Author Archives: Andrew Watson

Learning and the Brain exists so that we can talk about good teaching together.

Although such conversations can provide great benefits, they also run into problems.

We might disagree with each other’s beliefs.

Or, we might disagree about research methods.

Even when we do agree, we might struggle to communicate effectively about shared beliefs.

For example: jargon.

When specialists talk with each other about “theory of mind” or “p3” or “element interactivity,” the rest of us often think “what the heck does THAT mean?”

Effective communication stops when words don’t have recognizeable meanings.

Another, subtler problem also hampers communication:

Effective communication stops when we use the same word to mean different things.

Sometimes this problem happens between disciplines.

The word “transfer,” for instance, has different meanings in neuroscience, education, and psychology.

Other words get us all tangled up, even within the same discipline.

I’m looking at you, “chunking.”

Television for All

I believe I first heard the word “chunking” to describe this mental phenomenon:

Imagine I ask you to memorize this list of letters:

CN NAB CFO XHB OCB S

Or, I might ask you to memorize THIS list of letters:

CNN ABC FOX HBO CBS

From one perspective, those lists are identical. They are the same letters in the same order. I just moved the spacing around a bit.

But, when I moved those spaces, I “chunked” the letters.

That is: I organized those letters to align with your prior knowledge.

As teachers, we can reduce working memory load by “chunking”: that is, by aligning new ideas/information with ideas/information our students already have.

“Chunking” means “alignment with prior knowledge.”

Cool.

Or, wait a moment…

Curiouser and Curiouser

I’ve also heard “chunking” used in entirely different ways.

The second meaning: “break larger pieces down into smaller pieces.”

If I’ve got a list of ten instructions I want my students to follow, that list will almost certainly overwhelm their working memory. So, I could break that list down.

Three instructions.

Then three more.

An additional two, followed by the final two.

VOILA, I “chunked” the instructions.

Of course, this kind of chunking (breaking down into smaller bits) doesn’t mean the same thing as the first kind of chunking (aligning with prior knowledge).

Nor does it mean the same thing as the THIRD kind of chunking: forming a link with prior knowledge.

That is:

You could learn that “hamster” is another “mammal” that people keep as a “pet.”

You’ve formed a new “chunk”: mammals that are pets.

Or, you could learn that “Saratoga” is another surprising military victory, like “Agincourt” and “Thermopylae.”

You’ve formed a new “chunk”: unlikely military victories.

You see the problem here?

In Sum

So, as far as I can tell, “chunking” means either…

… aligining new information with prior knowledge, or

… breaking large information dumps into smaller pieces, or

… connecting new information with well-known information (which sounds like the first meaning, but isn’t exactly the same thing).

If I tell a colleague, “I think that part of the lesson would have benefitted from more chunking,” s/he doesn’t really know what I mean.

Even worse: s/he might THINK that s/he knows — but might understand chunking one way when I mean it another.

Ugh.

To be clear: I am IN FAVOR of all three strategies.

After all: all three ideas reduce working memory load. And, I’m a BIG FAN of reducing WM load.

However, when we use the word “chunking” to describe three different teaching strategies, we make our advice harder to understand.

That is: we increase the working memory demands of understanding strategies to reduce working memory demands. The paradox is both juicy and depressing.

So, I am enthusiastically in favor of all the strategies implied by the word “chunking,” but I think we should stop calling them “chunking.”

Instead, we should use more precise vocabulary to label our true meaning.

Here’s a common classroom problem.

As I’m explaning a complex concept, a student raises a hand.

“Just a moment,” I say, and finish my explanation.

Now I turn and smile at the student: “what was your question?” I ask.

All too often, the student answers, “I forgot my question.”

What’s going on here?

As is so often the case, the answer is: working memory overload.

Working memory HOLDS and PROCESSES information. When a student fails to hold and process, that’s working memory overload.

In this case, my student was processing my explanation, and so failed to hold the question.

The solution?

It might seem simple. Don’t ask students to hold questions while they process explanations.

Instead, I should answer students’ questions right away. Problem solved….

When Solutions Create Problems

Wait just a moment.

This “solution” I just offered might solve the student’s problem.

At the same time, it might create new problems.

The student’s question — even a well-intentioned one — might throw my explanation off track.

My students might lose their tentative understanding of my complex explanation.

I might lose my own train of thought.

So I fixed one classroom problem but now have yet another one. YIKES.

What’s a teacher to do?

First Things First

This example — but one of many — might throw our entire project into question.

Teachers turn to psychology and neuroscience to solve classroom problems.

However, if these “research-based solutions” simply transform one problem into some other headache, why bother with the research?

We could save time by sticking with the old problem, right?

I think the fair answer to that question is: “actually, no.” Here’s why…

Teachers don’t need research to solve classroom problems. We need research to solve COMPLEX classroom problems.

When our classroom problems are simple, we just solve them on our own. We are — after all — teachers! We specialize in problem solving.

For that reason, we turn to research only when the problem isn’t simple.

And for that reason, we shouldn’t be surprised when the answer isn’t simple either.

OF COURSE we can’t fix the “questions-interrupting-my-explanation” problem with one easy research-based step.

If it were so simple a problem, we would have solved it without the research.

Changing the Lens

As I’ve explored this question with wise teachers in recent weeks, I’ve been struck by a pattern:

PROBLEM ONE requires SOLUTION ONE.

But: SOLUTION ONE creates PROBLEM TWO.

And: it’s often true that PROBLEM TWO comes from a different cognitive function than PROBLEM ONE.

So, in the example above, I started with a working memory problem: my student coudn’t hold and process information.

My solution (“take questions right away”) created another problem — but not a working memory problem.

When I answer questions mid-explanation, my students lose focus. That is, the working memory problem has been transformed into an attention problem.

To solve this second problem, I need to switch from working memory solutions to attention solutions.

In other words, I need to think about a separate cognitive function. I’ll find solutions to this 2nd order problem in a different research field.

Again with the Mantra

If you’ve ever heard me speak at a Learning and the Brain conference, you know my mantra: “don’t just do this thing; instead, think this way.”

In other words: psychology research can’t provide teachers with a list of “best practices.” The strategy that works in my 10th grade English classroom at a boarding school might not help 1st graders add numbers in a Montessori program.

But: the thought process I follow with my 10th graders might lead to beneficial solutions for those 1st graders. The answer (“do this thing”) might be different, but the mental pathway (“think this way”) will be the same.

The point I’m making here is: these thought processes might require us to leap from mental function to mental function in search of a more successful solution.

A solution to a long-term memory problem might uncover a motivational problem.

The solution to an alertness problem might promt an orienting problem.

When I reduce my students’ stress, I might ramp up their working memory difficulties.

And so forth.

When we understand research into all these topics, we can anticipate that these solutions might unveil an entirely different set of troubles.

And by moving nimbly from research topic to research topic, we can ultimately solve that complex problem that once seemed intractable.

All this nimbling about takes practice. And, ironically, it might threaten our own working memory capacity.

But once we get used to thinking this new way, we will arrive at solutions that fit our classrooms, and that work.

Consider the following paradox:

Teachers need to give students instructions — of course we do!

After all, instructions help students do what they need to do, so that they can learn what we want them to learn.

At the same time, too many instructions might very well overwhelm working memory.

After all, the student has to HOLD the instructions in memory while PROCESSING each one individually. And: “holding while processing” is one handy definition of working memory function.

In brief: the right number of instructions can help learning, but too many instructions can impede learning.

I recently asked a group of wise and experienced teachers this question:

“Can you think of other teaching practices — like instructions — that are beneficial in small amounts, but might create working memory overload in large amounts?”

After some time to think and discuss, one teacher answered: group work.

After all, he mused, collaboration might simplify some mental processes. But collaboration itself creates additional mental taxes — all that negotiating and delegating and coordinating and explaining.

And disagreeing.

And resolving.

Are they ways that teachers can reduce those “mental taxes” so that students get the benifits without the penalties?

If only we had a research-based answer to those questions…

Inspired by this teacher’s observation, I hunted up this study.

Quadratics in Quito

To explore this question, researchers working in Quito, Ecuador worked with 15-year-olds solving quadratic equations.

Specifically, they wanted to know if practice collaborating helps students collaborate effectively.

As is always true, research design gets tricky. But the overall design makes sense.

Some students did practice solving quadratic equations collaboratively; others didn’t.

For a second round of math learning, all students were then sorted into groups for collaborative learning.

So, did students who practiced collaborating do better on later collaboration?

For complex equations: YES. Both three days later and seven days later, students who practiced collaborating did better solving problems than students who didn’t.

For simple equations: NO. If the mental work wasn’t very hard, students didn’t need to practice to collaborate effectively.

In light of these findings, the researchers’ recommendations make good sense.

If learners are novices, learning tasks are complex, and information distribution demands [extensive cooperation], teachers should prepare group members … using similar problems.

…

If task information does not demand [extensive cooperation], it is not necessary for the teachers to prepare learners to collaborate.

I want to highlight one part of this summary: “using similar problems.”

This research team emphasizes that “collaboration” is NOT a general skill. Collaboration will look different depending on the precise demands of the discipline and the topic.

So: students who “practiced” were given a VERY specific format for learning how to collaborate on this task.

If we want to get the benefits of practice for our own students, we should be sure to tailor the practice in very specific ways.

The Story Behind the Story: an Analogy and a Principle

A research article like this study always begins with a summary of earlier research findings, conclusions, and questions.

This summary includes a particularly helpful foundational inquiry.

When does collaboration increase WM load so much as to threaten learning?

When does collaboration reduce WM load enough to promote learning?

Is there some sort of taxonomy to consider or principle to explore?

To explain, I’ll start with an analogy.

Imagine I want to illuminate a yard at night.

For all sorts of reasons, it would be simplest to have one lamp to do so. Having multiple lamps just adds to the complexity and expense of the project.

So, if my yard is small enough to be covered by one lamp, then I should use one. Adding more lamps makes the project worse — more complicated, more expensive — not better.

But at some point, a yard gets big enough to need multiple lamps. If I use only one lamp, I just can’t illuminate the full yard.

In this case, the additional expense and complexity of having multiple lamps provides a meaningful benefit.

You can see where this is going.

Here’s a potential principle:

If a cognitive problem is simple enough, then one student can solve it on her own.

Adding other students (“collaborative leaning”!) increases the WM complexity of the situation without providing any additional benefit.

In this case, each student’s mental effort has become less effective, not more effective.

If, on the other hand, a cognitive problem gets complex enough, then it goes beyond any one student’s cognitive capacity.

In that case, the problem benefits from additional students’ cognitive efforts — even though all those extra students do increase the complexity of the problem.

At some tipping point, when a problem gets complicated enough, it needs to be divided into sub-tasks — despite the complexity of managing that work.

At that tipping point, well-structured and precisely-practiced collaboration probably is more beneficial than harmful.

TL;DR

Groupwork (probably) increases WM demands on simple cognitive tasks, but reduces WM demands for complex cognitive tasks.

To get the most benefits from collaboration, students should practice that skill — and teachers should tailor the practice to the precise demands of the cognitive work.

Zambrano, J., Kirschner, F., Sweller, J., & Kirschner, P. A. (2019). Effects of group experience and information distribution on collaborative learning. Instructional Science, 47, 531-550.

Let’s face it: teaching is hard.

I’ve been a classroom teacher for roughly 20 years — how do I count summer school? — and I still find the work exhillarating, exhausting, baffling, uplifting, frustrating, humbling, and joyous.

And that was Tuesday.

And: I think I’m not the only one who finds teaching to be an extra-ordinary challenge. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love it. But GOSH it’s hard.

This hard-won experience leads me — and perhaps you — to two conclusions:

First: people who haven’t taught in the classroom don’t fully understand the challenges of the work.

Until you’ve tried to follow a scrupulously-devised lesson plan despite the fact that an un-announced fire-drill is in progress, two students have switched sections, three don’t have their notebooks, and four don’t think the cell-phone policy applies at just this moment…you just don’t really know.

How could you? It’s “Misson Impossible: Chalkdust” in here.

Second: I need all the help I can get.

No, really.

You’ve got some research that might …

… help me create a more effective lesson plan?

… explain how attention really works?

… suggest study strategies to help my students learn?

… foster motivation, at the beginning of a lesson on grammar?

I’m all ears. Please. I’m practically begging here…

My Learning and the Brain Journey

I attended my first LatB conference in 2008; the topic was The Science of Attention.

I IMMEDIATELY realized that this conference was just what I needed. So much wisdom and advice. So many compelling suggestions.

And, so many graphs and pictures of brains!

I returned to the classroom and started rethinking everything.

What should be rewrite policy be?

Should my classroom decorations be in primary colors?

What’s the right number of new vocabulary words to teach per class?

I had research-y answers to all those questions.

After several years of attending conferences, I went back to grad school and got a degree combining education, psychology, and neuroscience.

And, in addition to teaching, I started training other teachers.

Now I offered LOTS of advice of my own:

Because working memory does this, teachers should do that.

Because long-term memory benefits from this, teachers should do that.

Because stress affects this…you get the picture.

Many teachers appreciated all this guidance. But some obviously didn’t.

For whatever reason, they just didn’t want to do what I was telling them to do!

I was genuinely surprised; after all, I knew I was right because the research said so!

“The Big Ask”

Over time, I’ve come to realize that those teachers didn’t want to do what I was telling them — and “what the research said” — because I had forgotten the first lesson described above.

I mean: yes (lesson #2), “I need all the help I can get.” So, research-based advice MIGHT help.

But also,

Yes (lesson #1), “people who haven’t taught in the classroom don’t fully understand the challenges of the work.” So, research-based advice might not apply to this classroom, this topic, this teacher, or this student.

In other words,

When I say to teachers, “you should change the way you teach because research says so, ” I’m making a REALLY BIG ASK.

After all, those students are ultimately their responsibility, not mine.

Yes, I have taught — but I teach English to 10th graders at a very selective school. I should be very careful when offering guidance to, say …

… 2nd grade teachers who work with struggling readers, or

… those with lots of students on the Autism spectrum, or

… teachers who work in different cultures.

Because I do know research well, and I know classrooms fairly well, I can make those Big Asks. But I should be humble about doing so. And I should be respectful when a teacher says, “your ‘research-based advice’ …

… conflicts with our school’s mission, or

… might work with college students, but probably won’t work with 2nd graders, or

… requires personality traits that I don’t have.”

Yes, I think teachers should listen thoughtfully to the guidance that comes from research. And, I think those of us who cite research should listen thoughtfully to the classroom specifics, and the experience, of teachers.

Teachers who resist ‘research-based advice’ might seem “stubborn,” but they also might be right.

The Story Behind the Story

In last week’s blog post, I summarized research about using gestures to teach specific science concepts. I also sounded a few notes of caution:

I don’t fully understand the concept of “embodied cognition,” and

I worry that a few very specific studies will be used to insist that teachers make broad changes to our classroom work.

Even as I wrote that post, I could hear colleagues’ voices in my head: “why are you always so grouchy? Why don’t you listen when people with PhDs say ‘this is the Next Important Thing’?”

The answer to those question is this week’s blog post.

I’m ‘grouchy’ because I worry our field is constantly making Big Asks of teachers.

We often make those Asks without acknowledging a) the limits of our research knowledge, and b) the breadth of teachers’ experience.

I am indeed optimistic about combining cognitive psychology research with teacherly experience to improve teaching and foster learning.

To make that combination work, we should respect “stubborn” teachers by making Respectful Asks.