In 1970, give or take a year, Payette High School underwent its first ten-year evaluation, a brand-new initiative, part of the accreditation process. I remember a Visitation Team of administrators from other districts, teachers of various disciplines from other districts, State Department of Education honchos, and probably others as well. They toured the facility, observed our classes, interviewed us extensively, audited our records, wrote their individual reports, and submitted them all to the State Department for editing into a final report. It was quite a process, and in succeeding years, I had opportunity to repeat it, as well as serve on at least one Visitation Team myself.
But before any of this, came much preparation, hours spent in committee meetings, reports to be compiled, extensive questionnaires to be worked through, preliminary paperwork of all sorts, including a statement of our school’s Philosophy of Education.
Philosophy of Education? We were flummoxed. We all remembered the long, boring course required for certification. Where to begin? But our Principal and our Guidance Counselor reassured us that all that was needed was one compact paragraph of boiler-plate that sounded up-lifting and noble and was general enough to cover just about any actuality. Today it would probably be called a “mission statement,” although that would imply an even briefer document. Education textbooks are full of such language, just waiting to be imitated. Perhaps we could just lift something from some other school’s philosophy. No biggie…
Our relief was short-lived. At the back of the room, Herb Grosdidier rose, and in his stentorian voice, rendered our task clearer, yet infinitely more complex. To him, this was no piece of empty busy-work, but a real issue.
What are we here to do? Why is it important that we do that? What is the best way to accomplish these ends? Why is that the best? What is it that we do? Why do we do that instead of something else? Why do we do it the way we do instead of some other way? Suddenly, that boiler-plate paragraph was only the beginning, only the thesis statement of the essay that would become the first chapter in the book that would be Volume I. Today, we would probably call it a “mission statement,” whatever that is. From it, we would work down the ladder of specificity in a seamless sequence from the most global pronouncement of purpose, to policy, to curriculum, to procedure, to practice, to the most mundane day-to-day application. A prospective teacher could read this document and know unambiguously whether he would or would not fit professionally into this district.
I don’t recall that we ended up with a literary masterpiece, any more than Herb completed his History of the Resurrection before his death. At that, the administration found it too long and steered us back to 50-100 words of boiler-plate. But we spent a lot of time discussing it, and not just in committee, either. Four of us in particular would stay in the faculty lounge, long after school, chewing over these issues while our suppers dried out on the range at home – Herb, Jim Johnson, myself, and Ken Brown, if there was no play rehearsal. And these discussions continued in the following years. In fact, I don’t think I have thought about my profession in quite the same way since.
That was then. This is now. What brings up this philosophy business now?
Waiting for Superman, the mendacious film attacking public schools in America, that’s what and, most immediately, the book of the same title that promotes it. In one chapter, producer Lesley Chilcott compares differing approaches in Japanese and American (elementary) schools. I will quote the relevant passage at length:
Picture a teacher with a group of kindergartners gathered in a circle around her. “Today,” she says, “we’re going to learn to draw a picture of Daddy.” In the American classroom, each child is given a piece of paper and a bunch of crayons to draw picture of his or her own daddy. The teacher walks from table to table, offering help, advice, and praise for those twenty-five separate, different pictures [A].
In the Japanese classroom, the approach is very different. The teacher has an easel, and the children gather around her to talk about what Daddy looks like. One child says “He is medium height.” Another says, “He wears a suit.” Another says, “He has dark hair.” Together, they draw a group image of Daddy, which represents the combined efforts of all the children [B].
It is clear that we readers are supposed to see the Japanese way as superior because, after all, Japan outranks us on tests, selected ones anyway. But Herb would see it not so simply. He would have pointed out that these are two rather different lessons, designed to do rather different things. Why is B better than A? What are the assumed values behind each? Now, let us examine those values, each in turn, Herb would say.
What all do we expect from our schools? Better test scores? Is that all? Is the test score an end or a means? Does it really measure the end, or progress to it? Why do we teach math? To compete economically in the world market place? With whom? To what end? Are there, or should there be, other reasons? And to whom do we teach math? Do we try to teach it to all alike, or are our ends (whatever they are) more efficiently served by teaching more and better math to fewer, brighter kids?
And on, and on. It could all become very complicated. Teacher’s meetings, or informal shop talk, for that matter, could start sounding like some debating society.
For that matter, who are the stakeholders in education who have a part in such discussions? Not teachers perhaps, depending on whether we consider teachers to be professionals or production workers, whether we consider them to be part of the community, or a conflicted interest. Perhaps such discussions are relevant, or even appropriate, only among upper-echelon policy makers. Are there ethical questions of conflict of interest here? This is, itself, a very deep philosophical question that goes to the heart of whom our schools serve, to what ends, how they are governed, and by whom.
As I chased my tail to find a way to say this all reasonably succinctly, without my success, Bill Cope, the Boise Weekly columnist came to the rescue. Cope’s style is often rambly, gassy, even. But lately he has been addressing education issues, and he has been doing a good job of it, swatting some nails squarely on their heads. In his July 6 column, he was taking his shots at Superintendent Tom Luna in his usual folksy voice. He was framing it as a debate with an acquaintance, Red (for the color of his neck, no doubt), who delivers himself of his reactionary opinions in a hick-speak that makes Tow Mater sound sophisticated by comparison. It was amusing, if not substantial Cope, and then, there it was, in a few paragraphs:
“Listen, pal. If I did have that job–not that I’d want it, but if I had it–I’d be a damn sight better at it than him. And you want to know why? Because unlike Luna, I know the difference between ‘education’ and ‘training,’ that’s why.”
“What’s wrong with training, Cope? If it twern’t for someone training me, I’d have no idea hows to honeydip those septic tanks what puts food on my family’s table.”
“That’s just the point, Red. Training is all well and good. We need it, sure. But let’s not confuse it with education. Training is what you do with jumpy dogs and flabby bodies and people who need a marketable skill. Training’s for getting your hair to part a certain way or getting your little kid to use the toilet instead of his pants. You train your horse to barrel race and your bonsai to lean one way over another. But training and education are two different things, Red. And I’m afraid we don’t have many leaders in this state who know the difference. Least of all Tom Luna. He’s a ‘trained’ man, not an educated one. Just remember, there’s a lot more to a well-rounded education than what kind of job you get.”
“Now hold on a gull durn minute, Cope. What’s the point of an edgercation if’n it ain’t to train a feller for gettin’ a gull durn job? And when you say ‘well-rounded edgercation,’ you mean like … what? Like learning to be both a dental assistant and a diesel mechanic?”
“Uh … not exactly. I mean learning more than you need to know just to earn a paycheck. I mean learning so much about so many things that your brain needs to grow to fit it all in and your understanding needs to stretch out like a girdle to make some sense and shape out of it. To cram so much history and geography and arts and literature and languages and science and math and philosophy and even miscellaneous trivia into your skull that, eventually, you transcend yourself.
“That you realize you are part of something that is so much grander than a job market or a payroll or even an entire economy. To fill your senses with so much knowledge that there’s no room left for ignorance and prejudice and savagery. To send kids forth from school with a desire for ever more schooling, with a craving to continue learning and a thirst for wisdom. That’s what I mean by a ‘well-rounded education,’ Red. Think of it this way … training plugs you in. Education sets you free.”
“And what’s the point? What the U.S. of A. needs is more engineers, not more o’ your gull durn wisdom. We’ll be slipping off the top spot of the country pile if we don’t get our employee pool up to snuff.”
This is educational philosophy, Boise Weekly style, in the most basic terms, nicely said. The positions are exaggerated for effect and for clarity, but they sum up very nicely two philosophical currents that are driving the current debate surrounding the “Reform” movement. These two opposing philosophies will take us different places, result in different educational experiences, and benefit different groups of kids differently. They will serve the interests of different stakeholders differently. They may ultimately result in rather different American societies.
Most people regard such discussions as just so much idle twaddle. Teachers tend to be the worst offenders: “I have too much to do to waste time talking about it.” But we need to look down the road to where we want to go and to where trends are taking us. There’s an old proverb, “If you don’t know where you are going, you will likely end up somewhere else.”
