A school in England recently posted its educational philosophy on the web. It starts by embracing explicit instruction:
“We clearly tell students what they are learning, why it is important, and how to do it step by step.”
The website then continues with several familiar educational priorities:
- student-centered learning
- equity
- learning styles
- real-world learning (e.g.: groupwork)
- technology (e.g.: digital skills)
- wellbeing
- community connections
The responses have been cutting. One commenter responded: “That’s literally every buzzword in one statement.”
Most responses to this list center on the word “incoherence.” After all:
- Typically, people think of “explicit instruction” and “student-centered learning” as opposite ends of a teaching spectrum, not as parts of a unified teaching philosophy.
- “Technology” and “wellbeing” feel like wholly disconnected interests.
- Promoting “equity” and “teaching to learning styles” will be hard to do, given that learning styles theory is widely debunked.
And so forth. Rather than a unified statement of philosophy, many readers experience this list as a random grab-bag of educational initiatives.
Despite the scorn that this statement has earned, I want to push back against the critical response. Ultimately, I’m less interested in this particular list than in the way our field communicates its priorities and values.
The Coherence Principle
In my view, this school’s statement does have an obvious unifying principle: every single item on this list has routinely been championed as a “research-based” way to improve schools.
Imagine the leadership team at your school sitting around a table to draft such a statement. Each person there offers up some version of this story: “I was at a conference last month, and I saw this AMAZING session about [insert topic here]. I learned that all the research shows that [topic] can transform our school.”
Instead of attending a conference, your leaders might have read the latest book or taken a graduate seminar. Whatever the source, they all heard strong “research-based” claims. No wonder schools end up with such long lists.
In other words: the problem is not (exactly) that this statement is incoherent, but that the field of “research-based advice for school leaders and teachers” is incoherent.
Rather than focus on this one school, I think instead we should broaden the conversation — and focus on two habits.
The Webster Habit
One reason for our incoherence: we struggle to define — both theoretically and practically — what we mean.
As I’ve written before, I don’t use the word “chunking” because it has (at least) three different meanings in the world of education. For instance, I might suggest that a colleague reduce working memory load by “chunking” her instructions.
- I mean to suggest: “break your long list of instructions down into smaller chunks.”
- She might — perfectly reasonably — think I mean: “connect the instructions with ideas that your students already know; they’ll chunk those ideas together.”
Although I’ve just described two distinct teaching moves, the same word names both. I think we’ll be more effective in our conversations when we get in the habit of defining terms precisely.
The same problem shows up with “student-centered learning” and “direct instruction.” If I learn about those two topics separately, I might find them both quite appealing. If I’m not an expert in education discourse, I might not understand that I’ve been won over by two competing philosophies. In the absence of clear and consistent definitions, this kind of confusion will inevitably take place.
The Atticus Lasso Habit
We don’t have many cultural icons famous for their willingness to listen to contrary viewpoints. Atticus Finch might fit the bill: he tells Scout “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view.”
Or maybe Ted Lasso’s pithy quotation: “be curious, not judgmental.”
I worry that, all too often in our field, we criticize those we disagree with before we listen to them. That is, when we read the educational philosophy at the top of this post, we’re quick to condemn it as an incoherent buzzword-palooza.
Here’s the alternative habit. Imagine if we tried on an Atticus Lasso hat:
“I’m so interested in this list. I have typically thought of student-centered learning and direct instruction as different approaches to education. But it seems you have a different way of understanding those terms. Could you talk me through your approach here?”
I also wonder about the incentive systems that lead to such a substantial list. If school leaders are rewarded for staying up to date with all the very latest, we shouldn’t be surprised that schools try to focus on altogether too many (competing) initiatives. When a principal at one school hears about all the splendid new initiatives at another school, she’s simply being human if she wants to add inspiring new programs of her own — especially if she’s being evaluated on new initiatives.
We will have more productive, more persuasive conversations if we ask open-ended questions of the people who made the list, not just focus on the list itself.
Yes, but…
I should admit that my Ted Lassitude does have a downside. If I know I’m RIGHT and the other person is WRONG, there’s no point in listening curiously to the wrongness. Bad teaching methods harm children, schools, and society. We need to fix them, pronto.
At the same time, I simply don’t think that telling someone they’re wrong helps them change their minds. If I draft an incoherent teaching philosophy, and you say “Andrew, that’s incoherent!” you might be correct — but I’m almost certainly not going to listen to your advice about fixing it. I listen to people who have won my trust. Harsh words rarely accomplish that goal.
To sum up, we will be better at our work when we define our terms precisely, and when we lead with curiosity. These two habits won’t eliminate our disagreements, but they will make conversations more productive — and make schools better.
