The obedience paradox


The Headmaster is a marvellous man, and this is the best school I’ve ever been to.

(Gillian Cross, The Demon Headmaster.  I don’t think this line has ever appeared in an Ofsted report.)

I was born in the 1970’s, and most of my school years were in the 1980’s.  Whilst I didn’t go to my home town’s Trendy School, where teachers were known by first names, I don’t think obedience was seen as something to be cultivated; responsibility and consideration were the watchwords.  The Demon Headmaster was clearly a wrong’un from the first pages; the children in his school are strangely neat and well-behaved and they even work during break.  Long before we discover that he wanted to take over the country by mass hypnosis, it’s clear that he was up to no good.

The thing is, however you dress and decorate it, some parts of school life really are about obedience.  If I’m teaching a class about electric circuits, I might well want them to make decisions about what circuits to build and test.  However, I also don’t want them to connect the meters in ways which will cause things to get broken (unless they are cheap and safe to break, and the breaking is interesting).  Whilst it’s right to give reasons for instructions (“if you plug in the voltmeter that way, you won’t get any current anywhere, because it has a huge resistance”), there is still a bottom line.  During a lesson, I need pupils in the class to do certain things in a certain way, because that is best, overall, for the learning that needs to be happening.

That’s before we get to exam courses.  I don’t think that there can be any doubt that GCSEs and A levels are currently largely about obedience; obedience to a set of assessment objectives, expressed in a predictable mark scheme.  As teachers, we may not call it obedience, but when we say “to write a top band answer, you need to include these points and express them in this way”, we are essentially asking for obedience.

In many important ways, the pupil experience in English schools now is a lot more constrained and regimented than I suspect it was in the recent past.  The system is more target-driven, and it’s sometimes a struggle to mould those targets to an individual’s plans, rather than what a computer database says that they ought to get.  Lesson notes have to be done in a school-approved format, which teachers and managers monitor.  Come to think of it, I don’t think any of my teachers would have had a teacher-directed seating plan.  All of these might be good things, but they are constraints which have been introduced.

I don’t think that I am describing a super-strict no-excuses school here.  Even if one wishes to be flexible, and agree some aspects of classroom routines with classes, there is still- somewhere- a bottom line scenario which says “we have to do this thing, at this time, in this way“.

And that’s the difficult bit.

This great blogpost by Georges Simplon clarified the problem of what happens next.  One paragraph really stood out:

I get them to like me, I crack jokes, I confuse them, I act the alpha male, I use the occasional put-down, I shout loudly for no more than a second, and then bring my voice down to just above a whisper.  I make eye-contact, and I try to make sure every kid in there knows that I like them and want the best for them.

I don’t think that Georges’s experience is unique.  Certainly, the schools I have trained in, and worked in, have had written behaviour policies which are there not to be used.  The heavy lifting of getting pupils to do what you want is by relationship-building and Jedi-mind-games.  Those tools are useful, up to a point.

But the thing about a lot of these techniques is that they work at a subconscious level, and need an element of surprise to be useful.  Once both parties are aware of the game being played, they become a lot less effective.

Worse than that, some of the worst-behaved pupils I’ve had in my classes have been brilliant at these strategies themselves.  They act alpha, they crack jokes, they try to confuse those around them.  Even if they haven’t learned those strategies in school, they have certainly had their use legitimised by what they have seen teachers do.

In any case, there’s a paradox here.  Explicit demands for obedience are seen as bad, and it’s right that anyone in a position of authority should find that status at least a little bit uncomfortable.  But behaviour management as practiced in schools often seeks the same ends, just by less direct means.  Leaving aside the question of efficacy, it seems to me that there is a question of honesty here.  If, as teachers, we aim to manage pupil behaviour implicitly, is that really any more liberal or liberating than being explicit about expectations and consequences?



The requirement to improve

“Requires improvement”.  It’s a curious phrase.  Although it’s made of English words, there’s something not-quite-English about the idiom; as if it’s been translated by a computer from a less friendly language.  It’s rather passive-aggressive, with the emphasis on the aggressive.

I doubt that it was used much before 2012, when Ofsted re-badged satisfactory as R.I..  I understand the intention and ambition behind the change.  Five years on, though, I’m increasingly convinced that the label of “Requires Improvement”, as a label that one part of the education system can stick on another part, hasn’t worked.

For a while, any problems with schools were seen as essentially technical.  The impression given by those in charge was the right way to teach had been sorted out, and it was simply a question of making sure that the resources were available, and that teaching staff jolly well did what they were told.  (I have memories of a head holding up the Ofsted framework, in much the same way that an evangelist would hold up the Bible, and telling us that this was The Way To Teach).  It was (and to an extent, still is) a strange mixture pedagogies which probably didn’t really please anyone.

It wasn’t (and isn’t) prog; if a lesson has a clear (and teacher-defined) success criterion, it can’t really be progressive.  Comparing my experience as a pupil in the 1980’s with that of the pupils I teach now, they are much better trained in what to write to pass exams, and their whole school experience is much more closely managed than mine was.

Equally, it wasn’t (and isn’t) trad; if the lesson model is about pupil talk, or putting generic skills above learning a canon of content, it can’t really be traditional teaching.  It wasn’t (and isn’t) fully technocratic either, though the prevailing model of teaching had (and has) a lot of monitoring, tracking and intervention to hold the whole thing together.

(This might be why the prog-trad wars in education are often so unproductive. Both sides of the argument can make a reasonable claim to “have lost”, so both sides feel like David up against Goliath.  In situations where we feel our opponents have an inbuilt advantage, it’s very tempting to think that the rules of debate shouldn’t apply quite so rigourously to us as to our opponents.)

Anyway- that was the model of teaching.  From 2012 onwards, teaching that didn’t conform to that model Required Improvement.  Teachers were to be frequently observed to make sure that they were doing all the things on the checklist, and if they weren’t there in an observation, heaven help you.  So, everyone did what they were told.  This worked about as well as the Triple Alliance and Triple Entente did at preventing World War 1 (rude word coming up):

Edmund:  You see, Baldrick, in order to prevent war in Europe, two superblocs developed: us, the French and the Russians on one side, and the Germans and Austro-Hungary on the other.   The idea was to have two vast opposing armies, each acting as the other’s deterrent.   That way there could never be a war.

Baldrick:  But this is a sort of a war, isn’t it, sir?

Edmund:  Yes, that’s right.   You see, there was a tiny flaw in the plan.

George:   What was that, sir?

Edmund:  It was bollocks.

Blackadder Goes Forth: Goodbyee

In these last few years, teachers have done a lot of things which were, frankly, rubbish, in order to avoid being labelled R.I.  We’ve taught in 20 minute blocks, and moved pupils onto new content before they can possibly have got long-term mastery of anything.  We’ve done mini-plenaries and convinced ourselves that we could say exactly what pupils have learned.  We’ve obsessed about Purposeful Learner Talk all the time, and ignored the difficulty of thinking in a room with multiple conversations going on at once.  We’ve put subgrades and sublevels on individual pieces of work, ignoring the detail that grades and levels didn’t work like that, can’t really be divided into thirds and that there’s good evidence that grades swamp any other feedback you give.

I’ve done all of these things, even though I sort-of suspected that they weren’t a good idea.  The Requirement to Improve was a Requirement to Conform.  Worse than that, the conformity was to a model which was actually quite questionable, if you dared.  Understandably, few did for a long time.

Whatever the frustrations and imperfections of teaching in England today, it is a good thing that this model has begun to melt.  There are schools of all sorts of stripe trying models which they believe in, which are different to the standard prog-trad-tech setting.  That’s healthy.  It does leave a challenge, though.

“Requires improvement” as a label would be problematic, even if it hadn’t driven some pretty harmful trends.  Requiring improvement as an ambition, something chosen, that’s a different matter.  It might not show up in results, even; the focus on progress measures based on real grade scales (like Progress 8) shows how hard it is to change results on a school-wide basis.  Improvement has to be about doing the right thing, because it’s the right thing.

Improvement also needs honesty about what approaches to education are more likely to work better in the classroom, particularly in a world of real children and finite resources.  Part of that honesty is about acknowledging what we don’t know, rather than enforcing the current orthodoxy.

As I said at the start, “Requires improvement” is a curious phrase, with a tone characteristic of a certain way of doing things.  It’s a way that hasn’t gone away… yet.  But just maybe, it is fading enough to allow real improvement to happen.

Collated Discourses, or what the CD format might tell us about textbooks.


Compact disc: image from

Like I suspect a lot of schools, my place has a conflicted attitude towards textbooks.  We spend a fortune on the things, and more than a few of them go home with pupils, even when they aren’t meant to.  Despite this, we don’t really use them; not as a go-to resource for planning lessons.  Some of that is because of the standard teacher-guilt that says that a textbook lesson is, by definition, boring and shows that we don’t love our classes enough.  However, we all do make quite a bit of use of the other parts of the bought-in scheme of work; the worksheets which have to be downloaded, printed, copied and then somehow attached to pupils’ books.  Put like that, it’s all rather odd.

In some ways, it’s the right response to the current situation; as Tim Oates has pointed out, market failure has led to a situation where many textbooks published for UK use aren’t all that good.

Although there’s a lot to be said about the content of textbooks, I suspect that part of the problem is that schools and publishers have boxed themselves in with the design of the modern UK textbook as an object.  I’d like to suggest that a story about the development of the compact disc might be helpful.

The tale goes that, having developed the basic data format of the compact disc, Sony and Philips had to decide on the size of the disc.  Sony president Norio Ohga is said to have specified a disc which would be able to store all of Beethoven’s 9th symphony, whilst being able to fit in a jacket pocket.  It’s a fantastic story, showing how engineers can turn practical constraints into a well-defined product.  The evidence for the details is unfortunately patchy, but even doesn’t debunk it entirely.

So, channeling my inner Norio Ohga, what specifications might I want textbooks to have to make them useful?  I can think of three…

1.  Students should have their own physical copy of the textbook, for the duration of the course.

I want students to have access to the text, so they can revise from it and explore it.  Symbolically, I want them to have the feeling of “owning” the content.  I also want them to experience the responsibility of that ownership, and bringing the book to lessons.  Whilst digital models can give access to the information, the lack of permanence (and the accessibility for poorer families) means that the emotional and practical interactions aren’t the same.

We can’t do this at the moment; the books are too expensive to afford 1 book per child.  On top of that, they are often too flimsy; some of our new GCSE books already looking a bit sad after 1 year’s occasional use in classrooms.

2.  The text should be rich enough and self-contained enough to be a viable cover lesson or catch up for students who miss a lesson.

This isn’t really about cover lessons as such; hopefully, they will stay infrequent enough to not be a defining issue for schools.  I’m trying to mark the point where a book has enough detail.  Ideally, this text would contain the community wisdom of the teachers of a subject; the ideas, models and phrases which make subjects clear to learners.  (I still remember being told that the point of static electricity was that it was static– it couldn’t move).  Good books are packed with this sort of thing.


3.  If possible, the content of the text should serve for different exam boards and specifications.

Partly, this is to work around the market failure problem; a lot of the issues with modern textbooks happen because the only real question for schools to consider is “does this book precisely and accurately match our exam board’s specification?”. Schools have got trapped in a cycle of replacing textbooks very frequently, to keep up with changing exam models.  I’ve only been teaching in schools for about a decade, and I’m already on my fourth version of GCSE science and third version of A levels.  There’s more to it than that, though.

A lot of the really classic textbooks have lasted, evolved, improved and become classics because they haven’t been too closely tied to changing exams.  There’s also something appealing about the idea of a book that says to learners “The things you need for the exam- they’re not everything.  There are other things to know about your subject“.

Some possible consequences

Some things follow about the design of books.   If schools are going to afford 1 book per child, they need to be cheaper.  The simplest way of reducing the price of books is to simplify the design and print- probably by moving back to mainly black-and white.

Extending the useful life of books will help, which implies stronger binding and covering than most books have right now.  On my bookshelf, I have got copies of the A level maths textbooks by L Bostock and S Chandler (you know, the ones with the concentric circles on the front cover).  They are getting on for 30 years old, and are still in reasonable condition.  I doubt that the books my sixth formers get will last anything like as long.

If a textbook is really going to richly contain whole lessons, we need to move away from the one-spread-per-lesson model which seems ubiquitous.  Sometimes, a double page will be too much; sometimes it will be too little.  (Actually, many resource packs get round this by stealth; the book contains some material, but any overspill is put on a worksheet which needs to be separately downloaded and copied.  Maybe “doesn’t require daily trips to the reprographics centre” should be another design criterion.

The final point- decoupling textbooks from exam specifications- might be the hardest of all, because it means changing minds, which are the hardest things of all to change.  For all the modern textbook-as-a-glossy-version-of-the-exam-spec model saddens me, I understand why schools do it.  Even if it doesn’t make that much difference to results, it shows schools are doing their best to prepare pupils, and aren’t taking risks with them.  In a fearful culture, it makes sense to be cautious.  I hope that culture is beginning to change.

A more interesting type of textbook for a more interesting type of education- what else should it have?

Is there really no-one quite like Grammar?

To start at the beginning: the proposals to increase the number of places in the grammar school system bother me a lot.  It bothers me that there has been a natural experiment going on in places like Kent, and that the results don’t show that selective systems work “for everyone”.  It bothers me that it’s hard to imagine a just mechanism of selection (if you use a test, it will be open to tutoring; if you use anything more subjective, it will be open to sharp-elbowed pushy appeals).  The idea of multiple entry points seems odd; if grammar schools are really going to offer something distinctive and better, it’s hard to see how many late arrivals will cope with the step up from their dingy old comprehensive modern.

The whole thing looks like a stunt to address the personal and local interests of some of the senior members of the new government, and to welcome UKIP supporters into the Conservative fold.  The policy looks like it is already held together by huge amounts of sticking plaster.  Selective schools were largely scrapped in the 1960s and 1970s because selection implies rejection and the unhappiness of the rejected was louder than the happiness of the selected.

And yet…

Two of the bloggers whose thinking on education I most admire for their clarity and humanity are prepared to advance an alternative argument.  Teaching personally puts it this way:

When I became a teacher, I wholeheartedly endorsed the comprehensive ideal – but in thirty years, I have never encountered a comprehensive school that came near the academic ethos of a grammar school.

Muggedbyrealitycom gets to the heart of the matter;

An intellectual environment seems to need a critical mass of staff and pupils who revel in intellectual pursuits to get an intellectual buzz… even in schools with a genuinely comprehensive intake and thus enough students to create that flourishing intellectual environment, it is missing.

I was at secondary school in the late 1980s, and grew up in the sort of seaside town that they forgot to close down (but hadn’t noticed would become a problem).  My 11-16 comprehensive was quietly competent (I know that plenty weren’t), but I only really got to experience that intellectual buzz at the town’s sixth form college.  It wasn’t formally, traditionally academic (actually nearly half the students were doing GCSE resits or life skills programmes) but there was a buzz of ideas, perhaps because everyone had chosen to be there.  It was hugely enjoyable, I learned a lot, and got from there to a top university and all sorts of future opportunities.  It bothers me that the schools where I have trained and worked, for all their competence at delivering target grades to students, haven’t had that same buzz.

Since the 1960s, politicians on the left and the right have promised a secondary education system that would provide a grammar school education for all.  If we’re honest with ourselves, the English school system hasn’t consistently delivered on this promise.  The reforms of the last 20 years or so have squeezed out some extreme bad practice, but at the cost of a focus on surface appearance and statistic-chasing.

This leads to a painful question.  Is a seriously academic education something that can only be provided for the few?  Instinctively I’m pained by this possibility.  As a parent, I know that, whatever my children end up doing, I hope that they will do it from the perspective of a broad academic education first.  Is there a reason why that can’t be the birthright of all?  Well, there might be some reasons;

1. We can’t provide the resources to give an academic secondary education to all
That probably was true in the 1940s and 1950s.  Rationing was rightly how the government dealt with shortages then.  We have many more qualified people and material resources now- don’t we?  Whilst there are definite problems finding and retaining teachers (for example, in physics!), rationing access to academic secondary education doesn’t feel like a valid response.

2. We shouldn’t give an academic secondary education to all
Again, this feels like an argument from the post-World War 2 era; that the powers that be can dispassionately look inside someone’s mind and tell them what they need.  Different pathways at 16+ and 18+ are one thing, especially if the choices are student-driven.  Not at 11+ though.

3. We have spent 50 years trying to make comprehensive schools work as grammar schools for all, and experience shows that it just can’t be done.
Maybe, and I can understand the frustration some commentators express.  Schools have made choices, and continue to do so; what curriculum to offer, how to teach, where to focus finite resources.  For the last 15 years, the main incentives for schools have depended on getting lots of pupils over the “5 grade C (+/- equivalents) (+/- English and Maths) at GCSE” threshold whilst looking OK if an inspector visits.

Given those incentives, it’s not surprising that most schools look the way they do.  Most schools are pretty good at delivering what they’re told, if the incentives are sharp enough.  If that needs to be something different, be clear what is desired, try to devise a fiddle-proof measure of it (EBacc and Progress 8 look promising, albeit not perfect), and most schools will do what they need to.

So- are additional selective academic schools a good idea?

Despite the frustrations of teaching in a comprehensive school, I still hope not.  The problems that existing grammar schools have in devising a fair admissions process, coupled with their effect on the surrounding ecosystem of schools, would need to be solved, and I don’t think anyone knows how this could be done.

And yet…

The Toby Young problem– the impression that even good state schools aren’t delivering the type or standard of education parents hope for their children- is a real problem, and one of the shames of English education is how much that problem has been denied over the years.

It’s interesting that when YouGov surveyed attitudes to grammar schools, they found the places with strong demand for more grammar school places were the places that had some access to grammar schools already.  That could be parents liking what they see, but it could also be a recognition that by making selective schools less selective, their children would have a better chance of getting in.  And yes, if I lived in a selective area, I’m sure that I’d want my children to go to the grammar school.

Ultimately, that’s why I want to make genuinely comprehensive schools work.  Not for reasons of social engineering, or because all must have prizes.  Not even for utilitarian, growing the GDP reasons.  It’s just that education is a doorway to a brilliant world of ideas and experiences, and educators shouldn’t be putting a velvet rope across that doorway and saying “no, that’s not for you”.

And yes, that means running schools differently.  We need to admit that real learning doesn’t happen in tidy 1 hour drops onto a whole class.  We need to have the confidence to say to pupils “this is intrinsically valuable, however irrelevant or distant it seems to you now”.  We need the wisdom to choose the standards of a learning community, and the courage to be able to say “these are our standards” and mean it.  Schools haven’t always done that (not really done that), because other things have got in the way.

In a world where parents with clout, connections or cash can opt out of mainstream education, the only way to remove the privileges of elite schools is to make them redundant, by making the state offer really good.  As a nation, we have managed that with healthcare; hardly anyone seriously thinks that you will get better medical care in a private hospital than in the NHS.  I believe that this is possible in education as well.  But at the back of my mind, it bothers me that maybe it isn’t.


We could do the show right here


This book is brilliant.  I also hope that it’s really important.

The Isaac Physics project does many good things to support physics teaching.  The book Mastering essential pre-university physics is one of the best.  It’s an unusual book, and I sort of hope it’s the future.

It’s not a textbook, as such.  The main part of the book is a series of systematic exercises giving lots of practice using the key equations in A level physics courses.  Whilst these are linked to questions in the Isaac Physics MOOC, the questions work offline as well.

Compared with most A level textbooks, two things strike me about the questions.  First, there are lots of them (a dozen or so for each relationship).  Secondly, they stay relatively simple for much longer than most in texts I’ve seen.  In recent years, the pressure has been to move quickly to “higher order” problems as soon as possible.  This pressure reached a peak when Ofsted were on their “measurable progress checked every 20 minutes” kick a few years ago, and things aren’t as manic as that now.  Even still, the idea of practicing- deliberately doing lots of one thing until you are good at it- feels counter-cultural.  It’s also the thing that I’m sure is part of the gap between where many of my students are and where they could/should be.

That’s not the only unusual-in-a-good-way thing about this book.  It is the first book I have taught from that isn’t tied to a specific curriculum or specification.  It’s just the sort of physics that is commonly taught at post-16, in an order that makes sense to the authors.  It feels like a solid set of building blocks, but with implicit permission to select and arrange according to local need.  Too many GCSE and A level science resources seem to get this the wrong way round; the scheme of work is robust (and hard to deviate from), but too many of the individual activities aren’t up to the job.

In short, this book is great.  It also costs one pound per copy.  That is the possibly important wider message: printing books is really cheap these days.  Having done some not-very-in-depth research on the internet, one pound for a 100 A5 page, black and white properly bound, properly printed book looks about the going rate for a run of a few hundred copies.  Colour is more expensive (by a factor of about 4, which sort of makes sense), but most of the time, colour isn’t needed.  It’s very tempting to put the many worksheets, experiment instructions and the like that go with a typical science course into a single student workbook that looks like a book, and doesn’t lead to a blizzard of paper.  The savings in glue sticks alone would be huge.

There’s more.  We’re looking at resources for new GCSE courses at the moment, and part of me is getting cross at the lavishness of the production.  I want to say to publishers yes, I know that your book design is colourful and engaging, but it’s also expensive, and I’m not sure it’s worth the extra cost.  It’s nice that your course has an online version of the text, but if the book was cheaper, we could afford to lend every student a copy of the text, and they wouldn’t need the online one.  This book shows that it doesn’t have to be this way; a book made of black ink on white paper can still be a brilliant medium of teaching.

Finally, Mastering essential pre-university physics started life with some successful teachers sharing something that they had created for their classes which turned out to work well.  There are other channels for this, of course., but I hope that combining low-cost publishing with a teacher sharing community is the way forward.  If teachers are going to reclaim their lives and sanity, we need more resources which have been created and refined by real testing in schools.

Teachers in schools.  We could do the show right here.

A blogpost about blogposts about Brexit

Lord George Byron cared for Greece,
Auden and Cornford cared for Spain,
confronted bullets and disease
to make their poems’ meaning plain;
but you – by what right did you wear
suffering like a service medal,
numbing the nerve that they laid bare,
when you were at the Albert Hall?

Jon Stallworthy, A poem about Poems About Vietnam

For what it’s worth, I voted Remain last Thursday.  I continue to hope that what emerges from the confusion maintains as close a relationship as possible between the UK and the EU.  Right now, the UK feels like a smaller, meaner place than last week.  I can understand and acknowledge the impulse to assert sovereignty, to take control, without feeling a need to follow that impulse.  I think that mixing and sharing ways of being part of the same continent are good- and that increasing the barriers to that will leave us all culturally and materially poorer.  Whilst I know that the vast majority of those who support Brexit are not remotely racist, I hate the effect that the fallout from the referendum is having on people I live and work alongside who happened to be born outside the UK.

The important thing is that, when all the votes were counted, more people had voted to leave the EU than to stay.  In a democracy, that’s what should matter.

The thought that bothers me is probably trivial and selfish to bring up.  Like a small piece of grit in a shoe, it’s irritating and not going away.  So here goes.

Can I do more about this sort of thing?

Stallworthy’s poem is one of those odd bits of experience that has stuck with me since school.    The poem contrasts the hero-poets of previous wars, the ones who went off to put themselves in physical danger, with more recent poets whose entire fight was with words written and said in safety.

We’ve just had a battle of ideas and ideals- arguably the most important and transparent that will happen in my lifetime.  I knew what I believed, I also thought that the Leave case was a mixture of sense and nonsense, with some massive contradictions at its heart.  I knew that there wasn’t a plan for what would happen next, and I’d worked out that there can be no plan that could achieve all the things that were promised.  I recognised- having been involved in the footslogging bits of small town politics before- a campaign that was about winning votes, not winning proper power.  Real parties have to be careful about the promises they make, just in case they are in a position to fulfill them.

I knew all this, and I didn’t do enough about it.

I voted, of course- I’m from a generation and a culture where you can talk about doing your “civic duty” unironically.  I wrote and shared some tweets; I’m still quite proud of the one describing David Cameron as “the father of the nation, trying to persuade a teenager not to drop out of college and join a band”.  I said friendly things to the people handing out Remain leaflets at the train station.  (I live in Brexit Central, it was a significant thing they did).  But that clearly wasn’t enough.

Whilst I still have hopes for the UK’s future relationship with the rest of the continent, I now worry for the future of politics here.

Politically, the 2010 coalition was broadly where I am.  The financial numbers have to make a reasonable attempt at adding up, public services have to be decent, but balancing those two isn’t easy.  There is such a thing as society, but it is “us” not “them” and needn’t be government.  If my choices hurt other people, the state has a duty to consider intervening, but if not, it shouldn’t.  Perhaps most importantly, the world is a complex mesh of interactions, and simplistic attempts to solve problem X by pushing button Y are doomed to failure or unexpected side effects.

The way things are going, I don’t know where this set of values are going to be in the party system.  Boris will clearly say anything to get into Downing Street, and most of the Conservative alternatives are way to the right of this.  Liberal Democrats are still atoning for the stuff which I quite liked, and Labour are off somewhere strange.

Like I said, it’s a bit of a selfish minor thing.  Part of the whole “civic duty” thing is choosing the best/least-worst option, and working to inform it and nudge it to somewhere better.  One of the reasons our politics is in a mess is because people (like me) have been too sniffy and lazy to do this.  And while I mope about things I’ve not done, other people have got real problems to live with.  Their jobs are at risk, or they feel personally threatened, in part because of democratic choices.

And I’m here, writing blogposts.

“Maybe I like the misery”: or why low-tech teaching sometimes rocks

SALESMAN: Teamaster takes the misery out of making tea. What do you think?
MRS DOYLE: Maybe I like the misery.

Father Ted, “A Christmassy Ted

I teach science.  I like shiny new things, and if they light up or make noises, so much the better.  I like shiny new things that help me teach science.  I love using the fact that mobile phone cameras pick up infrared to introduce the electromagnetic spectrum.  Being able to use the speakers on my whiteboard to set up sound interference is cool (OK, it’s geeky, and that’s the same thing, isn’t it?).  However, when a study reported that using laptops and tablets in lectures led to worse outcomes, it reminded me of my doubts about edtech.  Not so much about the temptations of having so much other stuff at the end of an internet connection, but whether some of the ways we use technology in schools gets in the way of actual learning.

Take dataloggers.  On one hand, they can quickly, accurately and patiently record measurements from a demonstration, and the quality and quantity of data can allow classes to study things that can’t really be observed with human hands, eyes and brains alone.  On the other hand, they can make learners’ experience of an experiment more second-hand, less memorable.  It can be a bit boring recording the temperature of some melted wax not change as it freezes back into a solid, but often that’s the way into  the idea of latent heat.  Watching a computer do the same doesn’t have the same emotional effect.

The same separation from reality happens when we use information technology to process numbers or words.  The process of plotting a real graph, on graph paper, with a real pencil requires an engagement with the numbers being plotted.  It requires thought about which variable is which and where they need to go.  Spreadsheets can produce a beautiful graph quickly.  In a work situation, that’s great.  In a learning situation, not so much.

A similar thing happens when hand writing is replaced by word processing.  For a hand-written essay, it was necessary to have a fairly good idea of the whole line of argument before writing anything.  Because it’s easy to edit, rearrange and delete material in a word processor, it’s easy to dump thoughts into a document without having worked out an actual line of argument.  (We know.  It shows.  Ed.).  If the aim is to produce a product, it’s a boon.  If the aim is to think through an idea and learn from it, the technology has cut out a valuable- maybe, the valuable stage.

None of this is to say that I’d want to get rid of all the technology in schools.  I love using simulations and animations to get inside processes, and it’s wonderful to bring audio and video into lessons in a seamless way (I’m old enough to remember when watching the school television meant going to a designated room at 11.37 exactly, because that was when the programme was broadcast).  It’s great to share resources and ideas with pupils and colleagues so easily.  But that leaves a lot of edtech that I’m not so convinced by.

Perhaps the problem is that what technology often does doesn’t mesh together well with how learning happens.  Technology- especially information technology- is brilliant at taking difficult, fiddly or boring processes, and putting them in a black box.  We can then control the box from the outside, without having to worry about the inner workings any more.  The trouble is that I increasingly suspect that learning often depends on what’s going on inside that box, and it’s not enough to control it from the outside.  Our current tendency to judge the quality of the product may be diverting our attention from less visible thinking.

The misery of learning?  I hope not.  But some of the things that have been thought miseries are valuable.  Maybe I like them.