from analytical essays to text-driven exercises. Few students
in the class were willing to do more than the minimal work. I
explained how my teaching became less imaginative and finally
uncaring. I thought later Jane's story, authentic as it was, might
have been too unbelievable. I asked Penny, Judy, and Dan what I
could have done differently. What steps could I have taken to raise
enthusiasm? But they were distracted by the fear of resistance and
my unexpected ineptitude.

I hoped students would embrace that in all teaching the teacher
is dependent on the pupils for success. I admitted I was dependent
on Jane's cooperation but our methods discussion slid over this
thought. Penny had no intention of ever being dependent on pupils

for she would be in control. Dan thought the dependency my

85

irresponsibility and Judy kept insisting that I should have made
more attempts with authority and conviction to understand Jane. I
could see from these responses I did not act in the story the way my
trio thought teachers act. While my students may not have grasped
points I intended about the power of resistance, the critical
relationship with pupils for quality learning, and teacher
dependency on pupils, they did debate my management of this case
trying to support their views. For that reason, I was happy with
the response (GRR 37 Journal Letter, March, 1987).

Throughout different sections of the English methods class
students found it hard to accept that grading could be flexible,
that different types of grading might be valuable for particular
children, or that group work might be evaluated using different
criteria. In conjunction with Lorber and Pierce's useful work on
various ways to evaluate performance in secondary school subjects, I
specifically addressed these doubts with a story about grading a
student's many disparate extra essays in the attempt to succeed in
an external examination (GRR 40 Journal Letter, April 11, 1987).

Anthony Drimwade was a senior student committed to success in
an external year-12 matriculation examination. He was a weak
academic prospect, twin to a bright brother and a thoroughly nice
person. He was striving not for university entrance but a decent
job. I taught him Australian history which was a demanding
analytical course. I explained to the methods class that Anthony,
knowing his chances were borderline, took the initiative to find me

and talk more about his work. I was immediately responsive. I

86

taught in a large co-educational boarding school living on the
premises so Anthony became my frequent Saturday afternoon gardening
companion.

He needed to be able to write four analytical essays well
supported by narrative material in the three-hour external
examination. Anthony knew his limited analytical capacity but was
not discouraged. I wanted students to think about students'
abilities to know their limitations as a useful pedagogical tool and
take this opportunity to explore potential, ability, and disability.
In the case, we continued our talks and walks about content (simply
attempts to help Anthony remember key events). Amazed by any
deviation from their experience, students could not accept he could
not memorize.

Directed by his own sense of urgency, Anthony began to write
extra essays for additional practice which I read and quickly
returned. Should I give these essays a passing grade? I admitted,
despite my students' disbelief, the more I read them the less I
could discriminate their standard. I had to convince students of my
tension and confusion. Animated discussion broke out among students
who still perceived the teacher's grading as the most secure part of
teaching. Dan felt cheated that there could be indecision over
grading for that was one of his chief intended means of disciplining
the class. ”Surely the teacher has control of the grade?” Dan
‘worried my indecision meant I had lost control as teacher. I told
the class I felt torn at the time between my responsibilities for

accurate grading to other class members and the system and.my guess

87

that if Anthony could stay hopeful and determined he might pass. My
reconstruction of that tension was authentic. To fail all
Drimwade's essays could be needlessly destructive. I decided to
pass one now and again keeping Anthony's hope alive at the expense
of my grading integrity. Angling for as much dissection of the
story as possible I asked, ”What would you do?” Penny declared,
"Grades must be meticulously honest for grading (apart from
preparing presentations) was the teacher's most important task"
(Penny, April 13, 1987).

Characteristically, she looked to retaining the teacher's
authority as more important than addressing Anthony's difficulty.
This gave me another opportunity to focus on the pupil with Penny
rather than the teacher's performance. I was able to direct more
questions to her. ”What did I want to help Anthony achieve?“ "Would
my deceit help?” "Was it deceit?“ Judy thought Anthony's self
confidence would make or break him. ”You should have given him
false grades if that made him more cheerful" (Judy April 13).

Penny denied the justice of this compromise. Dan's objection
was clear, “How would I feel if I realized the teacher was not
honest with our grades? He could lose self respect, and respect for
the teacher" (Dan, April 13, 1987).

Students engaged in the intellectual pedagogical puzzle
seriously looking at Anthony's perspective, then mine and other
class members. There seemed no clear resolution. No-one wondered
why this student could not write essays or why I was not doing more

to help Anthony with that problem. It intrigued and alarmed me that

88

attention did not swing from assessment to the other mystery of why
Anthony could not succeed or could not learn. I interpreted this
meant grading was more easily imagined than sitting with Anthony
trying to work out what to do. Dan worried I still felt uncertain
about Anthony's case after years of experience. Was Dan beginning
.to understand uncertainty and the confusion that could follow? I
explained I tried everything I knew but Anthony had poor analytical
powers and descriptive writing that wandered from the point.
Writing more essays might not necessarily help. My incident from
practice supplemented Lorber and Pierce and helped me address my
intentions, ”I want them to feel their expertise as well as their
uncertainty. I want them to know that mixture of certainty and
uncertainty will be theirs in this profession” (GRR 37 Journal
Letter, March 1987).

I liked to share stories of personal vulnerability to classroom
dilemmas. My brush with Julian Twitchell was a good case in point
illustrating dilemmas over gender, ability, and the tension between
the individual and the group. A lanky, long-haired tenth grader
Julian drove me to despair because he was surly, disinterested,
uncooperative, silent, and unappreciative. I tried to be personable
and involve him in class discussion but I explained to the methods
class Julian's lack of grooming and surliness prejudiced me against
him. I grew to dislike him and I wrote him off as a serious
student. Compassionate Judy could hardly look at me. Near the end
of the year I set an assignment asking pupils to represent what we

had been learning in imaginative ways. Julian came to life. He

89

used a chess set to depict the Inter War Period in Europe and his
presentation was more intellectually substantial than other
students. At last I had effectively engaged and tapped his
sensitivity. 0r had he learned in spite of me?

Julian's story had many of the elements I was trying to stress
with my methods students. It exemplified the prejudices we take
with us into classrooms (prejudices that can prompt injustice,
provoke resistance and prevent learning). How might we deal with
individual differences and our own prejudice? Dan, terrified of
city folk, wondered how that would effect him. I wondered about my
students working with minorities. Instances of practice helped our
work become more specific. Since the stories were true and still
intriguing me, they could authentically expand with student
questioning or fold from lack of interest. They captured the
realities that teaching was uncertain and reciprocal: pupils were
mysterious. They also helped us thread together new understandings.
Julian's ability, my tension in grading with Anthony, my methods
students' high school experience, our in class writings, our
readings of Lampert, Dewey, and Lorber and Pierce, and our work

planning lessons and units could be interrelated.

-- e a

I proceeded in class on April 1, 1987, to help my prospective
English teachers develop a richer appreciation of drama teaching. I
expected our work with themes in poetry, novel, short story, and our

methods for developing character sketches and analysis of the stages

90

of the plot would help us broach teaching drama with more precision.
A key difficulty would be to gain adolescents' attention for in my
experience pupils can be more resistant to drama than other literary
forms.

Drama had specific opportunities for participation, enjoyment,
and learning. Penny could see the point of analyzing Macbeth but
none of my students visualized what I thought critical--being able
to empathize with the King's inner turmoil, thinking of ways to take
pupils there as if learning were like a journey into the unknown. I
was troubled my students had not experienced drama's access to the
human spirit. I saw Macbeth's inner turmoil as an intellectual
chance to analyze anger, ambition, and grief as classroom fare.
Teaching drama was congruent with one of my intentions that pupils
taught by these prospective teachers should develop powers of
inquiry sufficiently subtle to confront human relations and tragedy.
I valued tension in human relations in literature (for example
between Macbeth and Lady Macbeth) as service to young people
grappling with human relations while my prospective teachers wanted
to reduce the work to the plot. ”Students will resist thisf-we_
should stick to plot like we did with the novel” (Dan).

My opening strategy focussed on objectives for children
learning drama. I talked of comprehension and analytical skills.
Penny wanted to develop pupils' imagination to empathize with
characters. Dan talked about the way we would.want pupils to follow
the themes, the plot, and the characters at the same time. We

established a schema for doing so. Then we set out to practice a

91

variety of written exercises which Judy resisted as too much
pressure--she wanted one basic style of written work which she could
feel comfortable grading. I criticized that as a false economy.

I wanted students to take upper level pupils into the heart of
the piece, its internal conflicts, because drama provided an
excellent chance to refine inquiry--to learn to interpret and
support that interpretation. I was intending my students would see
the connection between tensions in literature and the skills of
argument we discussed developing expression exercises. To work on
that awareness we wrote a paragraph on the tensions in Macbeth, then
figured out how we might help pupils do so. For example, we made a
list of the stressful events in the play, noted how each one
effected the character thus building the paragraph. That was the
sort of knowledge I looked for and tried to cultivate in prospective
teachers considering teaching drama and dreaming up their own ways
to teach it. I wanted school pupils to cultivate critical and
reflective stances to the tragedy. Judy fidgetted with all this
seriousness, discarding the analysis, seemingly excluding
unnecessary thought argued, ”As long as pupils feel comfortable
acting out the plot (possibly dressing up) that's fine."

I kept trying to change student attitudes because I knew school
pupils need to be enticed. I wanted my students to have something
powerful to offer. I set the assignment for the next class "Please
prepare a list of strategies suitable for working with drama--

especially directed at enhancing pupils' appreciation.“ I wanted to

92

guide students to focus on capturing pupils' commitment to studying
drama.

Next class, students came prepared with only one strategy each
when I had called for a list of alternatives. They expected, I
think, that I would teach them what they needed to know and felt
sure that in teaching one idea would suffice. Half completing the
assignment suggested resistance. Penny suggested pupils should be
encouraged to read the play from a certain character's perspective.
We discussed the craft in that idea. Dan thought pupils should
prepare a plot outline. I registered my disapproval that this could
only be a beginning. Judy's class would write characterizations of
the players from the dramatist's perspective. I liked that idea but
wondered if it were too hard for the grade level. Not satisfied
that students had worked hard to create a list of strategies I
therefore set a piece of reflective writing in class on ”How can.we
foster pupil engagement when teaching Macbeth to year eleven?” We
each sat quietly and figured out our paragraph or two writing on the
same puzzle, then justified our planning and shared our concerns.
Students were less dependent and I was less aggressive. “I've never
seen a teacher write like this in class. I wonder what would happen
to discipline?” (Dan, Journal Letter, March 20,1987.

I wanted us to think and write about specific daily decisions
that teachers would make. I wanted to build skill in thinking out
the elements of the piece of teaching. I wanted students to enjoy
alternatives. Here we faced decisions about teaching Macbeth to

quite senior students in rural communities. We could assume some

93

might be college-bound but most would not. Interested in drama, Dan
planned some acting competitions which engaged pupils in selecting
most powerful scenes and acting them out in small groups. Penny
thought translating particular passages would help students
understand the plot. Pupils could in class agree on most
significant passages in the action and build up a version of the
story in their own words.

I wrote about the internal tensions in the play by developing a
comparison between the characters and forces in the play and their
lives in this small rural town. My writing was not serendipitous.

I stressed creative writing often depends on inner turmoil and that
we and our pupils have lives and feelings to be tapped. We analyzed
exactly what Dan had in mind for his pupils and why Penny's approach
was so different. Judy refused to share--an option I allowed. I
came away sensing students listened to my ideas with considerable
interest as ghe sort 9f thing I wonlg g9 but they needed something
else. Judy's comment supported this fear, or was their resistance
in her tone? Did Judy feel I pushed her further than she wanted to
go? "After all-~we haven't got your years of experience” (Judy,

Journal Letter, April 15, 1987).

WWW
Floden and Clark (1978) left me with a significant warning and

charge for balance. Teacher educators should probably be moderate
11) their efforts to raise teachers' awareness of uncertainty. I

'planted the idea in our conversation that students would need to

94

sustain intellectual contradictions and manage classroom dilemmas
(Berlak & Berlak, 1981; Lampert, 1985). Berlak and Berlak isolate
l6 dilemmas relating the daily problems of schooling to the social
and political problems of society and Lampert takes us inside the
mind of a fifth-grade teacher confronting specific dilemmas. I held
the Berlak dilemmas in my mind as we worked through specific
instances of practice and as we puzzled over strategies of planning
time and resources while paying attention to different pupils.
Berlak and Berlak provoked my understanding but I was able to give
Lampert to my students as evidence of dilemmas in a teacher's mind
as she works with pupils.

As we studied Lampert, ”Students did not anticipate choosing
among alternatives so they shied away from Lampert's dilemmas and I
was expected to drill them in the right practices to adopt" (GRR 38
Journal Letter, 1987). Dan in his Journal Letter supports my
interpretation. ”I don't want alternatives in teaching. I want to
know how to direct things my way" (Dan, Journal Letter, February 16,
1987). In fact Dan hoped for an easier way. "I want to teach the
way Gem does. She stays herself" (Dan, April 29, 1987).

‘ But Penny took to Lampert and reinforced the message that .
teachers will live with internal conflicts. I supported Penny's
discussion with examples of uncertainty in the case studies from my
practice but I felt deep resistance from Dan and Judy both of whom
were first generation college students looking for certitudes in
both ideas and actions. I felt troubled by Judy's depression these

discussions produced. I could tell the point had not been finely

 

95

made but I couldn't think what to do. She concluded, ”Sometimes I
left class depressed because I felt that my job as a teacher was
going to be very impossible" (Judy, Final Journal Letter, May 1,

1987).

Qld Assumptions Reannea; in Stugent Ennn Resngnggs

Realizing I had been far from successful in clarifying a common
view of an exciting, demanding knowledge and pedagogy needed for
teaching, I decided to stitch into my final peer process examination
a necessity to address n1 view of knowledge.

I have tried to encourage a ngnfggginnnl

identification with the teacher's role. I have asked

students to write as members of faculty or as

practising teachers reporting to a college professor.

(GRR 48 Journal Letter, April 1987)
Over three weeks, I asked students to examine problems they might
face teaching an eighth grade English class next fall. They were
directed to write about their educational philosophy, their choices
of content, their attempts to make teaching and learning engaging,
their plans for dealing with disengaged, talented, and limited
students, and their imaginative revision procedures. My hopes ran
high but a little romantically so. ”The final examination is like a
dinner party before we assemble for foreign lands. The questions
need to be pertinent and possible but accommodating the enigmas of
the class” (GRR 48 Journal Letter, April 5, 1987). This was the
main question.

You have been assigned a tenth grade class in
English literature. Write to your university professor

explaining your preparations to teach that class. You
will remember that the professor will be curious to

96

know what you can establish about the naive knowledge

of this class, your objectives for the class (including

your plans for those better and weaker than average)

your instructional goals in the various aspects of the

literature you will address, your prospective

strategies, your teaching philosophy, your methods of

assessment and your views of particular needs of '

adolescents and possible interactions between adult and
adolescents that would foster learning. (EN 409, Final

Examination, May 1987)

The rest of the exam consisted of short questions on the use of
classroom space, the definition of teaching as conversation, and the
role of praise and punishment in learning. Another section asked
students to explain the latest theories of teaching writing to a
faculty meeting. Finally, I called for a review of two pieces of
course literature on teaching strategies. After reading the
question, Penny declared, ”I am going to use this as a model”
(Penny, Conversation, April 17, 1987). I wanted in this exam to
lead students to debate my view of knowledge by giving room for
students to stop relying on factual knowledge and embrace
transformation, uncertainty and dilemmas in teaching. I required
students to address their philosophy of teaching as well as
strategies. I imposed the puzzle about individual and group needs
and the fact that teaching strategies must reflect adolescents'
characteristics. Students exchanged typed drafts of the complete
response on a set date then I read the next draft before the final
submission. My system attempted to model a cooperative, analytical
examination maximizing the benefits of revision. Students, however,

have time-honored ways of skirting such intentions. But Penny

seemed to approve of my handiwork.

97

I thought the test was beautifully constructed.
Through writing this test I learned a great deal about
myself as an educator. I found that Dan generally
needed to be more concrete in his examples. As I read
Dan's paper I found myself reflecting on my own. I
think I may have expected him to be as specific as I
was: perhaps I was looking in his paper for what I put
in mine. I also found some new ideas that I didn't
touch. (Penny, Journal Letter, April 30, 1987)

Dan and Penny swapped papers for the peer review in my office.
I watched them readily accommodating each other's ideas and become
more questioning. Even in this success Penny and Dan had hardly
changed their attitude to the sort of knowledge teachers need, but
this examination style gave me the chance to comment on the draft
and try once more to change students' minds. I told Penny:

This is in good shape. I would like you, however,
in the final draft to be more provocative with
yourself. I would like more attention to the lively
tensions in teaching in part A. Take what you have
here as a conversation with yourself. Indicate other
ways of looking at things. What do you think of
prescribed texts? What strategies might you use in
class to disguise any resistance ynn might have? Try
to see teaching as work as well as enthusiastically
getting students on side. Tell me how you will know
that you are successful.' (GRR to Penny, April 30,
1987)

I told Dan, Penny had been very careful with her margin
comments on his paper and where she asked questions that confused

him he could argue that some matters still puzzle him for certain

reasons .

Then try to explore some possibilities. You do
not have to have all the answers in some definitive
way. Pedagogy is about thinking things through.
Different classes need different responses from the
teacher for exactly the same end. (GRR to Dan, April
30, 1987)

98

Judy seemed lost. She confessed no intellectual patience with
drafts or rewriting and balked even at swapping drafts (failing to
meet the deadline). She wanted, I think, to play this exam in
controllable factual ways as she did others. She focused not on
subject matter in her response but on the need to create an
emotional climate Suitable for learning. She chose to write solely
about the disadvantaged lower class pupil. She made no use of our
discussions in class on the value of the short story or other
literature as a window on life. Her passionate intention to teach
without attention to content (knowledge hardly matters) demonstrates
entrenched assumptions despite methods instruction. She wrote
passionately but without perspective.

Short stories we will read in class because they

need help with words . . . I will always be there for

them. I would take extra time to write on their papers

words of encouragement to help them along. If I have

one success it will be worth it. (Judy, Exam, May 12,

1987)

Little happened to Judy in this class.
In order to teach a less able class a teacher

needs more compassion, more energy, more understanding,

more patience and more interaction in the classroom. I

care most about these kids because I can relate to

them. I know that students in average and accelerated

classrooms have problems too but I am not ashamed to

admit that I am more interested in the students in the

lower level classes. I can feel for them because of

their problems related to family and socio economic

backgrounds. I believe in each and every one of them.

I'll be there to help them along the way. (Judy, Final

Exam Script, May 12, 1987)

My examination intentions were to encourage students to debate

the nature of knowledge in.my terms and.work out ways to engage and

teach a wide variety of pupils. I have selected this piece of

99

Judy's work for its implication that teaching deals solely with
socio-economic difficulties. Although I would not deny the
importance of that, it was not the focus of this methods course and
this examination. Judy had consistently filtered parts of the
discussions that seemed to enhance her perspective rather than
accept responsibilities for directing, enhancing, or engaging all
pupils' learning. Certainly she remains a passionate prospective
teacher out to achieve in schools but she has not accepted the need
for disciplined preparation of subject matter knowledge nor has she
realistically accepted the difficulties of the classroom: the
uncertainty, diversity, and internal contradictions. Her work was
'uneven but there were moments of hope such as this approach to
writing.

For writing I would try some process writing and
some individual writing. I would like to use debates
on different topics. For example, I could put this
question to them, "Should capital punishment be used in
prisons?“ The class would divide up with the students
who thought yes on one side and those who thought no on
the other. As groups they would do class research with
my help. They would prepare questions to ask the
second group. Sometime students would have to defend a
side they did not believe. This would really get them
to thinking. (Judy, Final Examination Script, May 12,
1987)

In my letter to Judy, I was more than generous with a draft
that lacked teeth.

You begin to deal with the issues we talked about
in class. At the beginning of part A. I suggest you
introduce some of your doubts and confusions about
teaching, and your sense of mission with weaker
students. Here is a chance to think some of that
through once more. All your wondering about yourself
is part of teacher preparation and important at that.
I will be keen to read your final draft. (GRR Letter
to Judy, April 30 1987)

100

Do I too avoid the real issues? Were they not quite visible to
me? It is true I believed Judy had had a helpful semester in
sorting out some family and socio-economic class pressures. I
seriously meant that development would help create a better teacher
but it seems remiss that I did not give specific guidance which
issues she must still deal with, for example, subject-matter
knowledge. Judy still believed that only children of low
socio-economic origin needed to be taught. She needed to accept the
challenge that all children, however talented, need to be taught.
She needed to accept that ambiguity and uncertainty in teaching are
natural. She needed to learn how to respond to students' ideas as
well as feelings in written work. She taught me my work needed to
be more specifically directed, all discussion and observation
requirements had to be refined and tailored to the puzzles of the
course. Penny's last word was a little more reassuring.

I would like to thank you for the wonderful exam

you issued . . . it forced me to think critically
about the teaching profession and what my
responsibility is . . . I have come to realize how

complex a teacher's job is. It goes beyond standing in

front of class and telling students what they need to

know. (Penny, Final Journal Letter, May I, 1987)

My colleagues in teacher education would hardly be surprised at
my uneven victories. McDiarmid (1990) writes, “As an educator of
beginning teacher education students, I have become familiar with a
web of beliefs that the . . . students bring with them to teacher
education courses” (p. 3).

McDiarmid explains students assumed, for example, that teachers

should protect children from confusion and that children are not

101

capable of figuring things out for themselves. If children fail it
is their fault. Learning means committing to memory and learning
depends on practice. Working with Penny, Judy, and Dan I grappled
with three prospective teachers' sets of beliefs hitting hard

against the subtlety of my trade.

How C ruen Was bservat o t S hoo s

with Secondagy English hethodsz

Wanting students to reach into the teacher's mind, I set
assignments to guide 40 hours' observation of the relationship
between the teacher, content, strategy, and pupils. I visited the
schools observing the same teaching my students watched and then
reconstructing my version on the blackboard. I encouraged students
to describe what they saw and together we tried to learn how to
interpret these observations. Was there a chance that the
mechanical, teacher-centered, uncreative view of teaching be
trounced once and for all? Would Penny, Judy, and Dan now see
teacher-student, and student-student interaction, student
contributions to the agenda, imagination and inquiry in action?
Where I had hoped for interaction, inquiry, and intellectual
excitement, Dan and Judy observed teaching reminiscent of their high
school experience. Rather than incite enthusiasm for what I had to
say observation reinforced preconceptions.

Penny fell in love with Miss T, a flawless performer, an
example of Penny's ambition. Learning many helpful approaches for"
organizing work and being systematic Penny did not notice ambiguity

in Miss T's juggle of subject matter, method, and pupils in teaching

102

English in a depressed (anti-intellectual) rural setting. Penny
only had eyes for her idol. Pupils remained unseen. Her crush made
criticism unpalatable. Miss T, an experienced, witty, lively
practitioner, accepted my invitation to meet for a session with the
methods class at the college on May 11. Miss T was competent and
hard-headed, knowledgeable about English literature and grammar and
caring. She distributed examples of successful written assignments,
speaking to their strengths and weaknesses and making the point that
the best teachers keep questioning what they use. I was delighted
to hear this emphasis but students were still unconvinced so much
thought should go into teaching. She addressed the school's
political context and the barriers the young adventurous teacher
might meet with examples of pupils' resistance to content, to
herself, or to school. I knew that my three students did not see
themselves as adventurous teachers. They were still looking for
procedures and routines and Dan and Judy seemed not to know how to
tap Miss T's wit. Also Dan and Judy, resentful that their
cooperating teachers did not favorably compare, chose to feel
intimidated and cross rather than curious. As Penny preened with
delight, Dan and Judy were surly with envy. Miss T and I faced
student rivalries in the way of our purposes (GRR 48 Journal Letter,
1987).

Penny, in this love affair, refigured her observation
experience (as McDiarmid argues she would) to support her initial
belief that teaching and performance were synonymous. I insert two

pieces of evidence in support of this insight. In the first, Penny

103

describes Miss T in operation and in the other she reflects on her

own teaching under Miss T's supervision.

and,

Her accelerated junior English class this year is
less open and more hesitant to freely discuss issues
and stories aloud. She really has to work at drawing
responses out of the students which is unusual. BUT
SHE DOESN'T LET THIS SPOIL HER APPROACH. She still
uses class discussions, but she works to ask the right
question which make the students think, and I CAN LOOK
IN THEIR EYES AND SEE THAT THEY ARE REFLECTING. Even
if they don't always open up--at least they are
thinking about their feelings. (Penny, April 9, 1987)

One specific method I like is something she uses
in the composition class. She has a file in the back
of the room in which she retains all the papers the
pupils write. The file is an available source to check
progress. Essays can be redone. Another thing Miss T
does that I really admire is grade everything. This
takes time but she feels that responsibility.

These citations are good examples of the glowing romantic view

with which Penny consistently viewed Miss T's work. The line most

revealing to me is the suggestion the teacher should not allow

student behavior to spoil her approach-~her critical performance.

And reporting on the joys of her own performance, Penny writes:

My experience was wonderful today. I had the
students name some topics or issues in the community,
school or world that influence them. Could we write
about them? What might be the difficulties? Miss T
was pleased how the class went. She said that I looked
really relaxed. I did feel comfortable. I sense that
I had the students' attention. I asked questions and
they replied. The students were responsive and seemed
comfortable with me. I can see where I might change
some things but I believe my experience was successful.
I have the trust and the respect of these students. I
enjoy that feeling. (Penny, April 9, 1987)

104

Judy spent her 40 observation hours stewing over injustices
spotted in Mrs. D's class reinforcing her interest in compassion at
the expense of noticing content or strategy.

I noticed several occasions where Mrs. D really
hurt students' feelings because she cut down their
answers. I don't like the way she poses questions in
the class. She rarely called on anyone by name, so the
same people answered. I want more participation than I
have seen here. I do not want to teach like Mrs. D.
She does not relate to students. She sets too much
work to be done in pupils' time. (Judy, Journal
Letter, April 4, 1987)

And a week later:

Mrs. D often seems to not have any objectives
except just to get through the class as fast as
smoothly as possible--with as little conflict and as
little interaction as possible. She needs to think
more about the questions she asks if she wants them to
think. I can see why Mrs. D had fallen into the trap
of teaching the way she does. It's safe (it's boring)
I think she feels she is a failure as a teacher and
because of this she lays it all on the students--saying
all sort of things about them such that they don't want

to learn . . . I want to be involved with my students.
I want to care for them but I ggn'g wnn; 52 gg
WWW. (Judy.

April 12, 1987)

Dan's observation was limited by shyness. He refused to teach
despite a kind offer from the collaborating teacher. I was
fascinated that he felt more like a pupil (aged 24) than observer
and wondered how I might have better prepared him.

I wore a tie. I left it on because my teacher

seemed dressed up. I felt like a pupil in the class

not an observer . . . I made it clear I did not want

to teach. (Dan Observation Report, February 18, 1987)

He became more curious and saw problems of practice but had no

nerve to raise them with Mrs. J but became more alert to the

relationship between Mrs. J and her pupils.

105

I can also tell that Mrs. J likes to teach and

cares for her pupils. I can tell this by the way she

looks at them and the tone of voice she uses when she

has a personal or social conversation with them. It's

a different tone from her teaching tone. (Dan, May 4,

1987)

He diligently brought me his notes kept in a discreet small
brown notebook but found it hard to make connections with quality
instruction, equality of access or pupil engagement. He had become
more thoughtful but he would need much more exposure to more
teachers with more guided reflection to consolidate his experience
and develop his new insights about teaching on various levels like
this one:

I feel like a student not an observer, the class

was controlled from behind the teacher's desk and I

wonder why the quality of reading is so low . . . I

don't think Mrs. J is game to take on a full

interaction with pupils. (Dan, March 12, 1987)

As he explores the difficulty of observation:

I was hardly ever able to identify the information we

talked about in class during my observation time at the

high school. Mrs. J only asked direct questions and in

forty hours I must have heard only ten words of praise.

(Dan, Final Journal Letter, May 2, 1987)

He met with me frequently describing the disengaged pupils,
boring content, and dreary instruction he witnessed. He deduced
there was so much poor teaching that good teaching must be hard to
do. Dan kept asking questions. He seemed on the brink of deeper
understandings but stuck by the limited mobility his factual
orientation to knowledge and the teacher's work allowed. '. . . I
feel like I want to be able to think for myself--to understand
teaching how I understand it . . .' (Dan, February 12, 1987). And I

remained puzzled. ”I do not know how good students can be at

106

observing. Experts also seem unsure. I have resolved to keep
experimenting and puzzling" (GRR 48 Journal Letter, 1987).

I was generally disappointed that observation in schools
reinforced student preconceptions of classroom life and the
teacher's work. I wanted students to see imaginative teaching,
group work, and inquiry in classrooms but the teaching was mostly
average. Despite the fact that students completed a 40-hour round
of observation in the local high school, the observation reports
revealed students did not know what to look for. They could not
appreciate the integration of the elements we worked on in the
teaching act. So Judy settled to judge the classroom emotional
climate. Penny adored Miss T and Dan knew something was missing.
Observation seemed to support factual knowledge and unenlightened
pedagogy. I record another dilemma. ”It is impossible to explain
the pressures of classroom life. It is hard to share with Judy that
one hardly ever does as well as one hopes. Should I defend Mrs. D's

short cuts?” (GRR 48 Journal Letter, May 1987).

mm

In teaching secondary English methods, I tried to redefine
knowledge and pedagogy for Penny, Judy, and Dan. I misjudged the
power of prior convictions and the discomfort of intellectual
dissonance. I sensed some success in questioning students'
assumptions when I asked them to teach and talk about their teaching
but problems of subject matter knowledge and vision about its power

arose when I wanted to develop strategies for teaching literature.

107

Toward the end I tackled uncertainty in teaching. Progress was
uneven as students became anxious. My students were not wilfully
careless about teacher preparation but these leaps of understanding
were possibly too much to expect, hope for, even work for in a 16-
week period. The pity of the matter was that that secondary English
methods was the only methods course offered these candidates prior

to secondary school teaching.

CHAPTER IV

THEORY AND PRACTICE

Men

In March, 1992, at Michigan State University, Bill McDiarmid
and I puzzled about my experiences and the relationship between
theory and practice for the teacher educator. We spoke of my work
in introduction to educational psychology, including a compulsory
laboratory experience in Dustfield district schools where I led nine
first-generation college sophomores from relatively weak high school
backgrounds through the writings of Pavlov, Bloom, Skinner, Ausebel,
Bruner, Rogers, Piaget, and Kohlberg. Since I simultaneously
directed 13 three-hour observation visits in three elementary and
secondary schools, introduction to educational psychology ostensibly
combined theory and practice.

We referred to my dissatisfaction with the State Board of
Illinois' requirement that my 16 students in the education of the
exceptional child should simply know listed characteristics of
exceptionalities (learning disabled, mentally handicapped,
emotionally impaired, auditorially impaired, visually impaired,
behavior disordered, abused and neglected, and gifted and talented)
for I saw room for a deeper conversation about human needs and a

responsibility to establish hope in classrooms.

108

109

In both courses, in the spring semester, 1987, I uncovered our
joint nervousness about theoretical writing and thinking. Impatient
with digging for depth, my students and I preferred to skim the
surface, finding solace in drifting from theory to practice wherever
possible. Student assumptions about knowledge and learning to teach
were less at odds with mine than in previous chapters but all was
not bliss. With certain pieces of subject matter (behavior disorder
and the mentally retarded), students' assumptions of our work became
less constructive in frustrating ways. I resolved:

I am adamant my new teachers should see the

enormity of the loss in handicaps of various kinds-~how

else could they grasp and accept the child and parents'

pain? Teachers should keep hope alive and respect

courage. I think it important to help students
understand the different characteristics of

exceptionality but I do not Ehink that enough. (GRR 33

Journal Letter, January, 1987)

With this class, my idea of theoretical knowledge had shifted from
psychological theories of cognition and behavior to theories of
loss, tolerance, and diversity in classrooms and students became
willing to embrace some but not all of these.

Continuing our analysis, McDiarmid and I thought both theory
and practice are variously interpreted; for example, sometimes all
college work is theory and anything in the field is practice. I had
an intuitive response in my thinking as novice teacher educator that
integration of opposites was always better than their division.
Hence in teaching methods classes, I struggled to unite pedagogy and
content. In teaching the introduction to educational psychology and

the associated practicum I sought integration of theory and practice

as two kinds of doing, thinking, or knowing but I stumbled on

110

complications. My knowledge of the psychological actors had
filtered through general education rather than formal study. I had
not called on them in 15 years of successful teaching and I
seriously wondered about their claim. Were there not other ways to
think about the wonders, intricacies, and eccentricities of human
development that might be more helpful for teaching candidates?
Suppressing this observation at the time I tried to do what looked

like my job seeking help from Dewey and James.

Dewey's What Psychology Can 20 for the Iggghe: (1895) and Ihg
Wm (1904) highlight three

main points relevant to teacher education practice in these courses
about psychology and learning and emotional disabilities. Dewey,
hesitating to separate theory from practice, stresses teaching
practice should be grounded in ethical and philosophical principles
because of their indirect value, forming habits of mind (using
native skill) because they will help perfect experience with least
time and energy and create a standard to test suggested methods.

We may say that the teacher requires a sound
knowledge of ethical and psychological principles--
first, because such knowledge, besides its indirect
value as forming logical habits of mind, is necessary
to secure the full use of native skill; secondly,
because it is necessary in order to attain a perfected
experience with the least expenditure of time and
energy; and thirdly, in order that the educator may not
be at the mercy of every sort of doctrine and device,
but may have his own standard by which to test the many
methods and expedients constantly urged upon him,
selecting those which stand the test and rejecting
those which do not, no matter by what authority or
influence they may be supported. (p. 202)

111

Firm about observation's possibilities and difficulties Dewey
argued observation should be addressed on psychological not
practical grounds avoiding inignginn by seeing what is going on in
5hg_n1ng§ of others observing how teacher and pupils react upon each
other--how mind answers mind.

Observation should at first be conducted from the
psychological rather than the practical standpoint. If
the latter is emphasized before the student has an‘
independent command of the former, the principle of
imitation is sure to play an exaggerated part on the
observer's future teaching, and hence at the expense of

personal insight and initiative. Hha£_£hg_§§uggn§_mggs

eed a a e 0 wt e b 1 e
what 1g gging on in ghe minds of.n groun of negsons-nhg
te ectua conta w ot . He needs

to learn to gbserve nsychologically--a very different
thing from simply observing how a teacher gets ggng

Iggnlgg in presenting any particular subject. (Dewey,
1904, pp. 324-325)

James in W (1958) believed
”psychology ought . . . to give the teacher radical help” (p. 22).

James passionately argues the child was a behaving organism so
teachers must pay attention to interest, attention, habit, and the
association of ideas. James claimed we know in advance, if we are
psychologists, that certain methods will be wrong and we have been
saved from mistakes.
On the other hand, James continued.
I say moreover that you make a great, a very great
mistake, if you think that psychology, being the
science of the mind's laws, is something for which you
can deduce definite programs and schemes and methods of
instruction for immediate schoolroom use. (p. 23)
and further,
To know psychology therefore is absolutely no

guarantee that we shall be good teachers .
ingenuity in meeting and pursuing the pupil, that tact

112

for the concrete situation, though they are the alpha

and omega of the teacher's art, are things to which

psychology cannot help us in the least. (p. 24)

Integrating theory and practice, Dewey stresses the teacher's
need to have practice grounded in principles, to test methods, to
develop native skill and to perfect experience and observation
should be psychological (observing minds not results). James pushes
in almost contradictory ways. Theory will give radical help but
cannot determine classroom methods. My problem of practice was to
figure out what theory students need to know and how theory can be
related intelligently to practice? I thought theory and practice
would naturally be interwoven as students proceeded through the
program. I did not see them as the same (the way I accepted content
and method could be unified) but imagined them mediating each other
in student understanding. I found my constraints often tending to
prefer using practice to stimulate inquiry rather than theoretical
constructions. My view of teaching as an intellectual affair
prompted me to favor Dewey's emphasis on observing psychologically
but I hit obstacles.

My problem in the introduction to educational psychology and the
education of the exceptional child was to foster interest and
respect for helpful theoretical knowledge in learning to teach and
learning to help those especially disadvantaged. I explore in this.
chapter student resistant to theory and to my pedagogy. In Chapter
V, ”striving for authenticity“ resistance more often becomes
cooperation with pedagogy more in tune with Dewey's ”perfection of

experience“ and cultivated "habits of mind.”

113

W

Kendel, a special education major, not attracted to academic or
book learning, illustrates an extreme reaction to theoretical
knowledge among my introduction to educational psychology students.
Kendel declared theorists would make no difference in her work.

They had nothing to offer. "I don't think I will change the way I
deal with children . . . the way I communicate with them allows them
to grow but doesn't scare them because the concepts are not too far
ahead of them" (Kendel, Journal Letter, May 1, 1987). Kendel then
ignored any theoretical claim on her thinking supporting this view
by suggesting she needed to know less for her academically limited
clientele in special education. She needed to be concerned,
cheerful and patient and theories of learning would not help as
personality not book smarts formed the sort of teacher she wanted to
become. Despite this flamboyant retreat, however, Kendel still took
part in animated educational psychology classroom conversation.
Ignoring theory, she carelessly mixed classroom tales without
insight and stories about observation with personal sentiments like:
"Children seem eager to learn. "It will be a wonderful feeling when
I know I can make a difference in a child's life.” (February, 4,
1987).

I was silent in the face of this extreme view, allowing Kendel
to speak without reading and often it seemed without thinking when
these were both sacred canons for me. I was working hard to
establish conversation as a way of learning, tending to accept

participation as my standard rather than hard work. My teaching as

114

conversation explored in Chapter III of this work was under fire as
a romantic notion as such pratter filled spaces in class I struggled
to think about how to teach theory to students with a factual
orientation to knowledge and a practical view of teaching. I could
not simply insist Kendel told her stories while referring to the
text. I needed to teach her how that could be done. I did not have
that figured out and my days were consumed with many problems of
practice hard to place in order of priority. My silence stemmed not
from lack of courage but a form of paralysis with Kendel's
conviction theorists had nothing for her. Kendel held an extreme

view but how were other students responding?

We '

Both these theories (Piaget and Kohlberg) should
be taken with a grain of salt because every child is
different in their values, beliefs and intelligent
level. Even though the guides are good ones, educators
must remember that children are beings not statistics.
(Final Examination, May 14, 1987)

I saw Wendy in emotional flight from theory. For Wendy, Piaget
and Kohlberg were isolated folk on the edge of real children and
real classrooms and should be given little weight in thinking about
the child. She trusts what she sees as she interprets it.

The third row of five, faces with their right hand
side toward the blackboard. They can see all the other
students, the blackboard, the outside world through a
small window, and the class rules. This row is
constantly turning around to see what time it is.
Seeing the outside makes them think of recess which in
turn makes them wonder how many minutes it is until
then. (Wendy, Observation Report, March 3, 1987)

115

Wendy seemed unwilling to submit to disciplined inquiry yet I
did not intervene for I did not quite know how to tackle what seemed
to me an intricate web of perceptions about the world, thinking and

children involving long standing habits. Where would I begin?

' C 5

Chris compared with Kendel and Wendy made an effort to use his
understanding of the theory offered in the class. But Chris
floundered taking me with him. He seemed more competent dealing
with a specific idea like motivation rather than a whole theorist.
For example, claiming affinity with Bruner for the purpose of
gaining credit, Chris gave a peculiar interpretation of that author
at the end of the course: ”Discovery learning holds many things on
the way I think and teach. As a PE teacher I must give my children
a task to accomplish without making it hard and without getting
myself involved with the task“ (Final Exam script). Chris seemed
unable, unwilling, or ill-directed to go slowly looking at the words
digging for deeper meaning. He did not normally figure things out
so why should he now?

More jumbled words possibly disguise insight or remain no more
than jumbled words as Chris asserts, in his exam, children are
motivated (born) to learn. But “sometimes parents push too hard and
the child rebels so when the teacher tries to motivate the child he
is going to feel like a sandwich. The child will not learn if he
feels pushed from both sides." He ended this section of the final

paper in considerable confusion but at least he has tried to capture

116

what is happening in his head, ”Once the child gets older the need
to find his or her true self without ending up being someone else is
a type of motivation. Is it morality that is a motivation or is it
a mimic to get gratification? That remains to be answered" (Exam
script).

Chris spent 16 weeks in my classroom and in field experiences
yet finished in such confusion. I felt pressured by what I didn't
know in the theory and in strategies to teach both the theory and
its relation to practice. Chris's non-analytical construction of
knowledge and inability to look for the knowledge I thought teachers
need, meant he, like Kendel, needed to twist the conversation as
often as possible away from theoretical views to classroom stories
from their own and observation experience for self protection. My
reliance on students to be their own thinkers exacerbated our
difficulty encouraging the shift from theory to an apparently safer
practice.

Despite my growing awareness of what I wanted, my exam
questions failed to extract a finer response. Chris slid round his
responsibilities. Chris explained Piaget.

Piaget believed that if a child did not excel in

the class that he was stuck in one of his stages, such

as preoperation. At this level the child is trying to

develop reversibility or the law of conservation.

Let's take an example here: Johnny has trouble with

story problem in mathematics. His teacher sees him

failing and doesn't know why. He does fine on English

and Art; he does have a bit of trouble with reading but

that is nothing to worry about. Johnny always finished

his reading assignments. Now let's say that Johnny is

twelve years old. This is when the logical stage of

Piaget's theory comes into play. This stage is the

Propositional or Formal Operation stage. To Piaget the
child has not reached this stage of development and is

117

lacking in logical reasoning. The real reason is that

Johnny has Dyslexia. He sees letters backwards and has

trouble spelling. He is afraid of what is happening

and has accepted it. To Piaget, the child's mind is

not developed enough. (Exam script)

Should I be delighted? Chris has moved from Piaget's theory to
think how he would interpret a child in class. But the example is
extreme. Chris tried to place Piaget at the disadvantage rather
than fathom how the teacher might interpret the stage of
development. Nor is Chris's thinking about dyslexia properly
informed. Should I have presented case studies asking students to
figure out which theories could help the teacher and why? (GRR 55
Journal Letter, May, 1987). Was the real difficulty poor judgement

starting with the abstract before the specific?

MW

Student resistance to analytical reading, their view of
knowledge as information and their delight in being with children
prompted us to explore teaching rather than educational psychology.
I suggested to students unwillingness to read theoretical material:
"As you read, make it a practice to record confusing material or
concepts and raise these in class” (GRR 33 Journal Letter, February,
1987). A completely foreign suggestion was ignored for that
knowledge was not valued. I knew some readings would be tedious but
I thought students would realize how little they knew and be
prompted to try. Accustomed as they were in high school and college
to read for facts matching teacher expectations in a quiz, students

were not interested in exploring readings for ideas, precise

118

meanings, and connections of ideas. I decided to be encouraging

rather than bitter, urging students not to panic but to realize with

a mixture of study and use they would feel more control. I wrote:
Beginning to appreciate how foreign close textual

analysis was to everyone in the class I adopted an

encouraging tone--clear1y learning theory intimidated

students who were in fact ill equipped for the work. I

urged diligence and patience and the strength that

comes from learning together. (GRR 34 Journal Letter,

February, 1987)

On February 26, six weeks into the semester, I clarified how
uneasy my prospective teachers were with intellectual inquiry. A
small writing task illuminates my problem and individual student
responses. We were on the run from theory and muddling about. I
suggested we should all write for 20 minutes on Piaget, recording
what we understood. I struggled to help students have the
confidence to start then the class settled. I asked students to
swap papers and record other student's success. I came closer to
understanding student discomfort. Kendel began, ”Although I don't
understand Piaget, Gem gave orders to write” (March 1, 1987).
Appreciating the exercise, Patricia decided: "I know small things
but it would take years to understand this theorist but switching
papers was especially helpful. Once I started to write I could
hardly stop. I liked reading others' work and their comments on
mine” (Patricia March 1, 1987).

Wendy, however, troubled that Piaget's stage theory limited the
individual's chances in education, felt unhappy with student

responses to her writing.

By writing in class I am learning how to organize
my thoughts quick. I found out that if I write

119

confusions down on paper I can sometimes find an answer

to them. The other students comments on the papers we

swapped are nice but not very helpful. They all more

or less agreed with what I said so in turn I really

didn't learn anything new. No new ways of looking at

it or new concepts on it. (Wendy, March 2, 1987)

Tracy, a psychology major, argued Piaget was less significant
than personality theorists. Joyce wrote intelligently about the way
the theory might help teachers. Noreen wrote, ”After trying to
write on Piaget I could see how little I knew. This was an
excellent exercise to let me analyze my learning” (Noreen, March 2,
1987). Assuming students were intellectually like me, I thought
writing from memory would work for all. For Patricia it helped.
For Kendel and Wendy there seemed little benefit. Students seemed
both disinclined to enthuse over the theorists' words or adopt my
strategies for doing so. I summed up my impressions and
frustrations in my journal: ”Certainly as we now move on to
Kohlberg I do not have a group of confident Piaget scholars. Some
of this is lack of commitment to any theory but pushing more Piaget
just now seems,unwise” (GRR 37 Journal Letter, February, 1987).

Wanting to help student efforts furnish us with provocative
conversation about human development, I led a discussion with that
in mind on the gnnggn£12n_nf_;h§_gnnn_§gnghg1. Annette thought the
task helpful but could not work out why we did it. I was not alert
to my need to guide Annette's reflection in specific ways to make

tasks with my purpose educative or memorable to her. Chris was

fired up that other students held different views from his--ghgnnhg

mm.

120

Some make it sound like the teacher should be a

slave driver. . . . A few had it right--they commented

that a teacher had to be confident of himself caring,

dedicated, have potential, a guide, all of the things a

teacher should be. (GRR 34 Journal Letter, March 1987)

Unaccustomed to wondering about the conceptions of things or
the differentiation between good teaching and poor teaching students
wanted to flee from the task. 'I saw myself with " . . . the
authority of the teacher. We needed someone to legitimize
proceedings, to make suggestions about how to do the definitions, to
synthesize the remarks around the room" (GRR 34 Journal Letter,
February, 1987). This interpretation did not satisfy Annette, who
suggested:

I don't feel you give us enough input. Sometimes

we would go off in a direction and we would never know

if we were on the right track, or too far off track. I

suggest you write a journal letter to us about our

observations and about our work in class. We let you

know what we are thinking but you don't tell us what

you think about our thoughts. (Final Journal Letter,

May 1, 1987)

I thought Annette's demand for more of my thinking symptomatic
of her dependent attitude to teaching and learning. My detachment
should continue. I could have more profitably gone the other way.
With mature reflection, I think both she and Noreen felt rudderless
in my hands. Sometimes, for example, I allowed conversations to
meander, hoping valuable nuggets might emerge but the class was not
used to capturing intellectual delights this way. I might have
tried to see this course through Annette‘and Noreen's experience and

made it valid teacher preparation regardless of the limitations. I

did not think time spent telling students what I thought necessarily

121

helped them understand. It was deceptively easy but mostly
unprofitable. Nor did I want to reproduce knowledge. I wanted to
learn with students who learned from each other. At the end of the
course I was left with my dilemma: "How can I learn to temper my
concern for the student to learn through his or her own engagement
with the realization that I sit on important knowledge and
experience” (GRR 52 Journal Letter, April 1987).

Nor did things necessarily improve when students were in
charge. ”Presentations brought stress into the classroom.
Presenters had a lot to cover. Classmates were impatient but the
information was helpful (Joyce, Journal Letter, May 1, 1987).
Students were accustomed to teachers possessing knowledge and
explaining themselves. In thinking student research and class
presentations would be an appropriate way to trap student commitment
I assumed student competence in reading, thinking, and synthesis. I
assumed experience in high school debate. Recognizing student
anxiety, I wanted to help them overcome their nervousness and
approach learning in this more lively more enduring way.
Complicating matters for students by wanting to teach in a special
way, I squared things away as follows:

I was relying on student strength to thread the

content into the fabric of the class but I should not

belittle my own expertise with questioning, exposing

students to various diverse points of view. Much of

the threading is my doing. It takes time for the

method to work because of the novelty of the

experience. Students need to commit themselves to

this method in their own time and in class time and

they need to accept my different role. (GRR 35 Journal
Letter, February 1987)

122

I interpreted the considerable tension about reading and
thinking as described as the student's difficulty. The students
needed to commit themselves to my style or emphasis to learn.
Feeling my own tensions of inadequate knowledge and frustration in
class, I forgot to ask if my solution were possible. This
represents, I think, paralysis in my teaching as I made moves,
consistently hoping students would respond, holding them at fault if

they did not.

Anchoning Theogyz

Trapping interest then facilitating theoretical understanding
was never simple. Compelled to simplify theory, I gradually took a
more positive lead in student presentations suggesting what to
record and how to translate meaning. Our first presentation on
February 6, 1987 was given by Dr. Sidney the psychology professor.
I enjoyed this clear exposition on the nature of intelligence but
Dr. Sidney's remarks were not mentioned in students' journal
letters, observation reports, and exam scripts and his thinking was
not raised in later presentations and seminars. He argued educators
daily face differences in intelligence reflected in different
learning types. Dr. Sidney urged education students to see the
point of playing to the child's strengths--forcing the reflective
child to work fast, for example, he thought counterproductive. If
lack of interest in theory occurred with a professional teacher and
popular college lecturer, what worse might befall us as student

presenters took their turn? More fundamentally--why did prospective

123

\

teachers not jump at the chance to learn about intelligence? Not
one question was asked (GRR 34 Journal Letter, February, 1987).

After Dr. Sidney's performance the lead shifted to Kendel as
the first student presenter. Here my pedagogy asked a student, who,
unknown to me, had decided theory does not count to lead the class
in pinning understanding of a theorist. I suddenly realized my
risk.

Kendel took over. What would I have done if she

were not present and prepared? I took careful notes as

did students. I kept my eye open for likely debatable

aspects of the presentation. (GRR 34 Journal Letter,

' February, 1987)
Was I rash to assume students could research and present theoretical
knowledge? Kendel certainly had little idea how to present her
material but calmed as I suggested she give us her definitions of
Bruner's consent, catgggny, gggzihngg, and ynlng_ which we would put
in our own words. Chris was scathing.
I understood because of my own reading. Kendel

didn't look like and act like a teacher and her

information was scattered. I pointed out a theory of

Bruner's and she should have incorporated it rather

than put it on the back burner. Other students were as

confused as I was. (Journal Letter, March 2, 1987)

This entry does not mean Chris enjoyed a superior intellect or
that he had read Bruner with a fine tooth comb. What it did mean
was that Chris reacted against Kendel as teacher whom he expected to
deliver the goods in certain ways. Chris was not alone in
criticizing Kendel. Paula felt Kendel had cut herself off from the
class. Patricia worried there were many gaps and would I fill those

in? These concerns surmounted interest in Bruner's theory. While I

thought the session helpful in raising questions about discovery

 

124

learning and learning more generally, students used to more cut and
dried instruction felt troubled by its loose structure.

Annette and Chris dealt with Piaget. They had carefully done
their homework and prepared a skeletal outline of Piaget's theory of
development for the chalkboard. Quotations supported each stage.
The class felt better led and remarkably more committed. Annette
(social science) and Chris (physical education) acted together
elucidating the theory and fielding questions but Annette was really
in charge. Annette could sustain interest in abstract ideas longer
than Chris who by his own confession, was trying to make things
entertaining rather than understood (Journal Letter, March 2). In
itself, this was an interesting flight from theoretical scholarship.
Annette, on the other hand, acted as interpreter to the class. We
moved to some understanding of Piaget's stage theory (GRR 36 Journal
Letter, February, 1987). Chris thought he and Annette had done well
but Piaget was over rated--a useful retreat from these writers'
claims on his attention. .Most students chose to write about Piaget
in their exams denoting some comfort with him but they were willing
to be surprisingly critical considering their intellectual
inexperience although less knowledge can sometimes make the critic
more confident. “Piaget does not feel environment had much to do
with educational growth: other factors he leaves out are resistance,
response to authority and motivation” (Cheryl, Journal Letter, May
1, 1987). Wendy did not think presentations an appropriate
strategy. ”When I gave my presentation on Pavlov and Skinner I felt

I learned a lot about them and their theories. The information

125

stayed in my memory. I can remember nothing about Bruner and
Piaget. Its harder for me to grasp them by presentations given by
other students. It makes me feel terrible to think that other
students in the class have had to do the same" (Wendy, March 2,
1987).

Wendy's point is well worth taking. If she cannot learn from
other students' work, then it may seem appropriate to cease this
strategy. Or did I need to adopt various preliminary steps in
introducing the method? I worried about Wendy's response because
she wanted to teach but not to learn from others. Presumably her
pupils would not learn from each other. Whatever theory we learned
(or mislearned) these presentations were meant to help students
question the nature of the teacher, pupil, content relationship, and
value working together.

Kohlberg was the theorist on our agenda immediately after I
announced, into the second month; we must snap out of our laziness
with theory. Laziness is of course a defensive term for a troubled
teacher putting the blame on students and I often felt no one else
was really serious (GRR 36 Journal Letter, March, 1987). I felt
apprehensive for Wendy and Cheryl who had done the homework on
Kohlberg to help us understand his work. I knew Cheryl would try
hard but I was dubious about Wendy who proved to be a dark horse.
Everyone in the class seemed more alert and Wendy and Cheryl had
been attentive in their preparation. Wendy stood firmly and fully
explained the stages of moral development coping fluently with

questions and comparisons with Piaget and referring to examples from

126

the classes she had observed. I seemed more confident of our
progress, commenting on ". . . a more alert, more academic
atmosphere” (GRR 37 Journal Letter, March, 1987).

I took a more definite lead in the presentation on Kohlberg's
theory of moral development than the earlier Piaget's stage theory
of cognitive development. I helped students more by signifying what
parts in the discussion were worth recording and how they might be
related to the classroom or work with children in the playground. I
deliberately invited the two presenters to repeat pieces of their
presentation for tighter discussion and emphasis and asked students
to translate key terms like mogglity, inggigg, and gggglnnngng into
their own words. I did not ggkg gve; the conversation so much as
oveigee it more efficiently. I realized rather late in the semester
I must teach students to listen and think by example and nudging
rather than simply expect these skills.

Our flight from theory (now jointly constructed) impeded
intellectual development. Because of it, connections among
theorists' ideas, past experience, and observation could not be
made. Presentations on theorists were mechanical not probing.
Students' preconceptions of teaching were reinforced that teaching
was practical not intellectual and children need nurturance not
challenge. Dewey (1904) would recognize these prospective teachers
were shortchanged in a most significant way because: “The study of
psychology has a high disciplinary value for the teacher. It
develops the power of connected thinking and trains to logical

habits of mind" (p. 196). He meant the abilities to reflect and

127

abstract--essential elements of the clear thinker and clear teacher
(p. 197). Our conversation on the other hand encouraged a naive
enthusiasm. I confided frustration in my journal. "Educational
psychology flies out the window a little. I am tempted to allow
that to happen rather than fight a battle whose parameters I do not
really understand. I would like to be sharper on this” (GRR 31
Journal Letter, February, 1987).

Flight from theory took us quite naturally to practice.
Hesitant students intimidated by college work liked observation's
chance to empathize with both teachers and pupils. Observation was
more appealing than disciplined study. Some, like Annette, felt
their professional identity blossom. Many, like Joyce, became more
involved in the education major and some had the chance to teach.
Students embracing their cooperating teacher as all-knowing wizards
identified with the teacher so easily theory seemed increasingly
irrelevant. They thought about the classroom in uncomplicated ways
not really noticing what was there. They asked few questions. No
students at the end of observation joyously announced it had helped
them grapple with the theories in the class. Rather they made the
point it was the best part of the class. They perceived observation
as a separate more desirable experience and in educational
psychology they drew on their experiences and understandings from
observation in preference to and isolation from theoretical
principles of learning.

As class conversation about teaching and learning developed

momentum around practice, I sensed a commitment--a fascination with

128

the Tuesday morning visits to Dustfield schools. And I thought
these conversations had their place. I was sure theoretical
knowledge could heighten prospective teacher's effectiveness and I
was sure observation of teachers and children at work could also
help. But I couldn't get it right. I couldn't make my students dig

inside the minds they saw minds working together (Dewey).

a' b t
Paula, looking to her fifth grade music cooperating teacher,

Mr. Filem, for inspiration, felt relieved he had no recall of

theorists in h1§_n1gnn;nginn to be a music teacher. She wrote:

I explained to Mr. Adams that we have been
studying the different theorists in this class and that
we were doing our observation in conjunction to the
theories we were studying. He claimed that he really
couldn't remember much of that kind of thing from his
early days, I wonder how many teachers do? (Paula,
March 6, 1987)

Feeling uncomfortable with theory herself Paula checked with her
practitioner for reassurance. Nevertheless, she tried to face
assignment to look for examples of the steps in Ausebel's expository
teaching in her morning's observation.
I tried to do my observation using Ausebel's Four

Characteristics of Expository Teaching, but too many

things happen at once when you are dealing with music

and I had trouble deciding what category to put things

under. I ended up just looking at the whole thing and

writing down what I thought was important at the time.
(Paula, February 27, 1987)

This is a wonderful example of a serious student's flight from
theory, in good conscience, and the subtleties of learning from

observation. There were intriguing things for Paula to see.

‘ 129

The young girl has a head tick. Her head bounces

up and down as she sits, walks and even as she talks.

She is a flute player with the ability to overcome her

handicap through concentration. While playing her

flute, checking the fingering for a note, clapping a

rhythm stopping her from bobbing her head. I still

haven't figured out if it is all mental or

unintentional. I would like to think of the flute as a

concentrational device through which the girl absorbs

herself and overcomes the handicap. I cannot be sure I

am right but I will keep an eye on this in my next

observations.

This moment in practice prompted a research project for Paula.
Perhaps she would turn to theory of some kind for an explanation?
Instead, she continued to observe, making her hypotheses based on
common sense without resorting to the medical library. I remained
silent as if accepting Paula's rejection of Ausebel, her call on Mr.

Filem's little use for theory, and her approach to the head tick.

MW

Our assignment at Jordan Elementary School was to observe
ingglliggngg and gggnglxigy. In one special education class, first
to fourth graders tried to figure out how to communicate with hands
not words while an aide hovered over an aggressive youngster with
black, unbrushed hair. Two educational psychology students and I
were in class for about 30 minutes and I carefully watched Joyce and
Kendel's responses to the children and teacher. Listening to their
assessments, I suddenly realized, ”Neither Joyce nor Kendel saw the
whole teacher student interaction. They focused on githg; the
teacher 2; the pupil, they do not see the nzggggs' (GRR 46 Journal
Letter, March, 1987). I was unnerved: “I do not really know how

good students could become at observing nor do I have a clear sense

130

of what is attainable” (GRR 49th Journal Letter. March, 1987).
Stunned, worried and unsure about what to do, I did not confront
Kendel and Joyce with this problem. I saw Joyce and Kendel were
unaware of work in progress with children and had their eyes glued
either on teacher or child not both. I did not act immediately to
counteract this significant misperception. I did, however, keep
thinking what this might mean. I was grasping at straws in my own
thinking. What had happened to our learned discussions about
teaching as an interaction of teacher, pupils and content. What of
our deliberations on learning theory? Were my students not
reconstructing any of the new material in the class at all? If that

were so--where could I begin?

ucat'o a s o o ee
My report on the final class meeting illuminates our flight
from theory and embrace of practice. I had chosen the question
"What is learning?” and asked students to pretend they had been
invited to dinner with our theoretical friends. What would they
like to ask them? What did they think they might~have to say as the
uppermost thoughts in their minds? I asked three students to
impersonate Piaget, Kohlberg, and Erikson. Students had made small
collections of pertinent quotations from their notes. I recorded:
The conversation began strongly with Wendy acting
as Kohlberg. It began to blend the literature, common
sense, and conclusions from observation. Gradually its
emphasis swung to a concern uppermost for students
. can a teacher befriend a student or does

friendship cause havoc in relationships that need to be
impersonal and professional?

‘fib— -

131

Wendy was the only speaker to refer specifically to one of the
three theorists for the day. Piaget and Erikson seemed to have been
struck dumb on arrival. In the blend of literature, common sense
and conclusions from observation, literature had low priority.
Students were willing to raise personal issues that really concerned
them about the prospect of teaching as a profession but the force of
theory was absent. We were willing to make an opening remark about
stage theory or discovery learning then allow the conversation to
dwell on our own personal theories and observation reflections.
Perhaps students were a little more attentive to theoretical
thinking because we were further into the class. Students argued
personal involvement or friendliness was essential to encourage
learning by making children comfortable and by developing trust.
Students saw a conflict of interest where teachers need to be
supportive but encourage independence. But friends, too, might
encourage independence, they argued, and friends might help one
learn because they believe in you and teachers should believe in
pupils in this empowering way. Could teachers and students trust
one another and what impact would this have on learning? Joyce
expressed concern: ”If trust is less significant in homes and
society how can it hope to be the basis for educational
institutions? How can we on graduation hope to cope with the
changes in society represented in classrooms?“ (Joyce, May 8, 1987).

This lively, enjoyable conversation had run its course without
confronting theories. I attempted by inviting theorists to dinner

to make a turn for the better but students took off without them.

132

Although my pedagogy was both imaginative and engaging, students
constructed its possibilities quite differently from me and having
succumbed to conversations prompted by concern for children and
common sense dictated by past experience and thinking in the past,
it was hard for me to redirect the tone in the dying stages of the

course .

Dismiss;

Variations of the problem of balancing theoretical and
practical or emotional knowledge for undergraduates in teacher
education occurred in the education of the exceptional child class
taught in the same semester as the introduction to educational
psychology, to many of the same students. Similar difficulties in
my perceptions of theory and practice and students' dispositions
thwarted my efforts to help students grow in self-awareness and
appreciation of others' writings in attempts to explain why loss is
part of the classroom teacher's work.

I felt confused about the breadth of material to be covered in
a survey course with 55 minute classes. How could I sustain
interest and commitment? I thought it best not to rush too quickly
into more technical material knowing my students' tendency to look
for facts not understanding. I began with stories of exceptional
children and invited students to write their own. Wendy's
well-written account of Toby, with problems of speech and.writing
skills, written as a journal entry got inside Toby's sadness about

not being able to learn as well as his friends and wondering if

133

indeed he had friends. Sandra commented, ”This story almost made me
cry because of its reality and how cruel people can be to those less
fortunate than themselves” (Sandra, February 4, 1987).

Except for the value of establishing student rapport I think I
wasted time. Now I can see how slow we were to ask more critical
questions than Toby's feelings about friends. We needed to ask
questions about how we learn and why Toby is restricted and how a
teacher might work with him in positive ways understanding the
deficit-~stressing the possibilities. Overall, class statements
focussed on the child's likely need for friendship and fear of abuse
or rejection, strained relations with parents, emotional
frustrations in learning, and lack of confidence in a confusing
school life. This thinking was not totally inappropriate but I felt
caught in the tension of my inexperience trying to figure out
students' intellectual needs in a survey course right at the
beginning of their teacher preparation. Was I sure about my
direction? Did what I do here count for something toward preparing
the teacher? On the one hand I felt cheered that Mathew, Toby and
others set us off on the right £99; (GRR 34 Journal Letter, February
1987). We were looking at exceptional children as people with
personalities and individual spirits to sustain the emotional burden
of accepting loss and we needed to know what it means to have a
disability for learning.

Students appeared to come to terms with exceptionality's
emotional demands with little specific information. This stance

reminded me of students desire to grasp Piaget with little effort.

134

Joyce, for example, who gave a class presentation on the learning
disabled paid some attention to the disorder but more to social and
emotional health. Nevertheless, her presentation brought us back on
track with characteristics of the learning disabled and we spent
time in class deliberating each of these facets of the problem. The
following passage shows how little into theory Joyce ventured.

This cognitive disorder is often characterized by

poor speech, writing, spelling and reading. It also

encompasses areas such as short attention spans, low

comprehension rates, lack of motivation and low self

esteem. The learning disabled person often alienates

himself from others which may make their disability

worse. Because the learning disabled person is behind

the normal level of learning for their age, people have

a tendency to treat them younger. It is important for

the teacher to remember not to talk down to the person.

Praise encouragement and a simple smile can give the

person the needed sense of belonging. (Joyce, March 2,

1987)

What did I do? My paralysis returned. I needed more knowledge
of resources that could be used and effectively read hy_§hg§g
fignggngg. I needed a way to insist efforts were commendable but not
enough. I was trapped by my perception these students needed to be
nurtured for at a time like this. I allowed the class challenge to
be tailored by students' weaknesses not potential. Nor was I
pushing my understanding of theoretical knowledge about learning
disabled children and what elements of that body of knowledge could
stimulate and help my beginning students. Our reconfiguration of
our work, appreciating one another, and touching the surface of new
knowledge suited my needs as well as my charges.

Nor was that the end of the matter. In our work with the

behavior disordered and mentally retarded children I became aware of

135

powerful student assumptions about exceptional differences among
pupils. With Patricia's behavior disorder presentation the child's
loss was forgotten as students struggled to understand the
teacher's difficulties. Her course was not about strategies for
teaching exceptional children but surviving them as teachers. A
similar shift occurred in conversations about mentally retarded
pupils. Students felt threatened by implications for practicing
teachers more than compassion for the suffering child. I was slow
to realize why compassion should suddenly falter, why a class can be
motivated by fear. I underestimated the volatile emotions in young
adult students who at once idealistic and anxious about their own
inadequacies could be both tearful and fearful. Class involvement
faltered as clearly demonstrated in this response. ”Student
presenters on behavior disorders had asked students to read a
chapter from a book in the library as preparation for class. Class
members almost to a man failed to do so and we went through a tense
period of fury and resentment" (GRR 46 Journal Letter, April, 1987).

Patricia presented the behavior disorder child as a warning to
prospective teachers.

When I consider the characteristics and learning

problems of behavior disordered pupils I think we as

teachers should be most concerned about this group.

Their first characteristic would be that they are

anxious and withdrawn. The child would be holding back

her feelings keeping them deep inside and this is

partly the difficulty.

The second characteristic would be acting out.

This is the opposite of the withdrawn child. He would

let his feelings out an everyone would know his

feelings on any one day. He would also be very

aggressive. A sub category of this would.be the
hostile aggressive child letting his feelings be known

136

by using verbal threats or violence--kicking lockers
and so forth. My last key characteristic is
depression. The withdrawn child is depressed and will
tell no one about it. Depression could turn the
withdrawn child into the hostile child. Teachers need
to be very observant of these changes.

Assumptions that teachers mattered more than children mitigated
interest in researching the child's condition. Our work adopted a
judgmental, irritated tone, as prospective teachers' attentions
shifted from the needy helpless child to the struggling unreasonably
threatened teacher. We lost hope for both teacher and child.

Deeper emotions intruded. Patricia introduced the range of behavior
disorders and led the class discussion in cautious anger. This is

how she sounded.

Behavior disordered children do not want to come
to school. They would rather be anywhere else. They
do not want to learn. They do not want to follow rules
or accept discipline. They think they are right and
the teacher is wrong. These characteristics pose
tension for the teacher if she takes this behavior as a
personal attack on her. (Patricia, Presentation
Report, submitted May 14, 1987)

So what is Patricia's solution?

Since the behavior disordered child does not want
to work on their own or in groups the child should be
in a special classroom so as not to bother other
children. They will do anything to disrupt your
class--not intentionally. They can't control their
emotions. This disrupts the learning environment for
other children but also takes allot out of the teacher.
These children need a lot of attention and regular
classroom teachers do not have the time or skill to
give this attention. That is why I believe it is
important for the BD student to be placed in a special
classroom where they will get this attention they so
desperately need. _

Fear prompted stark alternatives. No one asked for literature

to help them think about this problem of practice. Half the class

137

argued such children should receive special qualified attention in
another room and some insisted teachers should be properly prepared
to cope so the child could stay with peers. No one asked what
knowledge would be involved in that preparation. Would observation
clarify pressure on the classroom teachers and the possible extent
of the child's distress? Would observation have prompted questions
about what we did not know about the problem as well as ways
practitioners think about the tensions in their work? Perhaps little
could be achieved without seeing children being taught, disciplined
and encouraged to progress. Sadly our experience using observation
as a way to learn to think about psychology in the introduction of
psychology left me wary. "This presentation left students confused,
doubtful and angry” (GRR 40 Journal Letter, 1987). But of course
that confusion about behavior disordered was not entirely
unfortunate. Didi explains her response:
In class we talked about what we could do in

certain situations. Most of the class have never seen

an exceptional classroom. I am sure that with research

we could find places to go and see these children and

teachers in action. After classes are over this

semester I plan to visit my friends and see how his

class is run. I valued the time Mrs. S came into the

classroom to talk about her behavior disorder job. It

is too bad we could not have some of these exceptional

people come in and tell us their feelings. (Didi, May

1, 1987)

Similarly, if more extreme responses occurred when we moved
from the learning disabled to the mentally retarded child. “We
introduced the mentally retarded child. The tension suddenly seemed

to increase. Students explained the literature suggested mentally

138

retarded youngsters reacted in certain distressing ways that were
difficult to think about” (GRR 42 Journal Letter, April, 1987).

Jill confronted Meg's material with more of the depth I was
looking for but she had done this course the year before, repeating
for a higher grade and she demonstrated the advantage of more
information and time to reflect on that knowledge. Perhaps I was
struggling to do too much? Jill commented:

Meg's presentation brought several questions to
mind. Her interpretation of mentally retarded and
mentally 111 made me wonder. I disagree that mentally
retarded is a pre-natal problem--people can suffer
brain damage due to loss of oxygen supply to the brain
and other tragedies yet I do not call this mental
illness. Her method of deciding whether or not the
child was mentally retarded seemed very simple yet
deterministic. She also implied that retardation was a
result of the child's social inadequacy. I feel that
it is equally caused by a social inadequacy on the part
of society as well as the child. The point she brought
up concerning the employment and employability of these
people bothered me. Though 751 can support themselves,
only 10% receive minimum wage. What kind of pay are
the other 65% receiving? It seems these people are
being exploited; what makes their work less valuable?
(Jill, April 8, 1987)

Cheryl, betraying old assumptions rather than new ones, wrote
in her examination responding to a question inviting the student to
envisage a handicapped child in their elementary school classroom
and how they might meet his or her needs.

Nathan is my mentally handicapped child. He needs
a lot of individual attention and should be separated
from other students. We program his day so that he is
always doing something. We help him practice the
skills needed in everyday life. I have to realize
Nathan will not learn much academically but that he can
learn the basic needs for survival. (Cheryl, Final
exam script, May 14, 1987)

139

Students, uneasy with tragedy could envisage no laughter,
making it hard to embrace the mentally retarded child. Meg's
weighty presentation of facts, figures and abnormalities made
students uneasy and written responses reveal a social not personal
acceptance of this exceptionality. Responses like Cheryl's became
mechanical or superficial. We played with air. We were uncertain
what knowledge meant here. Meg had no case study except her mildly
retarded friend in a wheelchair as Annette noticed.

Meg's friend in the wheel chair made her say that
although he is in a wheel chair and mentally effected
by his injuries that he is still the person she knew
and grew up with. I think the idea of personhood and
individualism came through in the presentations as a
reminder to us that exceptional children are people.
(Annette, May 1, 1987)

Carla makes a positive assessment of her learning but I see it
as only a thoughtful beginning and I found it hard to trap
opportunities to address the implications of what students told me.

Before this class I had grouped all mental
handicaps under the heading of ngn§n111_;g§nzggg. I
had realized that of course there were different levels
of intelligence, but I thought since a person was born
with a cognitive or physical problem that was that.

Meg in her class presentation on mentally retarded
children opened my eyes to many things. I was
surprised to learn how little workers in sheltered
workshops are paid. I had previously believed these
workshops were ideal for the mentally handicapped. I
really liked Meg's quotation that “the failure with the
retarded is not with them, but with us." (Carla, April
8, 1987)

I see similarities between Carla and Didi's thinking about the
mentally retarded as both students move from the child's learning to
finances or employment. I wonder if we shifted the assumption that

such children cannot learn. Didi concluded.

140

I think the most interesting presentation was
Meg's report on mental retardation. I was very
surprised by most of the information she presented
. . Meg said that l in 10 may be mentally
handicapped. The IQ score is interesting. I don't
remember being tested and I am unsure I am in favor of
this test. But I have no reasoning to back up my
opinion. I appreciated Meg talking about the cost of
care. I have a friend with a daughter who can do
nothing for herself. She has been in a special school
but now is too old. The family has two choices. The
first is to put her in an institution where they take
the chance someone could work with their daughter or
they keep her at home. I don't know what I would
decide. The ideas we brought up into the discussion
made me look more closely at how I used to view a
mentally handicapped person. I joined a crowd of
friends and made fun of this person. (Didi, April 8,
1987)

Alarmed and surprised by Meg's presentation, Didi worried about
her own experience and insecurity with intelligence tests. Cost of
care for the adult mentally retarded provided another suitable
diversion. She slid away, just as Carla did, from an image of the
mentally retarded child in a classroom. Just as Carla did, she
sought relief in feeling guilty reconstructing her own behavior in
the past poking fun at the retarded. None of these thoughts are out
of order but they fail to confront the authentic mentally retarded
child as the Down Syndrome child was confronted (recorded in Chapter
V of this work). This lack of focus concerned me for its own sake
but also because I could see our work now being constructed to
accommodate tangents, to deviate from our opening theme of knowledge
providing skill and hope. Joyce in the excerpt below writes as if a
little jaded by one exceptionality after another.

A mentally retarded person is gregarious, honest
and open. The teacher needs to use this openness to

help the pupil set realistic goals. The teacher also
needs to remember that the mentally retarded students

141

need challenge as much as the normal student. In other

words the teacher must test and expand the boundaries

of the mentally retarded student. More than anything

these students need the attention and the approval

essential for their learning. (Joyce, April 9, 1987)

The presentation method allowed students to set the pace, to
choose the level of difficulty in the material and although we were
mostly happy with them, I could see we were not coming to grips with
what must be essential experience for the teacher in preparation.
Joyce exudes no doubt that all mentally retarded children are open
and responsive and that teachers could approve, challenge, test, and
expand these learners. When threatened, prospective teachers like
any other students seek safe places, tidy learning, and controlled
commitments. My teaching did not acknowledge the power of such
fears over students' thought because I shared students' difficulties
with learning disabled and mentally retarded children. I did not
actively counteract the shift in their empathy from the child in

distress to the threatened teacher because I unknowingly experienced

the same shift.

mam

Establishing a relationship between what sort of theoretical
knowledge about psychology and exceptional children I thought
students needed to know and the knowledge students were willing to
work for proved more taxing than my reading of Dewey and James
'suggested. One of Dewey's aims was to perfect student experience
with an economical use of energy. In this chapter, I have shown

Kendel, Chris, Paula, Wendy, Meg, Annette, Jill, Joyce, Didi, Carla

142

and Patricia grappling, or failing to grapple, with this issue. In
these instances of practice, my pedagogy failed to create authentic
experience students could effectively reconstruct and their
understanding remained unfocused. In the next chapter, I explore
more successful adventures with this critical question of theory and
practice where my pedagogy had deeper aims than keeping these two

courses moving.

 

CHAPTER V

MORE AUTHENTIC LEARNING

W

Interested in my struggle to forge a relationship in
prospective teachers' minds between theoretical knowledge and
practical knowledge concerned with psychology and learning
disabilities, I discovered the gap between theory and practice,
partly diminished when I offered personal stories as case studies,
asked students to find stories and tell them and I found personal
literary accounts that helped us understand that theory and practice
run hand in hand. Then, appreciation of knowledge shifted from
facts to recognize human complexities. In this chapter, I trap
student responses to these particular teaching and learning
occasions showing they could more powerfully reconstruct new
knowledge. These occasions juxtapose more conflicted instances of
practice explored in my preceding chapter for unaware that striving
for authenticity was our crucial ingredient our commitment and
consistency were not automatic. Nevertheless, a different kind of
risk emerged for me and students as our ggnff became more intimate,

more ambiguous but at the same time more instructive.

143

144

W

"A stronger student, Annette struggled to make sense of theory
(like chemistry or algebra) despite the fact that our happy
classroom chatter was not theoretical and educational psychology had
become an excuse for a non-theoretical conversation among concerned
young educators” (GRR 37 Journal Letter, February 1987). Initially,
she struggled to grasp theory as isolated knowledge then gradually
she took her learning in her own hands and saw something of the way
theory and practice might be connected in teaching. In the first
instance, she appreciated definitions (theorist, developmental,
behavior) for they made her more gnnfgggnhlg (not necessarily
knowledgeable) (February 3). One month later, she could excitedly
gngn_§hgnzig§ in the classroom and enjoyed tnlking_nhnn§_§hgm (March
2). Annette had a tiny love affair with Bruner and Ausebel's ideas
as theory and practice became one in her observation. In the same
letter, becoming more scientific, she demanded to better understand
the theories or else we could not spot them effectively (Journal
Letter, March 2, 1987). After that, Annette developed questions
from practice apparently n9; answered by our theorists. She pleaded
a case in observation to look to her own concerns, ignoring the
assigned Ausebel and Piaget. Feeling her excitement, I gave her
leave. Wanting to understand teaching practice and seeing teaching
as action, she apologized (with little sincerity) for leaving the
theorists out while investigating her own concerns. “Many of the
things I wrote down had nothing to do with Ausebel and Piaget but I

feel they were of some concern" (Journal Letter, March 2, 1987).

145

Wanting to test preconceptions or her own theories about teaching by
investigating cooperating teachers she mused, "I think I will
continue to monitor Mr. Green because I have a few ideas about his
teaching and I would like to see if they have any grounds” (GRR 34
Journal Letter, February 1987).

As early as her first observation report in educational
psychology (February 4), Annette's authentic inquiry stumbled on
pedagogical knowledge which was probably not exactly the intention
of this introductory psychology course. Writing like a methods
student guided to examine teacher strategies for pupils' learning
she noticed the use of examples in class to ”. . . get the point
across and to help the student understand a different point of
view." Annette distinguished Mr. Green's examples in local
government to help students understand abstract principles of
government while Mrs. Wade ”. . . had the pupils give the examples.”
Annette noticed a relationship between this use of pupils' examples
.and motivation. Impressed with Mrs. Wade, Annette analyzed her
class review. "It seemed to me from the review, pupils remembered
pupils' examples better than the teacher's“ (Observation Report,
February 24, 1987). P

In another instance, making the most of her sparse
undergraduate wardrobe, she walked the corridors of Flashback High
School with self conscious dignity trying to be professional.
Annette felt furious and hurt when Patrick, a black tenth grader,
ran his hands through her hair on the way to his seat. She

explained: ”Mrs. Diamond always stressed how important it was to

 

146

look professional and act professional and I was doing just that. I
guess looking and acting professional doesn't guarantee one will be
treated as professional” (Observation Report, March 3, 1987),

Annette called in to see me about her distress and I encouraged
her to phone the teacher to find out more about this pupil and learn
Mrs. Wade's interpretation of the hair ruffling. Annette came
closer to understanding more of the intricacies of teaching
adolescents and closer to knowing her teacher who became a powerful
role model. Later, Annette made sense of this intrusion in
interesting ways. A

I think the kid was just testing me to see what

kind of reaction he got. If I decide not to go back to

the class, it could be almost like he's won. But I

think I'm going to have to be careful around this

class. (Observation Report, March 3, 1987)

Initially Annette hated Patrick that he should think of her in
such an unprofessional way. Then knowing she must try to
understand, she did not turn to tomes on adolescent psychology but
talked to practitioners (as she perceived me). Preferring to flee
from theory and deal with this specific classroom threat, Annette
took individual strides toward becoming a teacher. Her concern had
been to be professional and her professional identity strengthened
in adjusting to Patrick's attack on it. She made more connections
with me. Working through this experience, she uncovered.many
emotions involved in working with children and began to see her

identity creating a concerned collegial relationship with her

cooperative teacher and she exploited Patrick's story with fellow

147

students. Annette had her instance of practice--one that stirred
her up in authentic ways to suggest theories about what matters.

Annette's quest to understand teaching then scrutinized Mrs.
Wade who had concocted a six-week sociology project for year 11.
Students were nagging to each other and had to spend time
researching problems and resolving interpersonal issues.

They have to deal with marriage budgets, religious
attitudes, career differences, interracial problems-~in

doing so Mrs. Wade is making pupils figure out their

own beliefs. Pupils were excited about the marriages

and I realized she was not a gynignl teacher . . . I

was amazed at the idea of a high school teacher taking

a poll to find out student concerns then give them a

project to encourage their curiosity. (Observation

Report March 3, 1987)

The marriage project, favorably received by pupils, rightly
attracted Annette's imagination. She saw its developmental value
and she rejoiced in teaching recognizing the student voice in the
curriculum. She might try this in her own career. Mrs. Wade's
students' concerns in her class agenda contrasted markedly with
Annette's experience in a small, rural, predictable and impersonal
curriculum where she rarely shared a xgnl thought with her teachers
(Private conversation, March 4, 1987). Preconceptions about
teaching, therefore, crashed profitably in Annette's observation.
Annette, then, developed some command of the observation process in
going beyond the assignments, interviewing teachers and pupils and
endlessly raising questions showing me that placing theory on hold
and embracing practice can be profitable. Her inquiry was to

.understand practice not theory but she was open, given the instances

described, to wonder about theoretical explanations or possible

148

solutions. Allowing Annette to follow her initiative and intrigued
by the results, I sat back, watching her mind at work, listening to
her stories, applauding her involvement and sensing her learning.

This was better teaching, finer learning.

W

Sometimes a student tells you exactly where they stand doing
you a real favor by expressing impatience with proceedings. For
example, Nan, a candidate in secondary history teaching who would
change her major after this semester, was apparently quite clear
about what she needed from this course and forced me to remember
Dewey and question my pedagogy when she wrote:

I often felt lost and confused in class lectures
. the class often loses focus on the theories--we

spend too much time discussing personal theories and

observation experiences and not enough time on the

theorists themselves. I do believe it is important to

connect our experiences to the theories. But I do

believe it should be in moderation. I think we should

focus on a balance between the two. (Journal Letter,

March 5, 1987)

For Nan, classes were too indefinite to meet her objectives
and the conversation, though interesting, lacked clarity or sticking
power. She did not deny the value of past experience or observation
in understanding the theory but the theory itself did not stand in
clear relief. I was not using a textbook because I had not had time
to read a range of texts and make an intelligent choice. Such a
text, however, might have helped Nan sort out theorists more easily

on her own and early student presentations were uneven. Kendra

working on Bruner was uninspired and Annette and Chris tried hard

149

with Piaget against some hostility and impatience. Students had
settled into observation placements where an excited tension clouded
their judgement and it was hard to help them see what mattered. Nan
astutely interprets our run from the obligations of theory as a
problem of focus or direction in class and therefore my
responsibility. Nan's observation helped me focus on mediating
theory and practice in finer ways.

I tried to reshape class discussion to attend to both theory
and practice but it was hard to nudge dispositions (including mine)
linked to attitudes to knowledge, to children and self. I watched
one role playing strategy specifically designed to engage students
in developing a conversation as if they were particular theorists.
The question for discussion in the sixth week of the semester
considered Whng_1§_mngixn§12n? Students created a circle at my
suggestion then sat on desks at their inclination with leg swinging
space. I thought at the time (driven by optimism) that all books
were closed indicated readiness to trust memories of our learning
but now, more aware of the way students were constructing knowledge,
I am persuaded it was a tacit statement that books did not matter.
Had students adopted my role playing strategy as easy learning or
was the process of mulling over their experiences valuable? I did
not seek to cause a break with that experience but facilitate its
continuity to accommodate new knowledge.

In the ensuing discussion, theorists were barely mentioned but
students' theories of behavior were implicit. Initially, attention

was paid to the distinction between intrinsic and extrinsic

150

motivation in pupils' incentives to work, reward and punishment, and
self discipline. The distinction and examples of differences
between the two, occupied the class for over an hour. Teachers in
the end were assumed to have to tap both motivations. The whole
discussion intrigued me for the class could have been an
introductory class but this was the sixth week and students were
intensely interested in what I thought were preliminary levels of
understanding about why teachers do what they do. But how
preliminary are these important questions? Still eschewing
theorists' views the conversation swung to the best type of
relationship among teachers and pupils and Annette's sense of
justice outraged by teachers who play favorites. Students were
easily distracted from “professional" work by injustices suffered at
teachers' hands. But these injngnings had stitched into them
authentic insights to clarify or confuse the teacher's role.
Students held teachers should.n§kg students do what was
required. My idea that teachers might help students explore their
own inner resources was not well received. But it was heard.
Identifying routine flatness in her observation classes at all
levels, Nan called this disengagement lnn_nggign§1nn, interpreting
it to be the students' loss but the teacher's fault. Holding the
teacher responsible, Nan did not wonder how relations between
students and teachers could be iningly productive. Nan, unlike
Paula, who feared and respected student resistance, gave teachers
the whole responsibility to motivate. If teachers were organized

and energetic, then pupils would.want to learn, to be organized, to

151

be enthusiastic. Nan did not question yhn; pupils might be
motivated to learn. Chris, pretending to be and think as Piaget,
entered the discussion as the psychologist. Here was theory's
chance but he could not be authentic. I capture his entry: "Some
strange thought processes here. He was at once relevant and way off
base. Student listeners were tolerant but muffling impatience or
confusion" (GRR 36 Journal Letter, March 1987).

No one tackled Chris's Piagetian confusions--they simply waited
for the gobble-de-gook to pass them by. Were they not ready? Were
they predisposed not to fuss about Piaget's intellectual
constructions? Were they learning more than I knew from the work as
we constructed it? Illustrating how we were constructing the
relationship between theory and practice, Sheila swung us back to
the safety of practice by stipulating we must find out why the child
is not motivated. Kendra, building on Sheila, suggested we could
say ”the teacher's job was to unearth motivation, preserve it, carry
it further“ which seemed a pleasant sentiment. Students
occasionally paid debt to Bruner and Ausebel but this conversation
on motivation took place among young people with warm amateur
interests in children, provoked by observation and beholden to
preconceptions about teachers held at the opening of class. They
came interested in classroom relations and now debated friendship
and trust with pupils. That others before them have written about
'how the child learns, organizes knowledge, remembers, feels, and
creates was not compelling. My attempt to recreate the theorists

may have failed. But, why was that so? I agreed with Nan that our

152

work needed tighter direction and I stepped more decisively into
guiding student presentations but this role-playing occasion
highlights how easily my pedagogical search for authenticity could
be put at risk if I forgot that the most powerful authenticity might
come from the very conversation where I felt edgy, if I knew what to

do.

Wise

Simple assessments at the end of this course convinced me that
many useful inferences had been made from observation of practice
even if those inferences did not amplify student understanding of
psychological theory. I came to rejoice students did grow in ways
they did but be anxious about how serendipitous it seemed. Joyce,
for example, embraced the classroom and was sobered about teaching
as work. ”Having seen many grades and many teachers, I now
understand the amount of work involved and how inconsistent and
unsure it is" (May 1, 1987). Mary, similarly appreciated
observation for the way '. . . it gave some idea of pupils'
different backgrounds and how they effect learning” (March 5, 1987).

Kendra relished her life in the observation classroom but was
as unprepared there to dissect her preconceptions as she was in the
theoretical classroom. She accused Mrs. Richards of ignoring
students, of giving insufficient supervision to the class and
mismanaging Ernie. And here we witness a very rare attempt to think
about theory with practice. 'I can see that he prefers reading to

'math, so I think she should try to see if she can at least relate

 

153

math to his experience, isn't the theory of Bruner saying we learn
by experience?” (March 1, 1987).

Opportunities to teach in the observation lab were powerful
occasions for students: ”Although I dreaded the long drives every
Tuesday, I loved being there. I found out I could teach the lower
grades and was glad I was given an opportunity to do just that“
(Kate, May 1, 1987). Jenny an academically limited but sincere
candidate for teaching felt her accomplishment.

By observing I have learned a great deal of

things. I have learned how patient one must be, the

little things students will try to get away with, and

the importance of establishing yourself as an

authoritative figure while still being understanding.

I've seen things I like and dislike and hopefully from

these experiences I can be the best teacher ever.

(Jenny, May 12, 1987)

And speaking to the complexities in teaching Patricia commented,
"It's hard for me to write down the things that I observed because
sometimes it would take pages and pages to explain what happened in
one minute" (Patricia, May 12, 1987). So what did students learn in
Dustfield? Joyce, a thoughtful intense person, from a tiny rural
town in Southern Illinois became emotionally involved in the
inequities she saw and asked good questions in class about what
could be done. She wrote:

Observation was the most valuable part of the

course for me. I saw a variety of grades and teachers.

I had no idea how different urban and rural schools

were. Students face realities I never dealt with and

hands on experience got me more involved. (Joyce,

Observation Report, May 4, 1987)

Paula learned she could not think about Ausebel and the music

classroom at the same time. Joyce felt sobered about teaching and

 

154

more aware of pupils' backgrounds. Why did all this seem attractive
and purposeful compared with stage theory? Summing up, Joyce who
worked hard at theory did not mention her keen efforts there.

The observation hours for this class have opened
my eyes to many things I have never thought about .
I learned many things about teachers, students and how
an urban environment effects them all. Overall, I
found this experience to be challenging and very
beneficial to someone going into the field of teaching.
(Joyce, May 12, 1987)

 

As other students responded quite happily to observation
assignments they saw the magnitude of the task (Patricia), what they
liked and disliked in teaching (Jenny), had opportunities to teach
(Kate and Annette), and saw the influence of student socio economic
background (Mary). I encouraged students to talk energetically
about these findings and form conclusions about teaching practice
from them without ggnnnging connections with our theorists. I don't
think I thought that possible; I rejoiced in the individual
responses to observation experience and student willingness to keep
puzzling about what they saw. For students in their first education
course that seemed appropriate to me. They became animated, talking
about their classrooms with professional dignity. Students saw the
value of the practical experience without deploring loss of

theoretical insights. I became less uneasy in class seeing I

allowed a different type of theory to emerge where ghgn;y_gn§_hn§gg

nn_g§n§gn§_infgzgngg§. I imagined this thinking could be reworked

over time in the teacher education program with more experience and
more exposure to literature. At times, students seemed close to

getting inside the minds of teacher and pupils; They felt the

155

authenticity of practice as I puzzled how learning from observation
actually happens. Both the excitement and my sense there were huge

questions here for my research and teaching satisfied both parties.

W

Paula showed energetic initiative in two ways. The first
involved constructing her own theory of learning and the second took
her to the library shelves and a writer who met her concerns better
than those on the syllabus. This creativity in constructing a
theory and resourcefulness in finding a theorist who responded to a
problem of practice gave me heart. Paula could see the difference
.between understanding theories and integrating them. 'I think I
understand a lot of different theories we‘ve been discussing, but I
still haven't discovered their place in my thinking" (Paula, Journal
Letter, March 2, 1987). I took this to mean that Paula could
categorize the separate theories in her mind but not see how
combinations of them afford insight. Paula's message was helpful
to me if only I could figure out what to do with the mental
processes she described. Writing boldly, Paula explained her own
theory formed along the lines of a pyramid.

We all start at the bottom and through acquiring

knowledge (by experiences, research etc.) we advance by

levels working up the pyramid. We may never reach the

peak, but our experiences along the way strengthen the

levels we passed through. The pyramid moves from a.

basis for knowledge; to understanding of knowledge; to

appreciation of knowledge; to application of knowledge

and at the top-professional or semi-professional

education of others . . . This is not a complete theory

but I hope one day to develop it into a working theory

for use in my teaching instrumental music. (Exam
script, 1989)

 

156

Paula felt driven to understand resistance as a problem of
practice bending literature effectively to that quest. ”It is
harder to speak in class. Others don't see the student can be a
threat. I can't make them understand" (Student Journal Letter,
March 2, 1987). Looking for explanations, Paula pursued Meyers'
(1986) WWW. Looking at the
chapter headed "Fostering Students' Interest and Motivation,” Paula
records, ”Even though he isn't one of the theorists we studied I
liked what he had to say and I see it as a fresh approach to a
difficult subject" (exam script).

Meyers legitimized Paula's thinking. I'Meyers says that we are
powerless--unable to control what is going on in people's minds
during classroom hours' (exam script), making sense of Paula's
thinking about student resistance. Myers suggested external forces

impinge on motivation even though the teacher's task is to nnngnng

the natngnl inclinntion to leagn, outside pressures gnggnxngg
WWWWe

teacher has no control of the negative preconceptions brought to
specific subject matter areas. Myers is summarized as saying, "The
class format is often a hindrance to productive and motivated
learning. The student who goes from one 50-minute class to another
needs to settle down and engage in topics of interest“ (exam
script).

4 For Paula this is true in music. Myers explained
preconceptions of a particular academic discipline come from

previous encounters and the pupils' own whims and dislikes. Paula

157

liked the correlation between her theorist and her view of music
teaching. To Paula's delight Myers suggested procedures.
Three of the ways that Meyer says we can help to

turn the above situations around are to use an open

dialogue with students about the subject taught,

through the use of anonymous survey forms, and

presenting a problem or controversy at the beginning of

the course for which the class and the teacher will

make a discovery about. Of these the best seem open

dialogue. (Exam script)

The key, Paula reports, is to relate new knowledge to previous
knowledge using powerful analogies and metaphors. ”As I mentioned
before, I like Meyers' approach best. Not only does he tell you the
problems that you will encounter as a teacher, but he gives several
different techniques for you to try in the classroom“ (exam script).

Paula engages Myers' argument, follows his reasoning and agrees
with his findings. Perhaps Paula's story exemplifies her need for
Hawkins' (1974) gngzgggngng in an issue from practice before theory
will have a telling effect? Her report of Myers is consistent with
her serious thoughtful journal letters and observation reports
enabling (as she suggested at the end) deeper insight into teaching.
”I have seen the teacher's side of the podium; that of frustration

when things don't go as planned or not being able to influence the

student/inspire them to want more from their music“ (exam script).

Maths!

Just as Paula found her authenticity in Meyers, I brought to
students' attention a personal experience to use like a text in the
exceptional child class. I had decided to be deliberately open

about my own attitudes toward the exceptional child as victim,

 

158

student and human being. I did not hand out a syllabus of
directions or requirements until the next session but placed

students in a circle to listen to Mathew's story. I spoke without

 

notes but I had carefully rehearsed the story at home. I told them
about a young American friend of mine who had taught me over two or
three years to love the handicapped child. I wanted students to be
emotionally moved as I was by a nine-year-old boy's courage to
become aware of his loss, his acceptance and hope. Could we think
about teaching him? Nine-year-old Mathew was a victim of spina
bifida with no sensations from the waist down, mostly operating in a
wheel chair or edging about on the floor. He attended school in the
same elementary school classroom as others his age and was,
therefore, taught by a teacher like my candidates for teaching in
elementary education. He exemplified the exceptional child.

But Mathew, I told the class, was blessed with a fine
inquisitive mind. His school work was above average and he wanted
to be a movie director, imagining himself sitting in the director's.
chair. Sharing Mathew's photo with the class I described how he
liked to dance, placing his fingers spread-eagled making patterns in
the air with mine, conscious he could never really dance. I said I
felt my heart jump at Mathew's enthusiasm and constraint. Sometimes
losing heart, he found school work ungratifying. His close friend
Jim wheeled the chair out to recess, putting it where Mathew could
be part of the play. When I last spoke to Mathew, it was about
Jim's tragic death in a motor car accident. Mathew wondered why he

should be still alive with this handicap and his healthy friend

159

dead. He courageously faced these questions. Could I? Could we
together?

I wanted to share this story at the beginning of this new
course because few students in the class would have the privilege of
friendship with someone like Mathew. I wanted to focus on an
authentic life of the real exceptional child, not a statistic or
textbook definition. I wanted a powerful opening and a continuing
image. I wanted students to confront Mathew's physical problems,
considering their emotional impact on Mathew but also on other
students and on themselves as teachers. I wanted students to notice
similarities and differences between Mathew and the children they
knew or had been. I wanted Mathew to be seen as a family member and
as a small boy grieving his friend. I wanted to make the point that
Mathew's mind could be nurtured by talking about his ambition to be
a movie director and I had a hidden agenda. '1 am intent to
cultivate a richer perspective on teaching with every child since I
believe logs gggngs t9 £11 and hone is gng :9 £11” (GRR 33 Journal
Letter, January, 1987).

Class members valued the exercise. Chuck, representative of
many rural high school students, helped me see the importance of
creating a starting point for understanding exceptionality and loss
in the classroom for students with limited personal experience.
After meeting Mathew, Chuck could grow. Mathew alerted Chuck to the
possible and Chuck responded. He wrote soon after the class,

”listening to classmates' responses to Mathew I realized that in

 

160

many large schools these things could really happen. I came from a

small school where handicaps were rare” (Chuck, February 3, 1987).
I felt justified in my unorthodox beginning. Sandra's class,

writing in response to Mathew's story, was particularly telling.

When I signed up for this course I didn't know
what to expect. My first thoughts were that we would
be reading from a textbook about every ability and
disability a child could have but the first class
proved me wrong. Mathew. Even though he was unknown
to me, he was real, not just a story in a book. Aside
from his physical handicap he was experiencing things I
could relate to--difficulty with his sister, feelings
of competitiveness and emotional needs. When you asked
me to put myself in Mathew's shoes and speak his mind,
here is what I was thinking.

As I am walking down this ramp on my brace and
crutches, I see two little boys playing, same age as
me, playing tag football. I wonder if I were normal
like those boys how much more I would be liked. I know
that handicapped children get a lot of attention,
someone constantly around but I feel that attention
stems from pity. If I were normal, I could pick on my
sister, play with other kids, just be bored--all the
things a normal child can do. But I can't. I used to
have Jim to play with, but he died and now there is no
one. I sometimes wish I had died too--then everyone
would be happy. My parents would get a rest and my
sister and grandmother could stop feeling guilty and I
would be at peace. (Sandra, February 3, 1987)

That evening I made this remark in my journal: “Sandra and I
danced in this authentic experience" (GRR 33 Journal Letter,
February, 1987). What did I mean? Did I think of teaching as a
powerful dance--a dance between the generations where the lead could
change? I sensed in Sandra's writing that she had been caught off
guard (expecting something dreary in her first class) then, her-
attention caught by Mathew's story, she moved in step with me
(thinking similarly), similarly aware. Mathew, so real for me,

became real for her. She explored his emotional needs like hers

 

161

then she took the lead in the dance by creating her interpretative
football images, phrases of the normal child, and her sense of
Mathew's restless spirit. Perhaps she danced in her imagination
with Mathew's fingers? Whatever the case, when I read Sandra's
piece I felt we were connected with this small boy in loss. I felt
empowered (thinking we could all grow in the dance) assuming every
member of the class could have written as Sandra did. I summed up
the general response, not realizing that the dance could be risky.
Had I ambitiously aimed for a philosophical or moral acceptance of
difference rather than conquering the State Board's characteristics
first? What did it really mean for the development of a learning
experience to suggest, as I did, “Students were willing to be
saddened and uncertain as we faced unanswerable stories of human
loss” (GRR 34 Journal Letter, February, 1987).

I draw on my experience with a disabled child. By telling the
story of Mathew and showing his photo, I created a connection for us
to share throughout the course . . . a connection stronger than a
piece of descriptive literature. Included in my story telling was a
commentary on my feelings about Mathew and an invitation to the

class to figure out how Mathew felt.

W

I became convinced that a form of authenticity could be secured
through role playing if it placed sensitive demands on student
imaginations. Late in February, after Joyce's presentation and more

discussion of the learning disabled characteristics, I tried the

162

following imaginary technique. Seeking empathy for the parent,
child, and the teacher's perspective and tensions among them in
working with the learning disabled, I placed two empty chairs in
front of me facing my students. I introduced imaginary
eight-year-old children, Billy and Jean, who were mildly learning
disabled. I posed the question--what can we do as teachers to help
these children? How might the teacher adopt an appropriate manner
in assisting or instructing? Able to apply some knowledge from
discussion of the learning-disabled child, students responded with
considerable staying power. Quick to the rescue, no one resisted
helping Billy and Jean. Joyce suggested we could use another chair
in the middle for a student without any difficulty who could
befriend Billy and Jean and who the teacher could use as support in
instruction. Karen thought communication would be blocked by this
row of chairs so we should rearrange the chairs making a natural
cluster so all three pupils could see each other and each other's
work. We devised a group writing project for all three to master
together. We practiced talking to these children and once more
engagement was lively and critical. Imaginary teachers' tone of
voice was scrutinized for signs of praise, encouragement, or
disappointment. Billy's father and Jean's mother visited class,
sharing their reasonable fears and hopes with us. We planned a
whole day's curriculum for the class enabling Bill and Jean to
contribute to the work like the other children. Our curriculum
thinking was rather amateurish for students had done none of their

elementary methods courses--so in some ways this adventure was not

 

163

pedagogically strong. On the other hand, acceptance of loss was at
the heart of our exchanges. Something could be done. The learning
disabled could be loved and helped. The learning disabled could be
gnnght. At the heart of this role-playing the child's problem was
accepted and hopeful actions abounded. ”This imaginative method
seemed to help" (GRR 34 Journal Letter, February 1987), and "The
role playing strategy I used in educational psychology to synthesize
theoretical positions now took on more life and power in
transforming knowledge of the exceptional child” (GRR 35 Journal

Letter, February, 1987).

We
Perhaps our most powerful learning experience in the education

of the exceptional child class occurred when I used a student
researcher's visit to a home where a child suffered from Down
Syndrome. At the end of February, still relatively early in the
semester, the dance resumed when Carolyn led us to a sensitive
understanding of loss in her presentation of Jonathan, a Down
Syndrome child. Nagging me for appropriate books or case studies,
she resorted to the college library and found few references there.
She fumed a little then had the wit to realize that in a small rural
village near her home a family reared a Down Syndrome child.

Taking her risk she spent the weekend with this family. That
Carolyn should think of this wonderful idea indicates her positive
attitudes to our content and the type of understanding she valued.

As Carolyn opened the presentation with a description of seven-year-

164

old Jonathan at play, she was visibly excited, thoughtful, and
responsible for she had been on quite a journey. In her interviews
with both parents and with an older sister, Carolyn followed and
recreated Jonathan's story from birth through all stages of school,
play, and medical experience. She tracked his parents' anguish
endured in establishing at the elementary school whether Jonathan
was edugnhle or ggninghlg. She had grasped and was able to convey
his parents' anger and grief. She helped us understand his sister's
jealousy and confusion because of all the time and attention he
required, leaving her with what felt like less love. Carolyn's
quiet firm voice brought the Down Syndrome right into our classroom
in an inescapable way. We felt the child, those parents, and that
sister in our class conversation. Carolyn had plentiful interview
notes but rarely needed them as she fielded questions with sensitive
aplomb. Her learning was deep enough to readily teach others.
Everyone agreed that this was an outstanding presentation because
with Jonathan, just like Mathew, our awareness was tied so neatly to
reality--we felt the real experience and suffering of Jonathan's
parents and some small sense of what it was like to be Jonathan
himself. ”We felt like Carolyn, as if we had been in Jonathan's
home" (GRR 35 Journal Letter, February 1987).

Fellow students were keen to write about Carolyn's work--an
important gauge of connections students were making with one
another's thinking. Annette, who was one of my most intellectually
lively students, seriously wanting the best possible preparation for

teaching, immediately appreciated the presentation because of its

165

emotional impact: "Carolyn's approach was especially moving because
it wasn't just a figure or a number but a real life situation with
real feelings (Annggng, March 1, 1987). Annette asserted she
learned from these shared feelings in more powerful ways than a
statistical analysis. But Annette's learning, after three months'
reflection and continued classroom debate went further--her
assumptions of what happened in troubled families were shaken and
extended to include this wearing political struggle about a
definition distinguishing Jonathan from being edugable or ggninghlg.
She changed her mind about the extent of loss. ”Hearing the
struggle of the Down Syndrome child really touched home. I can't
believe, now I can, that one family would have to go through so much
to get a decent education for their child" (Annette, May 1, 1987).

Annette came to grips with unexpected dimensions of the problem
of the exceptional child and Jonathan's need for strong advocates to
seek out the decent education others would simply expect. Through
Carolyn's investigations and observation, Annette became more
sensitive to the authentic experience of the child, family and
inequality's grip. Joyce, soon after the Down Syndrome
presentation, carefully measured out reasons for optimism in
confronting the Down Syndrome Child's loss. She conceded we have
discussed the gignnngingmgn; and the ghgllgngg of the exceptional
child.

The Down Syndrome student has special

characteristics and considerations that need to be

taken into account. Down syndrome is both a physical

and cognitive disorder caused.by the failure of miosis

that creates an extra copy of one chromosome. This
extra copy causes physical disorders such as an

 

166

enlarged tongue, chubby and clumsy hands, slanted eyes
and weak necks. Down Syndrome also causes cognitive
disorder such as slurred speech and slower learning
ability, although the learning ability is present.
Because the learning ability is present the teacher
needs to work with the student to set goals and help
them reach these goals. Since the Down Syndrome child
has physical weaknesses the teacher needs to be
familiar with the types of therapies available or that
the child is receiving. Through this class we are
faced with many disappointments of the exceptional
child, it seems as if the Down Syndrome child, despite
the problems they may have, is one of the bright spots
in the area of exceptionality. (Joyce, March 2, 1987)

Carolyn showed we could learn about exceptional children by
spending time with them and their families. She advocated the power
of that authentic experience in her own demeanor in class and in her
understanding. Annette made similar connections and although these
connections of authentic experience may have been less explicit for
Joyce and Patricia, they helped their ability to accept the loss and
be hopeful about thinking about supportive educative measures.
Carolyn's presentation lived on for Patricia was prompted in her
exam paper to think more about detailed characteristics in the
presentation and her conclusion had a spirited twist.

The Down syndrome child is different from other
categories of exceptionality because he is nh1§_;n

lgnrn. Their problem is with speech and appearance.

Teachers need to work on the physical problems.

Constant work with a therapist to improve speech would

be critical. Help children set goals and check them

often. Once they reach those goals don't stop

there--keep going to bigger and better goals. Keep

them motivated and encourage them to do the best they

can. Involving parents in the child‘s progress could

be very useful. (Patricia, Final Examination Script,

May 14, 1987)

Writing at the end of the semester looking back at the Down

Syndrome, she has learn to think positively and hopefully about

167

these children. She can imagine herself accepting the problem and
working hopefully on it with others. The child can learn and she

could try to teach him.

e t' 0

Reading selections from an autobiographical account of a
difference in the family, I created a piece of theater for students
who moved to tears took on new appreciation of pain and acceptance.
Early in April, much later in the semester I found a book by
Featherstone, A_Qiffg;gnng_1n_§hg_£§nily (1980) that I thought would
help us understand some of the ineffable issues of loss in this
course. I met Featherstone in Cambridge and from her understood a
little more about the need to explore loss in teacher preparation.

I was on the right, if difficult, track in Illinois.
I met Helen Featherstone today. She has been on

my mind. I am reading her book about her severely

disabled son Jody while looking for case study material

for my exceptional child class. The book is what I am

looking for. (GRR 40 Journal Letter, April 1987)

This book told us of daily lives of anticipation, sorrow, and
continued effort by parents and siblings to deal with the reality of
difference. Without multiple copies and suffering restricted funds
for photocopying, I decided to mark passages and read these aloud to
the class with little commentary apart from connecting details. I
chose a variety of scenes recounting Helen's experience with her son
Jody, a severely disabled child. There was something in this

resource that prompted an awakening in.my students. It was as if

they felt chilled by the whoosh of honest emotions. I think it was

 

 

168

Jody's humanity but also Helen's motherly dilemmas and pressures.

Meanwhile I grew.
Featherstone's honest autobiographical insight

into her own loss and that of others-~dignified loss

for me--helping me understand I must encourage

prospective teachers to respect ingixignnli§y_1n_12§§.

(GRR 40 Journal Entry, April, 1987)

My teaching had been tending toward a generic loss and a
generic hope. I understood more now about the ambiguity of
acceptance and the challenge of developing this attitude.
Featherstone writes, "There is nothing final about acceptance.
Whether our children are healthy or disabled, most of us view our
life quite differently from one day to the next” (p. 231).

What extracts did I choose to read aloud and what did I assume
they might capture? Some I read for me (for my education) for
students to see me puzzling about aspects of a difference in a
family. Some I read for memories of my own childhood but mostly I
had chosen to enlighten and provoke my students who had seemed thus
far willing to be moved, willing to tackle these unanswerable
questions. This key resource took us into the family's loss with
honest language accessible to undergraduates. The story was
compelling--the pain both obvious but refined (respected). Jody was
partly a mystery but he was real as were Helen, his father Jay, and
his sisters.

We had in class been thinking about hope as if hope were an
automatic human quality in distress. I wanted my prospective

teachers to embrace hope with differences but Helen reminded us of

the tenuous link between despair and hope and the shifting quality

 

169

of hope as more bad news arrives. After this reading would we grasp
that parents and teachers fight for hope and teachers battle with
despair? I felt I was creating a piece of theater with its
persuasive power as I introduced Jody.

. as the months went by we learned that Jody
was not only blind. He had cerebral palsy; he was
probably severely retarded. During the first eighteen
months of his life he cried almost continually from
pain that no one could diagnose or relieve. His days
and nights were passed in misery; his future looked
bleak and limited. Hardly a day passed without our
asking ourselves whether his life was worth living.
Each of us separately and together, wished for an end
to his ordeal: a peaceful painless death.

He did not die. He was remarkably tough.
Unexpectedly after the doctor removed an infected
shunt, his pain went. He cried less during the day and
slept longer at night. He smiled more often even
laughed. Liberated from his inner torments he
responded to us. We began to like him. He gave more:
his smiles his laughter his delighted shrieks. He
asked less. He still needed a lot of special care, but
we no longer performed our daily routines with one hand
while patting a wretched baby on the other. Each of us
began to feel that Jody's life was worth living, and
that he made his own special contribution to the
family. (p. 236).

I returned to an earlier statement of Jody's problem.-

My husband and I learned that Jody's eyes were
badly damaged when he was two weeks old; the doctor
told us that the infection that had scarred his retina
might have invaded his brain as well. For months we~
worried and worried: Would Jody be retarded, and if so,
how seriously? Would he see at all, and if he could
how much? We watched him nervously, searching for the
answers to these questions. Hope battled.with despair

(I). 15)

I left until almost last the transcript of the siblings
dwelling on this piece of text for two reasons. First, I wanted to
provoke curiosity how other children reconstruct tragedy, difficulty

and difference. Second, I wanted to demonstrate the emotional

170

involvement of Jody's sisters to help us understand such brothers

and sisters in our classrooms. This extract helped us identify with

deep emotions. It is quite long so I have extracted some of the

conversation.
radio play.

Witch:

Child:

Witch:

Child:

Witch:

Child:

Witch:

Child:

Witch:

Child:

Witch:

Child:

The two girls with a tape recorder are creating a

Jody, their brother cannot walk, talk or see (p. 137).

And now, I can't blame you. (Pause) But
perhaps I do blame you. Why didn't you use
signs, the communication system that would
indicate that you wanted to be taught to
speak?

He goes to a special school.

(ignoring her) Eng, use the signs, deaf boy.
(To child) since your brother cannot hear

Yes.

Deaf children can be taught to speak. He is
blind nng deaf so let him put his hands on

your lips.
Okay.

And, so he can learn to speak, I will not
think of murdering him. But if he cannot
learn to speak in ten years I shall kill him.
Okay? In ten years you will be thirteen and
he will be fifteen. Bring him to me in ten
years. Teach him. Work on it every day
except when you are in school.

I also go to play group every day.

Except when you are in play group and he is
in school, work on it. Teach him to speak.

But his teachers learn him to speak.

Help them. Stop going to play group. Go to
school with him and help his teachers to
teach him to speak.

Well, then my sister and my mother will be
mad at me.

171

Witch: I don't care. If you do not do it, your
brother will be killed.

Child: I know, but the teachers don't need any help.

Witch: Help them. Do as I say or your brother and
12! will be killed. Do it. Go. See you in
ten years.

To juxtapose this powerful reading I chose a passage of
triumph. Helen shares her experience.

On the way to the first pre-school I got lost and
nearly ran out of gas. I was nervous. I knew the
children would be handicapped and I wondered how they
would look to me. I was afraid I would want to turn
away in embarrassment. When I entered the classroom I
was astonished. It was not the children's disabilities
that struck me. It was their vitality and beauty. I
marvelled at the miracle of mobility and the
achievement of human communication. A little girl
hitched herself across the room to me to offer me a toy
and a smile. I was touched. Driving home I thought,
”this was a gift from Jody. If I had visited this
school three years ago, I would have recoiled from the
kids. Now they look beautiful to me.” (p. 227)

My evening journal entry was deceptively simple: "Then I read
Helen Featherstone, description of Jody, times with medicos,
acceptance, siblings' story of the witch and Jody's gift when Helen
saw the beauty of the disabled child. The class cried (GRR 42
Journal Letter, April, 1987). Something remarkable had happened
and class members at their own suggestions wrote to Helen

Featherstone in Cambridge, thanking her for coming into their lives.

Musics

Pressured by the puzzle of theory and practice in undergraduate
teacher preparation, in Chapter IV, I collected examples where I

kept silent and students retreated. Dewey might point to

172

unconsolidated principles needed to ground learning. He might note
my concern, like any beginner, was to create experiences and
opportunities for learning without patterning their intellectual
reconstruction. It was hard to pave paths toward that
reconstruction. In this chapter, I used authentic experience,
telling stories, reading selections of powerful cases, and calling
on student research and experiences to lead students more
effectively to theoretical and dispositional knowledge. The paths
were more intimate, more enduring, but still not necessarily
sufficiently well-mediated with recognized theorists in these

fields.

 

CHAPTER IV
HINDSIGHT

After two years' further experience with teacher education
undergraduates at Bunbury College and two years at Michigan State
University's College of Education, I realize student enthusiasm to
learn to teach in 1986-1987 was rarely wedded to intellectual
curiosity but was prompted by few alternative career possibilities,
by emotional attraction to children or tenderness for past teachers.
Wanting to do something worthwhile, students delighted in my belief
that teaching was important work, believing teachers should do gngg
221k (pupils should learn) but they supposed teachers could operate
with little professional education, beyond adequate factual
knowledge.

To be enthusiastic about becoming a teacher is one thing and
to be educated for its intellectual worth is another. My cry for
analytical rigor conflicted with students' truths about knowledge,
pedagogy, and schooling. Nor were my lessons easy--the
uncertainties of teaching as work, the ambiguities involved in
gauging pupil's reactions and understandings, attention to relations
between theory and practice, and so on. Tension between enthusing

about teaching and learning to teach underscores my analysis of

173

174

secondary English methods where students did not resist the
education I had in mind but could not embrace it.

I set traps or posed situations to promote understanding but my
learners were prepared for different traps--different situations and
different reasons for studying. While students expected little
difference between learning biology and learning to teach, I did not
know how to prepare them to face and embrace the sort of work we
would do. Expecting to swiftly engage students in pedagogical
thinking, I tried to call on secondary English methods students'
knowledge of literature for debate, reflection, and appreciation
preparatory to exploring multiple apprOpriate teaching strategies.
To tap their passion, I asked my probing question about authors they
wanted to share but students, not driven by a passion for
literature, misinterpreted my remark to suggest they needed more
facts.

I Some student constraints had their origins in high school
education which left them generally ill-prepared either to be
curious or endure. It was hard then to learn (let alone learn to
teach) in social, analytic ways I had in mind-~questioning,
discussion, debate, disputation, role playing, simulation, writing
and rewriting. Students, unused to learning co-operatively,
expected me to tell them the facts I thought they needed to know.

Working class students tended to be practical rather than
dreamers. Many, first in their families to attend college and not
knowing bookish delight and intellectual progress, felt tentative.

On the whole, they were looking, I think, for a spiritual and

Una

-‘

 

175

intellectual odyssey but knew neither what it looked like nor its
benefits. Offering a dream of fine teaching, I thought I could help
for I came from the Australian working class but my vision had
expanded and it was hard to look back and find myself in these
restricted views of the possible for students and potential pupils.

My learners suffered. More pressing lessons in life
interrupted concentration and tenacious thought as many
conversations in my office were about relationships with parents,
loved ones, employers, campus enemies, and death. Judy struggled
with complicated life choices including a small fatherless son.
Paul needed to talk about his mother's death from cancer and
attempts to help his depressed father and troubled high school
sister. Paula's father was seriously ill. Grandfathers died and
close friends were killed in car accidents.

Moreover, the cultural context (faculty, staff, and students)
in this liberal arts, working-class college made education majors
feel intellectually inferior to mathematicians and biology students
who studied 1gn1_knnglgngg while education majors (both elementary
and secondary) n1nygg_ni§h_§g1§§gz§_gnd_n§s§e. In a small rural
setting, these attitudes had greater power to constrain prospective
teachers' views of themselves as scholars than in a larger, more
diverse college where teacher education faculty and majors might,
unharrassed, pursue excellence.

In my first chapter, I show how these constraints played out in
our teaching and learning. I argue high school inadequacies,

socio-economic origins, personal ordeals, and cultural context

176

produce entrenched inescapable assumptions students held about
knowledge and pedagogy clashed with my equally entrenched views seen
in my hesitation to rethink my teaching in elementary social studies
methods. There we faced each other with an enthusiasm about
becoming teachers but completely different views of content,
strategies, classroom management, role of teachers, or the purposes
of schooling. My response was understandably slow as I
optimistically assumed I could translate my enthusiasm using my
authorities but those authorities informed my passion not theirs.

It is tempting to think we created a reasonable, intellectually
satisfying, compromise in our dealings but I hesitate to make such
generalizations. Moments of illumination, using performance as a
teaching device in secondary English methods or calling on authentic
experience in educational psychology and education of the
exceptional child, were offset by development so small as to remind
us that this work is as slow as change wrought by therapy. I felt
my learners' heightened self respect over time but it would be hard
to claim students necessarily learned to think like teachers.

Annette, in contrast, developed in leaps and bounds from 1986
to 1989. Showing an unusually independent mind in the introduction
to educational psychology in the spring semester, 1986, she tackled
observation as if already a senior methods' student. Her work
debating mainstreaming in the education of the exceptional child
embraced ambiguity. She became increasingly, consciously
intellectual as she progressed through the program. I had the

thrill of seeing her in social science secondary methods (spring,

177

1988) where as my only student I saw what could be. Already firm
friends from the previous year, we worked together as if inspired on
the excitements of pedagogy and the realities of surrounding
schools. Annette caught fire, loving talking about these matters as
much as I did. In this class, Michele embraced every opportunity to
think deeply about the interrelations of content, pedagogy, and
children. She ably reconstructed her experience and vivaciously
commented on examples from my practice. She puzzled about
spontaneity in working with adolescents and the need for clear
advance planning. She saw the curriculum as a place to foster
democratic values and respect for diversity. I had envisaged such
conversations in 1986 when I entered the college.

We tackled student teaching in social science (spring, 1989) at
a local, rural high school. Annette battled with weaker students,
belligerent types, and a depressed intellectual school climate.
Having been anxious about slower learners, Michele found unexpected
patience. Belligerent children caused more panic but honest written
reflections helped her adopt an adult perspective and resistance
hurt less. Determined to remain cheerful about knowledge and its
value she tried to forge relationships between history and pupils'
backgrounds or aspirations. Proud of Annette's work, I learned more
about my own: I modified some earlier expectations about the school
as a place to learn to teach recognizing the multiple, swift-moving
pressures and doubts inevitable in such a practicum.

In my novice year, the significance of the gap between

enthusiasm to teach but little passion for knowledge passed me by.

178

Had I noticed the gap I would have been in less of one muddle but
more in another--trying to figure out how to cape with ghig problem
of practice. If I thought teaching were an intellectual process I
would need to teach in ways that remediated high school intellectual
experience and combatted the cultural context. That's a lot for a
novice! Where I had more time--over five teacher education
experiences with Annette in foundations in American education,
introduction to educational psychology, the education of the
exceptional child, secondary social science methods, and student
teaching seminar and supervision, I witnessed a beginner teacher
take to the blocks, accepting the ambiguity of her work with

children and content with a lively, curious and hopeful mind.

W

Now, I would have certain habits of mind stitched into my
strategies and classroom conversation. In elementary social
studies, for example, thinking of observation as a habit, I would
work on students' abilities to observe well before I sent them into
the schools (programming observation as late as possible in the
semester with full- or half-day experiences rather than one-hour
slots). Before entry to the schools, I would foster attention to
detail and develop inference by conducting a series of exercises
beginning with observing a tray of non-human, non-moving objects.
My next assignment would have students observe people at work, other
than teachers. Saturday mornings would be fine times to watch the

supermarket supervisor, the bank teller, or the mechanic. Tasks,

179

attitudes, rewards, stresses and strains, interpersonal
communications would all add to knowledge of gngk enhancing the
capacity to watch teaching as work. Third, students would be asked
to observe my teaching another class, questioning my purposes,
strategies, actions, interpersonal relations, successes, and
failures. Observation of another college professor could follow.

I would then be in a firmer position to judge what students can
learn from observation, what types of placements to seek and what
assignments to set. Prospective students, on the other hand, might
be more self confident in their visits, see more intelligently and
be more likely to talk constructively with practicing teachers.
Students unprepared for entry to classroom observation enter seeing
what they used to see, applauding what they used to applaud, and
imitating behaviors that once pleased them as students. I sat with
Bill, a social science major, observing an eighth-grade class in the
fall semester, 1986. We both agreed to take notes. He could think
of little to write except that the content was interesting compared
with my intense analysis of the teaching and pupils' reactions.
Prospective teachers are free to see what they want-~how can that
freedom can be ”capable of realization“? (Dewey, finng;1gnng_nng
Egngngign, 1926, p. 22).

My drive now would be to foster a cultivated perception of the
classroom as learning community where teacher and pupils work
together to construct knowledge. Better use of cases reconstructed
and compared with similar cases in students' experience may be a

beginning. It is easier to state my aim than my method but I would

180

seek awareness of the divergent and uniting factors in the room, an
appreciation of the teacher's roles with content, strategy, child
and self and an appreciation of observing itself as a tool in
teaching.

The key difference in my practice, then and now, is that I
would try to saturate my practice in students' minds (no longer
appalled and paralyzed by what they think). I would use my mind to
show students how they were thinking and the consequences of these
patterns of thought. Lending students my mind I would spread their
thinking out so they can see it and decide whether they really
wanted to pursue that direction or accept that premise. In
revealing these consequences and alternatives I would target habits
of mind including wholeheartedness, curiosity about teaching and
learning, respect for the imagination, discerning observation, and
tolerance for ambiguity and diversity. Rather than suspending my
ego (Kohl, 1984, p. 67). I would become deliberately vulnerable to
ill-formed, impatient thinking, working to restate and reshape it,
teaching students how to take control of this move from uncertainty
and confusion to reason. I would reverse my tendency to silence
when flummoxed such as in Chapter II when students missed the point
about Rita. Now, I would say, “As teachers, should we think and act
like Rita or can we imagine better alternatives to help children
grow?“

Aiming for a different relationship to the literature, I would
set fewer readings and be more purposeful in assigned responses,

refraining from asking students to read additional pieces on reserve

181

or in the packet of readings without stitching these readings into
the conversation. I'd initiate conversation about reading. ”What
happens when you read?” trying to counteract weak high school
experience in reading, writing, and analysis since these skills are
so significant in the new teacher. I would invite comment on
readings seeming too abstract, too theoretical, or too long. In:
preparing the social studies elementary methods class, for example,
I would still use Lemleck's (1984) introduction to the spiral
curriculum but seeing its connections with likely teaching instances
I would not restrict its use to questions and answers on a hot humid
afternoon. I would work with that reading for five or six classes,
spinning off to practical examples of dilemmas from the wording of
the text, raising important issues, like values education in social
studies instruction.

I would not now expect undergraduates to read (initially) with
intellectual purpose but I would work to help them do so with
simulations, for example, taking on the features of four socio-
economic class attitudes to knowledge, playing out Anyon's themes in
parent conferences, mock faculty meetings, and teacher-student
interviews. We would make diagrams based on Lampert's (1985)
description of her research to figure out her classroom dilemmas,
developing similar diagrsms to capture the inequalities and tensions
in our own classrooms and classrooms we observed. One student would
impersonate Lampert playing the role of teacher researcher. Others
would act as her consultants. We would work in small groups with

the task of representing visually and explaining to the rest of the

182

class what Hawkins' (1974) really meant in ‘I, Thou and It.’ With
more formal position papers (two paragraphs only), we would begin to
take steps to make these authors professional allies.

But experts' written text is not our only, nor necessarily our
best resource. Student autobiographical experience of parents,
schools, teaching, and life especially race, class, and gender can
be central text. Samuel, white, the grandchild of an openly-
prejudiced Michigan farmer crouched near the chalkboard at the final
class party in Exnlnning_1gngh1ng engrossed in a senior student's
final paper about his evolving understanding of growing up a black
American in Detroit (GRR Journal, June 4, 1992). Joe had written
about discrimination, setbacks, and growing hatred for whites and
his intellectual seesaw with Martin Luther King and Malcomb X. His
life became dignified, working material for discussion in
unforgettable classes and now Samuel thought again as he read Joe's
writing. I would ask social studies methods students to write about
what they can remember from elementary social studies teachers.

What was the content? What were the teaching methods? To approach
the purposes of social studies curriculum by this route would be far
more memorable than my stuffy, novice announcements about the
cognitive, affective, and socialization purposes recorded in Lemleck
(1984).

I juggled in secondary English methods with Judy's
determination to reach underprivileged pupils, her limited subject
matter knowledge, her personal disquiet and irritation with

authority. As I juggled, I gave Judy space to feel accepted and

183

grow but my view of Judy's growth was framed more by her problems
than my intentions--problems she shared with me in confidence:
problems about authority with cooperating teachers, problems of
reduced concentration in class, and problems with writing.
Nurturing Judy, I embraced her personal anguish allowing her space
in class to expound on injustices in observing classrooms, failing
to be clear there was more to see. Possibly I felt more comfortable
helping her personally than intellectually for how sure was I of my
trade? I remember as a young schoolteacher becoming similarly
easily entangled in adolescent emotional crises while trying to
figure out history teaching.

To take a case in point, Judy didn't like to write. Because
she was so often upset, I let her slide away from the written
responsibilities as if she were not capable. Now, I would require
one fine paragraph each night responding to a small part of the
assignment or the central class idea. I would believe both in
Judy's capacity and my responsibility to tap it. I would set about
to teach Judy to ehink as well as feel rather than allow us to
wallow in her troubled emotions. We would muse over the place of
intellect, emotion, will, and imagination in our learning. Hearing
Penny, Dan, and I talk about our attempts to understand these
elements in us would heighten my chances of nudging Judy on from her
emotional response closer to an intellectual one. It may also have
made her more anxious but that inhibiting risk at the time now seems

imperative.

 

184

Judy's academic program encouraged her to think of herself as a
speech teacher so principles of speech communication, not literary
examples, became her perceived teaching content. Alison Jordan, the
particularly lively, college speech and communication professor,
took a serious interest in students and had a special affection for
Judy, giving her quality training, confidence, and emotional
support. This speech orientation conflicted with my hope students
be captivated by literature's mysteries. But Judy's blinkered
vision about content flourished as I rewarded her performance or
whenever she spoke with vitality about speech in schools and what
she might do there with pupils. I was confused about the difference
between showmanship and substance,

The difference between an interesting and tedious

teacher consists in little more than the inventiveness

by which the one is able to mediate these associations

and connections. Anecdotes and reminiscences will

abound in her talk; and the shuttle of interest will

shoot backward and forward, weaving the new and the old

together in a lively and entertaining way. Another

teacher has no such inventive fertility and his lesson

will always be a dead and heavy thing. (James, 1958,
p. 75)

Now, when Judy wove this story in class, I would urge her to
work with harder, more taxing subject matter and pay attention to
trouble makers. In teaching Judy (and her class) I only went so
far. I decided Penny thought teaching performance, that Judy
thought it speech communication and Dan was new to college English.
I elicited Penny's egocentric emphasis, Dan stressed discipline, and
Judy kindness. I let us live with those positions rather than widen
perspectives of teaching practice. I was tempted to think if I

eeeeen alternatives, faith in them would follow. I now realize I

185

need to become saturated in these students' thoughts to see how they
hold together and where my intervention.would count.

I would ask Judy to examine our copy of the local high school
English curriculum, underlining all references to speech determine
how much teachers actually teach speech. We would talk over her
findings, then, together, visit the principal of the high school or
the head of the English department to ask the likely demands of a
beginner teacher in that department. In these two specific ways, I
would garnish Judy with more specific understanding of the secondary
English teacher's role and motivate her to see the need to read
poetry and novels and worry about how to teach grammar or
composition.

I failed to pull Judy up short. Now I would do so. I would
make finer, well-directed, probably uncomfortable interventions not
allowing her, for example, to slide out of the requirements that
framed the final examination. Knowing her tenacity in coping with
quite formidable personal odds, I would harness that determination
to our advantage, structuring smaller demands with a tighter
schedule. I would help Judy focus on intellectual goals. At the
time, I allowed myself to be distracted from my purposes by Judy's
fretting but now I would use all these emotions in class. We could
think about the value of writing passing through students on the way
to the teacher. I would draw on Penny's clear statement of what she
saw in Dan's paper and Dan's concern that he might cheat if he
incorporated Penny's ideas. Assuring Judy I knew she could succeed,

I would challenge her to polish part of her paper for Judy, part for

186

Dan, and part for me, meeting with us separately. We would have
demonstrated that different learning styles exist, that emotions
effecting learning can be dealt with sensitively in discussion, and
that alternatives can be found without sacrificing quality or
heightening panic.

When Judy hated her methods cooperating teacher, Mrs. D, I
would arrange a meeting with Judy and Mrs. D to discuss the
particular children Judy assumed oppressed, showing I respected this
practitioner. Mrs. D might help Judy see she, too, would not love
all children. After the meeting, Judy and I would go for a long
walk noting en; glen of Mrs. D was now fuller, more realistic, more
understanding. Perhaps she had more to teach us both about the
classroom than we thought before the meeting? How quickly should we
use terms like oppression? I would ask Judy how our own childhood
alters the way we look at other adults working with children. I
would not withdraw my support but walk Judy along her difficult
paths until she could walk alone.

I learned (as Dewey tried to tell me) that I could only work
with students where they are. This principle, known to me as a
seasoned history teacher, seemed easy to forget in my new field. To
do well I learned I must think hard about ny_eign1f1een§_e§he;e and
know my own mind with increasing clarity. Rigorously exposing
student assumptions and anticipating reactions to my pedagogy, I
needed to both clarify and believe in the direction and power of my
own thinking about what teachers need to know and how we could get

there--because it would be difficult for a disengaged student to

187

become passionate if I didn't take the lead. I needed to be
sensitive to the gap between us, its origins, its conceptual impact
with deceptively simple words as knowledge and pedagogy. I had to
learn to rewrite the melody and the words with student experience
and stop drowning our conversations with my writers' powerful song,
that of Lemleck, Lampert, or Dewey. That is, students and I needed
to learn to sing parts of each other's songs.

Since students did not see their questions in the readings, I
learned the value of choosing one or two authors to become close
friends, connecting other principles to those readings in authentic
ways. Since 1990, in my recent teaching, Kohl's fixening_fl1ne§
(1984) and Anyon's WW (1981) have
given students the chance to think over the same stories of teaching
and learning from different perspectives of class, race, gender, and
pedagogy. Understanding gradually accumulated and deepened with our
revisitings. I learned that eegien with literature might be more
helpful, less ambiguous, and even more instructive than.;ef1eeeien
which is a less automatic capacity than I supposed (Korthagen,
1985).

My learning was not dissimilar to my first year's experience at
SCEGGS, Moss Vale, when as a history buff, aged 20, without teacher
training, I found senior pupils' enthusiasm for ancient and modern
European history tempered by concerns to defeat the external
examiner much like teacher certification requirements. At Moss
Vale, I had everything to learn about engaging pupils over time,

about democratic or authoritarian human relationships in the

188

classroom, about anxiety and contradictions in my head about
evaluation, about keeping my temper, about matching involvement with
detachment, and about administrators' distaste for innovative
teaching. I was unsure how to learn all this. The problems and the
feeling were replicated at Bunbury College. In both schools
teaching was exhilarating, all consuming, and lonely for few others
cared about the fuss in my head. And the words would not come.

In both inaugural years in my career, students played an
enormous part in my developing thinking. At Moss Vale, students
curious about my passion for history taught me how to successfully
tip what topics would be examined that year and how to teach poor
historians how to fool unknown examiners. Worried about my lack of
organization after my three weeks enthusing at Moss Vale, Pauline
stood at the back of the room, straight and tall in her navy uniform
and blond plaits, to ask, “Please, Miss Reid, can we begin the
syllabus?" I equate that remark in 1967 with my prospective
teachers' journal entries in 1986, giving me a second chance and
more time to learn. In both places I heard the students' song but
in teacher education the duet is a more sophisticated composition.

How can one prepare for such work? I had a vocation for
teacher preparation inspired by conversations with Frank Koppel at
Harvard's Graduate School of Education in 1982 and 1983. I had
taught school for many years, knowing the difference between
beginner, middle, and mature high school teaching. Disciplined to
think independently and imaginatively, on the hunt for the origins

of things, I was both sympathetic and empathic to students. I

189

needed to be nilling_eng_ehle to make a unique response on the job.
at Bunbury College just as I did at Sydney Church of England Grammar
School for Girls, Moss Vale, Clyde School and Geelong Grammar School
in Australia.

I needed to have read differently in graduate school, feeding
two minds not one--one to inform my practice and the other to figure
out prospective teachers' likely minds. I needed to think out
exactly how an idea I read might addresses students' specific
intellectual needs and how I can tie the reading to our individual
and collective experience. For example, when I read Dewey's
thinking on content and pedagogy in Deneezeey_ene_fieneeeien (1916) I
was not envisaging how these thoughts might help or hinder students'
intellectual development. As it turned out Dewey (illuminating and
prodding me) was not especially suitable for students in this
context. I lacked knowledge of developmental psychology for the
later adolescents to feed my intuitions about young adults seeking
professional competence and a new identity. Case studies of
psychologists' interviews with such students would have helped me
grasp what I saw happening to my students in half-baked, anxious,

undirected ways.

W129;
I want to learn now to listen to students beliefs and
assumptions like a psychiatrist looking for patterns of
understanding and specific confusions. To improve my listening I

would read psychiatry and teacher education literature together,

190

learning more about the intellect, emotions, will, and imagination
to help me knee rather than intuit how reconstruction of experience
(the core of teacher preparation) actually happens in different
heads. In reacting to what I hear, I would calm down--seeing that
becoming a teacher, like becoming a parent or writer, is a gradual
accumulation of thought, feeling, and imagination. Working in this
way on developing in myself and students' specific habits of mind
essential for fine teaching, I feel hopeful my work will reshape

their classroom thinking. The finer my daily work, the better.

 

 

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