Hanging Out : Community Based after School Programs for Children 9780313011412, 9780897898065

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Hanging Out

Hanging Out

COMMUNITY-BASED AFTER-SCHOOL PROGRAMS FOR CHILDREN

Edited by Ruth Garner With Yong Zhao and Mark Gillingham

Bergin & Garvey Westport, Connecticut • London

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Hanging out : community-based after-school programs for children / edited by Ruth Garner with Yong Zhao and Mark Gillingham. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0–89789–806–0 (alk. paper) 1. Student activities—United States. 2. Students—Services for—United States. 3. Community and school—United States. I. Title: Community-based after-school programs for children. II. Garner, Ruth. III. Zhao, Yong. IV. Gillingham, Mark G. LB3605.H273 2002 371.19—dc21 2001052505 British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available. Copyright © 2002 by Ruth Garner with Yong Zhao and Mark Gillingham All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, by any process or technique, without the express written consent of the publisher. Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2001052505 ISBN: 0–89789–806–0 First published in 2002 Bergin & Garvey, 88 Post Road West, Westport, CT 06881 An imprint of Greenwood Publishing Group, Inc. www.greenwood.com Printed in the United States of America

The paper used in this book complies with the Permanent Paper Standard issued by the National Information Standards Organization (Z39.48–1984). 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Contents

Introduction: Hanging Out Ruth Garner 1. 2.

3. 4.

5.

6.

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An Alternative to Self-Care in a Small Midwestern Town Ruth Garner, Yong Zhao, and Mark Gillingham

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After-School Literacy Clubs: A Mix of Media, Books, and Desires Donna E. Alvermann, Margaret C. Hagood, Alison Heron, Josephine Peyton Young, and Beth Jones Ricks

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University Students Promoting Science in the Community Susan P. Bruce and Bertram C. Bruce

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The Persistence of Vision: A Reflective Examination and Narrative of Sustainability and Fulfillment in a Small After-School Program Dean J. Grosshandler and Elizabeth Niswander Grosshandler

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Experiments with Design in an After-School Asian Literature Club Sapna Vyas and Punyashloke Mishra

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After-School Tutoring and Children at Risk Barbara A. Wasik, Mary Alice Bond, and Annemarie Hindman

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7.

8.

9.

10. 11.

Contents

Working at Play in Four Chicago Computer Clubs Ellen Youniss, Mark Gillingham, Donna Nowatzki, and Erin Roche

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Cultural Practices in Fifth Dimension Sites Around the World Margaret A. Gallego and William E. Blanton

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Commentary: Ingredients of Successful After-School Programs—The Experience of KLICK Yong Zhao and Mark Gillingham

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Commentary: Crossing Lines Patricia A. Alexander and Jonna M. Kulikowich

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Commentary: After-School Programs and Structured Activities that Support Children’s Development Deborah Lowe Vandell and Kim M. Pierce

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Index

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About the Editors and Contributors

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Introduction: Hanging Out Ruth Garner

In her editor’s introduction to a 1992 anthology of stories about childhood, Lorrie Moore noted that mothers figure prominently and intimately in the stories. We see them up close. Fathers, on the other hand, are often “powerful absences” (p. xiii). I wonder if a new anthology of stories would be similar to the 1992 one. Now that the stay-at-home mom is an anachronism, I wonder if mothers would still figure so much more prominently than fathers. There have been major changes in the last few decades in mothers’ work lives. U.S. Department of Labor documents tell us that in the 1950s and 1960s—when many of the writers featured in the 1992 anthology were growing up—mothers of young children seldom worked for pay. Today, 78% of the mothers of the nation’s schoolchildren are in the labor force. More than half of the women who had a child last year have already returned to work. Many of these women cannot afford not to work. When mothers work for pay, child care arrangements change. Family members or paid caregivers look after children. They become central figures in the children’s lives. Sometimes children look after themselves while their parents work. Many school-age children, in particular, “hang out,” unsupervised, between the end of the school day and the time their parents get home. What do the children do? They watch lots of television, do a little homework. They meet other children in their homes or in a public place such as a mall

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or a park. If they are lucky enough to live in communities with an after-school center, they might go there. A center is safer than an empty house, a mall, or a park because, along with amusement and snacks, there are responsible adults around. Yong Zhao, Mark Gillingham, and I have studied one after-school center in one after-school program for 3 years now. The center is in Baldwin, a small town in northern Michigan that is four towns away from Lake Michigan. This part of Michigan is a place of great natural beauty. Unfortunately, it is also a place where good jobs are scarce. The median household income in the area is low, and the percentage of children living in poverty is high. Many mothers and fathers work at two or more part-time jobs, and if there weren’t an after-school center in Baldwin, their children would be spending afternoons and evenings sitting in front of a television or wandering around town. This book is a collection of accounts of what children do after school, both outside and inside (especially inside) after-school centers. Centers are affiliated with communities, and because different communities have different values, different ways of doing things (Bruner, 1996; Cole, 1996), centers differ. Readers will encounter centers in public schools, in libraries, and in labs. They’ll find them in a small town (Garner, Zhao, & Gillingham), in small cities near large universities (Alvermann, Hagood, Heron, Young, & Ricks; Bruce & Bruce; Grosshandler & Grosshandler; Vyas & Mishra), and in big cities (Wasik, Bond, & Hindman; Youniss, Gillingham, Nowatzki, & Roche). They’ll read about one cluster of centers that began in an urban setting but migrated to other communities, both in the United States and elsewhere (Gallego & Blanton). Readers will encounter academic and nonacademic centers, centers for young children and for older children, centers that provide activities for 5 children at a time and for 50. They’ll see that some centers, like Baldwin’s, are technology-oriented, whereas others emphasize reading, writing, or science activities. They’ll note that some large multicenter programs have large multiyear grants, whereas some small operations just get by. I have readers in mind for this volume, of course, and they are real readers, not skimmers. Historian Louis Masur (2001) tells us that many academic historians write books that are designed to be skimmed by other academic historians. The books are bloated with names and notes that the historians are expected to seek out and then cite in their own writing. Stories that illuminate the human experience are mostly missing. Masur notes that he does not often require his students to read these books. He prefers that they use primary sources, and that they read histories crafted by writers—writers such as John McPhee—who work in the genre known as creative (or literary) nonfiction. This book, because it is a collection of accounts of what children do after school in a variety of places, is chock-full of stories—stories meant to be read, not skimmed.

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In reading the accounts, readers will notice that the centers described by contributing authors, varied though they might be, have informality in common. In discussing communal associations, McKnight (1995) has described three kinds: fairly formal ones such as bowling leagues that have officers, uniforms, and people who call around to make sure that everyone shows up for scheduled matches; much less formal ones such as coffee klatches that meet more or less on impulse; and groups that are so informal that they add socializing to another activity, like getting a perm at the beauty parlor or buying a socket wrench at the hardware store. McKnight’s second category—the coffee klatch one—seems most like the after-school centers. There is a fast-paced conversational rhythm at both klatch and center (none of the shushing that occurs when children talk out of turn in school), and children go to the centers, just as adults go to the coffee klatch, because they want to. Contributing authors have been invited to say something about how we should judge the work of an after-school center. My own view is that we should use activity logs and informal interviews to document what children actually do in each center. As for determining the usefulness of a center, I’d argue that we should pay a great deal of attention to its attendance records, for the simple reason that centers, unlike schools, are places that children choose to visit. They can just as easily choose not to visit. High attendance is an indication that a center is doing its job of providing an alternative to other forms of hanging out. In eliciting the authors’ views on this, my co-editors and I have sought something that Geertz (2000) has suggested we’d be likely to get in any case: not a convergence of views, but a mingling of them. REFERENCES Bruner, J. (1996). The culture of education. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Cole, M. (1996). Cultural psychology: A once and future discipline. Cambridge, MA: Belknap. Geertz, C. (2000). Available light: Anthropological reflections on philosophical topics. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Masur, L. P. (2001, July 6). What it will take to turn historians into writers. The Chronicle of Higher Education, p. B10. McKnight, J. (1995). The careless society: Community and its counterfeits. New York: Basic Books. Moore, L. (Ed.). (1992). I know some things: Stories about childhood by contemporary writers. Boston: Faber & Faber.

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An Alternative to Self-Care in a Small Midwestern Town Ruth Garner, Yong Zhao, and Mark Gillingham

Small Midwestern towns have a sameness about them. There is a country road, not an interstate highway, leading in and out of them. They each have a few large houses and a couple of blocks of commercial buildings. They are, for the most part, quiet places. The difference among these towns seems to lie in their degree of decrepitude. The most worn-out ones are like Matfield Green, a Kansas town of some 50 people that Wes Jackson writes about. Matfield Green is a collection of dilapidated houses, shuttered stores, and abandoned industrial hulks. Jackson (1996) describes the place this way: “People have left, people are leaving, buildings are falling down” (p. 95). Baldwin, Michigan (population 821) is a small Midwestern town, the county seat for rural Lake County. It is not as decrepit as Matfield Green, but it has its problems. For one thing, good jobs are scarce. Much of the work is part-time or seasonal. Many young people take inventory of their options and move away. It wasn’t always like this. In the mid-19th century, houses were being built in northern cities and there was a huge demand for lumber—a demand that the forests of Maine and New York could no longer meet. Large lumber companies looked to northern Michigan, to the Baldwin area, where white pine grew in abundance and rivers provided a means of transporting half-ton logs to sawmills and to Great Lakes ports. By 1869, Michi-

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gan was producing more lumber than any other state in the United States. Jobs were plentiful. The area was logged recklessly, deforested at what Wallace Stegner (1992, p. 124) has called “appalling speed.” By 1897, the sawmills of Michigan had processed 160 billion board feet of white pine, leaving no more than 6 billion standing. Loggers moved away from the rivers in search of timber, cutting trees of inferior quality. Trees were dragged from the woods in ways that damaged the land and young trees. Erosion gullies developed. By the end of the century, lumber companies were selling denuded land in northern Michigan as farms (even though little of it turned out to be arable) and looking to the West as the next place to find and fell marketable trees. This is a recurring story in U.S. history: Someone comes from somewhere to exploit an area for its natural resources and then leaves after the land is exhausted (Berry, 1995). When logging in Michigan declined, Baldwin and other small towns in the area lost their most important source of income. Most regular work now is for one level of government or another—the Forest Service, the Transportation Department, or the jail. Seasonal work is irregular, unpredictable. Most of it is associated with fishing on the Pere Marquette (PM), a beautiful river that is so highly regarded that ESPN sent a fly-fishing team there in search of steelhead. It is fly-fishing—using flies with odd names such as Nuclear Eggs and the Egg Sucking Leach—that draws most people to the rivers around Baldwin. Great Lakes steelhead, salmon, and trout are united by a pattern of beginning their lives in these rivers and then heading for deeper lake waters, where they stay for 2 to 5 years, eventually returning to the rivers to reproduce. It is during the spring and fall peak fishing seasons, when the fish are in the rivers, that most of the owners of lodges, motels, and restaurants in the Baldwin area are able to make a decent living. River guides are seasonal workers, too. They’re the ones who really know the PM. During the spring and fall peak fishing seasons, they can tell visiting “sports”—the old name for guides’ in-state and out-of-state customers (McPhee, 1979)—all about river level, water temperature, and insect hatches. In drift boats they can steer them (literally) to where the fish are likely to be. The guide group on the PM is unusual in that it includes some guides who have worked on local rivers for 2 decades. The group includes Lori, the only licensed female river guide in the state of Michigan. Peak seasons on the PM have been good recently. Local stream restoration has removed sand that had gotten into the river from erosion. (Sand covers up river gravel that fish need in their spawning habitat.) Also, anglers have shown enthusiasm for “catch and release” programs. These programs have expanded dramatically in recent years, in part because of concern in the scientific community about eating Great Lakes fish that have significant levels of PCBs (environmental contaminants) in their tissues, in

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part because a number of people who fish think as Stegner (1992) tells us Thoreau thought—that every creature is better alive than dead. During off-peak times, business slows down. We visited one time just before Memorial Day weekend, 3 weeks after the official end of the spring peak season. There were vacancies at all of the lodges and motels and empty seats at local restaurants. Flea markets, yard sales, and a large roadside stand advertising Beanie Babies for sale seemed to be drawing only a few customers.

“THERE WASN’T MUCH TO DO WHERE I GREW UP” Walter Kirn’s loopy novels introduce us to kids who live in small Midwestern towns like Baldwin. A short autobiographical essay of Kirn’s (Kirn, 2000), one that begins “There wasn’t much to do where I grew up” (p. 15), introduces us to drug use among these kids. Kirn, who grew up in Minnesota dairy country, reminds us that drugs can be bought at the kitchen table of a farmhouse just as easily as they can be bought on a street corner in an inner-city neighborhood. Most of what Kirn has to say in his novels and his essay is supported by a recent report from the National Center on Addiction and Substance Abuse (CASA) at Columbia University (2000). Reading the report, one learns that eighth graders in rural America are 52% likelier than those in big cities to use cocaine, 34% likelier to smoke marijuana, 70% likelier to drink alcohol and get drunk, more than twice as likely to smoke cigarettes, and nearly five times as likely to use smokeless tobacco. Some of the language in the report, especially in the foreword, is overblown War on Drugs rhetoric. For example, drug abuse and addiction are described as having festered in urban ghettos, and substance abuse is labeled “public enemy number one in America” (CASA, 2000, p. iii). Also, the authors of the report, who support beefed-up law enforcement, are less perceptive than Kirn about how access to nonchemical excitement might reduce freedom, boredom, and substance abuse. However, the authors do provide many examples of what Geertz (1995, p. 16) calls “the eloquent statistic,” also the important observation that small towns lack the resources that most big cities have for providing accessible drug treatment programs.

RESEARCH ON “SELF-CARE” What Walter Kirn describes in his essay—children staying home alone or hanging out with peers without any adult supervision—is what social scientists call “self-care.” When parents work, when neighbors and relatives are unavailable to provide supervision, when there is no after-school program nearby, self-care is all there is. As Vandell and Su (1999) note, it is a

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primary care arrangement for some children (especially older ones), an occasional arrangement for many more. Arrangements for self-care vary dramatically (Belle, 1997), not only in how often it occurs, but also in parental whereabouts (e.g., being at work versus being physically present in the home but asleep). There is variability in how parents who are away from home enforce household rules. The amount of freedom that children have to travel around their communities varies, too. Boys, for example, tend to be more mobile than girls (Posner & Vandell, 1999). Self-care can be a problem. Unsupervised time with peers, in particular, can lead to problem behavior, only one of which is substance abuse. Snyder and Sickmund (1999) examined both law enforcement data and youths’ self-reported antisocial behavior and found that juveniles commit violent crimes at different times than adults. Whereas the number of crimes committed by adults peaks at 11 P.M., the number committed by juveniles peaks in the afternoon between 3 P.M. and 4 P.M., the hour at the end of the school day. Juveniles are twice as likely as adults to commit violent crimes in groups, some of them formal gangs. Snyder and Sickmund note that even though we often think of gang membership as an urban phenomenon, many police and sheriffs’ departments in small towns report gang activity, most of it “homegrown.” Juveniles are offenders and victims. Snyder and Sickmund report that juveniles were at greater risk of violent victimization in the mid-1990s than adults. They were likely to know their offenders, who in more than 60% of the cases were acquaintances, friends, or relatives. Pettit, Laird, Bates, and Dodge (1997) found a link between young children’s after-school care and later behavioral adjustment. High amounts of self-care in the early grades (defined as 4 or more hours per week) appeared to place a child at risk for adjustment difficulties in grade 6, and this risk was heightened for children from low-income families, for children already displaying high levels of behavior problems prior to the self-care experience, and for children not participating in extracurricular activities. Self-care was also associated with poorer academic outcomes (lower grades and test scores). It is clear that self-care poses risks for children. Is it any wonder, then, that most parents and policy makers prefer other arrangements? (Note that we say “most,” not “all.” As Capizzano, Tout, & Adams [2000] remind us in a recent report from the Urban Institute, some parents prefer that their children, especially their older children, spend time alone to learn independence. In these cases, self-care is not a consequence of having too few supervision options. It is a parental choice.) There is widespread public support for investments to reduce self-care among children whose parents rely on it because they have no other options. The Children’s Defense Fund (CDF, http://www.childrensdefense.org/)

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has summarized results of a number of polls, including these: In a 1998 Charles Stewart Mott Foundation poll, 93% of those polled said they favor making safe, daily after-school programs available to all children, and 80% said they would be willing to pay more taxes to offer after-school programs to children; in a 1998 CDF/Child Care Action Campaign poll, 69% of respondents said they were extremely likely or very likely to vote for a candidate who supports after-school programs. AFTER-SCHOOL PROGRAMS After-school programs vary, but they have this in common: They are all intended to keep children out of harm’s way, to provide an alternative to self-care. They are concentrated in urban and suburban areas, so many small towns do not have them. Small and widely scattered populations and high transportation costs are obstacles (Beach, 1997). Even in towns with programs, the programs cannot serve their purpose of keeping children out of harm’s way if the children do not attend regularly. In discussing a national survey of about a decade ago that documented a decline in program participation from first grade to seventh grade, Vandell and Su (1999) suggest that one important challenge to program planners is to serve older school-age children by offering activities they like. After all, if children do not like a program’s activities or staff, they will stop coming. One of the most ambitious after-school programs attempting to serve school-age children is the U.S. Department of Education’s 21st Century Community Learning Centers program. It grants money to start school-based centers in partnership with community agencies. It is designed to provide a safe environment for children plus an array of services that benefit the community as a whole (e.g., recreational or cultural programs, expanded library service, and telecommunications and technology education). Baldwin is part of a consortium of small towns and big cities in Michigan that is supported by a 21st Century Community Learning Centers grant. The emphasis in this consortium (called Kids Learning in Computer Klubhouses or KLICK) is technology education for children in grades 6–8, and for adults in the community. As we have discussed elsewhere (see, e.g., Zhao, Mishra, & Girod, 2000), Michigan State University (MSU) provides extensive technical and managerial support to KLICK. PROGRAM PARTICIPATION IN BALDWIN We agree with Vandell and Su (1999) that if children do not like an after-school program’s activities or staff, they will stop coming. If they stop coming, they may drift into some variety of self-care.

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What about Baldwin? When KLICK emerged in the middle of things 3 years ago, did children come? If so, did they keep coming or stop coming? They did come and they have not stopped coming. According to complete-year attendance records (for year 1 and year 2), 125 of the 192 children eligible to attend the center (65%) attended regularly. Daily attendance for the 2 years was between 25 and 50. This is a very high participation rate, one that no other KLICK site approaches. In fact, two of the KLICK sites had substantially lower participation rates in the first 2 years—34 of 1,031 or 3% and 60 of 1,000 or 6%—and both experienced a decline in program participation over time. The Baldwin center is always crowded. The school space used for the center in the first 2 years was very small (and added to all the children were 18 computers), so Mac, the on-site coordinator, arranged for picnic tables to be placed outside the room. Children could socialize there. They could have snacks and do homework while waiting for someone to leave. As one child exited, another one entered. A visiting graduate student compared it to parking at MSU, that bit of hovering about and watching for an empty spot. During one of our visits, the picnic tables were also being used for clay animation work. A group of four boys and a girl were telling a story using characters they had made of clay. The story began as still pictures and ended up as a movie. The story involved clay superheroes, and, as Dyson (1997) notes about children’s composing more generally, some of it seemed very much like commercial comic and cartoon stories where some characters (the superheroes) are powerful in a danger-filled world. Perhaps because of an emphasis on technology in popular culture, perhaps because of the technology emphasis at the Baldwin center, most of the clay characters had quite amazing technological powers to do good or evil. It pleased us to note that the five children took stories that they had apparently seen elsewhere—we assume in comic books or on TV cartoon shows—and recomposed them. We heard them do this (“No, let’s have him chase him, but let’s let him escape”). Mac expanded hours of operation at the Baldwin center almost immediately. Instead of being open the suggested 10 hours a week during the school year (2 hours a day after school, Monday through Friday), the Baldwin center is open from about 3:00 until 5:00 P.M. Monday through Friday, from 5:00 until 7:00 P.M. on Tuesday evenings (when children stay to teach adults computer skills), and from 9:00 A.M. until noon on Saturdays. Also, if supervision can be arranged, the room is open before school in the morning and at lunch. This is a total of about 15 hours a week, not 10. This helps the children (most of those who attend) who do not have computers and Internet access in their homes. It also helps adults in the community. Mac explained the Tuesday evening work to us in one of our interviews:

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Ruth: What are you and the children teaching the adults? Mac: Windows work right now. I know the librarian has also asked if we could help her set up a database. Ruth: Are you going to show adults how to use the Internet? Mac: Yes, how to do searches, because I think that’s important. When I left the last session, though, kids were still talking basics—how to use a mouse, that kind of thing. Ruth: Any difficulties with the Tuesday evening work? Mac: One of our biggest obstacles is trying to get the kids to back up, to assume nothing [about what adults know], to stop and ask if they understand. Breaking things into little steps, starting with the computer off.

Who are the 125 children who came regularly to the Baldwin after-school center in the first 2 years and continue to come? They’re not all boys. The technical culture is often thought to welcome males more readily than it welcomes females (Turkle, 1995), so we might expect the technology-oriented Baldwin center to be a “boys only” spot. However, even though more boys (81) than girls (44) attended during the first 2 years, the female contingent was sizable and active. Also, children with special needs are part of the group. Of the children who attended regularly during the first 2 years, 22—eight in grade 6, seven in grade 7, and seven in grade 8—were special education students. This is quite different from the old days when special education students faced segregation (being assigned to special classes or special schools, sometimes being excluded from schooling altogether). It is also different from the more recent days of “mainstreaming,” when, as Wolfe (1994) reminds us, special educators were expected to ready not-normal (“exceptional,” “special,” “disabled,” “handicapped,” “retarded,” “challenged”) children so that they might be found acceptable by the mainstream. The Baldwin center has been described as “inclusive.” It is neither cloistered nor clubby. It is defined by all of its members, whether they are considered typical, mildly disabled, or gifted. Differences among children are neither ignored nor celebrated. They are simply treated as reality—rather like the reality of having to hover about and watch for an empty spot in a crowded center. The center also responds to the needs of poor children in Baldwin, and, no matter what system is used to count them, the number of children living in poverty in the Baldwin area is high. For example, schools keep track of the proportion of their students who are eligible for lunch subsidies. Of all the children in grades 6–8 in Baldwin during KLICK’s year 2, 98% were eligible for free or reduced-price lunch. Also, the U.S. Census Bureau (http://www.census.gov/) counts the number of children (people under age 18) living in poverty. It uses a set of income thresholds that vary by family size and composition, and if a fam-

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ily’s total income is less than that family’s threshold, then the family and every individual in it is considered poor. Child poverty rates are reported by county. For all of the counties of Michigan the most recent figure is 18%, for Lake County it is 34.5%. The Census Bureau also counts computers in homes. In 1997, half of all children nationwide had a computer and Internet access at home, using them to seek information, to send and receive email messages, and to participate in chat rooms. However, computer system ownership is linked to income: Only 20% of children with family incomes under $25,000 had computers in their homes (this income category includes many of the children in Lake County, where the median household income is $22,291). In homes with family incomes above $75,000, 88% of children had computers in their homes. A final point about program participants: The Baldwin center, somewhat surprisingly, serves a racially diverse group of children. The group is about 67% white and 33% African American. One explanation for the presence of so many African American children at a center in a small Midwestern town is that Idlewild is just down the road. Idlewild began in the early years of the 20th century when a group of white Chicago developers purchased 2700 acres of land, including a lake, in Lake County. The developers advertised lots (small ones for $35 each) in black newspapers in Chicago, Detroit, Cleveland, and Gary. They touted the area’s spring water and sandy beaches, the rural setting. Prominent citizens such as Dr. Daniel Hale Williams, the first surgeon to perform open-heart surgery, bought property. Even W.E.B. Du Bois bought lots in Idlewild, but he was apparently more of a community booster than a resident. Idlewild quickly became an all-black town of a few hundred people that swelled in size in the summer months when visitors arrived. Prejudice played a role in Idlewild’s summer-months appeal. Blacks of some means wanted to take vacations, but before enclaves such as Idlewild existed, there was always some doubt about where they could go. Racist practices meant that hotels and motels were often mysteriously full. In the 1940s and 1950s, Idlewild flourished. Imposing houses and summer cottages were built, along with lodges and motels, stores, and churches. Clubs with exotic names such as the Paradise, the Flamingo, and the Purple Palace attracted legendary big bands. Robert Stepto (1998) writes in his memoir that it got downright noisy for a small town in a rural county. Music in its various forms blared from the clubs and from the roller rink. Hymns flowed from the public address system in the belfry of the evangelical church near the post office. A huge horn atop the volunteer fire department sounded every evening. In the 1960s, white resorts around the country began to open their doors to blacks, and the big acts and audiences drifted away from Idlewild. To-

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day, some determined residents are working to revitalize the town. A recent article in the New York Times (Christian, 2000) mentions renovation of the Morton Motel, scheduling of special events such as concerts and an annual retreat for black poets, and installation of Idlewild’s first sewer system and natural gas lines. Still, as a retired policeman living in the community told Randall Kenan (1999, pp. 132–133), the place is far from lively: There’s been a migration of people to retire here because it’s economically a lot cheaper than other places. With all the vacant houses and units here, it’s a lot cheaper to live. So there’s whites that’s moving in here, because Idlewild is a beautiful area. It’s the only public beach out here for several miles around.

ACTIVITIES IN THE BALDWIN CENTER In the Baldwin center, children are seldom inactive, seldom doing nothing. On one of our visits, we watched, counted, and timed children’s activities for 2 hours on each of 2 days, and we observed that all of the children worked with concentration, most of them focusing on a single activity for each 2–hour period. Children sometimes worked alone, sometimes in small groups (the largest group was the moviemaking group of five). They occasionally worked in silence, often in productive cross-computer conversation about activities. On each day, a number of children expressed disappointment when Mac announced that the Dial-a-Ride bus was there and that it was time to head home. We knew long before we visited Baldwin, of course, that children become very involved with computers (see, e.g., Garner & Gillingham, 1996). We knew that children do not need to “be motivated” by adults to use these machines that they find both challenging and liberating. Nevertheless, we were surprised by the effort that the Baldwin children expended trying to overcome rather knotty hardware and software problems. We were surprised by the extent of their concentration, their focus and follow-through. In fact, when we think about concentration in the way that Voss and Schauble (1992) do—as intense attention, mental effort exerted to perform an activity—we think that we have seldom seen 20 to 30 children working in one room with such uniformly high levels of concentration. Even difficult-to-ignore events delivered via sight, sound, and smell (e.g., our arrival in the center, loud conversations, snacks being opened at the picnic tables) did not break most children’s concentration. We can imagine some striking events that might distract them—Voss and Schauble give the example of smelling smoke—but we did not observe many during our visit. These uniformly high levels of concentration are of interest to us. Like Voss and Schauble, we think of them as supporting the acquisition of knowledge (i.e., learning). The difference in the Baldwin center’s operating at capacity and the two other centers’ operating well below capacity—with 3% and 6% participa-

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tion rates for year 1 and year 2—is also of interest to us. How might we account for attendance differences within the consortium, for a decline in program participation at two of the sites? Examining activities (using field notes from site visits, material published by on-site coordinators on the consortium website, activity logs, and transcripts from informal interviews with children and adults), we think that we have some idea of what children do not like about particular settings. Put simply, it’s this: Children do not like settings in which after-school activities are indistinguishable from school ones. What does “indistinguishable from school” mean? At its most extreme, it means that, like in school, children have to be in the after-school settings every day whether they want to be or not. This is not the case in any of the KLICK centers, including the two with very low participation rates, but we have encountered other after-school programs where children who are not meeting promotion standards are assigned to programs for an extra dose of reading and math instruction. Attendance in these programs is involuntary. Children are told that they may at least avoid repeating a grade by participating. The two centers with very low participation rates preserve the principle of voluntary attendance but control most other elements, making the centers seem much like classrooms. Time is segmented. Adults determine activities. Just like in school (Cazden, 1988), adults manage the flow of talk, talking much of the time themselves. Just like in school (Jackson, 1990), adults allocate space and material resources. And as for computers, even though they are very much “the children’s machine” (the title of Papert’s 1993 book), even though children use them to write, draw, communicate, and obtain information with more comfort than most parents and teachers do, in the two school-like KLICK sites computers are controlled by adults with a curious inability to enjoy them. In fact, the adults do some rather silly things with them (e.g., they object to any playing of computer games at any time, dole out information about the Internet in little pieces, and assign homework to be completed at the computer). All of this is quite different from the way things operate in Baldwin. In Baldwin, Mac allows computer games in the center—not the violent ones full of doom and destruction, but others such as sports simulations and multiplayer adventure games—and he mentions them alongside Web design, Internet searches, and digital photography as activities that are popular among children. And why not allow them? As Cole (1996) demonstrates in his discussion of how children play the game Shark, children learn new vocabulary, number facts, and problem-solving routines when they play challenging computer games. In Baldwin, Mac and his three adult assistants are not the only ones who teach. The adults encourage more skilled children to provide instruction to

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less skilled ones. This sort of thing happens frequently in mixed-age play groups outside of school (Rogoff, 1990), where children teach other children words, songs, numbers, and games. In the Baldwin center, routines are taught (“Cameras are in that cupboard; ask an adult for the key”) as well as computer skills, as Mac explains: Ruth: What sorts of things do kids teach other kids? Mac: Well, how to set up email accounts, for one thing. . . . As new kids come in, they need an email account. I say, “Ask anybody here, they’ll set you up.”

The contrast between Mac’s approach to use of computers and that of the coordinators in the two school-like sites (with their ban on games, and formal instruction and homework assigning) reminds us of a contrast between blocks and dolls that Roland Barthes (1957/1972) writes about. Barthes argues that children face a world of toys that are such faithful and complicated objects (he gives the example of dolls that wet diapers) that children can identify with them only as owners or users, never as creators. The toys are used in ready-made ways, without adventure, wonder, or joy. A young child using a toy like the diaper-wetting doll becomes “a little stay-at-home householder” (Barthes, 1957/1972, p. 54). Barthes contrasts the doll with a simple set of blocks. Young children can use blocks to create forms that do what they command them to do (possibly to be a skyscraper, to move through the water as boats, to race through the air as storm clouds). Neither their form nor their function is entirely dictated. There is development of the ability and disposition to engage in pretend play (e.g., pretending a block is a boat, knowing full well that it is not) and to participate in fantasy role-playing games (e.g., taking on a fictional role and playing out on-line adventures with mazes and monsters). Flavell, Miller, and Miller (1993) suggest that pretend play and fantasy play have developmental links to other phenomena too. For example, when children know that a block is not a boat but deliberately pretend that it is, the children are creating something much like a metaphor; they are using the name of one thing to refer to another thing that resembles it in some way. Mental transformations of objects and word meanings in this way may be precursors of imagination and creative thinking. It is also possible that when children engage in social pretend play—one child pretending to be someone, another child doing the same, the two fantasy people interacting—children get practice in differentiating the self from others, in taking the perspective of others, in trying on different social roles. Mac’s encouragement of playfulness and adventuring at the computers instead of using the machines in ready-made ways may be important, then, not simply because it keeps children coming to the after-school center for amusement, but also because it supports development of imagination, of creative thinking, of perspective taking.

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PROGRAM PRODUCTS IN BALDWIN Creativity is a slippery concept. As Perkins (1988) notes, to understand it on the inside (inside Beethoven’s mind, or Einstein’s, or a young child’s), we try to understand it on the outside. We look at its products or results (a symphony, a theory, an original story). When examining products and results, it is not enough to find finely crafted work. After all, many of us with enough training and persistence can produce something that might be judged well crafted. It is originality that counts. Some original work is grand, original to a field (music, physics, literature, whatever). Some original work is less grand, the result of everyday activity in which, as Eleanor Duckworth (1996) describes it, people have “wonderful ideas” and produce something new to them, if not to others. Duckworth argues that the more we help children have their wonderful ideas and feel good about themselves for having them, the more likely it is that some day they will happen upon wonderful ideas that no one else has happened upon before. Talk of products and results sounds a bit grubby, as Perkins acknowledges. After all, we are asking that creative people demonstrate that they are different from the rest of us by producing something the rest of us can pounce on, examine, and pronounce to be original (or not). But what else can we do? We cannot look inside heads and see creativity at work. Neither can we—as one of us pointed out several years ago (Garner, 1987)—trust people to observe the workings of their own minds and then report on them with great accuracy. There is a human inclination to overestimate accomplishment, perhaps especially creative accomplishment (“Yes, I’ve gotten a good start on a novel,” “I think I’m on to something with protein molecules. We’ll publish before December,” “I dabble in poetry. I may read next Friday”). As Lewontin (2000) notes, without a product “out there” to be evaluated, we are able to sell rather elaborate fictions about our activities to ourselves and to others. In our experience, adults’ values about creativity influence its occurrence among children. If adults cherish right answers and mimicry, they will get them from children. If, on the other hand, they celebrate originality and inventiveness, they will get these instead, at least from the children around them who are able and inclined to be original and inventive. In the Baldwin center, Mac supports originality and inventiveness in children’s computer activity, and some of the children’s Web products, both personal pages and pages designed for local businesses, are quite original. (It may well be that some of the children at the two school-like KLICK sites are also thinking creative thoughts, but we cannot say. They have not produced materials that we can examine.) One of the products from Baldwin that most intrigues us is a young girl’s page of captioned photos that she created after persuading her mother to take her to a deserted cement plant in the area. (The plant is one of those

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abandoned industrial hulks that we mentioned earlier.) Mac had given her a bit of instruction and had lent her manuals about Web design, but the girl figured out most of what she wanted to do with text, image, backgrounds, and borders by experimenting at the computer. The images and words are ghostly. Other pages feature multimedia experimentation—unexpected uses of text, graphics, animation, and sound. Most have links to other interesting pages. Here’s another thing about Web products from Baldwin: They were thought about, fiddled with, and eventually rendered. This observation takes us back to a point that Perkins (1988) makes about Beethoven: The composer did not just have brilliant ideas, he worked them up and worked them out, as his notebooks testify. There were numerous cycles of generation and selection. So, persistence may not be a sufficient condition for generating creative products (remember our commenting earlier that our showing persistence did not ensure that we’d be creative), but it may be a necessary one—or, at the very least, a very useful one. Jillian’s pet book is a good example of a product of cycles of generation and selection. Jillian is another girl in the Baldwin center, one who writes. Her parents told us that she has written since she could hold a pencil and form letters. She writes what Freedman (1994) calls “personal experience narratives” (pieces about what has happened to her and to her family, pieces like the pet book) and she writes fantasies. Her current project is an ambitious foray into the make-believe, already 368 pages long when we saw it. It’s about dragons. The pet book is an illustrated book that advises children about how to raise mice. We can take what Jillian says seriously because she and her brothers raised three mice—Butterball, Tootsie Roll, and Lydia. She tells readers how to prepare for the animals, select them, find and make toys for them, and feed them. She doesn’t devote much space to a discussion of naming mice, but she told us in an interview that Butterball and Tootsie Roll were named for their shape and coloring. Lydia was named after an aunt. Where does writing like this come from? Jillian felt an impulse to write even as a young child. She had ideas, words, an interest in being published. She felt a need to write about mice because published books didn’t tell her what she needed to know. She did most of the planning about what to write herself, as well as most of the revision (“I wanted to make sure that my book was interesting,” she told us). She relied on her brothers for information and for some editorial assistance. She relied on Mac for help in making on-line and print copies of her book. As for technique—how to write lines of dialogue, that sort of thing—Jillian didn’t say much about that to us. Perhaps she got advice from her teachers. Perhaps it was mostly writing (and

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reading) practice—“tool use” (Gallego & Blanton, this volume)—that improved her technique. Jillian talked to us about favorite books and showed us author websites. Her parents told us that she read long before she entered school and continues to read “a lot” every evening. Jillian has what Atwell-Vasey (1998, p. 22) describes as “a rich personal life with books.” Jillian’s reading habits are unusual. As Alvermann, Young, Green, and Wisenbaker (1999) remind us, positive attitudes toward reading begin to taper off in the middle grades, and they continue to decline through high school. Studies show that most children Jillian’s age (in the United States and elsewhere) spend very little time doing voluntary reading outside of school hours—somewhere between 7 and 15 minutes per day. Websites designed for local businesses (e.g., the bank, a gift shop, a cleaning service) are inventive, just like Jillian’s books are. One of our favorites is the emergency (911) home page. It features links (to the National Weather Service and other sites with emergency information), photos (of car mishaps), and a very interesting text (of the history of 911 service in Lake County). When children in the Baldwin center talk with local business owners about the design of these websites (and, for that matter, when they teach adults computer skills on Tuesday evenings), they are getting a rare opportunity to participate in authentic adult activities, activities that matter to the community. Our culture often delivers watered-down versions of adult activities to children (Rogoff, 1990), with their being told, for example, to draw or write about imaginative new ways of recycling goods in the community, rather than being invited to design and implement an actual school recycling plan. In similar fashion, they might have been told to design a Web product (for practice, for fun), but not to publish it for the community’s use. The published pages in Baldwin are authentic. They provide information to the community. The text of the 911 page also helps us understand some of the consequences of poverty in the Baldwin area. It seems that Lake County was the last county in Michigan’s Lower Peninsula to adopt 911 service. To fund it, citizens had to agree to pay a surcharge on their monthly phone bills ($2.41 per telephone line). The additional monthly expense was a burden for many people. JUDGING PROGRAM SUCCESS Because large sums of money are flowing from government and private coffers to places such as Baldwin, people are asking whether after-school programs in these places are a success, whether money is well spent on them. The questions are reasonable enough as long as we remember what programs are intended to provide to a community—a way of keeping children out of harm’s way, of providing an alternative to self-care.

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The best evidence of a successful alternative to self-care is consistently high attendance in a program. After all, if children are at a center, they’re not somewhere else (possibly home alone or off somewhere engaging in problem behavior with their peers). Using consistently high attendance as the measure, the Baldwin center is a success, and the two school-like KLICK sites are not. We must be wary of taking a social structure that serves us well (a structure like the after-school center in Baldwin) and measuring its success in doing something that it was never intended to do. It would be unreasonable, for example, to require Mac to demonstrate that the Baldwin children who attend his after-school program have improved their school test scores in reading and math—or that anything else beyond the program’s reach (e.g., reduction of joblessness in town) has occurred. There is evidence, of course, that the Baldwin center is accomplishing more than keeping children out of self-care. It is offering an opportunity for socializing. It is providing computers and Internet access to children and adults who do not have them at home. It is supporting creation of books and movies, of original Web products that are used by the community. It is offering a small Midwestern town some of the technical resources of a large university. However, the best evidence of program success is the simplest, the most obvious: Kids come. NOTE Our work in Baldwin is supported in part by a 21st Century Community Learning Centers grant from the U.S. Department of Education. We thank Mac McClellan for helping us learn our way around town.

REFERENCES Alvermann, D. E., Young, J. P., Green, C., & Wisenbaker, J. M. (1999). Adolescents’ perceptions and negotiations of literacy practices in after-school Read and Talk Clubs. American Educational Research Journal, 36, 221–264. Atwell-Vasey, W. (1998). Nourishing words: Bridging private reading and public teaching. Albany: State University of New York Press. Barthes, R. (1972). Mythologies (Annette Lavers, Trans.). New York: Hill & Wang. (Original work published 1957) Beach, B. A. (1997). Perspectives on rural child care. ERIC Clearinghouse on Rural Education and Small Schools, ERIC Digest. (EDO-RC-96–9) Belle, D. (1997). Varieties of self-care: A qualitative look at children’s experiences in the after-school hours. Merrill-Palmer Quarterly, 43, 478–496. Berry, W. (1995). Another turn of the crank. Washington, DC: Counterpoint. Capizzano, J., Tout, K., & Adams, G. (2000). Child care patterns of school-age children with employed mothers. Washington, DC: The Urban Institute. Cazden, C. B. (1988). Classroom discourse: The language of teaching and learning. Portsmouth, NH: Heinemann.

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Christian, N. M. (2000, June 27). Town works to revive its image as ‘Black Eden.’ New York Times, p. A12. Cole, M. (1996). Cultural psychology: A once and future discipline. Cambridge, MA: Belknap. Duckworth, E. (1996). “The having of wonderful ideas” and other essays on teaching and learning (2nd ed.). New York: Teachers College Press. Dyson, A. H. (1997). Writing superheroes: Contemporary childhood, popular culture, and classroom literacy. New York: Teachers College Press. Flavell, J. H., Miller, P. H., & Miller, S. A. (1993). Cognitive development (3rd ed.). Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall. Freedman, S. W. (1994). Exchanging writing, exchanging cultures. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Garner, R. (1987). Metacognition and reading comprehension. Norwood, NJ: Ablex. Garner, R., & Gillingham, M. G. (1996). Internet communication in six classrooms: Conversations across time, space, and culture. Mahwah, NJ: Erlbaum. Geertz, C. (1995). After the fact: Two countries, four decades, one anthropologist. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Jackson, P. W. (1990). Life in classrooms. New York: Teachers College Press. Jackson, W. (1996). Matfield Green. In W. Vitek & W. Jackson (Eds.), Rooted in the land: Essays on community and place (pp. 95–103). New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Kenan, R. (1999). Walking on water: Black American lives at the turn of the twenty-first century. New York: Vintage. Kirn, W. (2000, February 13). Crack country. New York Times Magazine, pp. 15–16. Lewontin, R. (2000). It ain’t necessarily so: The dream of the human genome and other illusions. New York: New York Review of Books. McPhee, J. (1979). Giving good weight. New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux. National Center on Addiction and Substance Abuse at Columbia University (2000, January). No place to hide: Substance abuse in mid-size cities and rural America. New York: National Center on Addiction and Substance Abuse. Papert, S. (1993). The children’s machine: Rethinking school in the age of the computer. New York: Basic Books. Perkins, D. N. (1988). Creativity and the quest for mechanism. In R. J. Sternberg & E. E. Smith (Eds.), The psychology of human thought (pp. 309–336). Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Pettit, G. S., Laird, R. D., Bates, J. E., & Dodge, K. A. (1997). Patterns of after-school care in middle childhood: Risk factors and developmental outcomes. Merrill-Palmer Quarterly, 43, 515–538. Posner, J. K., & Vandell, D. L. (1999). After-school activities and the development of low-income urban children: A longitudinal study. Developmental Psychology, 35, 868–879. Rogoff, B. (1990). Apprenticeship in thinking: Cognitive development in social context. New York: Oxford University Press. Snyder, H. N., & Sickmund, M. (1999). Juvenile offenders and victims: 1999 national report. Washington, DC: Office of Juvenile Justice and Delinquency Prevention. Stegner, W. (1992). Where the bluebird sings to the lemonade springs: Living and writing in the West. New York: Penguin.

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Stepto, R. B. (1998). Blue as the lake: A personal geography. Boston: Beacon. Turkle, S. (1995). Life on the screen: Identity in the age of the Internet. New York: Simon & Schuster. Vandell, D. L., & Su, H. (1999). Child care and school-age children. Young Children, 54 (6), 62–71. Voss, J. F., & Schauble, L. (1992). Is interest educationally interesting? An interest-related model of learning. In K. A. Renninger, S. Hidi, & A. Krapp (Eds.), The role of interest in learning and development (pp. 101–120). Hillsdale, NJ: Erlbaum. Wolfe, J. (1994). Beyond difference: Toward inclusion and equity. In F. Pignatelli & S. W. Pflaum (Eds.), Experiencing diversity: Toward educational equity (pp. 70–81). Thousand Oaks, CA: Corwin. Zhao, Y., Mishra, P., & Girod, M. (2000). A clubhouse is a clubhouse is a clubhouse. Computers in Human Behavior, 16, 287–300.

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After-School Literacy Clubs: A Mix of Media, Books, and Desires Donna E. Alvermann, Margaret C. Hagood, Alison Heron, Josephine Peyton Young, and Beth Jones Ricks

Informal, voluntary after-school programs for youths have proliferated of late. Programs have ranged from those that engage kids in learning about and with computers (Alexander & Wade, 2000) to those that offer them opportunities to watch TV and hang out with their friends (Posner & Vandell, 1999). In some instances, the impetus behind formation of these clubs was more parental concern for after-school care arrangements (e.g., Vandell & Su, 1999) than it was kids’ interests and desires. For some researchers (e.g., Knobel, 1999), who were interested in studying youths’ everyday literacies, the school may have been the site of inquiry, but it was the kids’ after-school literacies that led to an eventual, though partial, understanding of how they made meaning of their world. We take our cue from findings such as this to reflect here on work that we have done over the past several years in out-of-school settings. Specifically, in light of that work, we ask ourselves what we can reasonably expect from after-school literacy programs. In addressing this question, we draw from data we have collected over the past 5 years in our research on three after-school literacy programs. The first, a Read and Talk Club for avid readers (Alvermann, Young, Green, & Wisenbaker, 1999), demonstrated the potential for such programs to serve as centers of socializing for kids whose love of reading often earned them the label of “nerd” by others outside their immediate peer group. The second program (Young & Ricks, in preparation), which engaged kids in an af-

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ter-school reading club, looked at the mediating influence of “doing gender” during critical literacy activities. The third after-school program (Alvermann, Hagood, Heron, Hughes, Williams, & Yoon, in preparation) explored youths’ desires to organize their own time and to discuss their pleasures in a variety of media-related texts. The expectations and the kinds of texts used varied, as well as the contexts for each after-school literacy program, but in every case the youths took charge of their own learning. They also attended the programs with intent, but without much obligation. The student-centeredness of the clubs created a sense of uneasiness in some of the adult facilitators (and in some of the adolescents as well), especially in those who desired a more school-like structure for the club meetings. The chapter ends with a discussion of how this uneasiness led to new insights about what can reasonably be expected from after-school literacy programs for adolescents. THEORETICAL FRAMEWORK We situate our work in the New Literacy Studies, a field defined largely by its blurring of sociolinguistic, anthropological, and poststructural theories (Gee, 2000; Maybin, 2000; Street, 1993). It is a field that has moved away from conceptualizing readers, texts, and contexts as stable entities in favor of viewing them as articulated links between meaning production and identity work across different times, spaces, and social practices. Like many researchers in the New Literacy Studies, our work focuses on the ways that youths’ activities both construct and are constructed by sociocultural contexts at the local level. Of course, as Maybin (2000) rightly points out, the local is embedded in broader social and institutional structures, thus contributing to the complexity of studying youths’ everyday literacy practices. The complex nature of situated literacy practices, especially when they are intermingled with issues of identity and power, can lead to some rather bizarre assertions in the name of socially constructed reality. In his paradigmatic history of social constructionism, Hruby (2001) cautions literacy researchers—and here we would specify researchers of New Literacy Studies—to examine oft-heard claims that power relations are socially constructed. Such claims often rest on the assumption that people’s identities are constituted in and through oppressive relationships, which if seen for what they are, could be discarded. In other words, if one could free oneself from a state of false consciousness, all would be well. However, as Hruby and others before him (e.g., Berger & Luckmann, 1966; Potter, 1996) continue to remind us, “false consciousness implies a true consciousness, an awareness of how things really are [which gets us nowhere because] there is no privileged position outside of the social processes that constitute our conception of reality” (Hruby, 2001, pp. 59–60). Thus, in this chapter, we attempt to be mindful of the trap that awaits us when we fall prey to thinking

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that we, or the adolescents about whom we write, somehow stand outside the very practices that define each of us (at least partially) and which to some extent are of our own making. Several subquestions guiding this chapter are aimed at answering the bigger question, “What can we reasonably expect from after-school literacy programs for youths?” For instance, might we expect them to differ in important ways from school literacy practices? Should one of the goals of after-school literacy programs be to engage kids with texts? If so, what kinds of texts? Finally, can we expect to see youths involved in after-school literacy practices for sheer enjoyment? In addressing these questions, we rely heavily on studies involving youths who have given generously of their time. In each instance where adolescents are referred to by name, it should be understood that self-selected pseudonyms are used. AFTER-SCHOOL READ AND TALK CLUBS Athene: I feel like I’m kind of weird ‘cause I read a lot. I mean, people look at me weird, you know? Bunny: People who read a lot usually get a title—“nerd” or something. You know, they don’t want to be a “geek” or nerd. Crazy E: I don’t think you can say you’re a nerd because you read. Bunny: Me neither. Buzz: But most people—I bring books to school, and they look at me, like, oh my God, what kind of weirdo are you?

This exchange among four members of an after-school Read and Talk Club signals the discomfort these adolescents experienced at the thought of being perceived as “nerds” and “weirdos” by their peers. They neither liked nor fully accepted the stigma associated with reading for pleasure in school. In fact they spoke often about how unfair it was to be singled out for liking to read. That they were perceived, at least in their own minds, as being weird and bookish contributed significantly to their voluntary membership in one of four Read and Talk Clubs (R & T Clubs) that formed during a 15–week period in the fall of 1996 (Alvermann, Young, Green, & Wisenbaker, 1999). In all, 22 adolescents in grades 6 through 9 participated in the R & T Club—a name they picked to describe the activities that occurred after school each week in the young adult area of the Athens Regional Public Library in Athens, Georgia. Two adult facilitators, Josephine Peyton Young (a European American) and Colin Green (a citizen of Ireland), met for 1 hour a week with each of the clubs (4 to 6 members per club) to engage in conversations about youth-selected reading materials. The R & T Clubs consisted of a diverse group of young people (10 girls and 12 boys representing European American, African American, Caribbean American, and Korean eth-

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nicities) with equally diverse reading tastes (popular adult novels, teen romances, classics, historical fiction, biographies, comics, UFO newsletters, and sports magazines). Read and Talk Clubs as Social Outlets All except two of the R & T Club members described themselves as avid readers who found few if any places they could go to discuss what they were reading with others their own age. This expressed need for a social outlet in which they would be seen as something other than “nerds” or “weirdos” became a focal point in our study of the R & T Club program. In fact, we deemed it the deciding factor in our attempts to explain much of the sustained interest in the clubs over their 15–week existence. For instance, Buzz noted that his club was a place where he could interact with friends who liked to read and talk about The Lost World (Crichton, 1995), and Bunny, agreeing, added that he and his friends who were in the R & T Club consider reading in the public library, unlike in school, “cool.” Parents, too, seemed to value the social outlet for reading that the clubs provided. In interviews with them, we learned that they viewed the time their children spent in R & T Club as a positive influence on their social lives. Although most of the youths in the study knew one another from school, for the most part they did not live in the same neighborhoods. Thus, they had had little time to develop friendships. However, the R & T Clubs provided the space for such relationships to form, and the common interest in talking with others about what they had read provided the motivation to attend the meetings. The library itself was a site of communal activity. The young adult area fairly bustled with the comings and goings of teens, their families, and volunteer homework tutors from the University of Georgia. Fortunately, the librarians assigned to this area demonstrated a tolerance for productive noise and an openness to youthful pursuits. Special weekend events, a growing number of computers with access to the Internet, and an increasingly popular video collection made the library an inviting place to hang out. So inviting and relaxed, in fact, that it was common for teenagers who were not in the R & T Clubs to stop by one of the tables reserved for club members. Once there, they would listen in on the conversations members were having, often without comment but with considerable interest and attention. Youths who lived close to the public library frequently used it as a place to hang out after school and on vacations, and those who lived farther away used it as a holding space—a “safe” area in which to await their parents’ arrival at the end of the workday. Regardless of its function, the library signaled a way of being (and of learning) that appealed to the younger crowd. With the exception of Tommy’s mother, who stressed that “the library is like a church—a sacred place [where] you go in and be quiet,” the adolescents and adults con-

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nected to our study viewed it as a place where things happened, people connected, and ideas were shared openly and freely. It was also a place where preferences could be expressed in an honest way, according to Death Hand, who noted that if he were to say “yuck” in reaction to something he read at school, he would be reprimanded for speaking his mind. His good friend, Dr. Funk agreed, adding, “We can get away with saying a lot more in this book club.” The phrase “getting away with” is interesting in that it marked a set of tensions that arose when the adolescents in the R & T Clubs began to take charge of their own activities (e.g., deciding what materials they would read, how they would discuss the materials, and who would provide leadership in the discussions).

Challenges to Authority and the Status Quo Initially, Josephine and Colin resisted the adolescents’ idea of scrapping the school-sanctioned practice of reading a common text in preparation for a small-group discussion. Having several years of successful classroom teaching experience behind them, neither of them could readily conceive of discussions that lacked a common focus. Concerned over how such discussions would flow (and falling back into their teacher mode), they offered two alternatives for the adolescents’ consideration. The first would have everyone reading the same text but with different individuals responsible for discussing different aspects of it. The second would have everyone reading different texts but from within a single genre, such as mystery or historical fiction, and then discussing common themes across texts within that genre. Unimpressed with either alternative, the adolescents in Josephine’s Thursday R & T Club offered a third option. They proposed reading materials of their own choosing with an eye to discovering common themes across topics and genres as they interacted with one another during club discussions, and Josephine accepted their proposal. In less than 2 weeks, word had spread to the other R & T Clubs. They adopted the Thursday group’s idea, with the proviso that they were free to change their minds at any time. A similar challenge to authority and the status quo occurred when the adolescents took issue with turn taking, a common discussion practice that is widely accepted in school discourse. Traditionally, the expectation is that one person speaks at a time so others may hear and respond at appropriate intervals. Members of the two Thursday R & T Clubs, however, found this practice too restrictive and foreign to how they interacted when they conversed as friends outside of school. They negotiated with Josephine and Colin to let them try talking all at once and interrupting at will if the occasion demanded it. They reasoned that it gave them practice following multiple lines of thinking simultaneously. Although Josephine and Colin went along with the Thursday groups’ desires to engage in overlapping talk,

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they were never entirely comfortable with the arrangement. And, interestingly, it was a practice that neither the Tuesday nor the Wednesday R & T Clubs took up, possibly because they were never made aware of the practice. Athird contested area centered on whose responsibility it was to provide leadership in a small-group discussion. Josephine’s Tuesday R & T Club initially positioned her as teacher, a position she neither sought nor felt comfortable filling, especially given the parameters of the clubs and the purpose of the study. Yet, in interviewing the Tuesday club members, we learned that they expected Josephine to ask them questions, to maintain order, and to keep the discussion on track. Colin’s Wednesday group held similar expectations. For instance, Rhiannon let it be known that she thought of him as “teacher-like.” When pressed to explain what she meant, Rhiannon said, “All teacher-like people say everything on the first week or first day.” She assured him, however, that “everybody who’s in charge does that!” Unlike the Tuesday and Wednesday groups, the Thursday R & T Club members were steadfast in their determination to avoid any and all situations that would lead to club meetings taking on the characteristics of the discussions they were accustomed to in school. Thus, Josephine’s Thursday R & T Club members made it quite clear, and in a good-natured way, that if she were to act like a teacher, they would cease coming to club meetings. For Colin, it was a matter of keeping pace with the ever-changing dynamics of his Thursday R & T Club and knowing when to intervene in a faltering discussion. In both cases, the two adult facilitators took their cues from the adolescents for whom they were responsible, but not without first challenging them to examine the very practices they wanted to change and their reasons for wanting to change them.

Shifting Power Relations Freed from the expectations of school discourse and open to negotiating practices that veered from the norms of such discourse, adolescents and adults joined in creating and reinventing certain literacy practices. The R & T Clubs provided the context, but it was the willingness of the participants, both young and old, to challenge authority and the status quo that made club membership inviting and filled with possibilities. It would be naïve to assume, however, that the same or similar challenges to authority and the status quo—the very things that made the R & T Clubs work—would be acceptable in venues outside an after-school program. Still, there are at least two valuable insights to be gleaned from this program. For one, it may be necessary to rethink what we mean by an authority figure. As Josephine and Colin learned in their interactions with members of the R & T Clubs, it is not enough that adults simply give in to adolescents’

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desires. In fact, doing so could be a symptom of an adult’s unwillingness to take adolescents’ experiences and their perceptions of those experiences seriously. As Armstrong (1973) noted nearly 3 decades ago, “to treat another person’s experience seriously—as seriously as we treat our own—entails a readiness to challenge it” (p. 53). Negotiating with adolescents over issues related to choice of reading material, method of discussion, and leadership style was a time-consuming and sometimes frustrating task. A second insight stems from the value that adolescents placed on the clubs as social outlets—places where they were free to read and discuss without fear of reprisal and hurtful taunts from some of their peers. We believe this speaks loudly to the need to rethink school cultures and literacy practices that drive avid readers into hiding. Members of the R & T Clubs were intent on finding ways to connect with like-minded peers, especially those who read for enjoyment and took pleasure in discussing what they read with others. This bid for inclusion in a communal setting also involved interacting with adults who were not governed by the same set of conditions operating in more formal institutions such as schools. Although institutions, public libraries are cultural spaces that are quite distinct from schools. By affording a relatively safe niche where both adolescents and adults felt at ease experimenting with alternative ways of “doing” discussion, the library provided a climate of acceptance—a space in which both adolescents and adults felt free to test the boundaries traditionally thought to separate the two groups. CRITICAL LITERACY CLUB Bob: I need a pen. Can I borrow your pen, a blue pen?

(Beth hands him a pen without looking at the color and begins to repeat the question that was posed to the kids, but is interrupted.) Beth: What’s it like . . . Bob: I’m not a girl. I need a blue pen, not pink! Beth: What’s it like to be a boy who is really different from everyone in school? A boy . . . Diego (to Bob): You know, that was a really sexist thing you just said right there, “I’m not a girl. I don’t like pink.” Bob: I don’t like it [pink]. Diego: Well, then just say that. Don’t say, “I’m not a girl. I don’t like pink.” Bob: You like hot pink? Diego: It doesn’t matter what I like. Bob: Yannna, yanna, yanna (making noises directed at Diego) Moon: I don’t care what I write with. (trading her blue pen for Bob’s pink pen) Bob: (mumbles, inaudible)

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Beth: Write! Write, please. What would it be like to be a boy who was really different from everyone in school?

This exchange took place among three of the six young adolescents in the Critical Literacy Club, which was held at a suburban K-12 charter school and learning center in Phoenix, Arizona. Needless to say, we (Beth Jones Ricks and Josephine Peyton Young, two European American university researchers) were excited about Diego’s comment made during a prereading activity for the short story “Angus Bethune” (Crutcher, 1991). As researchers and educators, we were interested in any observed change in the participants’ awareness and/or critiques of gender representation. Diego’s outward awareness of the gendered nature of Bob’s comment occurred during the 12th meeting of the Critical Literacy Club. Like previous meetings, this one focused primarily on a critical exploration of how gender identities and inequities are constructed and perpetuated in printed and visual texts (e.g., books, magazines, television, and illustrations) and in the community (e.g., toy stores, neighborhoods, video arcades, and school). Participants in the Critical Literacy Club The two boys and four girls who participated in the Critical Literacy Club represented a mix of ethnicities (3 European Americans, 1 Hispanic, and 2 multiracial). They were aware that the club was part of a research project that focused on developing and exploring critical literacy activities related to gender. Parents signed up their children to participate in the club for a variety of reasons. Meth, Moon, and Diego were there to improve their reading competence and interest in reading. Interestingly, neither Meth nor Moon read even one of the books or short stories prior to attending the club meetings. This did not stop Meth, however, from participating in all the discussions. He was quick to pick up on the story line or to make comments about his life experiences that pertained (or did not) to the ongoing discussion. In contrast, Moon often chose not to engage in discussions about texts she had not read, but when she did, her comments were a bit off the wall, at least in the eyes of the adults. She also attended the Critical Literacy Club less frequently than the others despite her mother’s comment that Moon joined the club because it extended the school day and provided a place for her to socialize after school. In addition to hoping that Diego would improve his reading competence, Diego’s mother enrolled him in the club to reinforce the gender awareness and sensitivity she stressed at home. She said she had discussed gender with Diego since third grade when he came home upset after being called gay. Bob and Carlie, both avid readers, were

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signed up by their parents in the hope that they would have more opportunities to read and talk about books. Bob’s mother also hoped that the club would help him develop different perspectives on life. Not surprisingly, Carlie and Bob read all the suggested texts and participated in the discussions and activities. Each week for 4 months, we arrived at the participants’ school with snacks, drinks, books, and supplies as other students were catching rides home and teachers were moving to their workrooms. Average club attendance was five adolescents, with no more than two absent on the same day. After packing their book bags and talking to their friends in the breezeway, the participants entered the classroom where club meetings took place. They began each meeting by eating a snack, drinking a cold soda, and sharing a few of the day’s top gossip snippets. After snacks were finished, Beth called the meeting to order by distributing slips of paper that served as chances for a monthly drawing for $10.00 worth of movie money. This was more a gesture of thanks than an incentive for coming. All of the kids were from middle-class families and did not need our movie money to go to the movies. They received chance slips for attending club meetings, for reading text selections designated for discussion, and/or for completing what we called a community research activity. The community research activities were designed to help participants build awareness and make connections between the influence of gender in their lives and the representation and enactment of gender in their communities. For example, one activity asked the participants to visit a local toy store and take notes on what they observed. Specifically, it was suggested that they note the kinds of toys on the pink and purple aisles and the science kit aisles. They were also asked to describe how the toys were packaged. Discussion about the results of their research focused on how toy manufacturers perpetuated strong gendered images for girls and boys (even young girls and boys) and how these images did not always represent life as the participants knew it. Oftentimes, community research activities were the focus of the first 5 to 10 minutes of the Critical Literacy Club. During the remaining time, participants discussed the day’s text selection and joined in a critical literacy activity that focused on how gender was represented in the text. Activities included watching a slide show of illustrations from popular children’s picture books that highlighted how illustrators represented gender, analyzing how the words in magazine articles are used to construct male and female athletes differently and often inequitably, discussing how difficult it is for John, the main character in Klass’s (1994) California Blue, to do masculinity differently than his peers and his father, and analyzing how photographs of teenage boys in magazines portray masculinities. Meetings ended with a brief prereading activity designed to call attention to gender representations in the next text to be read. For example, one such activity in-

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volved club members in writing about how it would feel to be a boy who is really different, such as the boy in Crutcher’s (1991) short story “Angus Bethune.” It was during this particular prereading activity, highlighted in the opening dialogue, that Diego confronted Bob about his alleged sexist remark and about his reinforcing a stereotypical attitude of masculinity— boys don’t like pink. Doing Masculinity and Critical Literacy The pink pen exchange was brief, but poignant. After Bob (a multiracial seventh grader) was accused of saying something sexist, he defended himself in an annoyed voice by saying that he just did not like pink. He retorted by asking Diego (a Hispanic seventh grader) if he liked hot pink. Diego responded that it was irrelevant whether he liked pink or not. Moon (a European American sixth grader) saved the day by switching pens with Bob. She did not care about the color of her pen. This short exchange demonstrated the power of dominant gender practices to seep into adolescents’ lives and the power of social contexts to influence what one says and how one does gender (West & Zimmerman, 1985). Bob wanted to look and act like a boy, the kind of boy who was respected and liked by others. That kind of boy, he believed, did not write with pink pens. His comment was representative of how he did gender during most of the club meetings. For example, during a previous meeting and after a discussion of Avi’s (1990) The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle, Bob said “Let girls read it [Charlotte Doyle] and let guys read guy books.” He told the group that he thought Charlotte Doyle was a girl book because the main character was a girl. His comment initiated a somewhat heated and much longer discussion than the pink pen episode. As club members discussed the concept of different books for boys and girls, Carlie (a European American seventh grader) grew angry and annoyed. Her neck and face turned red as she confided that she loved the book Charlotte Doyle and thought it had a message in it for everyone, not just girls. She grew even angrier when Bob said that California Blue was not a boy book even though it had a male character. Beth: Do you think . . . that California Blue is a guy book? Bob: Well, I’m only saying some books. Meth: No. Carlie: The guy is chasing a butterfly. Beth: Why isn’t California Blue a boy book? Bob: I’m not going to answer that. . . . It has to do with the butterfly. (he laughs) Carlie (sarcastically): Yes, but it’s a girl book because it has a butterfly in it. Bob: I’m not trying to say, I’m not trying. I have no idea. I just like . . . like, some books, I like Harry Potter books . . . like it has a guy character and some boys like it and some girls like it. . . . Usually boys like boy authors and girls like girl authors.

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They [the publishers] tried to get Harry Potter so boys would read it. They put initials [instead of the author’s name on the cover] like the name would become like a boy’s, or like a guy wrote it so that boys would also read it. . . . If it was a girl author, boys would not read it.

Bob’s definition of boy books is fairly specific and limited. Boy books have boy characters that act manly (don’t chase butterflies) and are written by male authors. He was agitated that initials were used to represent the author of Harry Potter (Rowling, 1999) and thought it was a plot to get boys to read the book. (Interestingly, J. K. Rowling has said as much in interviews.) The discussion over boy and girl books continued even though Bob tried several times to get others to drop it. Once he told the group, “Okay, forget what I said. Erase it from everybody’s minds.” But it continued, in part because we kept asking questions, until Carlie told everyone to “drop it and go on.” It is interesting that none of Bob’s male peers stood up for him during the heated exchange—not even Meth, who had earlier agreed that California Blue was not a boy book. Comments were made, however, about how Bob was getting himself “in deeper.” It was as if the other boys knew the politically correct thing to say within the group and had decided to go underground with their beliefs (Davies, 1996). Bob seemed to be more worried about looking like what he thought was the proper kind of boy than being politically correct. But it is more complicated than that. Whereas Bob’s insistence on defining boy books and writing with a blue pen goes along with his outward performance of masculinity, it does not match what he or his mother told us in separate interviews. Bob considered himself the gender watchdog around his house. He told us that he watched for gender slurs from his family and friends. He also told us that he did not think it was right or accurate for society to be “based on men being better than women.” Perhaps he had learned by the time of the interview how to tell us what we wanted to hear, or perhaps not. His mother said she thought Bob’s participation in the club had helped him become more open-minded and had helped her become more aware of practices within their family that perpetuated gender stereotypes. At the time of the interview, she was making attempts to change these practices because of what Bob was saying about gender at home. Yet, even with Bob’s apparent awareness of gender identities and inequities, it was hard for him to negate these stereotypes when he was confronted with them on a personal level in front of his peers. The two episodes just described were typical of other Critical Literacy Club discussions. They were also reminiscent of the R & T Clubs in which Josephine had participated several years earlier (Alvermann, Young, Green, & Wisenbaker, 1999; Young, 1998). In fact, it was during discussions such as the boy book discussion that the participants seemed most animated and excited. They had initiated the discussion. There were also times when we attempted to bring them back to our agenda, as when Beth or-

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dered them to “Write! Write, please.” Oftentimes, when we took the lead, they only minimally followed. For instance, upon hearing Beth’s command, Bob wrote very briefly in blue ink that he would be embarrassed and would “try to be funny to get friends,” Diego wrote in green ink about how it would be easier to be different if there were lots of nerds at the school, and Meth simply filled his page with question marks. The writing in all cases was brief (one or two lines) and sloppy. After the allotted time for writing was over, Beth asked them to share their answers. They did not. Moon started to name a classmate who might be considered really different at their school and Diego yelled out, “No names!” Trying again to get the adolescents to respond to her question, Beth read a snippet from “Angus Bethune” in which it is learned that Angus has two sets of homosexual parents. Again, no response. The club meeting ended abruptly when the clock struck 4:00 P.M. As the participants gathered up their belongings, Beth hurriedly reminded them to read “Angus Bethune.” When next week’s meeting rolled around, however, no one had read the story. Times like this felt like school to us and perhaps to the participants. However, it was different from school in that they were not reprimanded for the choices they made. A Place for Making Meaning The Critical Literacy Club provided the participants with books and other texts to read and with a place to socialize. We suspect it did not improve the reading abilities or interest in reading as at least two parents had hoped. The club did provide a place to start talking and thinking about gender. This was not always easy or pleasant, as Bob found out. Bob did not have to come back after either one of the episodes, but he did and without complaining, according to his mother. We wondered what made him and the others keep coming. There were no negative consequences, no punishment for not returning. Was it the snack? Was it the movie chances? Was it to talk about gender? Was it the literature we asked them to read? Was it because their parents made them? Was it the social aspect of the club? We hope that one reason the adolescents kept returning to the Critical Literacy Club was that it invited them to make meanings out of their gendered lives—a relevant and complicated topic seldom discussed in or out of school. HANGING OUT AT THE LIBRARY: AFTER-SCHOOL MEDIA LITERACY CLUBS FOR STRUGGLING ADOLESCENT READERS The term “hanging out” often connotes the antithesis of academic learning and intellectual pursuits. From an adolescent perspective, hanging out conjures up images of “doin’ nothing in particular”—just chillin,’ listenin’

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to music, chattin’ with friends, shopping, and surfin’ on the Internet, for example. In many ways, the 30 adolescents who attended the Media Literacy Club Program (hereafter Media Clubs) might comment that their participation constituted hanging out. If hanging out has anything to do with youths’ desires to organize their own time and to discuss their pleasures in a variety of media-related texts, then such a term is apropos. The newly constructed Athens Regional Public Library, where the after-school Media Clubs met, seems to be a perfect “hangout” for kids. It is there, rather than at the mall or on the open sports fields near the library, that adolescents congregate after school. Perhaps the convenient location adjacent to a public middle school and near several eating establishments draws the kids to its premises. Or perhaps the young adult section complete with books, magazines, computers with Internet access, and areas designated for youths to sit in groups and to complete homework appeals to them. On any given weekday between 4:00 and 6:00 P.M., library patrons can observe adolescents gathering—chatting with friends, listening to music on a Discman, playing a handheld video game in the breezeway, or using the computers in the young adult area inside to type papers for school and play games. In these ways, the kids were just hanging out while they waited for their parents to come and pick them up after work. Because adolescents naturally gravitated to the library to hang out, it was easy for us to recruit them to participate in three Media Clubs that we initiated at the library. This 14–week after-school program was intended to engage adolescents who struggled with school-based reading in opportunities for reading and for making meaning of media texts and in investigating their critical awareness of media text production and consumption (Alvermann, Hagood, Heron, Hughes, Williams, & Yoon, in preparation). Thirty adolescents (27 African Americans, 17 girls and 10 boys, and 3 European American boys) between the ages of 12 and 15 self-enrolled and attended 14 hour-long weekly meetings as members of a Monday, Wednesday, or Thursday Media Club. During meetings, three adults (Donna, Margaret, and Alison, all European Americans) met with the adolescents in various areas of the library, including the auditorium where we engaged in whole-group discussions related to activities designed by us as adult facilitators and where the adolescents were free to spread out during “free choice” time, choosing from a variety of activities such as playing video games, listening to music, reading books and magazines, and/or working on self-selected media projects that the adolescents dubbed “freedom activities.” Also, members of the Media Clubs had access to 10 new computers in the young adult area of the library that were reserved for their email use and Internet searches for 45 minutes during Media Club meetings. In planning this after-school program, we were aware of the pleasures and freedoms that adolescents often associate with their uses of media texts (Alloway & Gilbert, 1998; Alvermann, Moon, & Hagood, 1999; Green, Reid,

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& Bigum, 1998). Heeding the advice of others (Buckingham, 1991, 1998; Knobel & Lankshear, in preparation; Sefton-Green, 2001), we were intent on exploring kids’ literacy and media-related activities without exploiting or ruining the pleasures they created in their uses of texts of interest to them. Over the first several weeks we corralled the adolescents into the auditorium and led them through an adult-created activity that lasted about 45 minutes. During this time, we engaged them in listening to music, in reading excerpts in magazines about popular culture that were of interest to them, and in critiquing images of people as represented in fashion and sports magazines, all for the express purpose of investigating and discussing their critical awareness of media texts they enjoyed. The adolescents went along with these activities but often interrupted us, asking when the activity would be over or when they could go search on the Internet or listen to music. After these adult-facilitated activities were finished, they would jump up and run to video games or grab new magazines we purchased or call dibs on a set of headphones and a particular rap CD. By the 8th week of the program, the members began actively resisting the activities we had developed such that rather than engage in a discussion about fashion and youth culture, they opted to do their homework! Finally, Robert, a Thursday Media Club member, interrupted a discussion about media representation of race, class, and gender in popular magazines, and asked, “When are we going to get to play video games?” Robert’s comments left us with much to consider. Though the small-group discussions had assisted us in learning about the ways that adolescents engage with media texts when adults facilitate discussions, it had left little time for the adolescents to actually engage with texts on their own terms. By the end of the 8th week of the program, we realized that the adolescents’ free-choice practices resembled the literacy activities of hanging out at the library, whereas the activities we facilitated in the Media Clubs were looking and feeling more and more like school-related exercises. The media activities became more adult-directed, leaving little room for hanging out. Realizing that we were beginning to lose the adolescents to other activities more interesting to them (such as hanging out in the breezeway rather than attending Media Club), we decided to shift our focus from adult-directed discussions about media to youth-directed media engagement. Thus, the youths began to divide their time during the Media Clubs among activities that included working on their freedom activities, reading and responding to email, and engaging in self-selected and self-maintained media-related activities. By changing the parameters and the focus in the Media Clubs, we observed that the ways that adolescents hang out outside of the Media Clubs became central in their engagement of media texts they chose and in their engagement in literacy. Rather than use the Web pages we suggested, for example, they relied on each other’s expertise and found their own without

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our assistance. Rather than use the media equipment we provided in organized blocks of time, as we originally tried to have them do, they picked up and abandoned media activities sporadically, taking time out to see what their friends were up to, trying out new spaces of the library, and then returning to ones they had already created in front of the video machines or CD players that we provided. Ultimately, we decided to watch what would happen when we did not impose our directions and adult-centered desires on the adolescents, although we often asked to tag along when they left the auditorium, to try what they were trying, and to find out more about what they knew. Hanging out, then, became an activity legitimized by adults (namely, us) rather than something the adolescents were simply doing in addition to (or despite) adult supervision. What resulted represents a mix of youth-led endeavors and youth-initiated requests for our input and approval, demonstrating to us that the adolescents in the Media Clubs wanted to include us as participants and inquirers, and sometimes as directors as well, in what they enjoyed doing and sharing. Reading Magazines Of all the magazines available for club members’ enjoyment, the ones that were most used, at least among the girls, were those that focused on black hairstyles. Part of this interest had to do with our suggestion to the girls that they might want to put together their own hairstyle magazines during their free-choice time. Mostly, though, we observed that these were the magazines the girls gravitated toward, whether or not we suggested that they spend some time with them. Many of the girls had close friends or relatives who owned or worked in local salons and who were thus able to share detailed information about products and techniques related to black hair. After doing a considerable amount of research on the Internet, one of the girls (Frantavia) requested that she be allowed to do Alison’s and Margaret’s hair during Wednesday Media Club. As stylist, she brushed and pinned and sprayed their hair using equipment she had stored in her purse, all the time carrying on a conversation about Madame C. J. Walker, an African American entrepreneur who started her own line of hair and beauty products. Frantavia explained that she had written a report on Madame Walker for school. In watching the girls make use of a wide range of materials related to fashion and beauty, we discovered the ways in which literacy practices circulated within the Media Clubs. Eight of the 17 girls in the clubs, including Frantavia, chose to follow up on our suggestion and create their own fashion magazines. However, unlike what we had originally intended, these magazines did not reflect outright critiques of media images, at least not in ways that we envisioned. During our adult-facilitated activities, we had engaged them in discussions of how many magazines are greatly limited in their attention to diversity, and the adolescents agreed with us politely.

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They then proceeded to cut out photos from the magazines they had been reading and critiquing during club time and to place them in their own magazines (which they were making out of the notebook binders and Lucite pages we provided them), seemingly without critical attention to how people were being represented in the images they selected. They enthusiastically showed us their finished products, telling us about what they decided to include and why. Their choices were informed by several different sources, which they had transformed into unique representations of their own. For example, they gathered information from the Web, leafed through magazines, and talked with friends and family both inside Media Club and outside the library to prepare the contents of their publications. Some of them wrote articles about the fashion trends they were noticing both in the magazines and at school. Many of them included photos of hairstyles and friends they had taken with disposable cameras we had provided at their request. The Role of School Practices Even though we attempted to move away from our roles as teachers and to become observers and inquirers into the adolescents’ media practices, there was evidence of the discourse of school in the Media Clubs. For instance, two of the girls who created fashion magazines asked us to put grades on their finished products. One of the boys repeatedly left his time at the video games to begin work on his freedom activity whenever we walked toward him. For him, the freedom activity was what he “should” be doing, whereas the video game was something he could do when his “work” (namely, the freedom activity) was finished. Others chose to use some of their Media Club time to surf the Net for homework information or to use word processing programs to complete essays for school. In addition, we continued to search for ways the kids used traditional literacy practices, such as reading continuous written texts, to determine whether media activities could indeed provide opportunities to improve school-based literacy skills. Learning to Play As much as we tried to make the connections between media activities and traditional literacy practices clear and useful for both us and the adolescents, we often found that this was not easy or even sensible. For example, we initially saw great opportunity for text reading in the lengthy, beautifully illustrated instruction manuals that accompanied some of the video games we purchased. Yet, the adolescents did not learn how to play the video games by reading the manuals. They found it much more productive to actually try the games out, sometimes referring to the manuals, but

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never using them in isolation. Admittedly, we would probably do the same. Interestingly, however, the video games (especially those involving football and wrestling) served as texts themselves. In them the adolescents found conflicts to discuss and problems to solve. For example, four of the boys in the Thursday Media Club regularly played NFL Blitz 2000, a video game that allowed them to play two against two, using the players and team names from the National Football League. In many ways, they treated their competition as actual football games: They planned moves in huddles, “talked trash” to each other, set rematches, kept season records of wins and losses, and even held postgame mock press conferences. Media Clubs: A New Spin on “Hanging Out” Although we ultimately made it our goal to provide opportunities for the adolescents to engage media texts on their own terms, we were not mere observers or supervisors. What made hanging out in the after-school Media Clubs different from simply hanging out in the library after school were the ways in which we became privy to the kids’ reflections on and uses of the materials. Although they may have appeared to be simply playing (playing with video games, looking through magazines, surfing the Net), they were also engaging in conversations, both with us and with each other, about cultural values, about the norms of social relationships and identities, such as those inherent in sports practices, and about issues of race and gender. By participating in the Media Clubs, the kids had the chance to consider the ways in which the activities they were passionate about or merely amused by during their free time related to the ways they made sense of their respective worlds. And we, as adults, learned about and from the adolescents’ negotiations of media texts to meet both their desires and the ones we set forth for them. Moreover, the media clubs provided ample opportunities for kids and adults to form relationships beyond the roles of teacher and student or supervisor and charge. Ultimately, over the 14 weeks, the adolescents became the principal purveyors of information and engaged us as participants in, rather than as leaders of, their meaning-making endeavors. WHAT CAN WE REASONABLY EXPECT FROM AFTER-SCHOOL LITERACY PROGRAMS? As with any binary, or categorical system for setting two concepts in opposition to each other, we are cautious about drawing great contrasts between out-of-school and in-school literacy programs. Instead of viewing these program types in an oppositional manner, we prefer to think of them in relation to each other. If they differ, what might we learn from one that helps us better understand the other? In the three out-of-school programs we describe here, commonalities related to youths’ engagement with

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texts—including print and nonprint representations of sounds, language, and images—produce a theme worth further examination. Texts for Creating Informal Social Networks In each of our examples of after-school literacy programs, youths were adept at using a variety of texts to create informal social networks. The R & T Club participants, for example, took pleasure in choosing their own reading materials and designing a discussion format that matched their notions of what it meant to have a “real” conversation. Adolescents in the Critical Literacy Club liked talking about gender when the topic was explored through literacy activities that did not remind them of school. In similar fashion, weekly participation in the Media Clubs found youths forming social networks around mutual interests in media texts such as conducting Internet searches for music lyrics, playing competitive video games, and reading fashion magazines. These texts, which were reflective of the adolescents’ media interests, also became portals for allowing social networks to develop between adolescents and adults such that boundaries between teachers and learners were often blurred. In large measure, the social networks that used these textual practices became the means through which youths constructed meaning and connected with peers. These networks also permitted avid as well as struggling readers the luxury of self-directed exploration. Similar to what Alexander and Wade (2000) observed in their synthesis of the literature on after-school programs that promote interest, self-determination, and learning, we found promise in youths’ ability to render legitimate the literacy practices that make a difference in their own lives. The questioning of traditional book club practices by participants in the R & T Clubs, the resisting of literacy activities that looked or felt like school to the Critical Literacy Club participants, and the persistent request by Media Club members to have more time for self-selected activities and for choosing their own ways to transact with popular culture in media texts are visible reminders that the literacy practices so often associated with school discourses and cultures may not be impenetrable, at least not if we listen to and learn from the adolescents who are most affected by such practices. Literacy Practices for Sheer Enjoyment The self-assurance and enthusiasm that adolescents exhibit when they engage with literacy practices for sheer enjoyment are interesting and noteworthy. A lasting impression that we have of the youths in the after-school programs we have described in this chapter is one of commitment. Whether it was a commitment to changing practices they found irrelevant or too constraining, or engaging in critical literacy activities that focused on

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gender (a topic rarely discussed in school), or altering club activities in the Media Clubs so that the connections between texts and adolescents’ social worlds prevailed, the enjoyment the adolescents derived from such activities was evident. Especially noteworthy was the fact that youths attending the Media Clubs clearly preferred to direct their own activities—they took pleasure in using the literacy practices they had developed while immersed in popular culture texts. Such pleasure was obvious in their excitement over sharing what they created, found, and learned with both the adults and the other adolescents. In the spaces where adolescents’ pleasures came to the fore in the clubs, tensions invariably arose between the foci of each program and what the adolescents desired in terms of their participation. By remaining committed to both the adolescents’ views and the program’s stated goals, adults and adolescents alike experienced moments of discomfort and displeasure. Rather than viewing these moments of discomfort as unproductive or debilitating, we see them as having enhanced the programs. We found that in the space of these tensions where adolescent pleasures pushed against adult expectations, negotiated understandings were better realized. And, ultimately, we came to understand that moments of discomfort are more acceptable to adolescents and to adults if both are made aware (through discussing discrepancies in perceived pleasures) of the purposes for such disruptions and if the purposes are upheld with respect and flexibility.

Some Tempered Expectations What can we reasonably expect from after-school literacy programs, such as the ones described here? First, we might expect them to look different from school literacy programs. In each of the three programs described here, adolescents in the after-school clubs resisted literacy practices that looked or felt too much like school, especially when activities reflected adults’ suggestions rather than their own. For example, youths in the R & T Clubs let it be known that they would not attend club meetings if the meetings resembled school. They also monitored their interactions to avoid becoming too school-like in their responses to other club members, including the adult supervisors. Youths in the Critical Literacy Club often took up the position of “good” children and found ways to appease Josephine and Beth when they, in turn, took up the position of teacher or responsible adult. On other occasions, however, the adolescents aggressively resisted, especially when pressed into positions of “students” rather than adolescent readers. As long as the adolescents were allowed input into activities within the club, they actively resisted any assignments that reminded them of school. Similarly, the behavior of the adolescents in the Media Clubs during adult-led discussions was markedly different over time than what it was during their free time. Though many of them readily answered the adults’

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questions and went through the motions of completing assigned tasks, they also repeatedly made overtures to get back to playing video games, to using the Internet, or to listening to music on their own—all of which were obviously reflective of their desires. Their enthusiasm when they were released to pursue their own interests was very high. They moved from one pursuit to the next with gravity of purpose. Second, we might expect after-school literacy programs to provide opportunities for adolescents to explore topics that are not usually covered in school. These topics should be both adolescent- and adult-selected. In each of the programs described, the adults selected the focus for each program and continued throughout the duration of the programs to bring that focus to fruition, whether the focus was on book clubs, gender representation, or media. And, although the programs’ goals reflected the values of the adult creators, adolescent participants had opportunities to mold and to change those programs to better meet their own needs as club members. When youths were given opportunities and responsibilities to make choices in these after-school programs based upon the parameters outlined for the clubs of which they were a part, they were able to investigate issues and topics that might have otherwise gone unstudied. Providing opportunities and a forum for youths to engage with texts uncommonly used in schools, such as horror books, rap music, and video games, gave rise to discussions and ideas that adolescents pursued in-depth and over time. Also, the intimate settings and the laid-back atmosphere of these after-school programs cultivated particular kinds of open spaces for discussions about subject matter often avoided or omitted from already jam-packed school curricula, whether pertaining to violence, alternative forms of enacting gender, or perceptions of media representations of race. In conclusion, what these tempered expectations seem to suggest is that there is plenty of work to be done by everyone, both in and out of school. Or, as Hull and Schultz (in press) have argued, “rather than setting formal and informal education systems and contexts in opposition to each other, we might do well to look for overlap or complementarity or perhaps a respectful division of labor” (p. 5). In choosing to learn from one another, the adolescent and adult participants in the three clubs just described could be said to have moved one step closer to achieving the respectful division of labor that Hull and Schultz propose. REFERENCES Alexander, P. A., & Wade, S. E. (2000). Contexts that promote interest, self-determination, and learning: Lasting impressions and lingering questions. Computers in Human Behavior, 16 (3), 349–358. Alloway, N., & Gilbert, P. (1998). Video game culture: Playing with masculinity, violence and pleasure. In S. Howard (Ed.), Wired up: Young people and the electronic media (pp. 95–114). London: UCL Press.

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Alvermann, D. E., Moon, J. S., & Hagood, M. C. (1999). Popular culture in the classroom: Teaching and researching critical media literacy. Newark, DE: International Reading Association/ National Reading Conference. Alvermann, D. E., Hagood, M. C., Heron, A. H., Hughes, P., Williams, K., & Yoon, J. (in preparation). After-school media clubs for struggling adolescent readers: A study of youths’ critical awareness. Alvermann, D. E., Young, J. P., Green, C., & Wisenbaker, J. M. (1999). Adolescents’ perceptions and negotiations of literacy practices in after-school Read and Talk Clubs. American Educational Research Journal, 36, 221–264. Armstrong, M. (1973). The role of teacher. In P. Buckman (Ed.), Education without schools (pp. 49–60). London: Souvenir. Avi. (1990). The true confessions of Charlotte Doyle. New York: Orchard. Berger, P. L., & Luckmann, T. (1966). The social construction of reality: A treatise in the sociology of knowledge. Garden City, NY: Doubleday. Buckingham, D. (1991). Teaching about the media. In D. Lusted (Ed.), The media studies book (pp. 12–35). New York: Routledge. ——— . (1998). Introduction: Fantasies of empowerment? Radical pedagogy and popular culture. In D. Buckingham (Ed.), Teaching popular culture: Beyond radical pedagogy (pp. 1–17). London: UCL Press. Crichton, M. (1995). The lost world. New York: Knopf. Crutcher, C. (1991). Athletic shorts: Six short stories. New York: Greenwillow Books. Davies, B. (1996). Power, knowledge, desire: Changing school organization and management practices. Canberra, Australia: Department of Employment, Education, Training, and Youth Affairs. Gee, J. P. (2000). The New Literacy Studies: From ‘socially situated’ to the work of the social. In D. Barton, M. Hamilton, & R. Ivanic (Eds.), Situated literacies: Reading and writing in context (pp. 180–196). London: Routledge. Green, B., Reid, J-A., & Bigum, C. (1998). Teaching the Nintendo generation? Children, computer culture, and popular technologies. In S. Howard (Ed.), Wired up: Young people and the electronic media (pp. 19–42). London: UCL Press. Hruby, G. G. (2001). Sociological, postmodern, and new realism perspectives in social constructionism: Implications for literacy research. Reading Research Quarterly, 36, 48–62. Hull, G., & Schultz, K. (in press). School’s out: Literacy and learning outside of school. New York: Teachers College Press. Klass, D. (1994). California blue. New York : Scholastic. Knobel, M. (1999). Everyday literacies: Students, discourse, and social practice. New York: Peter Lang. Knobel, M., & Lankshear, C. (in preparation). Cut, paste, publish: The production and consumption of zines. Maybin, J. (2000). The New Literacy Studies: Context, intertextuality and discourse. In D. Barton, M. Hamilton, & R. Ivanic (Eds.), Situated literacies: Reading and writing in context (pp. 197–209). London: Routledge. Posner, J. K., & Vandell, D. L. (1999). After-school activities and the development of low-income urban children: A longitudinal study. Developmental Psychology, 35, 868–879.

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Potter, J. (1996). Representing reality: Discourse, rhetoric and social construction. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Rowling, J. K. (1999). Harry Potter and the sorcerer’s stone (book 1). New York: Scholastic. Sefton-Green, J. (2001). Digital diversions: Youth culture in the age of multi-media. London: Taylor & Francis. Street, B. V. (1993). Cross-cultural approaches to literacy. New York: Cambridge University Press. Vandell, D. L., & Su, H. (1999). Child care and school-age children. Young Children, 54 (6), 62–71. West, C. & Zimmerman, D. (1985). Doing gender. Gender and Society, 1, 125–151. Young, J. P. (1998). Discussions as a practice of carnival. In D. E. Alvermann, K. A. Hinchman, D. W. Moore, S. F. Phelps, & D. Waff (Eds.), Reconceptualizing the literacies in adolescents’ lives (pp. 247–264). Mahwah, NJ: Erlbaum. Young, J. P., & Ricks, B. J. (in preparation). Adolescents explore gender in texts, media, and the community in an after-school critical literacy club.

3

University Students Promoting Science in the Community Susan P. Bruce and Bertram C. Bruce

When two university science students1 walk into the Boys and Girls Club in a small midwestern city one afternoon, they represent a world distant from that of the young children who come running off the basketball court to ask, “What are we doing in Science Club today?” This day, their second visit, the students encounter a few familiar faces, but most of the 6– to 9–year-olds are new to them. They are going to teach the children how to make kites, but first they talk about how airplanes fly. They draw an airplane wing on the white board and introduce the name Bernoulli. To forestall fidgeting, the young woman, who is studying biochemistry at the university, asks the children to say in unison, “Ber-noul-li.” She tells her partner, a history major with a minor in chemistry, to demonstrate the Bernoulli principle by blowing across a penny to lift it into a beaker lying on its side. The children follow suit, blowing pennies into a paper cup. Then they all get down to the entertaining business of making kites. Upstairs, two undergraduates in chemistry and biochemistry are drawing children into the Computer Club. When a second announcement fails to attract a quorum, the Boys and Girls Club’s supervisor wanders down to the Ping-Pong tables to find more participants. Last week the students let the children explore on the Web, finding websites that interest them, but this week they plan to do some “typing.” They want the children to learn a few basic things about word processing. The students express doubts that

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tiny Taneka, a first grader, can “type,” and the supervisor agrees, but he thinks that 8–year-old Tony is up to it. Taneka is given an errand to do. The students ask the remaining 9– to 13–year-olds to write something about themselves. As the children struggle to think what to say, the two young men circulate around the lab, offering suggestions—“Do you like pizza? Then write that”—pointing out the shift key and punctuation when needed. Though it is 4:00 P.M., it looks and feels like school in this computer lab.2 Project SEARCH (Science Education and Research for Children) has brought these undergraduate students here today. It is an outreach program at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign, designed to bring the science resources of a large research university to classrooms and community centers. For the past 9 years, SEARCH students have spent 4 hours each week doing hands-on science experiments, dissecting frogs, demonstrating microscopes, lecturing about the planets, playing computer games, exploring the World Wide Web, and creating Web pages. Watching Project SEARCH students at work in a variety of settings around the community, an observer might well ask: What kind of science or computing skills are they bringing to the children involved? Is there learning going on? Is it fun? When they work during the after-school hours, as these students are doing with mixed success, what special skills, materials, or attitudes toward science can they offer? What about SEARCH continues to attract university students, after-school programs, and teachers? How do we make sense of a program with such strengths and limitations? What can we, or should we, expect of enrichment activities such as these during the after-school hours? In the end, what does the SEARCH experience tell us about the relation of universities to the diverse communities in which they reside? BACKGROUND Project SEARCH was developed to provide a meaningful service-learning opportunity for university science students and to help the community improve science education for children. There were three underlying assumptions: (a) To bring about positive change in education, there must be collaboration—between scientists and educators, between schools and universities, among university students and faculty, between classroom teachers and university students, and among children in the classroom; (b) children learn science best when given the opportunity to ask questions, explore phenomena, construct their own theories, and express their developing understandings in language that is meaningful to them; and (c) the development of positive attitudes toward science learning is a critical element in bringing about the engagement of students in learning. This is especially true for the many girls and minority students who have often been excluded from full participation in scientific and technical arenas.

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These themes can be seen in many projects, but SEARCH adds another and somewhat unique dimension: The science resources, expertise, and activities are offered by undergraduate science majors. These students are viewed as learners, not simply as experts, and the teachers or community staff with whom they work are seen as learners as well. We have worked with Project SEARCH for most of its life and have conducted a formal evaluation (B. C. Bruce, S. Bruce, Conrad, & Huang, 1997), focusing on the overall effect of the program, and the responses of students, teachers, and children to their participation. Project SEARCH grew steadily during its early years, from 19 students in the fall of 1992 to a high of 122 in the spring of 1998. The number of participating teachers increased from 10 to 22 during that time period, and the number of children grew from approximately 200 to 550. As SEARCH enters its 10th year, participation has dropped somewhat from that high, to 38 students in the spring of 2001. Nevertheless, the program continues to attract students, schools, and after-school programs, and to endure within the institution of the university. Combining student data across 3 years from 1992 to 1995, when we completed our formal evaluation, we found that 53% of the participating students were female, 5% of the students were African American, 4% were Latino, 36% were Asian or Pacific Islander, and 56% were white. The ethnicity of SEARCH students is roughly comparable to the enrollment in the science departments. However, the participation by women is somewhat higher than in the science disciplines as a whole. It is tempting to attribute this to the social service aspect of SEARCH, but it may be because of other factors, such as different career aspirations for which participation would be beneficial. One female student told us, I am taking this course for various reasons. I believe that improving my interactive skills with children will help me to be a better doctor and parent. I also enjoy the chance to share my science knowledge with people who will be interested and benefit from it. I remember when I was in grade school. We didn’t even open a science book until 6th grade. Of course, my most selfish reason is that Project SEARCH is a lot of fun.

Most SEARCH students work during the school day in elementary-school classrooms, almost always with a teacher present or nearby. Thus, our initial evaluation focused on school-day experiences, though we did observe in after-school programs and a summer science camp, and interviewed students who worked in those informal education settings. Recently we turned our attention to the different situations that can be found in after-school programs, not for a formal evaluation but for a more speculative consideration of the effects of a project like SEARCH on the after-school learning environment (Bruce & Bruce, 2000).

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For the purposes of this chapter, we would like to clarify that “science” within Project SEARCH encompasses a range of explorations and often includes computer activities—using computers as tools to do science, learning how to use computers in a computer lab, and learning about new information technologies such as magnetic resonance imaging (Bruce, Thakkar, & Hogan, 1999). When we began our observations, SEARCH students were just beginning to use email in a limited way and web resources were often unavailable in the classrooms where they worked. Today, SEARCH has a fairly active website,3 with a database of activities for students to adapt, links to teaching resources, and logistical details for the coursework. Most teaching sites have at least one or two computers tucked into a corner, and many have computer labs with multiple workstations. The after-school program at the Boys and Girls Club now includes a well-equipped lab with a dozen computers, since it serves as the site of one of several community networking projects.4 Program Structure Through the SEARCH project, pairs of undergraduate science majors develop and present hands-on science and computer activities for children once or twice a week. An attempt is made to pair “repeater” students, who have joined the program for a second semester, with less-experienced students, particularly for after-school projects. In regular classrooms, the timing, format, and degree of integration of the projects with the curricula is primarily determined by the teachers, but in the after-school programs the students are largely on their own. At the end of each semester, the students develop original science lessons, which then become materials for use by future participants. The students meet monthly with the program coordinators for an evening class. They report on the activities they led during the previous month, raise problems they have encountered, and listen to presentations by their classmates about programs they have developed. Occasionally, teachers or university faculty present mini-lessons on teaching, and graduate assistants share projects developed by previous SEARCH students. But most of what the students learn about teaching and about children happens on-site, with the support of staff or teachers in the classrooms, as they begin to work in the community. After-School SEARCH When compared with the more formal learning settings of elementary-school classrooms, SEARCH in the after-school hours presents a somewhat different picture. However, as in the classrooms, the great variety of settings remains an obstacle to deriving easy generalizations about the program. Each of the out-of-school sites5 presents unique challenges

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and possibilities, reflecting different cultural systems (Cole, 1996). Consider the realization (Bruce & Peyton, 1990; Bruce & Rubin, 1993) of SEARCH in four of these: a Boys and Girls Club, two public schools, and a private-school science camp. The Boys and Girls Club is a large local organization, serving more than 1,400 children a year with programs in recreation, leadership training, and after-school learning activities. Most of the regular visitors are African American children of elementary and middle school age. Several of the minority students enrolled in SEARCH have elected to work at the Boys and Girls Club because, as one young woman wrote, I feel a need to help black youth by exposing them to the sciences. When I was growing up, I was discouraged from developing a scientific background. Although I expressed a strong interest in the sciences, I was not allowed to do as I wished. I do believe that this was done because I was black (I went to predominantly white parochial schools all my life). I do feel that the black youth are not prepared for university level studies (as I wasn’t), so I elected to take this class on the condition that I would be able to go to the Boys and Girls Club.

One indication of the high value placed on SEARCH is that when a new building was planned several years ago, a science room and a computer lab were integrated into the addition, partly because of the promised presence of SEARCH students on a regular basis. Some children spend every afternoon at the club, and others drop in from time to time. They are free to choose whatever activities they like; once they’ve signed in to the computer lab, they are supposed to stay the entire time, but this rule is loosely enforced. No one supervises the university students’ activities, except for occasional technical assistance. Much of the time they are entirely on their own. A second site, in a local elementary school to which SEARCH students have been invited, presents a very different picture. Children here are invited to a classroom to do science activities 1 or 2 days each week for the entire semester. The children are seated at desks for much of the time, the students learn their names, and the after-care supervisor occasionally drops by to check on their activities. A third site can be found at another elementary school that has contracted with a private company to run their after-school program for the past several years. The SEARCH students are welcome to participate, but they must fit into the given daily schedule, which means that their first hour is often spent helping children with homework in the lunchroom where the program is housed. After a break and snacktime, there is time to do science, but often that time is very limited. At the fourth site, a private school runs a summer science camp and an after-school program where SEARCH students lead activities. Many of the participating children have academic parents, and a number of those par-

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ents are science professors who often bring in enrichment materials. The students who assist must find activities and software that might be novel to children who have had many prior learning opportunities, and they must be vigilant that they are conveying the correct scientific information while paying careful attention to the high expectations of adults in this setting. Though these four sites vary greatly in terms of their structure, the profile of participating children, and the support of a supervising adult, at each the students face a challenge common to all informal learning environments: They must choose activities that are immediately engaging, that are accessible to children across a range of ages, and that are not dependent on the structure provided by a teacher and school-day norms of behavior (Hein, 1990). They must, in short, be fun. And yet the students are there to teach science. One student told us, While playing a Geo Safari game with one of the children, I tried to point out some of the things that the game was trying to teach, but the child said that she didn’t want to learn anything and just continued to guess randomly at questions that were asked.

Another student was frustrated to be working “only with computers,” and would have preferred to be doing science: I am working with computers, and have come to the decision that I would prefer to be doing actual science projects because most of the children I am working with have had a lot of experience with computers and I feel like I could teach them more with science projects.

Yet another reported, For me, it is a more difficult task to teach because firstly, it’s Saturday and the kids usually want to play, or watch TV, or run around, not get lessons in science. That forces me to find creative projects that require hands-on work that looks like fun.

An undergraduate who has become very immersed in SEARCH after several semesters of participation and is now the project coordinator, wrote, Definitely the HANDS ON ACTIVITIES work best. . . . I found that doing experiments that let them take home things or have their own were great. It was also helpful to apply/compare the “science” to everyday things. We did the flow of the heart as one and my partner and I both drew a big picture of it in the parking lot and had the kids pretend to be oxygen/blood. Worked Well!! We grew plants and talked about seeds, plant circulation and photosynthesis. We also talked about electricity and did a fun project to light up a pickle and then gave the class pickles (an unusual request but it got them interested).

Comments such as these have confirmed our observation that resolving this tension between the demands of the environment for engaging the learner and the students’ conception of what it means to teach science is one

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of the critical challenges faced by a program like SEARCH, particularly during the after-school hours. IMAGES OF SCIENCE AND SCIENTISTS As part of their mission statement, the developers of SEARCH wrote, It is our hope that we will learn how better to reach out and touch children from all ethnic groups and of both genders with the excitement and significance of science in ways that will enrich their lives and broaden their choices of educational paths and careers.

Underlying this vision is the assumption that the university possesses rich resources of knowledge and materials not present in the community. There is further the implication that science learning will improve if these resources can be brought to bear in the schools, clubs, and after-school programs. This conception positions science as the special province of the university, which can now be shared with the community. To some extent, we saw that vision realized, and indeed, many teachers rated highly the tools, objects, materials, and expertise they obtained through SEARCH. But as we observed in more settings and saw more clearly both the strengths and weaknesses of the project, we came to understand that the major effect was not in terms of science resources or even science learning per se. In fact, the undergraduates often brought constructed modes of learning that were stereotypical and limited in scope relative to what the children already experienced in their schools. The major benefits of SEARCH may lie, not in those activities as such, but in the image of science as a human activity, which the project presents. How Do Children Become Interested in Science? Students who work in the SEARCH program are a diverse group, but one common characteristic is that they are interested in science. We asked SEARCH students how they developed that interest. A fairly typical response was this: The most significant experience with science I had before age 12 was definitely my fourth-grade science fair project. My father helped me to build and understand a solar heater. It was a simple project, yet I learned a vast amount about the effects of light energy. I also remember asking significant questions in order to understand what it was that I was actually doing.

This linking of learning and enjoyable activity is increasingly recognized as critical for the development of positive attitudes about learning science and technology, as Jarrett (1996) points out:

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Play and science are often thought of as opposites, with play representing frivolity and science representing serious logical thinking. But for many eminent scientists, play was an important part of their childhood, and continued playfulness marked their scientific careers. (p. 32)

One of the students reported, I learned more about science from my family, television, and Girl Scouts than I did in a classroom. But it was enough to induce me into pursuing it as a career.

Responses like these show clearly that science interest did not arise solely, or even primarily, out of the standard classroom setting for these students. Moreover, it invariably depended upon personal interactions with a family member or friends. Students were aware that the children did not think it likely that they would ever participate in the scientific community. One said, Having participated in Project SEARCH for over a year now, I know that elementary school children define science in a very broad way. Science is everything that surrounds them—nature, weather, animals, and technology (although they don’t necessarily describe it in those terms).

The children had broad interests in learning all sorts of things, but typically saw that as not representative of what scientists really do. One reason for this is that many had no alternative models. Their parents were rarely in any way involved with scientific or technical careers, and few of their parents had studied any science past the minimum required in school. Fewer still had the experience of Nobel Prize–winner Richard Feynman, whose stories about his parents resonate with those of the SEARCH students: “My father taught me to notice things . . . no pressure—just lovely, interesting discussions. It has motivated me for the rest of my life, and makes me interested in all the sciences” (Feynman, 1989, pp. 15–16). In contrast, many of the children had few science experiences and most had never been to the university, despite the fact that it is a dominant feature in this community of 100,000 people. During one semester, the SEARCH project held a science fair on campus. This was the first visit to any university for many of the children, although a number of them didn’t know when asked afterward that the building housing the science fair was actually part of the university. This distance from university life and science practice meant that science was often seen as the stereotypical portrayal of movies and television. Most important, it was not seen as a fun activity that they were allowed to participate in. A Popular Image of Science A film such as the 1999 production The Phantom Menace represents well a popular image of science and technology. In the movie, the forces of both

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good and evil use unnecessarily elaborate, expensive technology for explosives, light swords, and ray guns. Most of the nondestructive devices are also tools of war: force fields, high-speed rockets, and devices for both seclusion and spying. Curiously, many of the less warlike tools, such as those for communication and daily life, are less advanced than those of today. The movie presents nearly all of these technologies as magic. In fact, the narrative function of technologists in the movie is identical to that of wizards, leprechauns, and good fairies in other genres. The viewer’s role in The Phantom Menace is to be either a potential victim of these technologies or, through identification with the heroes, to be a successful user of them. In that sense, it is not so different from the usual representations of science in newspapers, magazines, television, and radio. There is no role for the viewer either as one who constructs such magical devices or as one who could understand the principles underlying their operation. The film confirms the popular view that scientists work far away in laboratories on dangerous or forbidden topics. Their work is opaque to the ordinary person, and not a believable aspiration. The Image of Science in SEARCH In contrast, another recent film, October Sky, presents a less familiar and more authentic image of science. Here, too, there are rockets and explosions, but the setting is realistic; it is, in fact, based on actual events. The characters struggle against opposition from their families and the community. They also work to understand the principles required to launch a successful rocket. Repeated failures, discouragement, desire to learn, the excitement of the successful launches, and eventual recognition provide a narrative thread, but these activities also mirror the daily practices of science today. Moreover, because the heroes of the film are working-class students who had scant prospects of attending college, their predicaments must seem less remote than those of the typical movie scientist. Like the protagonists of October Sky, SEARCH students are young and some are working-class. Their cultural and gender diversity signals that they like the children, are not automatically part of the science and technology elite. They come to the after-school settings wearing blue jeans and T-shirts, with baseball caps turned backward. Their discourse does not differ greatly from that of children. As we watched them work, we concluded that one of the greater benefits of the project may be the simple presence of a diverse group of student-scientists in the classroom. Technology and science, when they are not mysterious and remote, appear to many children as formalistic, unconnected, irrelevant, and heavily dependent on mathematics. But SEARCH presents science as playful, fallible, personal, and collaborative. There is a lot of talk, writing, and drawing. Every aspect is something that children can participate in, and the presence of the SEARCH students validates that people like themselves can become

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part of the science and technology communities. Instead of light swords, with impossible properties and unexplained functions, the SEARCH students help children make oobleck (a mixture that has the properties of either a solid or a liquid, depending on how it is handled) or find music on the Web.

Children’s Changing Constructions of Science To ascertain what the children’s images of scientists might be, and how the presence of a science student in their classrooms might have affected those images, we asked them during our evaluation to draw a scientist and talk about their drawings. This led to some of the most interesting observations about the promise and limitations of a project such as SEARCH. On the whole, children adopted the popular stereotype of scientists as people wearing lab coats who “mix chemicals, mix things.” This was evident in their drawings: Twelve of 21 third-grade children drew a scientist doing a chemistry experiment, often involving explosions, as shown in Figure 3.1. In a fifth-grade class, four showed a scientist with a lab coat. Two included glasses. Four included a lab setting with beakers, test tubes, and clipboards. Only one drawing showed a scientist doing fieldwork—digging dinosaur bones at an archeological site. However, children often gave the scientists in their drawings the names of the SEARCH students working in their classrooms, or drew their scientists doing an activity that the children remembered from SEARCH. In Figure 3.2, for example, a drawing by a fifth-grade boy shows the male student who worked in his classroom getting ready to dissect a frog. In fact, most of the children called the SEARCH students “scientists,” although many weren’t certain what a scientist was. Many had difficulty coming up with a definition or even a reference to a media scientist. One first-grade girl, however, said that “scientists make things and do stuff that is real neat. Do stuff with different kinds of things. At the university.” She then referred to the example of the students who did a liquid nitrogen demonstration at the science fair. When asked to draw a picture of a scientist, one girl in kindergarten asked, “Can a kid be a scientist? I’m a scientist—I try to figure things out.” She then drew a picture of herself walking her dog. In her K–1 class, the other children most often drew one or both of the SEARCH students. One first-grade girl asked, “Does it have to be a girl?” She said she asked this because one of the SEARCH students was “a girl.” Figure 3.3 shows a drawing by a fifth-grade girl that was typical of several of the drawings and comments made by students at this age, showing a female scientist doing an experiment on water quality. Four other fifth graders refused to make drawings, because, they said, “a scientist could look like anybody.”

Figure 3.1. A third-grade boy’s drawing of a scientist.

Figure 3.2. A fifth-grade boy’s drawing of a SEA R C H s t u de n t i n h i s c l a s s ro o m preparing to dissect a frog.

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Figure 3.3. A fifth-grade girl’s drawing of a female scientist.

This interview with a third-grade boy reveals some typical attitudes. Note the reference to “chemicals” and “white jacket,” but also the merging of that stereotype with an understanding of what the SEARCH students are like: Question: This is the scientist you drew. Do you want to tell me more about it? Child: Okay. It’s like, it goes to university, it works with chemicals or stuff like that, medicine, it really likes animals, and its name is Peter. And he teaches science class. He does lots of experiments. He likes to try things out. I can’t think anything more. Q: Why do you name this scientist Peter? C: Because I go to science class after school on Tuesday, and one of the teachers is Peter. Q: Do you think Peter is a scientist? C: Yes. Q: Is this special clothing for a scientist? C: Aspecial one, like a doctor wears a white jacket, you know, that’s what he supposed to be. Q: Why does he need a special jacket to wear? C: Like if he observes something, he doesn’t spill on his clothes, like poison or something. Q: What is this scientist doing now? C: He sees somebody and he waves to him, and he is getting ready to go to observe something. Q: Have you seen any other scientists? C: I am not sure if they are all scientists, I know four people [at the university], Steve, Peter, Kevin, and Anna—they are scientists. Yeah, I think they are scientists.

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Students’ Changing Images of Science Interestingly, all of the students we interviewed indicated that they had learned from the project. They learned how to present ideas and phenomena to young children; they gained teaching experience, communication skills, and organization skills in designing activities; and they became more creative in developing activities. Perhaps more notably, they also believed it strengthened their knowledge of science. One related that actually setting up experiments was something new for him: I actually learned something about science. This was because I had to teach kids. Things like bacteria. I know the stuff about bacteria, but I never set up experiments, I never made agar, you know, little things like that. Now I know how it’s done.

Another said the experience helped her “see if I can actually use what I have learned.” Yet another talked about how this experience might affect his future career as a teacher: [I am considering] possibly teaching. I am not sure. I enjoy students. I have a lot more responsibility. It helps me grow and learn a lot more. I’ve always been a student all my life, and now I feel like I crossed the line. If I didn’t do this before, and I went on with my life . . . I don’t know if I want to be a teacher, but this is a very positive experience. It encourages me.

One said: I have improved my ability to effectively communicate with children and have had my eyes re-opened to the intellectual abilities of the young. It has also helped to strengthen my basic science base due to the fact that I often need to review specific subject matter before attempting to teach it in class.

Finally, one student saw the limitations of his university science learning experiences: For myself, I truly realize how much I do and do not know. The questions they ask are sometimes very vague. In being able to answer those questions, I learn myself, through the overall thinking process.

Linking Inquiry with Community Service With all of the participants—students, teachers, and children—becoming learners, SEARCH can be seen as a project that links inquiry with community service in a way that recalls the progressive education movement. Progressive educators in the early half of the 20th century saw the rapidly changing social fabric as both a challenge and an opportunity for democracy. They understood that democracy means participation by all citizens

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in social, political, and economic decisions that affect their lives. Inquiry was then not simply the process whereby an individual learns, but the means for a democratic society to continually renew itself. One key tenet was respect for diversity, meaning recognizing each person for his or her own background, abilities, interests, ideas, and cultural identity. This principle has been realized by SEARCH through its emphasis on meeting the needs of children who have not been well served by the university, the scientific community, or society at large. This has led, especially in the after-school component of SEARCH, to a “child-centered” pedagogy. Progressive educators also saw the need to develop a critical, socially engaged intelligence. As Freire (1968) argues, such an intelligence enables individuals to participate in both understanding and changing their world. In the work of Freire, Dewey, and other major theorists, the child-centered and critical aspects of learning are seen as being necessarily related to each other (University of Vermont, 2001). Together, they foster an attitude toward life that is experimental, questioning, and built more on actual experiences than on tradition, authority, or established curricula. Lucy Sprague Mitchell, one of the founders of Bank Street College, expressed this well: Our aim is to help students develop a scientific attitude towards their work and toward life. To us this means an attitude of eager, alert observations; a constant questioning of old procedure in light of new observations; a use of the world as well as of books as source material; an experimental open-mindedness; and an effort to keep as reliable records as the situation permits in order to base the future upon actual knowledge of the experiences of the past. (Mitchell, quoted in Bakken, 1999)

SEARCH provides an opportunity for university students to extend their learning in the direction of topics that interest them. At the same time, it encourages them to participate in changing their world, rather than keeping their learning cloistered away from the community. For the children, their activities begin to include aspects of meaningful inquiry that allow them to participate more fully in their world. These features of SEARCH may lead to inconsistencies, lack of coherence, and uneven success. At the same time, they make participation more meaningful for all involved and cause many participants to feel that the experiences here are not easily found elsewhere. CONCLUSIONS There has been little evidence of a conventional academic science program in SEARCH. In general, good teachers who bring science activities into their classrooms on a regular basis can still do a better job of presenting a curriculum in which activities integrate across concepts and build on students’ current knowledge. This is especially the case when one compares after-school SEARCH with more organized programs. Moreover, the best

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materials used in SEARCH school-based activities often come not from the university but from the teacher involved. In after-school programs, the more novice SEARCH students often struggle to work with little guidance. Viewed in this way, SEARCH falls short of what some might hope would be its influence on science learning. To compound matters, many of the students are ill-prepared to work with children, particularly in informal settings. Some replicate the textbook or lecture approach to science teaching that they have experienced in school, despite the fact that these are the methods SEARCH was designed to counter. Most do engage children in hands-on activities, but only a few find ways to build activities out of children’s own interests and questions or to provide opportunities for children to articulate their ideas in their own words, to reflect on what they are learning, or to participate in constructive dialogue. This relates to another aspect of this program. The SEARCH students themselves are learners in this project, and it is unrealistic to hold them to a standard of master teaching. Especially because they are learners, it is crucial for them to have analogous opportunities to articulate their ideas about teaching and learning, to reflect on what they are learning, and to participate in constructive dialogue. Unfortunately, institutional, logistical, and financial constraints often make it difficult to provide these opportunities. Nevertheless, in its design SEARCH embodies many of the critical elements of a high-quality service-learning program. Students are given the opportunity to do work that is real, sustained, and makes an authentic contribution to the community. They have occasions to reflect on their activities during their monthly meetings, through email communication with staff, and with each other; the two-person teams offer an important opportunity, as well, for reflecting on learning and teaching with peers. Many of the students return to the project 2, 3, or more semesters. As they work more with professional staff and with children, they often develop into much better teachers. And, despite the minimal preparation for teaching that they receive, a number of the SEARCH students are able to function as good guides for scientific inquiry. Over the course of several years of observations, we have seen increasing evidence that SEARCH can be, in fact, a highly successful learning program for the children who are served as well. Many children, especially in after-school programs, obtain their only exposure to what science can be by learning what science students are like. They get an accessible view of science that contrasts markedly with what they see in the mass media. SEARCH does this not primarily by raising the level of science activities, but through presenting images of science that afford new paths for identity formation. We saw this when we examined the contrast between the children’s typical images of science and those they experience in SEARCH. At some risk of

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overgeneralizing across a diverse group of children and an equally diverse group of university students and SEARCH activities, we saw a pattern in the contrast between the popular image of science and that of the project along dimensions of scientists themselves, the practices of science, and the construction of knowledge. There is evidence that children’s attitudes about science, science learning, scientists, and their own roles are changing in positive ways. This is apparent in the interviews, in the scientist drawings, and in the way children are engaged in learning with the SEARCH students. Across a broad scope of settings and domains, children find the activities to be engaging and memorable. The hands-on experiences the project provides for children are often their first opportunity to investigate phenomena in depth, and to construct their own understandings. Through these experiences, the children may ultimately be able to participate more fully in the larger society—and the university may realize its mission to contribute more fully to the community in which it resides.

NOTES We thank the children, students, teachers, and community agency staff involved in Project SEARCH for allowing us to study their activities. We are especially appreciative of the support and cooperation provided by Project SEARCH coordinators and staff, including Joan Dawson and Chris Ching. We would also like to acknowledge the contributions of Rebecca Conrad and Hui-Ju Huang, who worked on the initial evaluation. 1. In this article, “student” indicates a university undergraduate and “child” indicates an elementary or middle-school student. 2. Portions of this chapter were drawn from “Constructing images of science: People, technologies, and practices” (S. Bruce & B. C. Bruce, 2000). 3. Project SEARCH: 4. Prairienet: 5. Not all of the sites described here are active each semester, but they are representative of the kinds of settings we have observed. Over the past several years, the energies of students and staff have been directed to sites where they believe they can be most effective.

REFERENCES Bakken, M. (1999, March 23). The new emphasis on standards and its effect on progressive educators. Presentation Bank Street College of Education.

Bruce, B. C., Bruce, S., Conrad, R., & Huang, H. (1997). University science students as curriculum planners, teachers, and role models in elementary school classrooms. Journal of Research on Science Teaching, 34 (1), 69–88.

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Bruce, B. C., & Peyton, J. K. (1990). A new writing environment and an old culture: A situated evaluation of computer networking to teach writing. Interactive Learning Environments, 1, 171–191. Bruce, B. C., & Rubin, A. D. (1993). Electronic Quills: A situated evaluation of using computers for writing in classrooms. Hillsdale, NJ: Erlbaum. Bruce, B. C., Thakkar, U., & Hogan, M. (1999, Fall). Inquiry-based learning and teaching with new technologies. Spectrum: The Journal of the Illinois Science Teachers Association, 25 (2), 16–20. Bruce, S., & Bruce, B. C. (2000). Constructing images of science: People, technologies, and practices. Computers in Human Behavior, 16, 241–256. Cole, M. (1996). Cultural psychology: A once and future discipline. Cambridge, MA: Belknap. Feynman, R. P. (1989). “What do you care what other people think?” Further adventures of a curious character. New York: Bantam. Freire, P. (1968). The pedagogy of the oppressed (M. B. Ramos, Trans.). New York: Seabury. Hein, H. (1990). The Exploratorium: The museum as laboratory. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution. Jarrett, O. S. (1996). A playful approach to science: Encouraging playfulness in a teacher education program. In M. Guddemi, T. Jambor, & A. Skrupselis (Eds.), Play: An intergenerational experience/ Proceedings of the American Affiliate of the International Association for the Child’s Right to Play 1995 National Conference (pp. 32–35). Little Rock, AR: Southern Early Childhood Association. University of Vermont. (2001). John Dewey Project on Progressive Education. Available:

4

The Persistence of Vision: A Reflective Examination and Narrative of Sustainability and Fulfillment in a Small After-School Program Dean J. Grosshandler and Elizabeth Niswander Grosshandler

In the short story “The Persistence of Vision,” author John Varley (1978) creates a future world in which a community, whose members are blind and deaf from birth from rubella, consciously decides to give up the external support of the outside world to come to the core of their communal strength—a softening of hierarchical control within a social fabric based on a strong sense of shared values. After several years of integration into the community, the protagonist, a seeing and hearing outsider, leaves the community, but finally returns to make the sacrifices necessary to join permanently. In after-school centers across the country, adults have consciously sought ways to do without the external support of traditional educational structures in an effort to bring out the best in children while protecting them from the dangers of the outside world—and the dangers that lie within some settings as well. This chapter describes our efforts to create and sustain such a program, Odyssey Center for Education, that has enriched children’s lives for 9 years, protecting them not from physical violence or the effects of poverty, but from the relative anonymity and lack of support that can take place in some settings. Parents, teenage assistants, teachers, outside administrators, and the children themselves have created a place where control is deliberately modulated to support growth. In “The Persistence of Vision,” the community develops, not without setbacks, the resources and attitudes it needs to survive on its own terms

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within the larger societal context. Through reflection and analysis of the authors’ 9 years of experience with Odyssey, we describe in this chapter how the participants involved with Odyssey have tried to do much the same thing. We begin our discussion with a general description of Odyssey. Then we describe Dean’s path in creating it and the setbacks he and Beth have faced in its operation. We then discuss parental choice and satisfaction, continuing with a more in-depth description of what makes Odyssey worth the effort to children and others who persist in supporting it. We conclude with a look to the future. A GENERAL DESCRIPTION OF ODYSSEY Founded in 1992, Odyssey has taken a number of forms in several locations, but has always held small classes of a nontraditional nature. During the school year, Odyssey offers classes that are 90 minutes long and meet once a week, with a group of students attending a particular class for 6 weeks. During the summer, Odyssey offers Monday through Friday sessions, with 2 hour, 45 minute sessions each day. In addition, the class size increases from an academic year average of about 4 to 6 or 7 students. Many children during the academic year and the summer session take consecutive sessions, resulting in a fairly stable population and a high degree of familiarity among the students. Second graders might be placed in the same class with eighth graders, but most children find themselves with classmates who differ in age by no more than 2 or 3 years. Although all-girl classes during the academic year and summer have increased the participation of girls in the program, the majority of participants are male. Also, despite efforts to increase diversity, including scholarship and outreach efforts, the majority of the children are from middle- to high-SES white families. More than 60% of all Odyssey students return for additional classes. Subtracting from the total number of students those who have moved from the area, are too old for the program, or took their first course in the summer of 2000, that figure rises to nearly 70%. Children at Odyssey work primarily with Lego design components, the Logo programming language, and Lego/Logo, a combination of special Lego materials, including lights, sensors, and motors, that can be connected to computers for robotic control with a dialect of the Logo programming language. During children’s tenure at Odyssey, which may span several years and hundreds of hours of involvement, they may take breaks of varying duration from the main activities and focus instead on different computing applications, such as non-Logo programming, spreadsheets, surfing the Web, and Web page design. Many students also take advantage of the noncomputing options available to them, such as conducting science experiments, dismantling everyday objects such as CD players and VCRs, and investigating the lab and the natural world with tiny video cameras.

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Odyssey has also been a subject of research, almost from the beginning. Inspired by her own developing studies, Beth started videotaping sessions there in 1995, with Dean and others joining in later. During the summer of 1999, 95% of the sessions were taped from start to finish. Although field-note production by Dean was sporadic before 1996, it increased greatly after his entry to a doctoral program at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign (UIUC). Even before this, several graduate students in the UIUC College of Education studied Odyssey, and we draw upon their notes and conclusions for this article. Also, with its location in the College of Education science lab starting in 1999, several faculty members were able to observe it firsthand, and we have profited from their informed observations and questions. TRANSITIONS Dean’s Early Vision of Teaching Like many new teachers, Dean for a long time saw his future teaching self as a font of wisdom. As a child in school, he imagined himself at the front of each classroom he was part of and thought about ways he could do it better than his own teacher. He started tutoring in junior high school, continuing through high school, and enjoyed the feeling of helping others. In his master’s program leading to certification, the model he was encouraged to follow was that of a skilled classroom teacher in a well-run but traditionally structured classroom. There were few models intended to help him see that successful teaching could also happen outside of the traditional school environment. Exposure to Something Different This pattern continued during his four years in Japan, where the teacher is revered, generally for doing well in a very didactic tradition, at least in the high school and college environments in which Dean taught (Rohlen, 1983). Upon Dean’s return to the United States in 1990, he contacted Harold McWilliams, with whom he had worked briefly in the early 1980s. Harold had created an after-school learning center, Nova Center for Education, focusing on computer activities but with a strong emphasis on Logo and Lego/Logo. Dean worked for Nova for almost 2 years, and quickly found that he could adopt a different teaching role. Especially in the Lego/Logo lab, Dean saw children enjoying themselves without being “taught” by an adult, and it changed his view of what it means to work with children (Lave & Wenger, 1991). Located in one of the wealthiest communities in the United States, Winnetka, Illinois, Nova served children from 1983 to 1992. Although the community was home to internationally recognized public schools, Nova

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enrolled a significant number of children who, their parents believed, were not being well served by those schools. Despite the wealth in the community, however, Nova did not always have full registration. Therefore, it was with great regret that only a few months after Dean arrived, Harold told him that he could no longer support him in a full-time job. However, Dean believed so strongly in what he was seeing that he persuaded Harold to let him try some new marketing techniques and programs. Although not fully successful in these efforts, Dean stayed on until the closing of Nova in 1992, when Harold moved to the East Coast and Beth gained admission to graduate school in Champaign, Illinois, 130 miles away. Many parents in Winnetka expressed their dismay at Nova’s disbanding, and tried to persuade Harold and Dean to have summer camps and overnighters for their students-in-exile.

A Pre-Odyssey Conversion Attendance was voluntary at Nova. Some children attended at the behest of their parents, but this didn’t seem to be the case very often. For Dean, it changed his conception of his duties and opportunities for enjoyment. He didn’t have to worry about motivation. The students wanted to be there and they wanted to work, so discipline problems were rare. Dean didn’t have to worry about interruptions. The Lego/Logo and computer labs were self-contained: There was no supporting institution, no bells or principals. There were no support services that would remove certain children from the classroom at certain times. Dean knew he would have a certain number of children in a particular place for a set amount of time, with few interruptions to spoil the mood. Finally, Dean loved working with the materials himself. They were complex and rich. He savored the release of total control over children’s movements in the classroom, their communication with each other, him and at the end of class time, their parents. What did Dean see at Nova that seemed so important and so liberating? Most important, he saw a place where serious play, and therefore serious learning, could take place (Papert, 1996). It was a place where he could assume a different status, and, through the management of learning manipulatives, regulate his interaction with children (Rogoff, 1990). It was a place where, when he wasn’t working directly with the children, he could observe them, noting that attention-absorbing activity—“flow”—seemed to be taking place (Csikszentmihalyi, 1988). He only knew of Papert’s work at the time, and he knew that somewhat superficially, but what theorists were describing was what Dean was experiencing, firsthand, and it changed his views about teaching and learning.

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Creating Odyssey Center for Education—Setbacks and Solutions When circumstances brought him to central Illinois, Dean had a choice to make. He could try for a regular teaching position, for which he was certified and presumably qualified, or he could try something different. Drawing upon his family’s entrepreneurial bent and financial assistance, and not wanting to lose what he had found at Nova, he decided to open his own learning center in Champaign-Urbana. He bought all of Harold’s Lego/Logo equipment and much of his furniture, enough to serve at least six children at a time. He read every home-business book he could get his hands on, because it looked most economical to find a place to live that would have a room big enough for his new learning lab, Odyssey Center for Education. Beth and Dean found such a home in May 1992 and negotiated a slightly higher rent with the landlord to account for the wear and tear of children coming in and out. The home had a large enclosed porch that would serve nicely as a waiting and break room, once Beth refurbished it, with plenty of space for children to play board games and puzzles. Although there were no elementary schools nearby (because it was near the heart of the UIUC student community), it was centrally located and easy to drive to in 20 minutes from any spot in Champaign-Urbana. It also was close to a bus stop, but few students took advantage of this, being ferried by parents or baby-sitters in cars. Before moving to Champaign-Urbana, Dean had talked with a number of local after-school program providers, most of whom welcomed him to the community and provided much-needed advice. The least enthusiastic person ran the program closest in structure to Dean’s. He may have thought that Dean would be a direct competitor. Dean didn’t think that would happen, and made sure to tell his customers about the other program whenever possible. Although this strategy may have resulted in slightly fewer Odyssey registrations for 1 or 2 years, it secured the goodwill of the other program director, and the directors soon became friends and referred customers to each other. Dean’s hope was that he could create a place as welcoming to students as Nova had been, with the same emphasis on creativity and learning. His main worries were about sustainability. This was his first business, and his financial support wouldn’t last forever. Finding Alternatives More than 35 people attended the first open house in January 1993, including a homeless person who looked over the learning lab with some interest. Several families expressed a great deal of interest in classes. Unfortunately, as with any new business, it took time to build a clientele, and it took several years before Dean stopped spending considerable time

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thinking of new ways to generate publicity and interest. For Beth, it meant dividing her attention between graduate life and acting as intellectual colleague to Dean as well as practical supporter of the enterprise. Dean’s original business model assumed that he would hold two afternoon classes of five or six students each weekday. This would have provided a gross income of about $35,000 at a tuition rate that he thought a good number of parents could afford. Unfortunately, the enrollment rate for after-school classes during the first 2 school years was about 60%. Summer was a different story, however. In the summer of 1993, Dean partnered with a well-established summer program and had 80% enrollment, but a delay in payment caused by an administrative snafu at the other program left Dean and Beth anxious about money. The following summer, run independently, was also at about 80%, providing barely enough income to make it through the next year. In the winter of 1995, hoping to create a more stable income and to reach children who couldn’t afford the high tuition of Odyssey, Dean approached the director of the Champaign school district’s new alternative school program for middle and high school students who were on the edge of suspension from regular classes. Dean thought the computer and manipulative-based learning activities would be perfect for students who didn’t do well in traditional school. Although the director saw the need and potential for creating an Odyssey-like program at the alternative school, the timing was wrong: He was too busy building his own program to take on a new one. From 1993 to 1995, Dean used his nonclass hours to make income and connections by doing science consulting and teaching at a local private school and by running a few courses at Odyssey for local home-schoolers. Overall, given business expenses and lower-than-expected attendance, he earned far less than he would have as a schoolteacher. As he was about to find out, an American public schoolteacher’s salary, although greater than his net income at Odyssey, wasn’t going to be much either. Surrendering to Stability Dean took a job with the Champaign school district for 1995–96 as the math and science teacher for a program for gifted students in the middle schools. He figured he could still keep Odyssey going by doing it in the summer, when it could provide both the sanity of, for him, a near-ideal teaching environment and some extra income. Dean enjoyed many aspects of the school position, and was looking forward to working on those that he didn’t during the next year, when Beth told him of a professor at UIUC whom she thought he should meet. Dean enrolled in a class with Chip Bruce, learned from him of a fellowship opportunity in the College of Education, and upon his acceptance, quit his job with the district. As much as he felt the kids needed him, taking the fellow-

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ship would be a way to advance his studies and continue doing Odyssey year-round. In the back of his mind was the idea that if he could complete doctoral study, he might be able to have a greater influence on children than he could through his presence in the district’s gifted program. He was also excited about the prospect of having the time and the resources to advance his understanding of what he was seeing at Odyssey. External Catastrophes and Changes in Venue After a disappointment in seeking new funding, Dean decided to focus less on funding and more on his studies, which centered on his experiences at Odyssey. He ran a reduced number of classes during the academic year, with a full Odyssey summer program to provide income, more experience, and a chance to gather data for his studies. This pattern continued for 1 more year, until Beth’s mother received a diagnosis of a terminal illness. Dean reduced the school-year classes further, and, after a terminal illness also was diagnosed in Beth’s father, stopped academic-year classes altogether after the summer of 1999. Contributing to this decision was Odyssey’s loss of its original location. During the late spring of 1998, the landlord informed Dean and Beth that he planned to tear down their house to build an apartment building and that they would not be able to stay past the end of July. Unable to devote much time to finding the perfect new home for Odyssey, they signed a lease for a less centrally located home with less space. During the first half of summer 1999, Dean ran classes at the new location, but was hampered not only by the lack of space, but by his new landlord’s delay in providing adequate air-conditioning for the house. Inside temperatures were often higher than 80 degrees (it turned out to be a good summer for the children to learn about fans, motors, and evaporation). Fortunately, during the second half of the summer, chiefly through a collaboration with Margery Osborne, one of Dean’s professors, and the UIUC College of Education, he was able to run Odyssey in the education building’s science lab, a large facility with a number of tables, counters, and shelves, and a great deal of child-friendly science equipment. Margery looked forward to doing a pilot study of the children’s work with state-of-the-art micro video cameras provided by a collaborator at an interdisciplinary institute on campus, and Dean thought the arrangement would provide the space and the freedom for him to do a better job with his students. In fact, it also created the imaginative space for him to contemplate a more organized way to give up some control of Odyssey. Creating a Student Mentor Program By summer 2000, Odyssey’s eighth season, Dean came to the realization that some of his long-term students were no longer eligible for classes, be-

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cause they were past the eighth-grade cutoff. Unwilling to part from them, needing help in the lab anyway, and inspired by descriptions from the research literature and by his visits to other after-school programs, such as Plugged In and ASAP, he invited several parents to consider allowing their children to work as assistants at Odyssey for several weeks. Fortunately, they accepted, and the student mentoring program had begun. Dean had had help in the classroom before. In the summers of 1995, 1996, and 1997, he had assistance from a college undergraduate he met through Project SEARCH; in the summer of 1998, he was assisted by an undergraduate who had been his student in a science methods course he had co-taught the previous year; and in the summer of 1999, he added the first student mentor, a high school student who had taken courses at Odyssey for two years. Dean asked her back for the summer of 2000, when he increased the maximum class size from six to seven, and also hired Beth’s brother Brad. It wasn’t difficult to persuade most of the parents of the children Dean had invited to become mentors to accept. Dean knew that one of the student mentors had been looking for an outlet for his artistic talents for some time. In the other cases, the transition seemed obvious, since the children had enjoyed Odyssey so much and Odyssey had enjoyed their parents’ support so much. Dean ended up rehiring the high school student from the summer before, along with five new student mentors. The staff roster for summer 2000 became Dean, Brad, the high school student assistant from the summer before, two new high school student mentors, and three new student mentors who would enter high school or eighth grade the following autumn. The only constant in supervision was Dean; Brad was there for all but 2 weeks of the summer, and the student mentors served for 1 or 2 weeks each.

HOW WELL DOES ODYSSEY FULFILL PARENTS’ NEEDS? Champaign-Urbana offers parents a plethora of choices for after-school and summer activities for their children. Along with the range of activities one might expect in a region of roughly 150,000 people, additional activities are available because of the presence of a large university. During the school year, parents who can afford it have a choice of programs promoting artistic or academic activities, some remedial or accelerative operations, and well-established enrichment math and science programs. During the summer, parents can choose from traditional day camps, with a mix of athletics and arts and crafts, computer classes at a local research institute, private-school summer camps, the local community college’s College for Kids, and more. Odyssey is one of the most expensive of these options. At $190 for five 2 hour, 45 minute sessions, it costs about $14 per hour during the summer.

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During the academic year, it costs about $19 an hour. Although less costly than private music lessons in the area, it is still an effort for many parents to pay this. Why do they? By a combination of observation and direct communication with parents, we have identified six overlapping categories of parent motivation. Child Care At the low end of the interest scale, there have been a few parents who want child care but don’t seem to care too much about what happens at Odyssey. When they visit, they pay little attention to their child’s accomplishments or gestures of welcoming them into the community. Fortunately, this has been a very small group. There have been one or two parents who have sent their children for several years, but whom Dean has never met. Enrichment The child does well, likes it, and has some friends there, and everyone involved seems to be happy about the child’s participation. The mother visits from time to time, with the father usually visiting perhaps once a year. It is unusual, but does happen, that the father visits more often and the mother hardly at all. For both child care and enrichment activity categories, many of the children are routinely brought to class by baby-sitters or nannies. Perhaps as many as half of the parents fall into the enrichment category. An Integral Part of Their Child’s Education Odyssey is an important part of their family’s life. The child is having a hard time at school, or in making friends, or is somehow not adjusting well in other areas, and the parents see Odyssey as a way to help. It is from these parents that Dean gets most of his referrals. The parents are usually the ones who transport their children, and Dean has sometimes lengthy conversations with them on the phone and/or during the cleanup period at the end of class. For example, during the preparation of this manuscript a parent called and spoke with Dean for 30 minutes about her children’s progress in school. A Lifeline One parent told Dean that her child was having a particularly difficult time in school, “drowning in a sea of worksheets.” This child was in the enrichment category her first summer, we believe, but as school got tough, Odyssey became more important. It is clear from parent communications that some choose Odyssey almost in desperation. They’ve tried other programs that haven’t helped, and their bright child continues to fail in school, or succeeds in school but is bored and unhappy.

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Although Dean has sensed this motivation for a long time, one summer it became explicit in a new way. A parent registered his third grader for as many weeks as were available, before taking even one class. Because Odyssey is expensive, and most parents don’t know if they will get their money’s worth, this rarely happens. At the end of the summer, the parent asked Dean if he would talk to his child’s schoolteacher about the child’s placement in school. It became clear that the parent had had Dean work as much as possible with the child in order to have evidence to present to the classroom teacher about his abilities, because the parent thought that the teacher was on the verge of recommending his child for special education classes. Fortunately, Dean saw that the child was very able, and he had no qualms about fulfilling the parent’s wishes. A Path into Gifted Programs The opportunities for accelerated education in Champaign-Urbana play a part in children’s enrollment at Odyssey. For parents who want accelerated education for their young children, there are several preschool and K–1 programs available. For children entering second grade, however, the choices narrow because of the structure of the gifted program in the public schools and the entry requirements of the private schools. This narrowing continues until at least seventh grade, when children are eligible to apply to an academically competitive public school, University High School. The competition to gain entrance into “Uni” is intense, and is on the minds of many parents, even during early elementary school. Thus, it isn’t surprising that Dean gets asked to write several recommendations for Uni each year. A Path Toward a Different Relationship with Their Child Many parents at Odyssey seem to relish the opportunity to see their child’s growth and to help with their child’s struggles outside of the typical “What did you do at school today?” dynamic. Most parents observe portions of classes that their child attends, especially first-time Odyssey parents. Invariably, they can’t resist trying to help their child with a particular problem, but Dean, to the children’s delight, almost always insists that the parent do one or two simple models or some simple programming. Many parents gamely attempt this and realize, usually quite publicly, just how difficult the activities are, no matter how simple the products may appear. This seems immensely satisfying to the children and helps the parents form not only a deeper understanding of what is important about the children’s work (and that it is work), but a deeper commitment to Odyssey’s mission. HOW WELL DOES ODYSSEY FULFILL CHILDREN’s NEEDS? The physical environment has evolved over the years to serve more complex and important purposes than a cursory examination might reveal,

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although some students still do not find what they need there. In the face of an atmosphere that at first seems to be, as a visitor to a Fifth Dimension location put it, “pretty chaotic with kids coming and going,” there turns out to be a shared culture that “grows up over time . . . [and] may not, initially, be evident to the casual observer,” to borrow the words of Michael Cole (1996, p. 302). The Physical Environment and the Sharing of Culture In each of its locations—the two successive houses and the science lab—Odyssey has been fortunate to have a “room of its own.” The physical setup in each of these places could be tinkered with until it worked well and could be kept that way. Although the room in the second house was somewhat cramped, Dean reduced the maximum enrollment to four per class that year to keep the space-per-child up even as income went down. The centerpiece of the lab, both physically and perhaps cognitively, is the rotating round lazy Susan, about 30 inches in diameter, and the two joined tables on which it sits. In this space, children are socialized into some of the most important aspects of work at Odyssey: • learning the names of the dozens of different Lego parts that are grouped upon it in small plastic boxes • retrieving parts and putting them away • sharing space with peers • sharing personal introductions • sitting with a helper and getting assistance and encouragement, and • showing one’s parents one’s achievements of the day

The turntable itself is a wonderful example of how the nature of an artifact can affect group dynamics: It is a sensitive indicator of the moods and maturity of children, for if spun too quickly by a child insensitive to other children’s needs, the parts can fly off and endanger another child. Watching how children use the turntable gives clear and immediate information to the helpers and the other students regarding a student’s emotional state and understanding of the communal nature of Odyssey. When a child continues to abuse the rules regarding its use, it becomes an opportunity for the helpers to provide some more explicit guidance about how Odyssey is supposed to work (Bruce, Peyton, & Batson, 1993). The ordered grouping of the parts buckets on the turntable helps reinforce the functional relations of the parts, assists the child in learning nomenclature (essential for collaboration or in communicating a need for a part or a question about a part), makes parts equally available to all students, and, most important, makes it easier to lay one’s hands on the parts

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one needs. Dean’s early strategy was to have students search for parts in a large pile of pieces in the center of the worktables. This was messy, but students could directly experience the wealth of parts at their disposal. Also, they didn’t have to “waste time” sorting parts. Now it is the children’s responsibility to sort parts into the parts buckets at the beginning of class. Most of the children claim to detest this task, but Dean and the helpers insist, because it makes it easy to see where parts shortages are developing, and it saves children time during the heat of creation. Thus is born a camaraderie developed for creative advantage and sealed with commiseration. (Several parents have commented, only partially in jest, that they would send their children to Odyssey for the training in parts management alone.) The Treatment of Children’s Creations In addition to the provision of appropriate tools and the helpers’ seeming willingness to avoid wasting the children’s time, many children seem to value the provisions made for the treatment of their Lego creations. When new children walk into the lab, they are almost always drawn to the place where other children’s Lego creations are kept. In the first two Odyssey locations, this place was two 6–foot bookshelves, built by Harold and acquired when Nova disbanded. Their height and placement within easy view of the children, combined with their role as repositories of the outcomes of many hours of hard work, made them a focal point of children’s interest and goals. The countertops where the creations are kept in the current location, the science lab at the College of Education, are less visible at first, but more models are accessible to the children because no model is too high to reach. Almost every adult visitor to the lab remarks on the variety and complexity of the children’s work as displayed on the shelves, and many children show disbelief when they learn that the models were created by other children, and not by Dean or Brad. Although there is not enough space in this chapter to fully describe the complexity of the rules and behavior related to creations, we can describe several factors relating to the care of the models that highlight important characteristics of Odyssey: • Children are not allowed to remove another child’s creation from the display/storage space, or change its form in any way, without express permission from the child, Dean, or Brad. Dean and Brad never allow a current child’s work to be dismantled by another child. In cases of parts shortages, however, it is Dean who decides how to get the parts while minimizing damage to former students’ work. Altering a child’s creation may damage it, and Dean wants to be the one to take responsibility in case something goes wrong. • Children who request parts that can be found only on a former student’s past creation have to show why the part is needed and that it can’t be taken from their own past creations.

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• There is limited space for models. Therefore, children have to choose which creations they want to preserve. Dean or Brad take photographs and/or video of the child with a model if it is to be dismantled. • There is no hierarchy of storage space. No child gets more than another. Most children don’t seem to have “favorite places” for their creations. As long as they are within sight and within reach, that seems to be enough. • New creations can be mixed with old, and even students who haven’t attended in years may still have a model on the shelf. Dean is the final arbiter of what stays in the space after a student no longer attends Odyssey. Children who are to return, however, get to choose at least two creations that Dean will preserve.

These factors combine to create an evolving space that meets children’s desire for safe storage and display while addressing children’s needs for a constant resupply of resources to build new models. The models from past and present serve as visible reminders that children are capable of tremendous creativity and productivity, but that sacrifices have to be made to support their work. The models also serve as a type of history of Odyssey, providing a sense of continuity to children, parents, and facilitators. One graduate student who researched the program said she thought of the children’s work on display as “knowledge on the shelves,” a visible and flexible cognitive resource for all the participants (H. Jo, personal communication, 1996). WHEN THINGS GO WRONG Problems with Students This section might as well be titled “Problems with Odyssey.” The relatively rare instance of a mismatch between a child and Odyssey is usually clear within the first few days, and Dean asks the parent to reconsider sending the child for further sessions. It does happen, however, that parents in a mismatch situation have registered their children for several weeks and do not withdraw immediately (even though they are entitled to a full refund). In one case, a child stayed for 3 weeks after Dean suggested other arrangements. Another problem that Dean encountered from the start was that he had set the age limit too low during the first year of Odyssey, resulting in the registration of students who were too young to show either the self-reliance he expected or the fine-motor skills necessary to manipulate materials in the lab. Other problems of a more unusual nature cropped up as well. For example, during this first year, Dean accepted a very young student on his parents’ assurances that he would be a fine student. Although he was indeed quite precocious, one day this boy, large for his age, tested the efficacy of the front punches he was practicing in karate by suddenly punching Dean as hard as he could in the groin. This incident happened not too many weeks before Dean decided to raise the minimum age limit.

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Problems with Student Mentors Having had a successful experience from 1995 to 1999 with his assistants in the lab, Dean was surprised when things did not go so smoothly in the summer of 2000. Dean’s first mistake was not holding a training session for the student mentors. He assumed that having been students at Odyssey, they would know what to do as helpers. Most of the student mentors were able to make this transition, but one in particular was not. This child had served as a wonderful role model as one of Odyssey’s most gifted achievers, but didn’t seem invested in making the shift to helper mode. Dean asked him back for summer 2001, confident that the same growth he exhibited as a student would take place as he grew into his role, especially if he were given some gentle guidance through the student mentor orientation sessions we have planned. Problems with Parents Dean feels blessed in the parents who seek him out. Problems, with registration or in another area, can usually be resolved. Thus, when there are clear indications of dissatisfaction, it can be troubling. For example, once Dean heard a parent comment to another parent, in a stage whisper in front of several parents and Dean, how expensive Odyssey was. At first shocked, not by the comment—he knows that Odyssey is expensive—but by the parent’s need to voice his displeasure in that manner, Dean recovered somewhat and talked it over with Beth. She gave him the outside perspective he needed to look at the situation from the parent’s point of view, and he remembered that the previous summer, he had given the man’s children a great deal of attention. During the summer in question, however, partially because of the class size increase, not to mention the disruption caused by the family illnesses, Dean had paid much less attention to the parent’s two children, even though a helper was with the children a great deal. Fortunately, this “aha” took place before the children had begun their second week of classes, and by the end, the parent seemed very happy with his children’s progress. We conclude from this episode and others less explicitly negative that at least some parents find Dean to be an essential part of the Odyssey experience. Although complimentary, this is a burden, because it means Dean has less flexibility to use his time in other ways while class is in session. PARENTAL SUPPORT On the other hand, when Beth’s mother died in summer 1998, and Dean got strep throat directly afterward, causing him to miss 2 weeks of class, several of the parents refused to cash his refund checks. These were all parents who had been sending their children to Odyssey for several years, and their gesture truly made Dean feel supported.

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This support from individual parents has given Dean a strong sense that Odyssey should continue. Each autumn and winter, Dean receives email notes and phone calls from parents asking if there will be sessions during the school year. Feeling (and sharing) the disappointment in their voices or in their writing lets him know that Odyssey still means something to these parents. In the spring, before he mails the Odyssey schedule or puts it on the Web, Dean receives email messages much like the one he received during the writing of this chapter: “Have you got the summer schedule out yet? R. is champing at the bit.” Adding to this sense of anticipation, we sometimes run into an Odyssey parent and child at some local store, and the child immediately launches into a detailed description of what he or she will be working on the next summer, even if the encounter happens in January. Perhaps the most dramatic evidence of what Odyssey means to some families is when the parent and/or child tells Dean, in between classes, that the child dreamed about what he or she will do at Odyssey next time. Enough parents and students relay this sort of enthusiasm, not only to Dean but also to Beth and now to Brad, that it provides a form of support when grants don’t come through, landlords take away the lease, or Dean, the helpers, and the children have an occasional bad day. The support of helpers, parents, administrators, faculty, and the children over such a long period of time, under sometimes difficult conditions, gives a feeling of continuity that also contributes to that feeling of community. Finally, if Beth hadn’t seen the positive outcomes of Odyssey, she would never have suffered through some of the indignities of supporting a husband through such a project: children peeking into their bedroom on Saturday mornings after their parents dropped them off an hour early for classes; constant noise on weekday afternoons for several years, not to mention having her home occupied from 9 to 4 every summer for 7 years; and, finally, like any entrepreneur’s spouse, lack of financial stability and her spouse’s constant preoccupation with growing a business. CONCLUSION We don’t know what will become of Odyssey when Dean finishes his doctoral program. It has been such a lasting source of fulfillment, and such a reliable source of invigorating challenge, that it is hard to think of our lives without it. Although much smaller than KLICK, the Fifth Dimension, and many other after-school programs described in this volume, we believe that it has served its clients well. It has been central to our research activities and to our conception of what is possible for children when one has a vision and the support of the community. One possibility is that Dean will finally be able to incorporate Odyssey into a program that serves the children he has been unable to reach. In his volunteering at a local Boys and Girls Club, Dean sees promise in a possible

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partnership, as well as likely obstacles. We look forward to reporting further on our adventure. NOTE During completion of this work, Dean Grosshandler was partially supported by a fellowship from the National Science Foundation Technologies for Learning Program at the College of Education at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. In addition to those people mentioned in the text, including the children and their parents, the authors would like to thank Professor Jacquetta Hill, department chairwoman Violet Harris and her assistant, Myrna Craig; fellow graduate students at UIUC; and our families, without whom there would be no Odyssey to write home about.

REFERENCES Bruce, B. C., Peyton, J. K., & Batson, T. W. (1993). Network-based classrooms: Promises and realities. New York: Cambridge University Press. Cole, M. (1996). Cultural psychology: A once and future discipline. Cambridge, MA: Belknap. Csikszentmihalyi, M. (1988). The flow experience and its significance for human psychology. In M. Csikszentmihalyi & I. S. Csikszentmihalyi (Eds.), Optimal experience: Psychological studies of flow in consciousness (pp. 15–35). New York: Cambridge University Press. Lave, J., & Wenger, E. (1991). Situated learning: Legitimate peripheral participation. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Papert, S. (1996). The connected family: Bridging the digital generation gap. Atlanta: Longstreet. Rogoff, B. (1990). Apprenticeship in thinking: Cognitive development in social context. New York: Oxford University Press. Rohlen, T. P. (1983). Japan’s high schools. Berkeley: University of California Press. Varley, J. (1978). The persistence of vision. New York: Dial Press/James Wade.

5

Experiments with Design in an After-School Asian Literature Club Sapna Vyas and Punyashloke Mishra

The notion of design is present whenever something (be it a mousetrap or an after-school program) is created for a purpose. Though we often consider design to be a noun (as in, “I like this design”), design is not a thing; it is a process. In this process, decisions are made and structures are constructed that carry with them specific intentions on the part of the designers as to what the structures (or objects) will do and how they will be perceived and used. An important part of the process of design is the idea that the intentions of the designers are rarely, if ever, faithfully achieved. In fact, it is often unclear whether these intentions are even perceived as they were originally intended. Thus the process of design is often a dialogue between the evolving product and the various stakeholders who are participating in it. One of the misconceptions of the design process is that it has too often been viewed as being formulaic—a series of predetermined steps that must be accomplished to achieve a particular, prespecified goal. More recently, however, it has been argued that design is more than the application of scientific knowledge to a given real-world problem (Dasgupta, 1996; Gelernter, 1999; Mishra, Zhao, & Tan, 1999; Schön, 1983; Winograd, Bennett, De Young & Hartfield, 1996). It is a creative activity that cannot be fully reduced to standard steps, and should not be thought of as mere problem solving. A designer lacks the comforting restraints of a well-organized discipline because designing is inherently a messy endeavor. It includes,

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but goes beyond, the ability to be creative in solving problems. A host of techniques and skills come into play during design. Many of the techniques and skills are explicit and publicly available, whereas others may be tacit and unspoken. According to Smith and Tabor (1996), design is as much an art as it is a science—spontaneous, unpredictable, and hard to define. Design requires a balancing act between a variety of factors that often work against each other. It requires the application of a wide array of knowledge, from algorithms to rules of thumb. This inherent “messiness” of design is further complicated when we consider the design of an abstract artifact, such as an after-school program. In this chapter, we situate our analysis of an after-school program within the framework of design. We argue that an educational after-school program is somewhat of a paradox, a relatively benign oxymoron. By its very nature, an after-school program exists outside of the academic structure of a school, separated from it not just in time and space but also in the goals it espouses. Its primary function is to keep students out of trouble and off the streets by keeping them busy and engaged in activities that are, at the very least, fun and trouble-free. On the other hand, the fact that these programs are also called “educational” implies that they are often designed to help students advance academically. These conflicting goals lead to a variety of paradoxes and tensions that play out in the design process. These tensions come to the forefront when we attempt to evaluate such after-school programs. Viewing design as a process makes constructing a-priori criteria for evaluating such programs a difficult task. Contradictory goals (such as making programs both educational and fun, both voluntary and mandatory) make it difficult to determine just what we are to talk about when we attempt to rate a program as being a success or a failure. Matters are further complicated by the fact that the different protagonists, or stakeholders (i.e., the designers, the students, and the evaluators) in the design process often have very different perceptions of what such a program should be. This is the story of an experimental, semester-long after-school literature club for high school students of Asian descent, instituted by the first author as a part of her dissertation research. The initial design of this literature club was driven by a series of goals, such as creating an informal and casual atmosphere where participants and the club facilitator would come prepared to discuss readings and participate in various literacy (i.e., reading, writing, and oral discussion) activities. With time, these goals often brought about tensions (e.g., between desiring an informal atmosphere versus in actuality, having a formal club atmosphere that was “school-like” in nature) that led to minor, even major, modifications in club design. The act of resolving these tensions creatively and sympathetically was often the most critical part of the design process. The participants in the program were equal contributors to the final structure of the club. Their responses, either

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explicitly articulated or implicitly conveyed, served to change the goals, purposes, and structure of the club. In this chapter, we analyze the issues and factors involved in the creation and sustainability of such a program. Our overarching goal is to understand the complexities involved in trying to define success (and failure) of such programs. Though our analysis and discussion is based on this particular program, we believe that the issues raised will offer insight into how other such programs may be constructed, sustained and evaluated. Briefly, we shall argue that the process of setting up an after-school program is best seen as a complex design activity that exists at the junction of multiple (and often contradictory) tensions. It is a dynamic situated process with multiple goals that often change with time and vary with context. The evolving nature of this process may lead us to redefine what constitutes a “successful” program. In other words, one’s notion of what constitutes success will inevitably be created and re-created over the course of time. DIALOGUES AND CONVERSATIONS: THE (RE)DESIGN OF AN AFTER-SCHOOL CLUB We begin by providing a context for the literature club by looking at its initial goals and a description of a typical club meeting. This is followed by an examination of shifts that took place in this after-school program. Purposes of the After-School Program Design is inherently teleological (i.e., it is always driven by a specific goals or goals), though, as we shall see, these goals are rarely static and can change as the design evolves. The overarching goal of this after-school program was to help Asian bicultural high school students deal more effectively with possible discontinuities between home and school, and in turn, better understand their processes of identity development between these two social institutions. The process of negotiating between participation in two different cultures is a common issue in many students’ lives. Home and school may appear to be two very different “worlds” in which they find themselves constructing their identities (Phelan, Davidson, & Yu, 1998; Westby & Roman, 1995). Students who are bicultural (LaFromboise, Coleman, & Gerton, 1993) may be more apt to experience tensions and discontinuities in the process of moving between their worlds of home and school, whether it be in the form of different discourses (Au, 1980; Cazden, 1990; Erickson, 1993; Heath, 1982), learning styles (Ogbu, 1982; Stearns, 1986), value systems (Gibson, 1988), cultural “scripts” (Katz, 1991), or ways of acquiring literacy (Auerbach, 1995; Noll, 1998). Hence, in some cases, home may represent students’ native culture (or their parents’ native culture), whereas school may represent dominant white middle-class culture.

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The Asian Literature Club was created for high school students of Asian descent to examine the relationship between literacy (i.e., reading, writing, oral discussion, and media literacy) and bicultural identity. We believe that literacy may strongly influence the development, exploration, and expression(s) of identity, and may be a means by which we help students deal more effectively with possible gaps between their different worlds. Though the overall design of the after-school program was borrowed from and built on examples of previous book clubs (see, e.g., McMahon & Raphael, 1997), the nature and purposes behind the activities were different. We aspired to create a supportive literacy environment within which students could communicate about identity issues that were pertinent to them. The program used literature and movies by Asians as a starting point for students to comfortably discuss issues of relevance to their lives. These various forms of literacy also served as a buffer, because they enabled students to speak about their own views by espousing a particular character’s perspective. The idea was to help students construct meaning in their own lives and experiences, as well as help them address their identity concerns by collectively brainstorming strategies that they could use to cope with identity-related issues. In essence, through bringing their personal experiences, attitudes, and knowledge to the readings, the program would provide them with the opportunity to voice issues and concerns related to their experiences growing up bicultural in the United States. We hoped that by participating in this after-school program, students would be able to move toward a tension-lessened sense of bicultural identity. Moreover, it was hoped that the participants would find personal and cultural significance in relating their sense of identity with literacy activities that may be typically viewed as “academic work” (such as reading and writing). A Typical Club Meeting The club changed in many different ways over time. These changes make it difficult to pinpoint a particular meeting as being “typical.” However, it is important to offer a snapshot of the club and its activities. Thus, the typical meeting described below is a construction, a fiction that is an amalgam created out of a series of meetings. The club met in Mrs. Sawyer’s classroom at a public Midwestern high school. Her classroom resembled a typical school classroom, with rows of desks that faced a large chalkboard at the front. The club facilitator (the first author) would set up a video camera on a stand near the chalkboard and place a box of pizza and drinks on a desk in the back of the room. At any given meeting, there were usually no more than three or four people in attendance. Participants typically chose to sit in the middle of the room and shifted the desks so individuals were facing each other. In later meetings, participants sometimes sat on top of desks or on the floor. Also, one partici-

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pant usually grabbed the box of pizza and drinks and moved it closer to the group. A typical club session began at 2:45 P.M., though the club facilitator would arrive a few minutes prior to the meeting to set up the video camera and set out the pizza and drinks. Usually, the participants were already in the classroom, conversing with one another or seeking academic assistance from Mrs. Sawyer. Each individual would grab a couple of slices of pizza and a drink, and then sit either at or on top of a desk. In the beginning of the meeting, the group often caught up on nonclub matters, such as how the week was going in general or particular assignments that students were working on in their classes. The meeting began with an introduction to the reading(s) for the day. Students had their own copies of the reading, and participants took turns reading 2–3 pages each. The student participants often commented during the reading portion of the club meeting on their emotional responses to the story or their agreement or disagreement with characters’ actions. After the reading, the participants were asked about their general impressions of the book. Two or three related issues raised by the club facilitator often guided the ensuing discussion. Discussion topics typically related to events or characters in the stories that had been read. Students were asked to extend their understanding of the reading by applying similar situations to their own lives. On days that students were very engaged in the reading (which was often), they talked extensively about their lives, sometimes making little or no reference to the readings. The meetings usually lasted 1 hour, and the participants often carried on the conversations even after the video cameras had been turned off. EXAMINING SHIFTS THAT OCCURRED OVER THE COURSE OF THE AFTER-SCHOOL PROGRAM After-school programs exist in a world of paradox. They are often on the premises of a school, yet temporally and conceptually situated outside of it. They are not “academic” in nature, yet the principal goal of many existing after-school programs is to enhance student learning. Designing (i.e., creating and sustaining) an after-school program requires contending with and resolving these tensions. In considering these issues, we chose to examine various shifts that took place in the Asian Literature Club. Our purpose in examining shifts that took place in this after-school literacy activity was to illustrate the dynamic and developing nature of the activity itself. As we will show, most of the initial plans changed quite a bit over the lifetime of the literature club. These changes were often prompted in order to find a good match or compromise between the goals and needs of the facilitator/researcher and the goals and needs of the participants. A primary tension involved in creating an after-school program relates to the simple fact that these programs often take place within school set-

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tings. This means that the programs, though they are “outside” of the school in one sense, still carry with them a lot of the “baggage” associated with school, such as a student preoccupation with academic work and appropriate ways of conducting oneself within the school setting. Inevitably, this makes the task of designing an after-school program challenging and difficult, as one is constantly aspiring to encourage students to “let their hair down” and feel free to express themselves in an informal manner in a room that is clearly a classroom. The overarching shift that took place during the course of the intervention was that although the activity took place in the school environment, it shifted further and further away from being school-like in nature. Part of the reason was the fact that some of the design objectives that the program hoped to accomplish, such as creating an informal atmosphere and encouraging students to openly discuss and explore identity-related concerns and issues, were not goals that are routinely pursued in purely academic settings. SPECIFIC SHIFTS RELATED TO HOW THE ACTIVITY BECAME LESS SCHOOL-LIKE Formal to Informal The initial goals of the after-school literature club were to create a relaxed and comfortable atmosphere where students would feel free to talk about issues related to their personal identities. We hoped that this would lead to their finding cultural and personal significance in relating their sense of identity to literacy activities, even though activities such as reading and writing are usually perceived as being “academic tasks.” Despite this, it was clear that the first meetings were quite formal and school-like. The club facilitator asked questions and the participants raised their hands to answer. Often, participants were very quiet and appeared hesitant to express their opinions, perhaps in fear of giving the “wrong answer.” Thus, the specific intention of designing a casual atmosphere, where students would sit as they pleased, where they could eat and drink and speak informally, was not initially met, as we see in this journal entry: This is the point that I realized that this club felt more like school than a club. I felt like I was struggling because what was supposed to be a fun, pleasurable, relaxing, and personally meaningful experience (that of the after-school club) was feeling increasingly academic in nature and seemed to be tiring students out (or maybe, boring them!). I have been asking myself, “how can I make this club less academic-like, when at its core, it involves reading and writing activities?” This is a conflict that I have run into, and I feel like I need a quick solution, or mending remedy, otherwise these students are going to become more and more bored. I guess what is frustrating the most to me is the fact that these students chose to join the club (knowing full well what it involves), yet neglect to do the readings. Why is this? (Personal Research Journal, PRJ, 3/15)

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This excerpt from the club facilitator’s personal research journal captures the stress-laden and uncomfortable nature of the first meetings. Clearly the fact that the club was housed within a school building (and a classroom) influenced the participants’ behavior. The club facilitator found that she was revealing a lot more about herself than the participants were disclosing about themselves. Furthermore, in the beginning the facilitator often felt like she was in the role of a teacher, leading the discussion and asking the students questions: By this point, I felt like I was asking too many questions, and being really lecture-y. I guess that given the circumstances, I kind of had to be that way. This brings me back to the point that things felt too formal. I don’t want students to feel like they are in class again. I know that they themselves do not want to feel that way. I think if they were sitting more comfortably, maybe I would not feel like it was an interviewish type of situation. (PRJ, 1/21)

Over the course of the club meetings, the intention of creating a “nonschool-like” and informal atmosphere became more apparent in the club design: Instead of sitting in desks, some participants opted to sit on top of desks or lie on the classroom floor. They slowly began to divulge their feelings, thoughts, and opinions to the rest of the group. As a result, they exhibited a heightened sense of comfort as club meetings became less formal. Furthermore, the club facilitator’s role shifted from being a “teacher figure” to becoming more of a friend. This latter idea was particularly true with some of the participants who attended the club meetings consistently. Despite attempts to make the club less formal in nature, some of the participants who attended the club meetings infrequently still behaved as if they were in school and did not appear as comfortable in expressing their thoughts and opinions. For the most part, however, the literature club was in some sense “moving away” from traditional notions of school while still physically taking place in the school setting. Participants who attended consistently were finally becoming comfortable in this new setting. Hence, the participants’ responses to the after-school program, either explicitly articulated or implicitly conveyed, were serving to change the goals, purposes, and structure of the club. In fact, the changes were prompted not as much by the participants’ requests for change as by the facilitator’s perception of a mismatch between the avowed goals of the program and the way it was being instantiated. Outside Reading Leading to In-Club Reading The idea of reading literature and writing about it in relation to personal experiences was conveyed initially to students who were interested in participating in the club. It was anticipated that students who did not like to engage in these types of activities, or did not have the time to do so, would

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not choose to join the club. Participation in the club was strictly voluntary, and it was assumed (somewhat naively!) that those students who did join would read in preparation for club meetings regularly, and on their own, so that the readings could be used as a starting point for conversations about their experiences with identity. What happened in the early meetings, however, was quite different. There were times when only one student had completed the readings. During these meetings, the club facilitator tried to provide other students with a summary of the poem or short story in order to spark conversation, but inevitably, the conversation was forced and fragmented in nature. It became apparent that the readings were in some sense “competing” with their academic homework, and that to create a more productive atmosphere, club meetings needed to be redesigned so that the participants would never have to do any reading outside of the literature club. During one of the first “redesigned” meetings, the group read a children’s picture book together. The format of bringing in short stories dealing with bicultural issues and reading them together proved to be successful. It ensured that the reading was completed, and allowed for conversations that started on a common ground. It also made the act of reading seem more enjoyable. Reading together during the club meetings was also a way for students to establish comfort and confidence, especially for first-generation students who were not always comfortable reading in English, their second language: I am enjoying this format of taking turns reading. It is nice to see them so enthusiastic to read out loud, especially since English is a second language for them. At times, Tina [a first-generation student of Nepali descent] struggles in her reading, but insists on continuing, because she enjoys it. That makes me happy to see. They are both really involved, talkative, and engaged. (PRJ, 4/19)

Because of this positive response, the group read three more children’s picture books during the course of the club. The picture books dealt with a variety of different themes that could be related to personal experiences, and were relatively easy for the first-generation students to read and comprehend. Hence, in designing an after-school program, it is important to recognize that the designer’s initial intentions may not always be met, or in some cases, take time to flourish. It is necessary, however, to take students’ busy schedules into consideration by making their involvement as self-contained as possible. Initially, students were asked to do some things on their own, such as reading outside of club meetings. It quickly became apparent, however, that the club meetings needed to be redesigned to ensure that this reading was completed. Reading together during club meetings ensured that students completed the readings, and that there was a common ground from which the group could discuss and explore issues related to the text.

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We also believe that it is important to encourage students to make personal connections to literature while reading together. In this literacy activity, literature functioned as a starting point for students to discuss issues of relevance to their lives. It often served as a buffer, because it allowed students to speak about their own views by espousing a particular character’s perspective or by talking about their own lives in reference to a particular event or situation in a given story. When the participants were asked questions, they did not react as if they were being put on the spot, because they were able to use the literature as a vehicle for their own experiences. The use of literature proved to be an effective means for learning about their identity choices and experiences. Attempted Focus on Writing Shifting to Multimodal Forms of Literacy Design often involves a renegotiation of intentions on the part of the club facilitator. During an earlier club meeting, participants were not prepared to discuss the story that they had been asked to read in preparation for the meeting. Because any form of discussion would be futile if they had not completed the reading, they were assigned a writing topic that encouraged them to think and be creative: “If you were an Asian American writer writing a novel that captures the experiences of Asian teenagers growing up in the United States, what things do you think would be important to include?” When students were asked to write on this topic, they had varying reactions. Some students took out a piece of paper and started to write quickly. Others, however, sat quietly and appeared reluctant to start writing. One of the first-generation students of Korean descent, Sook, appeared to be confused by the question. Another first-generation student, Tina, kept whispering to Ramesh, a second-generation student of Indian descent, who was sitting in front of her, anxiously asking questions about proper spelling and grammar. From this and one other writing experience, it became apparent that the first-generation students in the club felt more comfortable expressing themselves orally than in writing. After the first month of meetings, Ramesh and Girish, two second-generation students of Indian descent who appeared the most comfortable with writing, were no longer able to be part of the club because of an athletic commitment. After they left, the writing aspect of the club, which had been part of the original plan, was put on hold. It ended up being a very small aspect of the overall club experience. After the male students left the club, it became clear that participants desired a break from the usual routine of reading and writing. At times, students appeared to lack energy and motivation to read and discuss the literary works that were brought to the club meetings: I don’t know, but I do know that I must do something different during the next meeting. Something to break the routine. Then, I will be able to better sense what the

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underlying issue is. My quick “solution” is to show a movie clip next week. I think a movie is a good idea, because (a) it will break the monotony and (b) they will definitely have to watch it!! (so we have something to discuss). There are so many times that I find myself giving up hope with this project, but I keep telling myself, “keep going and try new approaches.” I hope this approach works! (PRJ, 3/15)

This decision to watch movies points to the importance of considering the role of spontaneity when contemplating issues related to club design. The participants expressed a lot of enthusiasm and excitement over being able to watch the first movie, The Joy Luck Club. They took their slices of pizza and lay down on the floor, as if they were watching TV at home. From time to time, students made comments about the move’s characters and plot. By the end of the club meeting, they did not want to go home! They wanted to finish watching the movie. It became apparent that although they were enjoying the movie for its entertainment value, they were also paying close attention to characters’ actions and conversations. The participants reacted positively to the second movie, Mississippi Masala, as well. This new design approach appeared to work well because they enjoyed being able to relax at the end of the school day, and appreciated that they were engaging in an activity that was different than what they did during a typical academic class. This activity also proved to be worthwhile for the club facilitator, because the discussions that followed the two movies served to reveal students’ opinions and perspectives on issues related to identity. Hence, one design shift that occurred over the course of the club was a move from doing some writing assignments, which the first-generation students did not appear comfortable doing, to watching and discussing some movies and reading different types of literature, such as children’s books. Whether discussing topics dealing with personal relationships, family, or adjusting to a new culture, participants looked forward to engaging in dialogue about their experiences and were willing and eager to share their unique perspectives. They seemed to enjoy the unpredictable combination of reading poems, short stories, and children’s books and watching movies, because they were never sure what to anticipate during each meeting. Furthermore, reading together in a nonthreatening environment helped first-generation students become more confident about their ability to read and communicate in English. PERSONAL SHIFTS RELATED TO THE CLUB FACILITATOR’S ROLE Initial Disappointment and Confusion Leading to Eventual Acceptance The idea of designing a supportive literacy environment for Asian high school students to explore and sort through their identity-related issues was a major focus of the research; hence, a great deal of time, energy, and ef-

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fort was directed into the creation and sustainability of the club. It was difficult to understand, at first, why so many students who had expressed initial interest never chose to participate in the club. Some students who had participated in the interviews never attended any meetings, and others would simply not show up, without any explanation for their absence. Over the course of time, however, it became apparent that this lack of attendance was an inevitable outcome. High school students have multiple priorities, and a new, temporary club would not be a top priority for them (especially if they had been committed to other after-school activities from before): Needless to say, I was really flustered and kind of upset about all of this. I realized, however, at that point that I should not take this all personally. It really is the fact that these students already have prior commitments, and I can’t take those away from them. I wonder if other students (who are non-Asian) have as many commitments as these kids do. That may be something worth finding out. (PRJ, 3/8)

In addition, the tension between being in a teacher role versus being in a club facilitator position amplified some of the club facilitator’s feelings of doubt and unrest in the earlier meetings. Because one of the goals of this after-school program was to design a comfortable and casual atmosphere where participants could share their identity experiences, it was necessary for them to feel at ease with the club discussion and written assignments, and not feel like they were being formally assessed. In one noteworthy situation, none of the students had completed the reading for a given club meeting. Because they were not prepared to discuss the reading, they were asked to write a short, informal reflection in relation to a particular topic. One of the students, Sook, seemed very reluctant to write, as documented in the PRJ: I feel like I faced a minor dilemma at that time. Should I step forward with the authority of a teacher and tell her that because everyone else was writing, she should be too? Or, do I sit back as this student facilitator of the group, this individual who is striving to be accepted as an equal (in some sense), and express empathy and let her do whatever she wants? Well, judging by the look on her face (which was a combination of boredom, fatigue, and attitude), I decided to let her do what made her most comfortable (though inside, I was bothered by it all). (PRJ, 3/15)

Ultimately, the club facilitator decided that to resolve this formal, school-like versus informal, nonschool-like conflict, it would be more productive and worthwhile for her to stick with the role of the club facilitator, rather than letting her “teaching tendencies” take over. In creating and sustaining an after-school program, one cannot always adhere to a rigid plan with an unchanging series of steps. It is sometimes more useful and productive to tune in to participants’ reactions and comments to decide on particular activities. The participants in this program

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contributed to the evolving structure of the club. Their responses, either explicitly or implicitly voiced, affected operations. To accomplish things that are nonschool-like within the context of a club, sometimes it becomes necessary to be spontaneous and let events unfold naturally, such as showing a movie and waiting to see how students react to it. For a club facilitator, it is important to view the club design as developing, rather than fixed or static. One must learn to anticipate struggles with one’s original plan, and learn how to adapt. Concerns Regarding Relationships with Participants Disappear over Time The club facilitator had two major roles in this study. On the one hand, as a researcher, she had the task of analyzing students’ responses to literature as well as collecting data from various sources. On the other hand, she was the facilitator of a group of students whose cultural experiences were likely to be similar to her own, so, as a second-generation immigrant of South Asian descent, she could use her personal background and identity experiences as an analytic window in facilitating this club, something that would not have been possible with another population. In conversation, some first-generation students frequently made cultural distinctions between “us” (meaning individuals of Asian descent) and “them” (European American individuals), in turn, making it clear that they thought the club facilitator was similar to them. This sense of personal identification helped establish a sense of security and comfort in the after-school club. Three of the first-generation female immigrants who attended the majority of the meetings often shared their triumphs, obstacles, and puzzlement about being Asian teenagers in the United States. One topic that came up repeatedly was that of relationships with the opposite sex. Both Wai-Ling, a first-generation student of Taiwanese descent, and Tina, a first-generation student of Nepali descent, were dating young men behind their parents’ backs. They were not happy about having to withhold information from their parents but thought their parents would not be accepting of their choices, for various reasons. Another recurring topic was the transition from Asia to the United States. Two of the female students, Sook and Tina, shared emotional details about their move away from home. A PRJ entry describes this: I was very happy that day, because I really feel like I connect to these two girls. There is this sense of trust, and this sense of identification that I feel they have with me, which is nice to have. I wasn’t sure that first-generation kids would be able to relate to me this way. (PRJ, 3/29)

The club facilitator had initially been concerned about whether the first-generation students would be able to relate to her well, because her ex-

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periences as an individual who was born and raised in the United States were, in some ways, markedly different from their experiences. That did not turn out to be a problem. Obviously, in order to design a literacy activity that facilitates bicultural identity development, it is necessary to be a supportive facilitator. Students need to experience feelings of trust and understanding in their interactions with the facilitator, because often they are sharing personal stories that are private or emotional in nature. Three of the participants were recent immigrants to the United States, and they often needed to talk through their frustrations about adjusting to a new culture and dealing with issues related to speaking English as a second language. Sometimes students would embark on emotional journeys that did not relate to the topics in the readings, especially when they told painful stories about their experiences in transition. It is important for a facilitator to be supportive during such moments, to allow participants a chance to voice what they are feeling. The club evolved into a safe place for students to discuss whatever was on their minds, and they were able to work toward effective ways to deal with particularly stressful identity-related situations. The Result of Our Efforts Our purpose in examining shifts that took place in this after-school program was to illustrate the dynamic and developing nature of the club design. As it becomes evident through description of the club and excerpts from the club facilitator’s personal research journal, the initial vision of this after-school program changed over time. These changes happened in response to multiple situational constraints that ranged from the participants’ prior commitments that prevented them from participating, the prior interests and language proficiencies of the participants who remained, and changes in the facilitator’s approach toward the club. Much was learned. Some participants were able to explore many of the cultural adjustment issues that they faced in their transitions to the United States. The club also provided them with opportunities to practice their second language, both through reading stories out loud and through oral discussion about the literature and their personal experiences. Participants experienced a sense of belonging, of being accepted and liked by individuals who valued their unique experiences as recent Asian immigrants. Because the club focused on participants’ experiences in two cultures, not just their “home” or (parents’) native culture, it became an organized forum for increasing their exposure to bicultural issues as well as providing a safe place for recent immigrant students to talk and relate to one another about this newer influence on their lives: mainstream American culture. Cultural and religious activities outside the school setting (such as attending religious institutions and classes or socializing with recent immigrant families of similar backgrounds) offered participants some cultural exposure, but were not

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necessarily geared toward exposing them to the culture of mainstream American society. Also, during such activities, participants were often encouraged to speak in their (or parents’) native language, offering them limited out-of-school experiences to practice speaking English. During club meetings, on the other hand, participants who were recent immigrants could practice their English in a nonacademic setting and not have to worry about being assessed or corrected by others. This practice often led them, we discovered, to be more confident and comfortable in the school setting. In addition, during club meetings, participants were able to discuss deeply personal issues that they could not share with their parents at home. If, for example, they wanted to talk about dating, they could share their thoughts with the rest of the group. The first-generation students, in particular, would not be able to share these “nontraditional” topics with their parents at home without being scolded. So this was one more way that participants could express their feelings of identification with aspects of mainstream American society. As researchers and educators, it is important for us to offer continued support in the form of such bicultural forums (either within or outside of school settings). Revisiting Design Design, broadly speaking, can be seen as “structure adapted to a purpose” (Perkins, 1986, p. 2). Perkins’s definition elegantly captures an essential quality of design: It is a process of constructing artifacts that exhibit goodness of fit. So in some sense, over the course of time, the literature club generated a goodness of fit with the needs and requirements of the individuals participating in it. A few key aspects of design emerge from our description of the design of the after-school club. First, design is always humanistic in nature, giving primary importance to the beliefs, feelings, and needs of the individual. Most of the changes in the design of the club were prompted by the needs of the participants. These needs were rarely explicitly articulated and often had to be inferred by the facilitator. Second, design is about getting things to work. In that regard, it is eclectic in finding resources and in cutting across disciplinary boundaries. For instance the design of the after-school club appropriated techniques and ideas from previous book clubs and existing research on bicultural identity. As the club progressed, certain problems emerged to the forefront; for instance, the initial goal of using text-based literature broadened to include children’s books and movies. In each instance, though, the changes were driven by an urge to make the club a comfortable place where the participants would freely think and talk about issues related to bicultural identity. The third key theme that emerges from our analysis is that design is an ongoing series of experiments—a process of intentional variation and selective retention of those experiments that worked and rejecting those that

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did not. In the beginning, the club looked and felt quite a bit like a regular classroom with the facilitator playing the role of the teacher. It was only through continual experimentation with various strategies that the facilitator could come up with certain techniques that led the club to become a site where the participants felt comfortable with each other. Another important aspect of design that came to the forefront was the important role of affective issues (such as emotional commitment) in the development of the club. This affective aspect is clearly a double-edged sword. For instance, it was difficult for the facilitator not to feel personally slighted at the initial reticence of the participants to engage in the club activities. In that sense, it was important for the facilitator to step back and view the situation more objectively and not perceive it as a personal rebuke. This “letting go” was key to freeing up the facilitator to experiment with different ideas. This objective stance, however, has a strong emotional component to it as well. It was also an emotional commitment to making the club work that led to its eventual success. These affective issues played a great role in the participants’ feeling comfortable or uncomfortable with the issues raised at the club as well. Clearly, designing is inherently complex—every choice made by the designer has both intended and unintended consequences. Designing the club was not so much a process of careful planning and execution as it was a conversation, in which the conversing partner—the designed object itself—generated unexpected interruptions and contributions. The process of design can be fruitfully seen as an ongoing series of experiments in which the self and the object to be constructed were in continuous dialogue. The designer had to listen to the emerging design, even while shaping it. This dialogue often happened within and across multiple levels: between theory and practice, between constraints and tradeoffs, between the designer and the materials she had to work with, and between the designer and the participants. Previous research in design has identified different approaches of handling complex design and used bipolar descriptions such as “top-down” versus “bottom-up” (Newell & Simon, 1972) or “planning” versus “bricolage” (Turkle & Papert, 1991). Speaking of computer programming tasks in particular, Turkle and Papert delineate the differences between planning and bricolage as follows: The bricoleur resembles the painter who stands back between brushstrokes, looks at the canvas, and only after this contemplation, decides what to do next. Bricoleurs use a mastery of associations and interactions. For planners, mistakes are missteps; bricoleurs use a navigation of mid-course corrections. For planners, a program is an instrument of premeditated control; bricoleurs have goals, but set out to realize them in the spirit of a collaborative venture with the machine. For planners, getting a program to work is like “saying one’s piece”; for bricoleurs, it is more like a conversation than a monologue. (Turkle & Papert, 1991, p. 169)

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We believe that our experience in the process of designing this after-school program argues against such a strict bipolar view. It seems clear that aspects of both these approaches (i.e., planning and bricolage) were brought into play in the design of the program (Kafai, 1996; Mishra, Zhao, & Tan, 1999). However, at a more fundamental level, both of these approaches, despite their apparent striking differences, share something—an emphasis on the solitary designer constructing something in a vacuum. Both perspectives consider the designer as being akin to a “pure artist” involved in a personally valuable, expressive and creative act for no other purpose than the mere pleasure of doing so. However, as we have argued, design is always concerned with the purposes and intentions. And if the purposes and intentions of the users are to be respected, then the users of the design must be considered participants in the design process. As our experience with the after-school book club indicates, design is a continuous dialogue between the designer, the materials, the domain, the theoretical framework, and, most importantly, the participants in the program.

REFERENCES Au, K. H. (1980). Participation structures in a reading lesson with Hawaiian children: Analysis of a culturally appropriate instructional event. Anthropology & Education Quarterly, 11 (2), 91–115. Auerbach, E. (1995). Deconstructing the discourse of strengths in family literacy. Journal of Reading Behavior, 27 (4), 643–661. Cazden, C. B. (1990). Differential treatment in New Zealand: Reflections on research in minority education. Teaching & Teacher Education, 6 (4), 291–303. Dasgupta, S. (1996). Technology and creativity. New York: Oxford University Press. Erickson, F. (1993). Transformation and school success: The politics and culture of educational achievement. In E. Jacob & C. Jordan (Eds.), Minority education: Anthropological perspectives (pp. 27–51). Norwood, NJ: Ablex. Gelernter, D. H. (1999). Machine beauty: Elegance and the heart of technology. New York: Basic Books. Gibson, M. (1988). Accommodation without assimilation: Sikh immigrants in an American high school. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Heath, S. B. (1982). Questioning at home and at school: A comparative study. In G. Spindler (Ed.), Doing the ethnography of schooling: Educational anthropology in action (pp. 105–131). New York: Holt, Rinehart & Winston. Kafai, Y. B. (1996). Learning design by making games: Children’s development of design strategies in the creation of a complex computational artifact. In Y. B. Kafai & M. Resnick (Eds.), Constructionism in practice: Designing, thinking, and learning in a digital world (pp. 71–96). Mahwah, NJ: Erlbaum. Katz, L. L. (1991). Cultural scripts: The home-school connection. Early Child Development and Care, 73, 95–102. LaFromboise, T., Coleman, H.L.K., & Gerton, J. (1993). Psychological impact of biculturalism: Evidence and theory. Psychological Bulletin, 114 (3), 395–412.

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McMahon, S. I., & Raphael, T. E. (1997). The book club connection: Literacy learning and classroom talk. New York: Teachers College Press. Mishra, P., Zhao, Y., & Tan, S. (1999). From concept to software: Developing a framework for understanding the process of software design. Journal of Research on Computing in Education, 32 (2), 220–238. Newell, A. & Simon, H. A. (1972). Human problem solving. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall. Noll, E. (1998). Experiencing literacy in and out of school: Case studies of two American Indian youths. Journal of Literacy Research, 30 (2), 205–232. Ogbu, J. U. (1982). Cultural discontinuities and schooling. Anthropology & Education Quarterly, 13 (4), 290–307. Perkins, D. N. (1986). Knowledge as design. Hillsdale, NJ: Erlbaum. Phelan, P., Davidson, A. L. & Yu, H. C. (1998). Adolescents’ worlds: Negotiating family, peers, and school. New York: Teachers College Press. Schön, D. A. (1983). The reflective practitioner: How professionals think in action. New York: Basic Books. Simon, H. A. (1969). The sciences of the artificial. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Smith, G. C., & Tabor, P. (1996). The role of the artist-designer. In T. Winograd, J. Bennett, L. De Young, & B. Hartfield (Eds.), Bringing design to software (pp. 37–57). Reading, MA: Addison-Wesley. Stearns, R.D. (1986). Using ethnography to link school and community in rural Yucatan. Anthropology & Education Quarterly, 17 (1), 6–24. Turkle, S. & Papert, S. (1991). Epistemological pluralism: Styles and voices within the computer culture. In I. Harel & S. Papert (Eds.), Constructionism (pp. 161–193). Norwood, NJ: Ablex. Westby. C. E., & Roman, R. (1995). Finding the balance: Learning to live in two worlds. Top Language Disorders, 15 (4), 68–88. Winograd, T., Bennett, J., De Young, L., & Hartfield, B. (1996). Bringing design to software. Reading, MA: Addison-Wesley.

6

After-School Tutoring and Children at Risk Barbara A. Wasik, Mary Alice Bond, and Annemarie Hindman

Tutoring is a common activity in after-school programs. The goal of tutoring is to provide children with additional opportunities for instruction in subject areas in which they are either struggling or trying to excel (Fashola, 2001). Although tutoring programs have historically focused on a wide range of content, the 1997 America Reads Challenge Act highlighted the importance of providing tutoring to help young children learn to read (Wasik, 1998), especially in high-poverty neighborhoods where limited in-school resources are often unable to meet the needs of the significant number of children who are struggling in reading. The focus of this chapter is on after-school literacy tutoring programs for at-risk children. Unlike many after-school experiences that focus on enrichment, leisure activities, or purely custodial care, tutoring in reading has an academic emphasis. This academic focus presents many challenges to schools and community organizations trying to establish after-school tutoring programs. Whether the tutoring focuses on completing homework from class, reinforcing concepts that are presented during school, or teaching new information, well-trained people are needed to provide these services. With limited resources, after-school tutoring programs often rely on community volunteers to help provide the tutoring. Organizing and implementing an after-school tutoring program involves a significant amount of work and commitment from the organization and from the people providing the tu-

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toring services. As the federal administration launches a campaign to create new national after-school programs for children to continue to learn after the school day officially ends, it is important to examine how after-school tutoring programs can be made most effective and efficient. We have three purposes in writing this chapter. One purpose is to review current after-school programs that focus on literacy tutoring and at-risk children. The second purpose is to synthesize the aspects that make after-school programs effective. In doing this, we will examine the conditions necessary to make an after-school program effective. The third purpose is to discuss the limitations of after-school programs and to consider what future issues need to be addressed to expand our understanding of this topic. BACKGROUND ON TUTORING AND AFTER-SCHOOL PROGRAMS Before we begin a discussion about after-school tutoring programs, it is important to understand how tutoring practices have evolved in our educational system. Tutoring is the oldest form of instruction. Parents have always provided one-to-one instruction to their children. Because of the prohibitive cost of one-to-one instruction in most elementary and secondary schools, one-to-one instruction exists around the margins of group instruction. Parents often hire tutors to work with their children who are having difficulty in school. Tutoring is used in special education and in other remedial programs such as compensatory education. In 1997, the America Reads Challenge Act was proposed by President Clinton and passed by Congress as a bipartisan strategy for improving the literacy performance of young children. One of the major components of the America Reads intervention was the utilization of tutors to supplement classroom instruction, particularly for children who were at risk for failing in reading and writing. The challenge called for community volunteers and paid college work-study students to go into the schools and work as tutors for high-risk children. The America Reads Challenge elevated tutoring to national importance and sparked the interests and initiative of reading researchers to become involved in understanding how tutors could be used to help struggling readers. In 2001, President Bush called for Congress to fund tutors for after-school programs to support reading instruction for young children. As the trend toward tutoring has emerged, interest in after-school programs has increased. In 1997, the 21st Century Community of Learning Centers (21st CCLCs), a federal initiative, was funded for $40 million the first year and in the year 2001 has increased to $1 billion for after-school and summer-school programs. This funding allowed for the implementation of after-school programs in high-poverty schools. Prior to this funding, many after-school programs were supported by and housed in community organizations and churches. After-school programs have become more impor-

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tant as educators and community leaders struggle with ways to provide students with supervision and learning opportunities during the after-school hours (Fashola, 2001). Social/cultural and academic aspects have influenced the increase in after-school programs. Welfare reform, an increase in the number of working mothers, dual-parent families seeking supervision of their children, single-parent families, and violence in communities have intensified the need for safe, supervised experiences. Similarly, with the increasing number of children experiencing difficulty in learning to read, after-school programs have provided an opportunity to extend the academic day and to use the time to continue to teach children who are in need of additional instruction (Fashola, 2001).

DURING-SCHOOL VERSUS AFTER-SCHOOL TUTORING Tutoring is used in many schools as a strategy to help struggling readers. However, some programs have been specifically designed to be used either in coordination with a classroom reading intervention or to include certain program specifications that make their use in an after-school program difficult. Specifically, two of the best-known, well-researched tutoring programs are Reading Recovery and Success for All. Reading Recovery is a tutoring program serving at-risk first graders (Pinnell, DeFord, & Lyons, 1988). Although Reading Recovery is not tied to a classroom curriculum, the use of highly trained, certified reading teachers, along with prescribed materials, makes this program expensive to implement (Shanahan & Barr, 1995). Success for All is a comprehensive, schoolwide reading model used in high-poverty schools (Slavin & Madden, 2001). The tutoring component is intimately tied to the class reading curriculum and, unless the school is using the whole program, it is not possible to implement the Success for All tutoring as an after-school intervention. Both Reading Recovery and Success for All were designed as during-school interventions, but have been adapted for after-school use. After-school programs often present a unique set of issues that make it difficult to use programs that have been specifically designed for during-school tutoring. One major distinction is that during-school programs typically use certified teachers as tutors. In a review of tutoring programs, Wasik and Slavin (1993) found that children’s performance was greater when they were in programs that used certified teachers compared with children who were in programs in which paraprofessionals were used. However, these comparisons were made across different tutoring programs. To date, no study has been conducted that compared the same tutoring program implemented by tutors with different levels of expertise (Wasik, 1998). In contrast, most after-school tutoring programs use noncertified tutors who are often volunteers. These volunteers come from

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various educational levels and bring varying expertise to the tutoring situation. In addition, most after-school tutoring programs are not coordinated with the classroom curriculum. This occurs not because of philosophical differences but because the programs are often coordinated by people outside the classroom. Also, some after-school programs are held in community buildings or churches, and this physical separation results in a lack of communication between the school and the after-school tutoring program. Finally, after-school programs frequently suffer from a lack of resources. Tutoring is often considered one of many activities chosen to fill up time during the after-school program. However, the school or community organization may not have the money to support the implementation of a program or to pay tutors. In many cases, programs are, therefore, modified from the original design based on available resources. EVALUATING TUTORING PROGRAMS Building upon the research review of tutoring presented in Wasik (1998), the current review includes programs based on the following criteria: (a) provides one-to-one instruction, (b) can be used as an after-school program, (c) has a focus on early literacy, (d) uses adults as tutors, and e) is currently being implemented and can be accessed by the public. There are many effective after-school tutoring programs in schools and community organizations all over the country that will not be mentioned in this chapter. The reason is that most after-school tutoring programs are the result of grassroots movements of concerned schools and community organizations, and the resources barely cover the cost of the few materials they use. Because of this, systematic evaluations of these after-school programs never occur. Therefore, this review is restricted to the limited number of programs that have been evaluated and written about. Although restricting the sample of programs based on the availability of an evaluation narrows the scope of this review, it provides valuable information about the programs that work and broadens our understanding of what components are essential in an effective after-school literacy program. Howard Street Tutoring Program The Howard Street Tutoring Program is one of the first after-school tutoring programs to be evaluated. It is a small, urban, community-based, after-school tutoring program developed by Darrell Morris (Morris, 1999, 2001; Morris, Shaw, & Perney, 1990). The goal of the program is to provide volunteer services to second- and third-grade students who are having difficulty learning to read. Unpaid volunteer tutors range from college students to suburban mothers to retirees, all of whom work with students for 1 hour, twice a week, for a

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minimum of 1 year. A reading specialist provides training by first modeling tutoring sessions for the volunteers and then observing these volunteers as they begin to tutor on their own. The reading specialist provides feedback, offers comments on the tutoring session, and develops tutoring lessons for each child. In addition, volunteers are given a training manual and materials to use in tutoring. Fifty second and third graders were pretested on measures of word recognition, spelling, and ability to read passages from a basal reader. They were then matched on their word recognition scores and randomly assigned to either the intervention or the control group. Students were posttested on the same reading and spelling measures that were used at pretest. Data from the first year’s evaluation showed overall positive effects for the tutored group over the control group. On the measures of general word recognition and basal word recognition, students who received tutoring gained .25 and .61 standard deviations, respectively. On the basal passage, which required oral reading, the tutored group performed substantially better than the nontutored group (ES = + 1.07). The tutored children spelled more words correctly than the nontutored children (ES = +.82). Data from the second year showed similar findings.

Book Buddies Book Buddies is a program developed by Marcia Invernizzi, Connie Juel, and their colleagues at the University of Virginia (Invernizzi, 2001; Invernizzi, Juel, & Rosemary, 1997). The goal of this program is to provide low-cost, one-to-one tutoring to first graders who are having difficulty learning to read. First graders are tutored for 45 minutes, twice a week, by unpaid community volunteers. Training consists of an initial 2–hour training session and two additional sessions during the year. In addition, graduate students in reading education serve as on-site reading coordinators at each school and provide ongoing training and supervision to the volunteers. The reading coordinators supervise the tutors on a daily basis, assessing the children, preparing lesson plans, and gathering appropriate materials. Volunteers receive a detailed tutoring manual and have access to videotapes that outline the tutoring process. The researchers were unable to implement a study design using a no-treatment control group because the school system objected. Instead, the performance of children who participated in a high number of sessions was compared with the performance of children who had a low number of sessions (Invernizzi, Juel, & Rosemary, 1997; Johnston, Invernizzi, & Juel, 1998). The number of sessions ranged from 6 to 63. All children were tested on alphabet knowledge, concepts of word knowledge, phoneme/grapheme knowledge, and word recognition in isolation. On all

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measures, children given the high number of tutoring sessions performed significantly better than children given the low number of sessions. Rutgers University/America Reads Work-Study Program The Rutgers University/America Reads Initiative was begun through the America Reads Challenge in which college work-study students were trained as reading tutors (for a complete review, see Morrow & Woo, 2001). Lesley Morrow, a researcher in early literacy, spearheaded the development of the America Reads tutoring program at Rutgers University along with Deborah Woo and other colleagues. The tutoring program was implemented in a Title I school that served as a professional development site for the university. Tutors were 35 undergraduates and 12 graduates who were university work-study students. Training consisted of an initial 3–hour training session that included a review of tutoring techniques and materials for tutoring. As a part of training, tutors were provided with two tutor-training manuals, The Reading Team (Morrow & Walker, 1997) and Tips for the Reading Team (Walker & Morrow, 1998). After the initial training, tutors received ongoing training from a certified teacher that offered observation, feedback, and discussion about what occurred between tutors and children. In addition, the tutors were instructed in the six elements of the tutoring framework: (a) reading something familiar, (b) reading something new together, (c) working with words, (d) supported writing and shared writing, (e) reading for enjoyment, and (f) summarizing the success of the tutoring session. Tutors worked with kindergartners, first, second, and third graders who were identified by their classroom teachers as needing additional help. Tutoring sessions occurred three times a week for 30 minutes each session. Tutors were instructed to prepare lesson plans before working with the children and kept records of each session. Tutors were provided with a variety of materials for work with the young children, including trade books and notebooks for journals. Of the 80 children selected for the tutoring project, 40 were randomly assigned to the intervention and 40 to the control group, distributed equally across all four grades. At pretest and posttest, all children were individually assessed on an oral story retelling test, a probed comprehension test, an assessment of writing development for kindergartners and first graders, an assessment of a written retelling for second and third graders, an inventory of concepts about print, and interviews to determine attitudes toward and interest in reading. The data were presented collapsing across age, so it is not possible to determine the effects at each grade level. For the literacy measures, which included oral story retelling and probed comprehension, the intervention group outperformed the control group on both measures (ES = + .73 and

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+2.94, respectively). Tutored kindergartners and first graders performed significantly better on oral story retelling, probed comprehension, writing development, and concepts of print than children in the control group (ES = +.36, +.83, + .28, and +.71, respectively). For the second and third graders, children in the tutored group outperformed children in the control group on measures of story retelling, probed comprehension, and writing retelling (ES = +1.30, +.98, and + .34, respectively). Individual grade results were not available, but graphs from the data indicate that children in the intervention group performed better on each task than children in the control group, with the exception of one measure: third graders’ improvement in oral story retelling scores. The results suggest that the tutoring intervention had a positive effect on children’s literacy learning. Start Making a Reader Today (SMART) SMART is a volunteer program in Oregon designed to help children in kindergarten through second grade who are having difficulty learning to read (Oregon Children’s Foundation, 1992, 1998; Baker, Gersten, & Keating, 2000). The SMART program was designed to be low in cost, easy to implement, and feasible to expand and disseminate. Tutors are volunteers from the local business communities, educated individuals with little background in teaching reading. Training of the volunteers consists of an initial training of 1–2 hours, during which 30–40 minutes is devoted to work on actual reading strategies that the volunteers can use with the students. The remaining time is used for orientation and discussion of logistical and administrative issues. Training emphasizes the importance of reading to students and having students read. The key resource for the volunteers is the volunteer handbooks (Oregon Children’s Foundation, 1992, 1998). The handbooks are comprehensive and provide explicit strategies for helping children who struggle with reading. They outline a tutoring format that includes the child and tutor reading and questioning activities. Each site has a half-time SMART coordinator who manages the program in the building. Most coordinators are AmeriCorps volunteers or instructional assistants with no formal training in reading instruction. SMART coordinators receive 1 day of training. Each child in the SMART program is tutored for 30 minutes a day, 2 days per week for 6 months during the year. An evaluation was conducted on the effectiveness of SMART on children who were in the program for 2 years (Baker et al., 2000). Children were matched, based on their performance on the Rapid Letter Naming Test, and then one member of the pair was randomly assigned to either the SMART group or the comparison group. There were 43 children in the intervention group and 41 in the control. All children were posttested on measures of reading accuracy and reading comprehension. At the end of the first year, children who were tutored performed significantly higher than nontutored children on the Word Identification test (WRM-R), an oral reading fluency

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test, and a passage comprehension test (ES = +.42, +.53, and +. 43, respectively). At the end of the second year, the children in the SMART tutoring program continued to perform significantly better than nontutored children on the Word Identification measure, oral reading fluency passage for the second grade, a word comprehension measure, and a passage comprehension measure (ES = +.44, +.53, +.43, and +.32). University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill/America Reads Work-Study Program Three Literacy Studies faculty (J. Fitzgerald, J. W. Cunningham, and D. L. Spiegel) developed and helped implement the America Reads workstudy program in response to the America Reads Challenge (Fitzgerald, 2001). The college work-study students received 33 hours of training over the course of the school year. The literacy faculty and a tutor coordinator, who was a trained Reading Recovery teacher, conducted the training. Training consisted of (a) introduction to principles of emergent literacy and (b) a detailed discussion of the format of the tutoring sessions. The literacy faculty designed the lesson format and modeled it after the Reading Recovery and Book Buddies programs. Sixty-seven percent of the tutors who participated in this project had previous tutoring experiences, suggesting that some tutors also brought rich background knowledge to the tutoring. The evaluation of this program used a design similar to Invernizzi et al. (1997) in which a control group was not used. Instead, 64 first and second graders who received 25 weeks of tutoring were compared with 19 first and second graders who received only 6 to 12 weeks of tutoring. Children who received more tutoring sessions performed better than children who received fewer tutoring sessions on measures of letter name knowledge, knowledge of sounds, knowledge of letters for sounds in context, and ability to read words in isolation. Intergenerational Reading Program (IRP) The Intergenerational Reading Program is a joint venture among Jerome Kagan of Harvard University, the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, Boston Partners in Education, and Boston Public Schools in Massachusetts (Rimm-Kaufmann, Kagan, & Byers, 1999). The goal of the program is to improve the reading skills of first-grade students. Tutors are senior citizen volunteers. The volunteer coordinator, a certified teacher, trains the tutors. Initially, the tutors receive five training sessions, which focus on child development and language and literacy acquisition. After the initial training, tutors meet twice a month for the follow-up training. Tutors also keep daily logs of their tutoring sessions. Tutors meet for 45–minute sessions two to three times per week. Each session follows a prescribed schedule of opening with familiar materials,

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going on to more challenging work, and closing with familiar work. Many of the techniques and strategies used in this program are modeled after the Reading Recovery program. A sample of 42 first graders, 21 in the intervention and 21 in the control group, from a high-poverty school in Boston, participated in the evaluation. All children were assessed on measures of alphabet knowledge, word identification, concepts of print, writing, dictation, and reading level. Of all of the measures, the tutored group scored significantly higher on the letter identification test. Tutored children scored higher on the reading subtest, but the results were not significant. University of Texas at Austin Connie Juel (1996) developed and evaluated a program at the University of Texas at Austin using at-risk college students to tutor at-risk first graders. Tutors received training as part of a reading methods course in which they learned how to teach young children to read. The majority of the tutors were male athletes who were also having difficulty in reading. The course met for 2.5 hours per week and was taught by Juel. During this time, the tutors discussed tutoring activities, literacy development, and specific concerns regarding the children they were tutoring. The tutoring sessions were planned and contained the basic components: (a) reading to a child, (b) writing activities, (c) phonemic awareness activities, and (d) a word study activity. Children from a high-poverty, Title I school participated in the study. Each university student tutored one child for 45 minutes, twice a week for an academic year. Thirty of the lowest-performing first graders were selected to participate in this study. The remaining 15 first graders, who were less at-risk, served as a comparison group, which was mentored but not tutored by the college students. Juel (1996) says this comparison group was inadequate because there are significant differences between the two groups. However, from a delivery of service perspective, it was the only option presented by the school. All children were posttested on the Iowa Test of Basic Skills (ITBS). The mean score for the tutored children on reading comprehension was at the 41st percentile (SD = 24.5), compared with the mean score of the 15 mentored students, which was in the 16th percentile. This suggested that, although the mentored students started out at less risk than the tutored students, the tutored students were performing better at the end of the first grade. Helping One Student To Succeed (HOSTS) Helping One Student To Succeed (HOSTS) (Gallegos, 1995; HOSTS Corporation, 1994; Wilbur, 1995) is a volunteer tutoring and mentoring program designed for at-risk first through sixth graders. Volunteers are

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recruited from the community to implement the program. The HOSTS school appoints a teacher, who is often the Title I resource or reading teacher, to organize the HOSTS materials, coordinate the volunteers, and develop individualized diagnostic plans for the students. This teacher/coordinator has 3 days of initial training and an additional 3 days of training throughout the year. Each tutor receives 2 hours of initial training as well as ongoing training from the teacher/coordinator. HOSTS is a structured, systematic program. A computer-based assessment system helps the teacher/coordinator identify each student’s areas of strength and weakness and then generate a lesson plan that outlines the skill areas in which the child needs help. In the lesson plan, a significant amount of time is focused on isolated skills and less time on children reading books. This program is very material-intensive, containing more than 3,400 learning materials that consist mostly of worksheets and games to reinforce skills. HOSTS evaluations have not included pre- and posttesting of experimental and control groups. Data were collected for a Title I national validation (HOSTS, 1994) in which a multistate study examined normal curve equivalents (NCE) gains. The results showed that, in a spring-to-spring evaluation, first, second, and third graders made substantial NCE gains (15, 25, and 25, respectively). However, from the data reported, it cannot be determined whether these gains are statistically significant. These NCE gains exceeded those of the school and the state. Reading One-One Reading One-One is a program developed by George Farkas and his colleagues (Farkas, 1996) at the University of Texas at Dallas, in collaboration with the Richardson Independent School District. The goal of the program is to have community volunteers and college students tutor first, second, and third graders who are having problems in reading. The tutors are trained using the Reading One-One Tutoring Manual (adapted from the Success for All Tutoring Manual, Wasik & Madden, 1996), which details the components of the tutoring sessions and the assessment techniques used for determining the skill levels of the students. Tutors are observed and provided feedback by more experienced tutors called lead tutors. Students in Reading One-One receive three to four tutoring sessions per week, which are 30–35 minutes long. Tutors, with the help of the lead tutor, generate lesson plans that include reading with and to the child, writing, and working with words. Materials are provided that support the activities in the tutoring plan. There are pre- and posttest data on students in Reading One-One. However, these studies do not include a comparison group. Farkas (1996) presents correlational data to support the effectiveness of his tutoring program. Using a regression equation, the number of tutoring sessions, along with 10

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other variables (such as limited English proficiency, repeating a grade, and eligibility for free lunch), was used to predict students’ scores on the Woodcock Reading Comprehension Test. Farkas extrapolated from the observed correlation between the number of tutoring sessions and the outcome to predict student performance at 0 and 100 tutoring sessions and then reported the difference between these, 7.3 months, as the program effect. There are several problems with this analysis (for a complete discussion see Wasik, 1998) and therefore, it is not possible to draw conclusions about the effectiveness of this intervention. University of Maryland/America Reads Work-Study Program Linda Gambrell, a reading researcher, and her colleague Ann Dromsky developed the University of Maryland-College Park tutoring program in response to the America Reads Challenge (Dromsky & Gambrell, 2001). College work-study students were trained to tutor first- and second-grade struggling readers in local high-poverty schools. Experienced reading specialists and Reading Recovery teachers provided the tutors with 12 hours of initial training and 8 hours of additional training during the semester. This training included information on the reading process, strategies to implement for struggling readers, and assessment measures to use with the children. Tutors also received ongoing training and feedback by the staff from the local schools and the America Reads program concerning their performance during the tutoring sessions. Tutors were provided with a lesson plan used in other programs such as Book Buddies and the Howard Street model. Books and materials were also provided to the tutors to facilitate effective work with the children. Seventy-five undergraduates tutored 400 first and second graders. Children who received the intervention were assessed on their performance on a letter identification and word identification test. On both measures, children made significant gains at the end of the year. The lack of a comparison group makes it difficult to determine the effects of this program. Reading Recovery/AmeriCorps Reading Recovery/AmeriCorps is the adaptation of the Reading Recovery tutoring model used with volunteers. AmeriCorps volunteer training is extensive. The volunteers receive approximately 150 hours of training. For 2 weeks in the beginning of their assignment, the volunteers participate in classroom training during which they learn about reading instruction and theory, techniques used to help children who are having reading problems, and general strategies used by Reading Recovery tutors. In addition, the volunteers observe experienced Reading Recovery tutors, called teacher

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leaders. The teacher leaders observe volunteers for a week and provide volunteers with weekly 2–hour meetings in which feedback is given and volunteers can discuss students’ needs and the use of effective reading strategies to help children. The AmeriCorps volunteers did not tutor the children who had been identified as being in need of Reading Recovery, those who are reading in the lowest 20% of their class. Instead, AmeriCorps volunteers tutor children who are reading better than the children who met the criteria to be included in Reading Recovery, but who are still reading below the average expected for first grade. The volunteers are given the materials that the Reading Recovery tutors use, including $700 worth of classroom books, easels, and magnetic letters, all of which are shared between two volunteers. A pre- and postevaluation has been conducted by the Reading Recovery researchers. Pre- and postevaluation data without a comparison group do not allow definite conclusions to be drawn about the effectiveness of the intervention. However, these data do tell something about measures on which gains have been made. Students were pre- and posttested on Reading Recovery measures that included word knowledge, letter identification, concepts of print, and text comprehension. On word knowledge, letter identification, and concepts of print, the students who were tutored by the AmeriCorps volunteers increased by two stanine scores (DeFord, Pinnell, & Lyons, 1997). However, on text comprehension, which is a measure of oral reading and comprehension, no statistically significant gains were found.

WHAT ARE THE ESSENTIAL COMPONENTS OF AN EFFECTIVE AFTER-SCHOOL LITERACY PROGRAM? The programs presented share characteristics that contribute to our understanding of what makes an effective after-school literacy tutoring program. In the following sections, we will discuss these characteristics in light of the programs reviewed as well as the authors’ own experiences of implementing a volunteer literacy program in high-poverty schools in Baltimore, Maryland. The Baltimore project recruited senior citizens to work with kindergartners, first, second, and third graders in the schools. Tutors meet with children twice a week for 30–minute sessions. Organizational support is one of the most important aspects to a successful after-school tutoring program. Whether the program is school-, church-, or community-based, the organization needs to be committed to the success of the program. Organizations may want the benefits of an after-school literacy program but do not have the resources to commit. Because after-school tutoring programs are frequently not funded by the regular school budget, additional funds are often needed to implement after-school programs. In the case of the Howard Street Tutoring program,

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the reading researcher Darrell Morris, along with a community organization, raised money to provide the after-school program. The SMART program had significant organizational support from the governor’s office, the Oregon Children’s Foundation, and the public school system. Providing adequate space to conduct the tutoring program and appropriate materials such as books and writing supplies to implement the program, and providing a designated person or people to be in charge of implementing the program are key to program success. In the Baltimore project, the school administration and the individual schools supported the project. However, the amount of support varied at the individual schools, depending on the degree of commitment of the principal. At school A, the principal had many projects at the school, and the tutoring project was not a high priority. Her ambivalence was communicated to the staff by the way in which resources such as space and staff time were allocated to the project. The school never was fully committed to the tutoring project, and because of this, the program was never fully integrated into the culture of the school community. In school B, the principal was initially reticent about the volunteers, yet was quickly won over by the positive reaction to them. The principal supported the program by allocating staff support to help run the program. The program was more fully implemented in school B. A program coordinator is an essential component of a successful after-school tutoring program. In all of the programs discussed, a designated, on-site person is responsible for implementing the program. The coordinator has various tasks. One important responsibility is coordinating the daily operation of the program. This includes activities such as scheduling the tutors and tutees, assuring that the tutors meet with the tutors, and making sure that tutors have the needed materials. The coordinator also assists in tutor recruitment and retention. An effective coordinator makes the program run smoothly. In addition to having organizational responsibilities, in all but the SMART program, the coordinator was an experienced reading teacher and provided guidance to the tutors in the tutoring process. The coordinator observed the tutoring sessions, provided feedback to the tutors, and helped develop lesson plans with them. The coordinator supervised tutors with challenging children who were having difficulty benefiting from the program. The coordinators’ expertise helped facilitate the diagnostic assessment of challenging readers and provided tutors with useful strategies for helping the children. Coordinators also held weekly meetings to discuss various aspects of the tutoring program, which added to the program’s cohesiveness and stability. Another important aspect of the coordinator in all of the programs is that it was a paid position. Having a paid coordinator is not an essential component for an effective after-school program. However, designating a portion

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of the limited program resources for a coordinator sends a message about the vital role the coordinator plays. If the school or community organization wants the after-school tutoring program to succeed, investing funds for a coordinator can help bring stability and expertise to the position. In the Baltimore project, the program coordinators were VISTA volunteers who were assigned by the principal to coordinate the program. Coordinating the after-school program was only one of the many responsibilities of the VISTA volunteers. In addition, the VISTAs had limited knowledge of reading instruction. Although the VISTAs were able to coordinate the scheduling, allocation of space, and pairing of tutors with children, they did not have the necessary skills to recruit volunteers and supervise the literacy aspect of the tutoring. This was a major drawback to the project. Initially, the authors helped the tutors by giving feedback and providing assistance to those working with struggling readers. However, without our assistance, the tutors would not have received guidance regarding their tutees. This highlights the important role that a coordinator with experience in reading plays in an after-school program. In all of the effective after-school programs reviewed, training of the tutors was a consistent factor. Although the degree and type of training varied significantly from program to program, the important factor is that tutors received some instruction on some aspects of reading and how to help teach young children to read. The most intensive training found in programs such as AmeriCorps/Reading Recovery program, Book Buddies, the Howard Street Tutoring Program, and the University of North Carolina program consisted of intensive initial training about reading and reading difficulties. Further, these programs provided intensive ongoing training and supervision, during which tutors were observed and provided feedback on their tutoring sessions. This type of training is labor-intensive and requires a qualified staff. The least amount of training was found in the SMART program that was intentionally designed to provide only a limited amount. In the SMART program, tutors received 2 hours of initial training, a detailed manual, and little ongoing support. AmeriCorps volunteers who were not trained in reading supervised the tutors. It is not the case that only programs that provided intensive training had an effect on children’s reading. The SMART program provided minimal amounts of training and in a well-designed evaluation found significant effects. However, SMART tutors may have had more background knowledge and expertise than most after-school volunteers. They were recruited from local businesses and perhaps were highly literate and educated. In addition, the SMART training manual may be sufficiently detailed to provide the necessary information for teaching young children to read. Similarly, the Howard Street program, in an equally well-designed study, provided intensive tutor training and found significant results.

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Perhaps the next step in understanding the effects of after-school tutoring on young children’s reading is to understand how tutor training translates into practice. In the Howard Street program, the tutors followed a prescribed lesson plan and focused on specific aspects of learning to read. Examples of what occurred during the tutoring sessions are outlined in the Howard Street tutoring manual (Morris, 1999). It is unclear from the SMART evaluation what occurred during the sessions. The authors acknowledge that they did not observe tutoring sessions to acquire this data. Analysis that examines what occurs in successful tutoring dyads will also increase our understanding of effective tutoring practice. Juel (1996) analyzed the successful tutoring dyads and found that they provided (a) more scaffolded reading and writing experiences; (b) explicit modeling of reading and writing processes by the tutor; and (c) specific activities in tutoring such as journal writing, direct letter-sound instruction, and reading. These data provide important information regarding tutor training and what constitutes a successful tutoring session. In the Baltimore program, the authors provided the initial training. The training focused on teaching tutors how to read with children, how to provide appropriate feedback, and how to use strategies to help children read. A detailed manual was also provided, which outlined intervention strategies. Because of the organization of the after-school program, it was difficult to provide ongoing or follow-up training. From our observations and the comments made by tutors, we concluded that the tutors would have benefited from additional training as they proceeded in tutoring. Once tutoring begins, questions arise that need to be addressed, and the VISTA coordinators did not have the knowledge in reading to address the issues. An after-school tutoring program needs to have appropriate materials to implement a high-quality program. In all of the effective programs discussed, tutors were provided with materials so they could work with children. Books are an essential part of an after-school tutoring program. In each program, books of varying difficulty levels were used with the children. Programs drew from a variety of books including, but not limited to, the Rookie Readers series, the Literacy 2000 series, the Wright Group series, and trade books commonly used by first graders. Tutors consistently read to the children during each session. Other materials included journals, sentence strips, plastic letters, markers, and paper. Of all the materials, the books are the most costly. In all of the programs, the materials were purchased specifically for the program and tutors were not expected to borrow materials from the classroom teacher or provide these materials themselves. Designated monies for materials shows the organization’s commitment to implementing the project. Unlike in other after-school programs that could be implemented without many additional resources, this cannot be done in a high-quality after-school tutoring program.

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In the Baltimore program, books were selected that related to the schools’ reading series, classroom themes, and children’s interests. Each grade had a special collection of books. Volunteers were trained in assessing children’s reading abilities and interests and chose books that reinforced what children were learning in their classrooms or supported the interests of the child. Other materials such as paper, magnetic letters, pencils, and index cards were provided through the school. An ideal situation would be to coordinate the instruction in children’s classrooms with their after-school tutoring programs. Given the practical constraints of administering an after-school program, this coordination is often impossible. In addition, many of the programs discussed follow their own format, which diverges from classroom procedures. Consequently, none of the programs presented as effective after-school literacy tutoring programs coordinated the instruction between in-school and after-school instruction. Without supporting data, it is difficult to determine the importance of coordinating classroom and after-school services. Future work in tutoring should explore this question. Incentives are important to keep tutors and tutees involved in the program. America Reads offers their undergraduate work-study tutors a slightly higher wage than other work-study employers do. Other programs such as the Reading One-One and the Intergenerational Tutoring Project pay their tutors for their services. However, finding resources to pay tutors in after-school programs can be difficult. Even when tutors are paid, other activities need to occur to communicate the organization’s appreciation of the time and effort that is involved in working in an after-school program. In the Baltimore program, all tutors were paid a small stipend for transportation costs and were provided with free lunch. During the year, the teachers made a special effort to express their appreciation to the volunteers. At the end of the year, the schools held recognition ceremonies for the tutors and had the children make thank-you cards for them. Each tutor was presented with a certificate indicating that he or she had completed a year as a volunteer literacy tutor at the school. The schools also worked with local businesses to provide discounts at stores for tutors who were working at the schools. At both schools, the tutors wore a vest that designated who they were. This helped them be identified in the schools and provided them with a sense of affiliation and identification with a group. LIMITATIONS OF AFTER-SCHOOL TUTORING PROGRAMS There are numerous positive aspects to after-school tutoring. In the programs presented, the children who benefited from the additional instruction were reading better because of the tutoring. However, there are some limitations to after-school tutoring programs that need to be addressed. The most salient limitation is that after-school programs do not provide the

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additional resources that are needed in high-poverty schools to help children “catch up” with their reading. In all of the tutoring programs discussed, some aspect of children’s reading improved because of the tutoring. However, even with significant improvement, no children were reading at grade level at the end of any of the programs because of the tutoring intervention. After-school tutoring should be viewed as an important part of intervention services for at-risk children, but it is only one piece of a resource delivery system. Improvements in classroom curriculum, teacher training, whole-school reform, summer interventions, and home instruction are other variables that play a significant part in helping at-risk children learn to read. Effective, well-implemented after-school programs should not be viewed as a single solution to a complex problem. Another limitation of after-school literacy tutoring programs is that most evaluations have focused on the effect of the cognitive benefits of tutoring, but have not addressed the social and emotional effect tutoring can have on children (Shanahan, 1998). Increasing evidence in the field of reading shows that motivation plays an important part in young children learning to read (Guthrie & Wigfield, 1997). Learning to read involves cognitive skills as well as an emotional and social investment in the child. After-school mentoring programs have been effective in helping at-risk children (Freedman, 1993). Although tutors provide a more specialized role than mentors, tutors frequently develop a unique relationship with the children they tutor. Tutors not only provide feedback on children’s reading skills but also provide encouragement and support. This is especially important for at-risk children who view themselves as failures in reading. For a child who is struggling with reading, reading is not a pleasurable experience. These children often perceive themselves as not having the intelligence and skill to be able to read. If a positive relationship develops between the tutor and the child, the child may become motivated to do well to please the tutors. For some children, the tutoring may be the only opportunity they have to read and share literacy experiences one-on-one with a caring, supportive adult. Future research on after-school tutoring program should address the affective aspects of the tutor-child relationship. Finally, one criticism of after-school tutoring programs is that they place unnecessary burdens on young children who have already experienced a full day of school (see Fashola, 2001). If additional instruction is needed, some critics say, it should occur during the school day. There are several responses to this concern. One is that tutoring in an after-school setting has a different atmosphere from in-school instruction. Working one-to-one with someone who is not the child’s regular teacher can be very enjoyable for a young child, especially if the child is experiencing success in tutoring. If the tutoring lessons are tailored to the needs of the child, the child should be experiencing success. Also, the individualized attention creates a feeling in children that they are special. Second, for some children who need to stay at

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school for child care reasons, this is a productive way for a struggling reader to spend his or her time. Third, tutoring after school does not force the struggling reader to miss parts of the school-day activities. In-school tutoring typically occurs during recess, art, music, and gym, activities that young children enjoy. Putting tutoring in place of one of these activities can make the student not want to go to tutoring or resent going because it is perceived as a punishment. Although the child has a full day with after-school tutoring, the child has not lost anything during the day. Finally, in most programs, tutoring lasts about 30 minutes, and the additional time after school is spent on other activities. This is not an excessive amount of additional instruction. SUMMARY After-school tutoring programs have significant benefits. Although programs use various approaches, tutoring has been shown to be effective in improving reading skills in at-risk children. As the programs discussed in this chapter suggest, certain elements are necessary for an after-school program to be effective. An effective after-school program needs organizational support as well as a competent coordinator, trained in reading, to ensure that the program is implemented in an organized fashion. An effective program needs trained tutors who are knowledgeable about reading and understand strategies that can be used with struggling readers. After-school tutoring programs need materials, especially skill-appropriate books. Finally, incentives need to be provided to tutors to keep them invested in the program. An effective after-school tutoring program can make a significant difference in the reading success of at-risk children.

NOTE This research was supported under funding from the Office of Educational Research and Improvement, U.S. Department of Education (Grant No. R-117D-40005). However, the opinions expressed are those of the authors and do not necessarily represent the positions or policies of the U.S. Department of Education.

REFERENCES Baker, S., Gersten, R., & Keating, T. (2000). When less may be more: A 2–year longitudinal evaluation of a volunteer tutoring program requiring minimal training. Reading Research Quarterly, 35 (4), 494–519. DeFord, D. E., Pinnell, G. S., & Lyons, C. (1997, December). AmeriCorps for literacy and math. Paper presented at the annual meeting of the National Reading Conference, Scottsdale, AZ.

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Dromsky, A. J., & Gambrell, L. B. (2001). America Reads: Literacy lessons learned. In L. M. Morrow & D. G. Woo (Eds.), Tutoring programs for struggling readers: The America Reads challenge (pp. 159—173). New York: Guilford. Farkas, G. (1996). Human capital or cultural capital? Ethnicity and poverty groups in an urban school district. New York: Aldine de Gruyter. Fashola, O. S. (2001). Building effective after-school programs. Thousand Oaks, CA: Corwin. Fitzgerald, J. (2001). Can minimally trained college student volunteers help young at-risk children to read better? Reading Research Quarterly, 36 (1), 28–46. Freedman, M. (1993). The kindness of strangers: Adult mentors, urban youth, and the new voluntarism. San Francisco: Jossey-Bass. Gallegos, G. (1995). Investing in the future: HOSTS evaluation for the Pasadena Independent School District. Vancouver, WA: Author. Guthrie, J. T., & Wigfield, A. (Eds). (1997). Reading engagement: Motivating readers through integrated instruction. Newark, DE: International Reading Association. HOSTS Corporation. (1994). Independent evaluations of the HOSTS structured mentoring program in language arts. Vancouver, WA: Author. Invernizzi, M. (2001). Book Buddies: A community volunteer tutorial program. In L. M. Morrow & D. G. Woo (Eds.), Tutoring programs for struggling readers: The America Reads challenge (pp. 193–215). New York: Guilford. Invernizzi, M., Juel, C., & Rosemary, C.A. (1997). A community volunteer tutorial that works. The Reading Teacher, 50, 304–311. Johnston, F., Invernizzi, M., & Juel, C. (1998). Book Buddies: Guidelines for volunteer tutors of emergent and early readers. New York: Guilford Press. Juel, C. (1996). What makes literacy tutoring effective? Reading Research Quarterly, 31 (3), 268–289. Morris, D. (1999). The Howard Street tutoring manual: Teaching at-risk readers in the primary grades. New York: Guilford. ——— . (2001). The Howard Street tutoring model: Using volunteers to prevent reading failure in the primary grades. In L. M. Morrow & D. G. Woo (Eds.), Tutoring programs for struggling readers: The America Reads challenge (pp. 177–192). New York: Guilford. Morris, D., Shaw, B., & Perney, J. (1990). Helping low readers in grade 2 and 3: An after-school volunteer tutoring program. The Elementary School Journal, 91, 132–150. Morrow, L. M., & Walker, B. J. (1997). The reading team: A handbook for volunteer tutors K–3. Newark, DE: International Reading Association. Morrow, L. M., & Woo, D. G. (2001). The effects of an America Reads tutoring program on literacy achievement and attitudes of teachers, tutors, and children. In L. M. Morrow & D. G. Woo (Eds.), Tutoring programs for struggling readers: The America Reads challenge (pp. 117–139). New York: Guilford. Oregon Children’s Foundation. (1992). SMART volunteer handbook. Portland, OR: Author. ——— . (1998). SMART volunteer handbook. Portland, OR: Author. Pinnell, G. S., DeFord, D. E., & Lyons, C. (1988). Reading Recovery: Early intervention for at-risk first graders. Arlington, VA: Educational Research Service.

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Rimm-Kaufmann, S. E., Kagan, J., & Byers, H. (1999). The effectiveness of adult volunteer tutoring on reading among “at risk” first grade children. Reading Research and Instruction, 38, 143–152. Shanahan, T. (1998). On the effectiveness and limitations of tutoring in reading. In A. Iran-Nejad & D. Pearson (Eds.), Review of research in education (Vol. 23, pp. 217–234). Washington, DC: American Educational Research Association. Shanahan, T., & Barr, R. (1995). Reading Recovery: An independent evaluation of the effects of an early instructional intervention for at-risk learners. Reading Research Quarterly, 30 (4), 958–996. Slavin, R. E., & Madden, N. A. (Eds.). (2001). Success for All: Research and reform in elementary education. Mahwah, NJ: Erlbaum. Walker, B. J., & Morrow, L. M. (1998). Tips for the reading team: Strategies for tutors. Newark, DE: International Reading Association. Wasik, B. A. (1998). Volunteer tutoring programs in reading: A review. Reading Research Quarterly, 33 (3), 266–291. Wasik, B. A., & Madden, N. A. (1996). Success for All tutoring manual. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University, Center for Social Organization of Schools. Wasik, B. A., & Slavin, R. E. (1993). Preventing early reading failure with one-to-one tutoring: A review of five programs. Reading Research Quarterly, 28 (2), 178–200. Wilbur, J. (1995). A gift of time: HOSTS: Help One Student to Succeed. Partnerships in Education Journal, 9 (3), 1–5.

7

Working at Play in Four Chicago Computer Clubs Ellen Youniss, Mark Gillingham, Donna Nowatzki, and Erin Roche

Chicago is a city of neighborhoods. Beginning in the 19th century, immigrants came to the area, seeking freedom and work and settling in Chicago communities where they could speak to their neighbors, worship in their own churches and synagogues, study in schools in their native tongue, and celebrate their own cultural traditions. The Chicago Historical Society (2001) describes these neighborhoods as keepers of culture. They are the places that Carl Sandburg had in mind when he celebrated the “City of the Big Shoulders” (Hardwick, 1998). Chicago’s neighborhoods are not just a thing of the past. Some have been preserved, whereas others have been transformed by recently arrived immigrants. Today, 27 of Chicago’s 77 neighborhoods are called home by a single racial or ethnic group—white, black, or Latino. Three of the four schools with which we worked are in South Side African American neighborhoods; the fourth is in a near northwest neighborhood, half of whose residents are Latino (Chicago Minorities, 2000). A paradox exists in the large city of Chicago: The small neighborhoods are disconnected from the larger city. The neighborhood is secure, but isolated. In a sheltered neighborhood, many residents, young and old, live, work, and study in the same area where they and possibly their parents grew up. Chicago neighborhoods like these share some of the rural village characteristics written about in other chapters of this book including homo-

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geneity, security, and celebrating cultural traditions. Everyone knows everyone else and watches out for one another. But the downside for residents of the same race, ethnicity, and class is that they can become isolated from those in other neighborhoods. And trying to cross the division lines can still prove as difficult and dangerous today as it was back in 1919 when Eugene Williams, 17, was stoned to death when he drifted into the white wading area while swimming in Lake Michigan. In 1997, an African American youth, Lenard Clark, 13, was severely beaten by white youths when he crossed the line while riding his bike near Armour Square Park, a traditionally white hangout. Small schools in a large school system such as Chicago’s can reflect the same paradox. Small schools provide a safe community for parents, students, and teachers, but can easily become segregated in terms of student and teacher populations, achievement, pedagogy, and ideas. To counteract this trend, leaders in four small public schools in Chicago formed a network, the Education Connection Network (ECN), in order to tear down the walls of isolation and build bridges of sharing and communication among administrators, teachers, parents, and students. The network consisted of Frederick Douglass School, Lucy Gonzalez Parsons School, Annie Easley School, and Evelyn Boyd Granville School (all pseudonyms), with help from two partners (the Great Books Foundation and Art Resources in Teaching). Funds were provided, in part, by the Chicago Annenberg Challenge. Serving two groups with poor standardized test scores—African American students and bilingual Latino students—the network sought to improve student literacy and thinking through electronic communication and shared inquiry (see http://www.greatbooks.org/ecn/). Network members used electronic communication for administrative and teacher planning. In year 3, the network was ready to introduce students to electronic communications, but there were practical impediments to implementing this on-line curriculum. The largest of these impediments was acquiring the technology and training teachers and students to use it. The network helped the schools get external funding for Internet access and school networks, but these efforts were too often thwarted by the twin bureaucracies of the federal government and the Chicago Public Schools (CPS). Meanwhile, savvy administrators at the schools sought creative means of acquiring classroom technology and training. For example, Douglass School acquired a generous donation of more than 100 used personal computers. Gonzalez Parsons School received a grant to purchase a mobile learning cart with 10 laptop computers that could be rolled from classroom to classroom. Such are the challenges facing most Chicago public schools. Schools in the network needed creative thinking and an organized group to help solve some of the technology problems. For three schools in the network, the response was to create an after-school Computer Club.

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We describe each of the clubs, the schools in which they resided, and the children, teachers, parents, and outsiders who attended them. Authors Mark and Ellen worked in varying capacities as the technology coordinators of ECN. Ellen was the technology coordinator and was the primary outside facilitator for all three clubs and attended all meetings. Mark was a technology consultant to the network. As an outside facilitator for the clubs, he consulted on the formation and activities of the clubs and participated at some club meetings. Ellen and Mark work for the Great Books Foundation. Donna was the Gonzalez Parsons program administrator and technology coordinator, and helped guide club plans and co-facilitated some club meetings. She is now the technology coordinator at another Chicago public school. Erin, the eighth-grade literature teacher at Gonzalez Parsons School, co-facilitated all club meetings. CHILDREN’S TIME Children share many experiences, whether they live in a large city such as Chicago, a small town, or a rural village. Most go to school and enjoy playing in their free time. Yet children experience added pressures and have less free time today. Children spent significantly more time in school, studying, and in organized activities before and after school in 1997 than in 1981, according to a report from the University of Michigan’s Institute for Social Research (Hofferth, 1998). Children spent more time studying—50% more for boys and 14% more for girls. At home, they are expected to do more chores and to care for younger siblings. Conversely, children’s free time has decreased from 40% to 25%. Playtime indoors decreased by 16% for 3– to 12–year-olds. Even the amount of time they spent watching TV declined by 23%. One reason children have less free time is mounting school pressures. In Chicago public schools, as part of the school reform measures undertaken since 1997, the primary criterion for eighth graders getting into high school is a 40–minute Iowa Test of Basic Skills (ITBS) reading test and an 80–minute ITBS math test. Younger students must meet standards on the ITBS tests at the third- and fifth-grade levels to proceed to the next grade levels. Students who do not meet minimum standards by the end of the school year are required to attend summer school, extending their school year from 180 days to 210 or more. The number of students required to attend the Summer Bridge Program in reading and math for the past two summers topped 25 thousand (Summer Bridge, 2000). In addition, elementary school students are now required to take the state-developed Illinois Standards Achievement Test (ISAT) in the third, fifth, and eighth grades. Chicago public high school students take the Tests of Achievement and Proficiency (TAP) that emphasize reading, and the newly developed Chicago Academic Standard Exams by subject and grade. In addition, juniors are required to take another high-stakes test, the Prairie State Achievement Exam.

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Chicago schools are judged almost exclusively on the percent of children scoring at or above the national norm on the ITBS. In 2000, 23 of 93 CPS high schools (26%) and 53 of 492 of CPS elementary schools (11%) were on academic probation. A school is placed on probation when the percentage of students at or above national norms in reading and math has fallen below 20% (Department of Business Management Services Office of Accountability, 2000/2001). In addition, 20 schools were on academic remediation, which occurs when 25% of their students are below national norms (Department of Business Management Services Office of Accountability, 2000/2001). Schools on probation must make adequate progress or face measures including reconstitution (replacing the principal and faculty) or closure. Another trend is the extension of instruction to after-school hours. In Chicago public schools, 242,525 elementary and high school students, more than half of the total 426,814 students in the district, fill classrooms around the city. The majority of these students are in the Lighthouse program, which is offered in 401 Chicago public schools. Other programs offered include social centers, which provide sports, recreation, and arts and crafts in 475 Chicago public elementary schools, and the Homework Club, which helps students at 250 elementary schools and 60 high schools with their homework. The Lighthouse program is mandatory for students who are behind academically, have frequent absences, or have had behavior problems. For the CEO of CPS, the main objective of the Lighthouse program is to extend the academic school day at a reduced cost. With federal, state, and private funds, CPS pays teachers, retired teachers, and others for 1 hour of instruction at a reduced rate. The $20 million spent on the Lighthouse program this school year would buy only 15 minutes of instructional time at the regular teachers’ salary rate (Mannion, 2001).

AFTER-SCHOOL CARE ALTERNATIVES In their examination of types of child care arrangements that families with working mothers used for their school-aged children in 1997, Cappizzano, Tout, and Adams (2000) found that adolescents are more likely than younger children to be in self-care. More children between the ages of 10 and 12 spent time caring for themselves (35%), when compared with 6– to 9–year-olds (10%). Fewer in the older age group are in beforeand after-school programs (10%) or in the care of relatives (17%), compared with the younger group, (21% in each type of care). Low-income children between the ages of 10 and 12 were less likely to participate in before- and after-school programs (7%), when compared with children of higher-income families (11%). African American families used supervised care the most; 17% of African American adolescents were in before- and after-school programs, and more than one-quarter were cared for by relatives. Although a comparable proportion of Latino adolescents were cared

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for by relatives, they were the least likely of all groups to attend before- and after-school programs (4%). Meanwhile, white adolescents were twice as likely as Latino adolescents, and three times as likely as African American adolescents to use self-care as their primary form of care. The data are clear. For many complex reasons, too many adolescents are in unsupervised care and their families need greater access to affordable, supervised child care options. Perhaps this is why there has been a rise in annual federal funding from $1 million to $846 million for a federal after-school program (21st Century Community Learning Centers) in the last few years. Unsupervised self-care equates to staying inside one’s house or apartment, or hanging out and playing on the streets. The latter poses certain risks in Chicago where more than 125 gangs claim territory in the area and gang membership is estimated at more than 100,000. The police department annual report (Chicago Police Department, 1998) reported that nearly half of all known murder offenders and one-third of the victims in 1998 were under the age of 21. Nationally, youth arrests for violent crimes increased in the 1990s. Infants and adolescents are most at risk, and adolescents are most at risk during nonschool hours. Statistics only begin to tell the tale of risks teens face on the streets. Nonmembers are harassed by gang members near their homes, often for walking in another’s gang territory. They are harassed by police for looking like a gang member because they sport an earring or baseball cap, or just because they look “suspicious.” For example, Carger (1996) relates the story of Alejandro and a friend who were frisked by police while waiting at a bus stop because their skin was brown, there were two of them together, and shots had been fired nearby. Chicago public schools, like most schools, sanction little before-, during-, or after-school play. As an alternative to hanging out at home by themselves or on the street, we offer a model of a Computer Club, which was initiated in three small schools in CPS. Computer Club provided a safe place for children ranging in age from 11 to 14. In the club, they could have fun and try out new roles as computer repair person, website builder, laptop expert, slide show presenter, teacher, and mentor. In the process, they provided a school community service, and built relationships among students and between students and teachers that carried over to the school day. In the next few pages, we describe what happened when Computer Club was in session. Each student named here represents the lived experiences of many students we encountered in Computer Club. FOUR SCHOOL COMMUNITIES THROUGH THE EYES OF FOUR STUDENTS Quinn at Frederick Douglass School Frederick Douglass School is a 30–minute, 12–mile electric train ride due south from Chicago’s Loop. The train passes by stations with historic

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names—Randolph, Van Buren, Roosevelt Road, McCormick Place, Hyde Park, University of Chicago, and Pullman. With a few notable exceptions, including Prairie Avenue and Hyde Park, the train passes through South Side Chicago neighborhoods that have been the home to immigrant workers and the chronically poor. It has also been the home to mostly poor African Americans who live in a 5–mile stretch of housing projects along the rail line. Along this line, a rider can see some hope of future stability in the newly planted median boxes along Martin Luther King Boulevard (Rose, 1995). Past the ghostly images of community and commerce, including Pullman, inland ships and grain elevators in the Calumet River, and two landfill sites that stretch out along the expressway, is the last vestige of Chicago before it gives way to the south suburbs. This island of modest apartment complexes, locked away from the rest of Chicago by freeways, one of the landfill sites, railroad tracks, and the Little Calumet River, is home to Quinn, an eighth-grade student at Frederick Douglass School, and the majority of his 488 fellow students. Quinn and his classmates, who rarely if ever have ridden the electric train to the Loop, are not fully cognizant of their community’s rural-village atmosphere with its homogeneous (African American) population, modest housing, main street, local park and high school, and large number of mostly closed taverns. It’s 7:30 A.M. on this Monday morning in February 1999. Quinn’s mother is waking her son up for school. She, like many of the Douglass School parents, values her children’s education as a road out of poverty. Quinn lives a few blocks from school and walks there with friends. When they arrive at the corner where the main road intersects the two-block stretch to their school, they take to the street because the sidewalks are broken up. The street stops just beyond the school buildings in what would be a cul-de-sac in a suburb, but here is just a dead end. Even within this modest environment the school buildings appear modest. Quinn and his friends amble up to the school. Children likely had much room to play in the school yard in the past, but for safety reasons only the youngest children are released to the yard now and only in a small fenced area near the side door. The remainder of the yard is barren and strewn with debris, especially along the fence lines shared with the neighboring apartments. With little room to play, the boys hang out in front. The first signs of activity are literally signs. Outside, the sign near the front door announces upcoming events and is changed often. It announces an upcoming basketball game, the next Local School Council meeting, and today’s Computer Club meeting. The bell rings and the children file into school for breakfast, a publicly funded program. There are more signs inside the building: students on the honor roll, Education Connection Network Rotating Gallery, teachers on special duties, and posters describing famous people, mostly African Americans. All of the signs say something is happening here. The

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mother of one of Quinn’s classmates who is on monitor duty greets the students as they enter. At 9:00 A.M., the morning bell rings and the students line up to go to their classrooms. For the next 6 hours, Quinn and his classmates will listen, work, and study, with only a 20–minute lunch break. The pressure is on for teachers, administrators, and students to improve students’ standardized test scores and prepare them for their next educational hurdle—high school. According to the Illinois State Board of Education (2000), despite their efforts, about half (54%) of Quinn’s eighth-grade class who took the ISAT in the 2000 school year did not meet the state reading standards, and 88% and 79%, respectively, did not meet the state writing and mathematics standards. Although nearly 60% of Douglass School students like Quinn live nearby and walk to school year after year, 41% will enroll and then leave the school by the end of this school year. The majority of the 41% are homeless children bused in from shelters. Attendance at Douglass School is high, with 92% present on any given day. At 2:55 P.M., Quinn listens to the announcement over the public address system reminding children that the Computer Club will meet in Room 110. So instead of heading to the school gymnasium at the closing school bell, Quinn meets six of his basketball teammates in the hallway and they all head to Room 110. Soon, their gym teacher/basketball coach, who values computer skills and recruited them into the club, arrives. He, along with a fifth-grade teacher and Ellen, co-facilitate the club. Both teachers like to fiddle with computers when they are not teaching and coaching. The teachers are happy to help out, but the additional tasks are taxing on them, especially as the year wears on and standardized testing pressures increase. The Douglass Computer Club meets on the first and third Mondays of every month for 1 hour. Today, 13 eighth graders and two seventh graders—12 boys and 3 girls—sit in small clusters of three or four, with Quinn sitting with some of his basketball buddies. Attendance has been consistent since the club began the previous month, with one or two students dropping out and friends of members periodically tagging along. Three parents and four or so teachers, in addition to the facilitators, sit on the sidelines, wanting to learn about computers as well. Ellen begins the meeting by explaining the goal for that particular day. Today, a special visitor, a technology consultant and self-described geek, will coach them in learning about and handling internal computer components. The students prick up their ears as he talks in an animated manner about how computers work. When he opens the lid of the computer, club members, parents, and teachers adjust their seats and crane their necks to get a better view of what’s inside that gray box. But what they really want to do, it seems, is open a computer box for themselves and get a close-up look inside. After an explanation of bits, bytes, and binary numbers, the visitor

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wraps up the talk. One person from each cluster gets up and takes a computer back to his or her group. The real fun is about to begin. Sharing two sets of screwdrivers, the boldest in each group removes the cover of a computer, and together they check the internal components. Slowly at first, one removes the hard drive. Then more quickly as they feel more comfortable, they remove the memory and disk drives. In subsequent biweekly club meetings, the eighth-grade members set their minds to the task of working on and assessing computer components. Within a month, they proudly and responsibly model their new skills to new students. At the ECN fair in May, Quinn’s small group take their turn staffing the Douglass Computer Club exhibit at which they show off their new knowledge about computers. As they open the computer box, students from the network schools quickly gather around. In particular, Quinn’s all-male trio got the special attention of girls from the other schools. And when the next all-female trio takes over at the exhibit table, they attract the attention of the boys. Computer Club mixed social learning and skills. The task at hand for the Douglass Computer Club was to learn the basics about computer hardware components so they could take inventory and upgrade more than 100 used computers acquired by savvy school administrators. The administrators had sought the computer donations to increase the computer-to-student ratio in the classrooms, but no one in the building knew how the technology fits together or how to keep it operating. The only solution that seemed viable was to develop the knowledge and workforce locally and hope for the best. This was the impetus for a Computer Club at Douglass School, the first in the network. The Douglass Club inspired two other schools to build Computer Clubs in the subsequent year. Andrea at Lucy Gonzalez Parsons School Andrea’s mother is waking her daughter at 6:30 A.M. on a cold Wednesday morning in November 2000. The seventh grader dresses, gathers her homework and books into her backpack, dons her heavy jacket, gloves, and hat, and trudges out the door, walking in large, quick strides to beat her school bus to the stop a couple of blocks away. The streets are teeming with cars driven by people racing to work, but the sidewalks are mostly barren, except for the occasional student and chaperone walking to school bus stops. At 7:30 A.M., the bus driver pulls up. Andrea boards the bus and gets as comfortable as possible for the long ride ahead. The bus winds its way south, then east, down the narrow city streets, stopping to pick up more students until it reaches its final destination, Lucy Gonzalez Parsons School in the heart of West Town on the near northwest side of the city. After making its last pickup, the bus turns east on Division and passes under the enormous cast-iron Puerto Rican flag draping over the avenue, marking the west-end beginning of El Paseo Boriqua. For six long blocks the bus travels along El Paseo, passing by Puerto Rican markets selling

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foods such as platanos, bacaloa, and arroz; Puerto Rican restaurants owned and run by Puerto Ricans; a traditional Puerto Rican bakery and cafe; small family businesses selling secondhand and discounted goods; and a Latino-operated bank. At this hour, owners of family businesses are drawing up the steel gates securing the doors and windows as they prepare to open their shops, and residents are beginning to mill in front of the doors of storefronts, particularly the cafe that serves Puerto Rican–grown coffee and quesaditas. The bus riders pass colorful murals depicting the history of the Puerto Rican people painted on the sides of old brick walls and street overpasses. West Town is poor in economic terms, but rich in resourcefulness, community, and culture for Puerto Ricans in Chicago. Mexican immigrant families, like Andrea’s, are attracted to West Town and the surrounding neighborhoods to the north and west by cheaper rents and the Spanish-language environment. However, this community that attracts Latinos also lures real estate speculators because of its “housing stock” and “proximity to the Loop,” as the real estate brochures remind us. In the immediate blocks surrounding Lucy Gonzalez Parsons School, small- and medium-sized manufacturing plants have recently been converted into luxury lofts, and three-flat buildings that had been home to three large extended families are being rehabilitated into luxury single-family homes. Andrea and her fellow students on the bus pass under the east-end flag marking the end of the heart of the Puerto Rican strip, then the neighborhood public high school, one of the largest in the city, and finally arrive at school, 80 minutes after Andrea boarded. Gonzalez Parsons School matches Division Street in both color and activity. Andrea weaves her way in and out of older children playing soccer, past younger ones running around the rubber-padded playground, and through the community garden, and slips through the large doors of this gigantic old three-story school that was built when city property was plentiful and energy costs weren’t a concern. Andrea passes by a large, student-painted mural of a bright and happy school and surrounding community, and is greeted with “Buenos dias” by the Puerto Rican security guard sitting at the front desk as she enters the cafeteria for a hot breakfast before school. Fifteen minutes later, she moves toward her classroom. The sheer size of the hallways could be daunting to some young children, but the school community has made them colorful and inviting, painting them in hues of green, blue, and yellow, and covering nearly every square inch of hallway with student artwork and writing. The colors are reminiscent of brightly painted buildings found in Old San Juan or a Mexican village. Bulletin board titles are in English and Spanish. The physical surrounding serves as a good backdrop for the school’s dual-language, multicultural curricula. Three-quarters of the school’s 534 students are Puerto Rican and Mexican, and the remaining quarter are African American (17%) and white (8%).

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In this supportive community and school environment, families (like those in the Douglass community) are committed to giving their children an education. The attendance rate is 95%, and more than 9 out of 10 children return to the school year after year. Yet of the eighth-grade students who took the ISAT in the 2000 school year, almost half (48%) did not meet the state reading standards and three quarters (72% and 76%, respectively) did not meet the state writing and math standards. Many Gonzalez Parsons students face difficult challenges. More than one-third are limited-English proficient, Andrea among them. Nearly 9 in 10 live below the federally defined poverty level (Illinois State Board of Education, 2000). Andrea, a sixth grader, has a busy school schedule. Her toughest class is English literature, in which her class uses the Junior Great Books curriculum, featuring long, rich stories that students read, reread, and discuss. The class is particularly difficult for Andrea since she speaks Spanish at home and started to speak English only when she entered the Gonzalez Parsons School kindergarten. Then there are her other subjects. After school, Andrea rides the school bus home, except on Wednesdays; Computer Club meets every Wednesday. An eighth-grade classroom doubles as the Computer Clubhouse every Wednesday for 2 hours. The start is casual. One student volunteers to pop popcorn in the microwave while Andrea collects coins from some to buy soda. The adults—Donna, Erin, and Ellen—pass around chocolate chip cookies and apples. Rule number one for a successful after-school club: Serve food and drink to growing students who are hungry and thirsty at the end of the school day. As the food and drinks are passed around, the 11 students and 3 facilitators sit in a circle in student chairs to talk about the day’s events. Soon the conversation rolls around to the agenda for the day. “What did we do last week? What was accomplished and what is unfinished? Are we going to start something new for the day? Who is going to do what?” By 3:15 P.M., a student volunteers to go and get the mobile learning center (a brand new cart with 10 laptops, 2 printers/scanners and a digital camera). The rolling in of the cart marks the official start of club. Soon the room is abuzz with activity, with various clusters of children dispersed throughout the room, working on a variety of projects. One of the members digs into his or her backpack, pulls out a CD, and pops it into a CD-ROM player. A side discussion of favorite bands begins. After the two eighth-grade boys helped the teacher and outside facilitator get the club off the ground in October, members—three eighth graders, two seventh graders, five sixth graders, and a third grader (six boys and five girls)—have attended consistently. Early on, members learned how to care for and use the laptops. By week 3, they were loading the software onto the laptops. By the second month of club, the word had spread that the Computer Club existed and teachers would drop by and read off a list of what was wrong with their classroom computers. The two eighth-grade

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boys, one of whom had extensive computer skills, would go fetch the desktop in question and haul it back to the club room to check it out. Meanwhile, Andrea typically sat in a desk next to the sixth-grade girls and they’d jointly work on tasks. The sixth-grade and seventh-grade boys would sit near one another but work individually, talking and asking one another questions periodically. Ellen walked from group to group, coaching the students in what they were doing. Erin co-facilitated by helping students, and learned by working alongside them. Donna attended meetings when possible, and she almost always stepped in to help get the meeting started and explain any immediate tasks at hand. Midyear, club members were asked if they wanted to design and write a school website. They talked for a couple of weeks about the needs of the site, and then each member volunteered to write a page. Then, they each designed a page and entered their text in Microsoft FrontPage. At subsequent meetings, they drew and scanned pictures, and took photographs with the school’s digital camera. Every week around 4:30 P.M., students floated from projects to computer games and Internet searches. Some played on-line games. Others drew cartoons and wrote captions, and showed off their final products. Still others searched the Internet for animation, homework information, or music. A facilitator would sound a 10–minute warning to clean up and stow away the computer cart. At 5:00 P.M., students who lived nearby walked home; others waited for their rides to pick them up. Sheryl at Annie Easley School Just northwest of the industry that separates Douglass School from the rest of the city lies Annie Easley School. Like the other small schools we describe in this chapter, Annie Easley School is defined by the neighborhood community that it serves. Although you wouldn’t know it by walking down the streets now lined with bungalows, ranch homes, and small apartment buildings, Calumet Heights is built on a swampland that once was dotted with patches of burr oak trees and wildflowers. Calumet and Chicago Canal Dock Company purchased the Stony Island Ridge just to the southeast in the 1870s to mine the ground underneath for its rich deposits of Niagara limestone. The quarry and canal dock now serve as the entry gate into this neighborhood off the main expressway artery. In the early 1900s, the quarry and nearby South Chicago’s steel mills attracted Polish, Italian, Irish, Russian, and German workers to the community. By the 1950s and 1960s, African American families migrating from the South were steadily moving into the neighborhood. Stony Island, just two blocks west of Annie Easley School, divides the neighborhood, with Pill Hill, named for the doctors who worked out of their homes, with bungalows, frame homes, and luxury ranch homes on one side, and more modest homes and apartments on the other. The mix of professional, middle-class, and low-income

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families living in the area is reflected in Annie Easley School’s population; 71% of its students live below the federal poverty guidelines. Sheryl, a fifth grader at the school, lives in a small house in the modest part of the community. Sheryl rises at 6:30 A.M. every school morning, dons her school uniform of a navy-and-red plaid skirt, white blouse, and red tie, and walks with her younger sister to the school bus stop. After a 30–minute bus ride, the children get off the bus. Sheryl scans the school yard for her friends and easily spots them. This is the smallest of the four schools in the network with 219 students and one class per grade, kindergarten through sixth. As she walks toward her friends, Sheryl passes a parent and teacher and greets each of them by name; they reciprocate. In a school this small, everyone knows everyone else. The morning bell rings. With their teacher in the lead, Sheryl and her classmates enter the building and greet the principal, who stands outside her office. Bulletin boards with words in Swahili and pictures of famous African Americans line the narrow hallway. At Easley School, it doesn’t have to be February to celebrate African American history. Sheryl’s class passes by the African Museum and Cultural Center, which doubles as an exhibit space for African artifacts and works of art and students’ creations, and as a central gathering place for school meetings. The bulletin boards and museum are part of Easley School’s Afrocentric curriculum, which promotes not only African and African American heroes, history, and culture, but also expectations for success. Its students, nearly all of whom are African American, are expected to achieve at school. This attitude is reflected in the students’ 97% attendance rate. The school’s focus on literacy curricula has paid off. Of fifth graders (the highest grade to take ISAT exams at this K–6 school) taking the 2000 ISAT exams, nearly 9 out of 10 students (88%) met or exceeded the state’s reading standards, and about three-quarters of them (76%) met or exceeded the state’s writing standards. Eighty-four percent met or exceeded the state’s math learning standards (Illinois State Board of Education, 2000). The 1999/2000 year was a transition year for Easley School. Two years prior, its acclaimed principal transferred to a different school, and administrators were left to carry on. Upheaval is difficult for any school, but particularly so in a small school. Other staff left. The new principal expressed interest in improvement projects—the Education Connection Network, a science program associated with the a local museum, and the after-school Lighthouse program among them. The fifth- and sixth-grade teachers were eager to work on an after-school Computer Club with the assistance of the network technology coordinator. So on the first Tuesday of every month, all fifth graders in the Lighthouse program, including Sheryl, attend Computer Club. Before the after-school Lighthouse program begins, children file into the cafeteria for a quick after-school snack. They are then ushered down the

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hallway to a sixth-grade classroom that doubles as a club meeting house. None of them signed up for Computer Club, but no matter. School is out and today is atypical of the usual Lighthouse program. They seem excited in anticipation of getting to play on computers, but also timid because there is a strange person standing by the computers welcoming them to Computer Club. Sheryl sits with five of her girlfriends in front of a computer. The rest of the students do the same, most of them sitting in same-gender pairs. The fifth- and sixth-grade teachers who co-facilitate welcome the outside facilitator, Ellen, and students to the club. Led by the three facilitators, the students begin to talk about what they like to do with computers. The conversation is slow at first, the students a bit shy and very polite with an outsider in the room. But gradually the conversation warms up. Some of them have computers at home, and they talk about their favorite software games and Internet sites. Sheryl says she likes to browse the Internet for the latest news and gossip about her favorite singing group. The boys all shout out at once the name of their favorite pro-wrestling website. Next we browse the Internet, using only two computers. This will be the first of our five meetings that prove difficult because nobody, especially kids, wants to talk about or watch someone else use computers; they want to be at the keyboard and mouse controls. Soon it is time to clean up and get ready to leave. Buses await those students who live far away. A few walk home. The teacher facilitators had planned to develop a Computer Club to write and design a school website with the help of a computer-savvy parent, thinking that the research and writing process was a nice fit with the school’s literacy program. But in the end their plans were drastically altered when a school administrator prioritized the after-school Lighthouse program with its focus on reading and writing instruction to improve students’ reading and writing standardized test scores. That meant Computer Club could meet only monthly. Given only one monthly meeting, the goal of the club was scaled back to create a PowerPoint slide show. Although facilitators responded with a bit of disappointment, the students didn’t know what they were missing and looked upon the monthly session with excitement. They negotiated excitedly for time at the computer. Needless to say, the most extroverted ended up at the controls first, and needed to be coaxed off when turns were over. While one was at the controls, the others in the group coached: “Add a new slide,” “Write this,” “That word is spelled incorrectly,” “Try this,” “Yes, use that picture; no, not that one.” Ellen moved from group to group, observing and showing them computer features. The two teacher facilitators helped the students out and settled turn-taking conflicts while learning more about the software. In 1 hour, they found all the clip art, sounds, and slide fades that are embedded in PowerPoint and made fun slide shows. At subsequent meetings, students wrote text, and a teacher took digital pictures

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(the administrator would not allow the students to handle the digital camera). Finally, all elements were pieced together in a slide show.

Evelyn Boyd Granville School Ever since the Great Migration brought African Americans from the South to Chicago in the middle of the last century, they have witnessed cycles of neighborhood development and decline, which continue to this day. The Englewood community, in which Evelyn Boyd Granville School is located, is not an exception. Over the years, neighbors have witnessed the development and redevelopment of neighborhood institutions such as the 63rd and Halsted streets shopping district and Kennedy-King College. It was near here that former President Bill Clinton pledged support for Englewood through his New Markets initiative for economic investment. Around the same time, Mayor Richard M. Daley announced a $256 million revitalization plan for Englewood, including relocating Kennedy-King College to 63rd and Halsted streets, constructing commercial facilities and residential housing, building a new police station, and creating more parks and infrastructure improvements (Polk & Dumke, 1999). But some neighbors tire of these maneuvers. Buildings come down and others go up around them, but longtime residents continue to live in poverty. In 1990, the mean household income in Englewood was a little more than half of the citywide figure of $34,682, and the unemployment rate hovered around 26%. Residents fear gangs and crimes, but they also fear the police. For example, in 1998, police rushed to charge two boys, ages 7 and 8, with the murder of an 11–year-old girl. The boys were quickly vindicated. It is in this environment that students, all African American, 95% of whom live below the poverty level, go to school daily, seeking security, an education, and a better future. Granville students, dressed in black skirts and pants and white shirts, are greeted by teachers and the principal as they march into school every day. One of the first things they see upon entering the school is a beautifully wood-carved map of Africa, a symbol of the priority the school has placed on the students developing an understanding of and pride in their African heritage. The staff are committed to the school. The principal has worked at the school all of her career. In recent years, Granville School has committed itself to raising standardized test scores. In last year’s ISAT exams, 41% of eighth graders did not meet the state learning standards in reading; 40% and 90% did not meet the state’s writing and math standards, respectively (Illinois State Board of Education, 2000). In its improvement efforts, Granville School participates in ECN and holds action-packed network days. It invites well-known visitors to read aloud and discuss stories with students monthly. At the end of the school year, everyone in the school community gathers in the school gymnasium to celebrate individual achievement.

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Granville School has a well-equipped computer lab and network, which is maintained by a part-time computer consultant and instructor. Granville was the single school in the network that did not choose to offer an after-school Computer Club to its students. They decided that it did not meet the needs of the school.

THEMES Children in Charge Students set guidelines for clubs, their own rules. We reasoned that if the rules had been imposed by a teacher or facilitator, the members may have resented them and tried to break them. Instead, the students followed their own rules with no complaints. When, in the rare case a rule was broken, members dealt with it immediately and with little fuss. At Douglass, the more experienced members set some rules and then explained them to the sixth-grade newcomers. The rules at Douglass were the following: Members were expected to work responsibly. Members were to take turns in their small groups when they worked on computers. Members were to make sure the computer and peripherals were unplugged and that they had grounded themselves before working inside a computer. At Gonzalez Parsons the rules were to work respectfully and to protect equipment. Two members were responsible for wheeling the cart in and out of the classroom. In addition, there was to be no horseplay around the computer cart, and food and drinks were not allowed on the same desk as a laptop computer. Those in charge of each club were adult members of the school community (e.g., teachers, administrators, parents). The outside facilitators (Ellen and Mark) planned and helped facilitate meetings. The tasks that children busied themselves with at Douglass, Gonzalez Parsons, and Easley Computer Clubs—fixing computers, loading software, taking inventory, writing a school Web page, playing computer games, and so forth—didn’t define the clubs. Rather than the tasks themselves, it was how the tasks were implemented and who instigated and controlled the tasks that defined the clubs. When children had the opportunity to choose a task and the means to perform the task, we observed high engagement. Middlebrooks (1998) argues that children need the time and space to construct their personal spaces (she calls them “worlds”). Within these worlds, children are in control and can be successful. In these worlds, children adapt objects for their own purposes, act out roles, and, through these roles, learn. Working as a team, they take their play seriously; they put their minds to it. They seek out a haven, a place separate from the adult world. They play with friends and have fun.

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Applying Middlebrooks’s analysis of children’s play, we see the members as the creators of the Computer Clubs. They shaped the clubs to build new relationships among themselves and the participating parents and other adults. They tried out new roles: computer repair person, Web designer, photographer, teacher, and mentor. They participated because they wanted to. They welcomed others into their world. They had fun, but they were serious in their activities. They played with friends and made new friends. Adults were often indistinguishable from children during club time. Adults played alongside children and took on some of the same new roles that the children were trying out. Clubs were a place where adults were sometimes learners and children were sometimes teachers. Adults seemed to enjoy world building as much the children did. The Value of Play Members were serious about their play. They had complex things to do and they went about their activities seriously. For example, leading up to the ECN Student Fair in May 1999, members demanded additional meetings to practice their exhibition. Throughout the 1999/2000 club year, Gonzalez Parsons club members wanted the club to meet, whether it was the day before a major holiday or within the last couple of weeks of the school term. During club time, students were active. Facilitators didn’t have to reprimand children busy at work on computers. If someone goofed off, it was likely another child who called them to task. In a friendly, informal, play-oriented environment, students tried out new roles through pretend play. Not the role of student—the role of the teacher, community service provider, computer repair person, software expert, Web writer and designer, and slide show presenter. The six Douglass basketball team members were given an opportunity to try out a self other than athlete (cf. Turkle, 1995). Another example of this was 13–year-old Cassandra, who is very social. During the June Inventory Day activity, she was surrounded by her peers, boys and girls. She approached Mark and asked to be allowed to do what the other members were doing. That is, she wanted to inventory a computer from inside out like the others (mostly boys) had been doing. She hadn’t been participating in this activity because she was playing a different personal role. We thought that she wanted to try out a different self, one who was competent at something else, something other than being social. In this new role, she performed competently. Intent without Obligation Some children came to club rather than watching TV or hanging out on the street. Other children came with younger siblings tagging along rather than going home to care for them until a parent arrived. Some children had to attend club because it provided after-school care. Others came just be-

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cause they wanted to. Computer clubs are a relatively new phenomenon, and it should not surprise anyone that computer activities are attractive to young people. Tapscott (1998) documents the movement of millions of children around the world who in the advent of the Web are logging on to their computers and chatting with their buddies from as far away as the other side of the world and as close as next door, instead of hanging out at the playground or variety store, or going home to watch TV. Douglass, Gonzalez Parsons, and Easley Computer Clubs were informally structured. There was intent without obligation. The clubs were a complete departure from their regular school day. Children were not graded. There was no homework. There was no teacher who stood in the front of the room and lectured. Most students (with the exception of those at Easley) chose to participate. All clubs had members who could attend sessions after regular school hours. Douglass students lived near the school and walked home so they could leave at 3:00 P.M. or 4:00 P.M.; the choice was theirs. At Gonzalez Parsons, students could choose to be a member of the club only if they could get home, because staying after school meant that they missed the school-organized bus. For most of these students, parents had to make special arrangements to pick them up by car. Early in the year when the club had only two members, club ended when the mother of one of the boys picked him up. But as more members joined and Erin was officially assigned to work with the club, club time was extended until 5:00 P.M. At Easley, attendance was required if they participated in the Lighthouse program, but their level of participation was voluntary. Most of them had a high level of participation, except when their attention waned during long time spans not in front of a computer because of the 6:1 studentto-computer ratio. Inclusion, All Welcome The Computer Clubs were inclusive. Everyone was welcome to participate regardless of their school talent or behavior (Wolfe, 1994). Paley (1992) found that a play rule of inclusion reduced students’ feelings of rejection and promoted collaborative work and play. In life and in school, children are tracked. Some are good athletes. Some are good at math. Some are good readers. Some have a knack with computers. Some find school very challenging and others find it easy. Children start to see other students and themselves in a particular light. At Computer Club, all students were welcome. They weren’t judged, excluded, or treated differently based on their prior computer knowledge. For example, one Gonzalez Parsons club member was teaching himself Visual Basic. Andrea at the same club said at the first meeting she attended, “I don’t know anything about computers so I don’t know if I can be a member.” She and many of the other Computer Club members did not have home com-

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puters and studied in classrooms of 25 or so students that had only one or two computers, which did not always work. At Douglass, a sixth-grade girl who was a special education student was a member of the club. A teacher questioned whether she should participate in the club, but we, as outsiders, could welcome her participation even though she was excluded from some regular school activities. At Gonzalez Parsons, a third-grade sister of a member, who was classified as learning disabled, participated. In fact, the students receiving individualized education services excelled in club. These two girls were the bold ones who grabbed a screwdriver and unscrewed the bolts at the back of the computer box when the time came. Both of these girls modeled the task for other members. A major benefit of having an outside facilitator was that classifications, reputations, and other school baggage students carried during the school day did not apply in club time. At Douglass School, the Computer Club was begun with just eighth-grade members, but was opened to sixth and seventh graders when we recognized the need to have some students carry on the club the following year. Gonzalez Parsons started with two eighth-grade members, but then expanded to include sixth-, seventh-, and eighth-grade members. Easley Computer Club limited participation to all fifth graders in the Lighthouse program, but fifth graders were considered nearly graduates in this K–6 elementary school. Yet these age groups were guidelines, not rules. Siblings at Douglass and Gonzalez Parsons clubs attended because they walked home together. Sometimes students with the most seniority attempted to exclude other students. For example, Douglass eighth graders first voted that sixth and seventh graders shouldn’t be allowed into the club when teachers presented the need to have younger members. Gonzalez Parsons’s two senior members at first doubted that less experienced sixth graders would be valuable club members and worked separately from them at initial meetings. In such cases, other club members and adult facilitators stepped in and encouraged the older eighth graders to cut the sixth graders some slack. At Douglass, eighth graders modeled computer assessment for the newcomer sixth and seventh graders. At Gonzalez Parsons, the eighth-grade boys often worked apart from the sixth graders, but answered questions of the younger students and modeled new tasks. Supporting Girl Members Some children tried to exclude themselves from being club members. Typically, those who couched their own self-doubt about being a member in statements such as, “I don’t have any computer skills so I don’t know if I should be a member” were female members. We, in our role as facilitators, responded to doubts or questions with reassurance that everyone had valuable skills to contribute to the club. Making the girl members feel wel-

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come in the club through reassurance, modeling by female facilitators, extra support, and permitting girls to work in small groups that they had arranged helped girls feel comfortable. We were aware of the barriers faced by girls in computer learning environments (Schofield, 1995). The high number of girls enrolled in the clubs—3 at Douglass out of 15, 5 out of 11 at Gonzalez Parsons, and more than half of the 25 members at Easley—and the girls’ ongoing participation at all three clubs (no one quit) are significant indicators that girls felt safe and enjoyed participating in Computer Club. Such encouragement was vital to girls’ success in the clubs. Schofield (1995) found that rather than isolating girls who show interest in computers, they need to be included in computer activities and provided extra support to fill the gap that may exist between their initial skill level and that of other participants. Latina girls need extra care because, as U.S. government data demonstrate, they drop out of school at a far greater rate than African American or white girls. In a study of Latinas, Ginorio and Huston (2000) recommend that all adults encourage academic success in Latinas. Latinas need to hear from all the adults in their lives that college and professional careers are rewarding options and ones that they can achieve.

Changing Teachers’ Perspectives Deborah Meier (1995) describes the need for more and richer intergenerational relationships among young people and adults, relationships in which adults can model values for youth. Based on her 20–plus years of experience at Central Park East in East Harlem, Meier promotes a small school organization in which teachers can know all the students, especially the ones who are the hardest to know. She argues that such knowledge and relationships build mutual trust among administrators, teachers, students, and parents, and ultimately support learning. Such relationships can be hard to build during the school day when teachers and students act out their traditional roles. Computer Clubs became a place where these traditional roles did not apply and new ones could be forged. Teachers who were able to set aside their “teacher” hats and take on the role of club member and learner benefited most. Donna and Erin, who were teachers at Gonzalez Parsons and Computer Club coordinators, thought the club activities benefited them as people and teachers. They had fun. They learned new computer skills, sometimes modeled by the children for them. They genuinely enjoyed participating and being with the children in a role different from that of teacher. Their relationships with the students changed as a result, and these deeper relationships carried over to the school day, allowing them to be better teachers to the children. Both teachers continued to coordinate Computer Clubs in 2001.

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Not all club teachers were able to stop teaching after school. At Douglass, for instance, the gym teacher/coach and fifth-grade teachers kept on their teacher hats during club time. We saw that neither teachers nor students left their in-school roles at the club door. The children wanted to take apart computers, not follow teacher rules. Circumstances allowed us to see what would happen if these teachers did not come to club. Because of busy schedules, the teachers stopped attending club meetings regularly, leaving the outside facilitator and children to create a more playful atmosphere. Unfortunately, in the process these two teachers lost the opportunity to build a new kind of relationship with their students.

Community Service as a Respected Activity Each club chose to perform some service to their school or wider community. In doing so, the club and its members gained respect from their communities. For instance, donated computers were diagnosed at Douglass and club members cared for computer technology at Gonzalez Parsons. The benefits of service to the community are varied. They represent different ways of connecting the school with the community, book learning with authentic learning. Youniss and Yates (1997) promoted involving adolescents in community service activities to help them develop a personal and collective identity. In their study of a class of predominantly middle-class, African American teenagers volunteering their service in a soup kitchen with peers and adults, the teenagers experienced what it felt like to make a positive difference and developed a sense of social responsibility. In Computer Clubs, adolescent members worked alongside parents, teachers, and their peers to help their school communities with inadequate resources upgrade their computer hardware and software. Pereleman (1992) suggests that education is for developing economic skills. His notion of Hyperlearning requires no other context than a student and his or her computer. However, context in the form of community (and service) seems to be a basic reason to expend the effort to learn a skill or process. Here are two examples: The Douglass basketball coach and club coordinator brought several members of his basketball team to the first club meeting. The participation of one of the most socially respected groups in the school brought immediate respect to club members. At Gonzalez Parsons, intelligent yet shy and socially isolated Ernesto dived into the responsibilities of Computer Club and helped teachers and students with technology during the school day. He proudly accepted the new respect paid him by teachers and fellow students, and he built new friendships both inside and outside the club as a result.

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Consistent Attendance and Positive Teacher Responses Our measures of club success matched the informal organizations of the clubs themselves. We were pleased that students returned to the clubs week after week. Twelve of 15 members, 10 of 11, and 24 of 25 consistently attended club meetings at Douglass, Gonzalez Parsons, and Easley, respectively. (Exceptions were when conflicts occurred with other after-school activities, such as when the Douglass basketball team had a playoff game or the basketball or track team practiced at Gonzalez Parsons School. Once in a while a student had to take the school bus home because there wasn’t alternative transportation.) Students valued the clubs enough to invite friends to participate. The Gonzalez Parsons Computer Club even voted to have the club meet on Wednesdays when there wasn’t school the next day and in June as school was wrapping up. Also, students took ownership in the club and acted respectfully. Students handled computer equipment responsibly. Furthermore, teachers spoke and wrote favorably about their participation in the club. Four or five teachers attended the Douglass Computer Club to develop new skills. After reflecting on our experience in the Computer Club at Gonzalez Parsons, we (Donna and Erin) developed better, more equal relationships with the students. We also think this experience helped us become better teachers and administrators during the regular school day. We observed that teachers at Douglass School were less comfortable trading the teacher hat for a student hat, but they, too, said they had a positive experience with students because they participated in the Computer Club. At Easley, the teachers worked and learned along with the students, although there were so few meetings it would be difficult to credit a significant change in student-teacher relationships. Finally, the Computer Clubs fulfilled needs in each of their school communities. The most successful in this regard was at Gonzalez Parsons School, where student club members continue to deliver the mobile learning cart and train teachers and students in the use of computer technology. Strength and Fragility The major strength of the clubs was that they were compatible with their communities in terms of philosophy and structure. The clubs developed out of different community values and ways of doing things (Garner, this volume). We found that the club was more successful when its philosophy and structure matched that of the school community. Even though each of these clubs was successful in some way, they were fragile. Two clubs no longer exist, and the third club got off to a slow start in the 2000/2001 school year. The Gonzalez Parsons Computer Club fit well with the larger school community. Club members carried over their newly practiced skills to the

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school day. Teachers and administrators were willing to trust students with responsibilities—to play constructively, to care for expensive technology worth more than $20,000, and to fix things when they went wrong. They even turned over the keys to the storage room, mobile learning cart, and freight elevator (all powerful power-sharing symbols). In a testament to the club-school relationship, the club thrived and continued in year 2 without the assistance of an outside facilitator, under the direction of Erin. The former Gonzalez Parsons teacher/administrator who transferred to another school (Donna), started an after-school newspaper club that uses technology to write and take photographs for the school newspaper. At Douglass, the Computer Club grew with excitement for 1 year, but its role and life within the larger school atmosphere of control and the goal to raise test scores was tenuous. At Easley, there were restraints placed on the amount of time teachers and students could devote to a club. In addition, the administration had only minimal expectations for the club to meet school goals, so the club did not grow beyond a once-a-month novelty. Granville did not see the need for a Computer Club at all. The Granville School offered students the Lighthouse program, which was well organized and well funded, even including transportation home for students who rode the bus to school. Many students participated, but most were required to attend. The Lighthouse program seemed to match the school’s main goal, which was to increase test scores in reading and writing by continuing school in after-school hours. School structures do not change easily or often (Cuban, 1993). Adding a club to the school day requires changes in school routine. School doors must be opened and teachers, other school staff, and parents need to adjust their schedules. The school and community must also add their support for change. All four schools in the network experienced a combination of administration changes, teacher transfers, loss of external funding, and student graduation and mobility. These changes made it more difficult for the Computer Clubs to continue. Still, we think the clubs’ achievements were valuable, and the model a worthy one as more money is invested in after-school programs across the country.

REFERENCES Capizzano, J., Tout, K., & Adams, G. (2000). Child care patterns of school-age children with employed mothers. Washington, DC: The Urban Institute. Carger, C. L. (1996). Of borders and dreams. New York: Teachers College Press. Chicago Historical Society (2001). Neighborhoods: Keepers of culture. Chicago Minorities. (2001, March 15). Chicago Tribune.

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Chicago Police Department. (1998). Annual report. ttp://www.ci.chi.il.us/ CommunityPolicing/Statistics/Reports/98AnnRprt/98 Annual Report.pdf Chicago Public School. (2000, May 25). Summer Bridge 2000 to Enroll 25,000 Students Number Same as 1999 Despite Higher Promotion Criteria. Chicago Public Schools Press Release. Cuban, L. (1993). How teachers taught: Constancy and change in American classrooms, 1890–1990 (2nd ed.). New York: Teachers College Press. Department of Business Management Services Office of Accountability (2000/2001). List of schools on academic probation. Chicago Public Schools. ttp://acct.multi1.cps.k12.il.us/probationfy01.html Department of Business Management Services Office of Accountability (2000/2001). List of schools on academic remediation. Chicago Public Schools. ttp://acct.multi1.cps.k12.il.us/remediationfy01.html Ginorio, A., & Huston, M. (2000). Si, Se Puede! Yes, We Can: Latinas in School. Washington, DC: American Association of University Women Educational Foundation. Hardwick, E. (1998). Sight-readings: American fictions. New York: Random House. Hofferth, S. (1998). Children’s Time. The Panel Study of Income Dynamics Child Development Supplement. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Institute for Social Research. ttp://www.isr.umich.edu/src/child-development/ timerep.html Illinois State Board of Education. (2000). Illinois school report card. ttp:// www.isbe.state.il.us M an n i o n , A . ( 2001, M a r c h 4 ) . B e y o n d t h e b e l l . C h i c a g o Tr i b u n e . ttp://chicagotribune.com/article/0,1051,SAV-0103040480,00.html Meier, D. (1995). The power of their ideas. Boston: Beacon. Middlebrooks, S. (1998). Getting to know city kids: Understanding their thinking, imagining, and socializing. New York: Teachers College Press. Paley, V. G. (1992). You can’t say you can’t play. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Perelman, L. J. (1992). School’s out. New York: Avon. Polk, C., & Dumke, M. (1999, December). A brief history of Englewood. The Chicago Reporter. ttp://www.chicagoreporter.com/1999/12–99/ 1299toc.htm Rose, M. (1995). Possible lives: The promise of public education in America. New York: Penguin. Schofield, J. W. (1995). Computers and classroom culture. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Tapscott, D. (1998). Growing up digital: The rise of the net generation. New York: McGraw-Hill. Turkle, S. (1995). Life on the screen: Identity in the age of the Internet. New York: Simon & Schuster. Wolfe, J. (1994). Beyond difference: Toward inclusion and equity. In F. Pignatelli & S. W. Pflaum (Eds.), Experiencing diversity: Toward educational equity (pp. 70–81). Thousand Oaks, CA: Corwin. Youniss, J., & Yates, M. (1997). Community service and social responsibility in youth. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

8

Cultural Practices in Fifth Dimension Sites Around the World Margaret A. Gallego and William E. Blanton

At more than 25 Fifth Dimension (5thDimension) sites around the world, we arrange for children to volunteer for a form of play in which they learn perseverance and the ability to organize their problem-solving skills in collaboration with others. (See the 5thDimension Clearinghouse website at http://129.171.53.1/blantonw/5dClhse/clearingh1.html.) Children engage in a variety of activities, including playing computer and board games, drawing, reading stories, interacting with children at other 5thDimension sites through telecommunications, and using multimedia and software. They participate in activity individually and in ensembles with other children. More accomplished others—such as university students enrolled in clinical teaching, adult volunteers, high school students, and experienced 5thDimension participants—assist both the younger and less accomplished participants in setting goals, making decisions, and developing strategies to achieve their goals. The 5thDimension creates a make-believe world that socially reorganizes the way children play computer games and board games. For most children in most American schools, play, interaction, and affiliation conflict with educational activity. By creating a more coherent mixture, we reduce the conflict and provide a way for members of the 5thDimension to engage in a powerful, socially oriented educational activity (Cole, 1996; Nicolopoulou & Cole, 1993; Schustack, King, Gallego, & Vásquez, 1994).

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PREVIOUS RESEARCH ON FIFTH DIMENSION Our previous research has demonstrated that 5thDimension participants achieve at increasingly higher levels on tasks in which they engage (Nicolopoulou & Cole, 1993) and acquire proficiency in using technological tools in the process of attaining personal goals (Schustack et al., 1994). Special education students who participate in the 5thDimension program in the same manner as their regular education counterparts have similar success (Blanton & Zimmerman, 1993). When 5thDimension participants are compared with their counterparts in control groups, significant effects are found for participation in the 5thDimension on measures of near transfer, such as mastery of computer skills and knowledge (Schustack, Strauss, & Worden, 1997) and math word problems (Mayer et al., 1997). Fifth Dimension effects are also found on measures of far transfer, such as statewide measures of reading and math achievement (Blanton, Moorman, Hayes, & Warner, 1997). Other research (Gallego & Cole, 2000; Nicolopoulou & Cole, 1993; Rueda, Gallego, & Moll, 2000) explores the ecology of the 5thDimension and reveals how different contexts affect learning and development when educational software and learning activity are held constant. THE FIFTH DIMENSION LEARNING ENVIRONMENT The 5thDimension applies the principles of cultural-historical activity theory offered by Vygotsky and his colleagues to the design of a mixed activity learning system (see Blanton et al., 1997, for an in-depth presentation of principles). In this section, we discuss four of the principles central to the design of a 5thDimension. The first principle is that learning and development are not simply a process of knowledge and skill mastery. Rather, the primary engine is becoming a literate person through deep participation in communities of practice (Lave & Wenger, 1991; Prior, 1998; Rogoff, 1995). Deep participation provides an opportunity to master and appropriate new knowledge and skill, restructure and appropriate old knowledge and skill, and increase mastery of existing skill. Further, it enhances deeper awareness and understanding of how the environment provides meaning-making resources for knowledge and skill use. For example, many children enter the 5thDimension with the understanding that writing is nothing more than the laborious task of writing down a copy of what is inside one’s head. However, with the help of others, they can grasp the deeper understanding that writing is a tool for formulating, communicating, and reflecting. As more skillful others assist them in accomplishing writing tasks, they develop a new and deeper understanding of how writing is used to mediate literate thinking. The next principle is that psychological functions appear twice: first, on the interpsychological (social) plane and later on the intrapsychological (personal) plane, where knowing and knowing how are continuously trans-

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formed. In Vygotsky’s (1978) terms, the zone of proximal development (ZPD) accounts for movement between the social plane and the personal plane. The ZPD is the distance between a learner’s beginning level of performance on a task and his or her potential level with the guided assistance of more accomplished others. As an illustration, children might enter the 5thDimension with limited reading ability, both with word recognition and comprehension. They may not be able to focus on the meaning of written procedures because they must direct attention to decoding unfamiliar words. However, their motivation to play computer games provides a rich learning resource. While engaging in game play with more knowledgeable others, who provide assistance with both recognizing words and following written procedures, ZPDs are co-constructed, and children master more word recognition strategies while simultaneously improving their skill at following written procedures. The activity of game playing (on the social plane) appears first, accompanied with a need to master word recognition skills needed for successfully playing games. Knowing word recognition and knowing how to follow written procedures (on the personal plane) follows. More difficult games, with more complex procedures, require ZPDs to be co-constructed continuously. The third principle is that thought is completed through word meanings and communication (Vygotsky, 1978). Culturally shared meanings are represented through words. For example, objects and events presented by learning environments offer potential sense for the participant. Sense making is accomplished through communication with one’s self or another through publicly shared meaning. In the 5thDimension, children are encouraged to talk about what is important to know about playing a game, how they know when they are playing a game well, how they figured out what to do when playing a game, how a game is organized, and how a game is like another game they have played, and more. After playing a game, they reflect on what they learned and strategies they used, formulate what it means, and then communicate the results by writing to family, friends, and others. In doing so, word meaning and discourse are generative tools that mediate the transformation of information and experiences into knowledge and understanding. The last principle is that instrumental and psychological tools are both mastered and appropriated (Wertsch, 1998). Mastery involves learning to act with a tool, knowing how and in what context to use a tool. Appropriation embraces the idea of taking up a tool, making it one’s own, and wrapping it with personal meaning (Bakhtin, 1981; Wertsch, 1998). Mastery and appropriation often go hand in hand; however, it is not unusual for learners to attain a high level of mastery accompanied by a low level of appropriation and vice versa. Both improve with tool use and opportunities to explore and improvise with tools in a wide range of contexts. As an example, a learner may master the procedural routine for conducting Internet

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searches and scavenger hunts. Mastery of procedures in this context does not always result in appropriation. If, on the other hand, the same learner were to want a pair of in-line skates for her birthday, mastery of search procedures might increase. Conducting Internet searches to achieve personal outcomes results in the appropriation of more personal meaning as task, knowledge, and technology are coordinated. From the participant’s point of view, the heart of the 5thDimension is a wooden or cardboard maze divided into 20 rooms. Each room provides access to two or more kinds of activities. About 75% of the activities use computers and telecommunications, including educational software, computer games, telecommunications activities for searching the Internet, and tools for computer-mediated and video-mediated conferencing. Task cards provide instructions for each activity. Subject matter covers the traditional school curriculum and includes communication skills, math, social studies, health, science, technology, and the arts, all with an emphasis on problem solving. The maze at each 5thDimension site is unique and may contain more than 120 educational computer games, such as Carmen San Diego, The Amazon Trail, Dino Park Tycoon, Opening Night, Lego/Logo, and board games, such as Battleship and Mastermind. The first step in participating in the 5thDimension is to decide on a goal or goals for engaging in 5thDimension activities. Participants’ goals are usually to have fun, meet friends, become better in a subject matter area, or become an expert in the 5thDimension. The goals are negotiated with other 5thDimension participants. Next, children must decide where to begin their journey in the maze. Task cards accompany each game and help participants get started, specify expected achievements, and provide necessary information for obtaining credentials as an expert in the 5thDimension. Each task card also provides an obligation that must be completed before moving to the next game. All obligations require reflection and include writing to others, writing in a personal journal, putting information in a hints book, making a video, and creating artwork representing the strategies used and knowledge gained in the activity. A record of each child’s progress is kept in a Journey Log. Children are confronted with choices at every step in their 5th Dimension activities. More than one activity is provided in each room of the maze, and multiple paths through the maze are possible. Children are encouraged to set their own goals, develop their own strategies, and make their own decisions. Children travel through the maze by playing the games in each room to reach different levels of mastery. Children may reach three levels of proficiency in each game. The “beginning” level is very easy—a way to get started. The “good” and “excellent” levels require children to extend their problem-solving skills and/or acquire subject matter knowledge. The choice of rooms to go to next is related to the level of mastery attained at playing a game. As noted above, an obligation must be

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completed before moving to the next room. This requires children to formulate and reflect on what they are doing and to communicate it to others in the 5thDimension community. At any moment, a mythical prankster, curmudgeon, or wise one may appear as a helper. Names of these pranksters vary from site to site and include Wizard, Golem, Proteo, SunWiz, and El Maga. According to cyber legends woven into the 5thDimension experience, these jokers appeared when adults working with children could not deal with the problems of operating and maintaining computers, software, and telecommunications networks that unite children in after-school programs around the world. These mythical entities represent themselves as creators and custodians of the 5thDimension—the authors of the 5thDimension Constitution, providers of the computers and games, and the mediators of disputes between and among children and adults. Using different cyber pseudonyms, the pranksters communicate with the children on email or engage them in live chats, often with a wild and playful sense of humor. Children write these cyber entities to tell them how they accomplished their tasks and what they learned, as well as to inquire about their origins and to engage in playful banter. In return, the cyber entities provide encouragement and praise for the children. Like all cyber pranksters, they are extremely forgetful. As a result, they often neglect their responsibilities and things go wrong. In this role, they are an essential tool in reordering the power relations between adults and children. Adults need not confront children directly since it is the cyber pranksters who have the power to resolve disputes and make binding decisions. The pranksters provide an important element of the 5thDimension because they allow the adults to collude with the children and thereby co-construct a playful world with them. Equally important, since technologies are often unreliable and often fail to work, adults can blame the cyber curmudgeons for breakdowns.

FIELD NOTES: HOW DESIGN PRINCIPLES PROMOTE LEARNING INTERACTIONS In this section, our task is to explain the research results we have obtained by demonstrating how the design principles promote learning interactions that lead to the results. We will do this by analyzing the field notes of undergraduate interns who provided guided assistance to participants in the 5thDimension as part of their practicum. Field notes were suffused with rich descriptions of how key design principles promote learning interactions. We begin with Kelley’s description of how following procedures for Fine Artist is embedded in an activity and mediates the production of a socially meaningful outcome, a computer-designed and printed drawing that two children can take home and share with their parents. It is important to note

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that reading to follow written procedures is embedded in and subservient to the goals that Callie and Lauren have for playing the game: Callie and Lauren both played [F]ine [A]rtist on separate computers. It was really good because Lauren, being the older fourth grader, helped Callie. Fine [A]rtist is a computer game that the children can draw on and print out their drawings. Callie would look at Lauren’s computer and get ideas for her picture. Even though it’s just a drawing game, I can tell they are getting something out of it. Especially Callie because she can practice her reading skills when the instructions appear on the screen. Also by trying different options she can explore the computer and how you move the mouse. . . . They really like this game because they can print out their work and bring it home to show their parents.

This field note demonstrates our view of how skills should be mastered. We propose instruction that focuses on basic mediated activity, emphasizing meaning (Griffin & Cole, 1987; Laboratory of Comparative Human Cognition, 1983). Skill, such as following written procedures, is a social practice, recurrent goal-directed sequences of activities routinely engaged in by most members of a community and infused with normative expectations about how things should be done to accomplish tasks valued by the community (Laboratory of Comparative Human Cognition, 1983). Practices share common knowledge systems, technologies, and tasks. Skill is the ability to coordinate technologies, knowledge systems, and tasks to accomplish socially meaningful practices (Scribner & Cole, 1981). When the focus is on making mastery of a skill subservient to the successful accomplishment of basic activity, learners have an opportunity to create culturally influenced categorization systems for social practices, such as following written procedures. In the next field note, Martha describes how Jack begins playing a game by skipping the directions. However, he quickly learns that successful game play requires that written procedures be read and followed. Again, mastery of the skill is subservient to the participant’s attainment of a personally meaningful goal: Jack is my second kid. He quickly finds me and we get right to work on Midnight Rescue. He at first bypasses all the instructions in the folder and on the screen. He says it’s too boring. So we begin playing and quickly realize we don’t know how to play the game. The second time, we read all the directions. . . . After a while, he began reading himself.

Roger’s field note describes co-constructed activity in the ZPD as he plays Pond with Taylor. Roger uses questioning strategies to determine Taylor’s prior knowledge and to make an estimate of his level of independent performance at the game. The field note also shows how Roger models writing down directions for assisting Taylor in remembering previous directions. The idea that activity in a ZPD is a co-voyage from other-regulated to self-regulated performance is demonstrated when Taylor, with guided

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assistance, eventually learns how to play the game independently. Taylor’s decision to tell others what he has learned demonstrates meaningful learning—the use of what one has learned in a socially meaningful way in the community: Today was the first time I had seen Taylor in a week, because last Tuesday he was absent and then there was no lab Thursday. Anyway, I was really worried that he might forget everything we had worked on so far but he had not. The first thing we did was begin Pond again. Since he had difficulty last time understanding the game, we reread the adventure task and then I asked him what he thought it meant when it said pattern. “What do you think a pattern is, Taylor?” “It’s when we jump from lily pad to lily pad.” “What do you mean by that?” “How many times and what way the frog goes.” Although he still did not have the concept that a pattern involves repetition, I felt that he had come a long way since the last time we played the game, so we proceeded from there. I let him choose which level (good or expert) he would like to go for. [H]e chose good. To get to the good level he had to play at two different levels and win. At first, when he played the game, he tried to remember the direction and number of times the frog jumped, but this was hard for him. Then I asked him what he or I could do to remember the pattern better and he said we could write it down. So, while he played the game he told me the directions and numbers and I wrote them down for him. He did this for me when I played. After he reached the good level in Pond, he illustrated a hint for the game in the hints folder. He decided he wanted to tell other kids to count and write down their answers. He also drew a picture of the game board.

Lisa’s field note provides another insight into activity in the ZPD. She gives assistance, when needed, to a learner engaged in a complex task, but only as much as is needed. The field note also provides a good example of deep participation. Co-regulated activity leads to the detection of information in the environment that the less experienced participant might not have noticed, using it for sense making, meaning construction, and self-regulation. Both a novice and a more accomplished other also begin to learn about becoming an agent for one’s activity: As usual, Sammy and I communicated well about what we were going to do. He waited patiently as we both worked on trying to find the next game he could play. The game is Super Factory. Sammy read the Guide with a few of my interjections to help him have a fuller understanding of how the game is played. As he read the instructions for Beginner he questioned, “What are we trying to do here, I don’t understand.” I asked him if he understood the word “analyze,” because the instructions said he would have to analyze the cube. I explained to him how it meant to pick apart something, or find out everything you can about something. He caught on, and proceeded to read the rest. When he was finished reading the in-

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structions, he sort of summarized what he was supposed to do. He was then ready to begin. When he started, I didn’t want to just let him have to figure it out all by himself. I decided to remind him of little things or to just question “What do you think you should do here?” I am learning that he does very well when I share with him what I know but not everything, in other words, sharing when he gets stumped or when he looks confused or says he’s confused about what to do. I am learning that communicating is the best way to have a smooth time. I NEED to listen to what he understands and listen to him when he says, “I’m confused.” He took his time to understand how to play, and to figure out what to do. He really wanted to understand the cube and how the pattern went, and would keep trying things until he matched the cube given to him.

Taken together, the field notes reveal the 5thDimension as a supportive environment. According to Fischer and Farrar (1987), levels of skill mastery vary as a function of social-contextual support. Children who receive minimal support attain low levels of mastery that develop unhurriedly. In contrast, children given maximum support achieve high levels of mastery that develop through stagelike intervals. In the 5thDimension, children have an opportunity to engage in progressively more complex tasks. Each participant has the freedom to select the task and level of mastery. Level of mastery is attained through joint activity with a more accomplished other who provides support when needed, but only as much as needed. In our last field note, Patricia describes participants following procedures that mediate collaborative activity, an expected practice in the 5thDimension. Note how the boys have appropriated a social practice for doing things in the 5thDimension. When explicit procedures are not available, they are generated and negotiated: It was interesting to watch this group of boys interact. The boy using the computer first was looking up scripts of old Bart Simpson shows. He was interested in the script, another one of the boys was only interested in pictures of the Simpsons, and another two just wanted to be part of the fun (other boys would come and go). Each boy was allowed 20 min. and an order had been established (explicit rules). They made up their own (implicit rules) through their arguing. When the boys waiting would become bored w/ the scripts the first boy was looking at, they would start harassing him . . . calling him names. . . . He said fine “someone else go!” And he got out of the main seat. Everyone seemed afraid to go because this boy had 5 more minutes. So they encouraged him to use his last 5 minutes. He said “No” and waited for someone else to take the seat. After a while I told them I would if none of them did, so one boy jumped into the seat (cause I had already told them I didn’t like the Simpsons). I think that the boys didn’t really mind so much whose turn it really was, as long as they were looking up something that interested and involved all of them.

Obviously, children who participate in the 5thDimension spend additional time engaged in academic learning tasks such as reading and studying manuals and written procedures for playing games and reading on-line

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procedures while playing games. However, the results demonstrate how learning and development are the result of deep participation in 5thDimension activity. Through guided participation, members of the 5thDimension community get an inside track on how social practices fit together. Field notes suggest that the 5thDimension environment is colonized with affordances (Gibson, 1979), objects, events, and interactions for meaning making. The structure of the 5thDimension encourages ongoing negotiation of personal and shared goals. Participants have opportunities to assume different roles, being the expert in one situation and the novice in another. Co-regulated problem solving is stressed, enabling ensembles to talk to each other as they need to, stopping, looking, talking, asking, making use of all the meaning-making elements that the environment affords. In short, we enhance the opportunity for participants to become aware of the multiple affordances presented by the environment through indication, the active process of more accomplished participants making others aware of information (Reed, 1991). The 5thDimension gives primacy to language, the tool of tools. Language mediates the conversion of experiences into knowledge (Wells, 1999). Discourse is the tool used for constructing ZPDs, for thinking and making sense out of what one is doing. Similarly, discourse is the nexus for making sense out of the environment. Discourse is used to index meaning-making resources, to note how one context is related to another, and to reorganize the cultural tool kit. There is a focus on the completion of tasks leading to the accomplishment of personal goals through the co-construction of ZPDs. The gradual mastery and appropriation of instrumental and psychological tools in ZPDs enable members to meet the demands of the 5thDimension community of practice, advancing from peripheral to central participation in activities. Participants co-construct ways of interacting that are interpreted by the community as doing the 5thDimension. This doing is more than the habitual display of routine skills. Being skillful is more than just the disposition to act with a skill. Doing, in the 5thDimension, is a cultural event that emphasizes meanings, roles, values, practices, and expectancies for becoming a member of the community. CONCLUSIONS Three conclusions may be drawn from this work. First, participation in the 5thDimension results in significantly better performance on tasks requiring the ability to understand and execute basic procedures. Second, increased participation in the 5thDimension results in significantly better comprehension of written procedures. Third, the results demonstrate that organizing social activity around computer-based technology yields significant cognitive outcomes. The mastery and appropriation of skills can be

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arranged for in an environment populated with meaning-making resources and guided participation on socially meaningful tasks. Thus, the 5thDimension participants and environment collaborate to co-construct the fundamental categories of experience out of which social practices emerge.

REFERENCES Bakhtin, M. M. (1981). The dialogic imagination: Four essays by M. M. Bakhtin (M. Holquist, Ed.). Austin: University of Texas Press. Blanton, W. E., Moorman, G. B., Hayes, B. A., & Warner, M. (1997). Effects of participation in the Fifth Dimension on far transfer. Journal of Educational Computing Research, 16, 371–396. Blanton, W. E., & Zimmerman, S. J. (1993, April). The effects of participation in a mixed activity system on the achievement of special needs students: A case study. Paper presented at the annual meeting of the American Educational Research Association, Atlanta, GA. Cole, M. (1996). Cultural psychology: A once and future discipline. Cambridge, MA: Belknap. Fischer, K. W., & Farrar, M. J. (1987). Generalizations about generalization: How a theory of skill development explains both generality and specificity. International Journal of Psychology, 22, 643–677. Gallego, M. A., & Cole, M. (2000). Success is not enough: Challenges to sustaining new forms of educational activity. Computers in Human Behavior, 16, 271–286. Gibson, J. J. (1979). The ecological approach to visual perception. Boston: Houghton-Mifflin. Griffin, P., & Cole, M. (1987). New technologies, basic skills, and the underside of education: What is to be done? In J. Langer (Ed.), Language, literacy, and culture: Issues of society and schooling (pp. 199–231). Norwood, NJ: Ablex. Laboratory of Comparative Human Cognition (1983). Culture and cognition. In P. H. Mussen (Series Ed.), Culture and cognition. W. Kessen (Vol. Ed.), Handbook of child psychology, Volume 1: History, theory, and methods (4th ed., pp. 295–356). New York: Wiley. Lave, J., & Wenger, E. (1991). Situated learning. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Mayer, R. E., Quilici, J. H., Moreno, R., Duran, R., Woodbridge, S., Simon, R., Sanchez, D., & Lavezzo, A. (1997). Cognitive consequences of participation in a Fifth Dimension after-school computer club. Journal of Educational Computing Research, 16, 353–370. Nicolopoulou, A., & Cole, M. (1993). Generation and transmission of shared knowledge in the culture of collaborative learning: The Fifth Dimension, its play-world, and its institutional contexts. In E. A. Forman, N. Minick, & C. A. Stone (Eds.), Contexts for learning: Sociocultural dynamics in children’s development (pp. 283–314). New York: Oxford University Press. Prior, P. A. (1998). Writing/Disciplinarity: A sociohistoric account of literate activity in the academy. Mahwah, NJ: Erlbaum.

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Reed, E. S. (1991). Cognition as the cooperative appropriation of affordances. Ecological Psychology, 3, 135–158. Rogoff, B. (1995). Observing sociocultural activity on three planes: Participatory appropriation, guided participation, and apprenticeship. In J. V. Wertsch, P. del Rio, & A. Alvarez (Eds.), Sociocultural studies of mind (pp. 139–164). Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Rueda, R., Gallego, M. A., & Moll, L. C. (2000). The least restrictive environment: A place or a context? Remedial and Special Education, 21, 70–78. Schustack, M. W., King, C., Gallego, M. A., & Vásquez, O. (1994). A computer-oriented after school activity: The Fifth Dimension and La Clase Mágica. In F. A. Villarruel & R. M. Lerner (Eds.), Environments for socialization and learning (pp. 35–50). San Francisco: Jossey-Bass. Schustack, M., Strauss, R., & Worden, P. (1997). Learning about technology in a non-instructional environment. Journal of Educational Computing Research, 16, 337–351. Scribner, S., & Cole, M. (1981). The psychology of literacy. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Vygotsky, L. S. (1978). Mind in society. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Wells, G. (1999). Dialogic inquiry: Towards a sociocultural theory of education. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Wertsch, J. V. (1998). Mind as action. New York: Oxford University Press.

9

Commentary: Ingredients of Successful After-School Programs— The Experience of KLICK Yong Zhao and Mark Gillingham

The stories of after-school programs presented in this book help us understand some reasons for program success or failure. Money, people, and social arrangements seem to be important ingredients for successful and sustainable programs. None of these ingredients alone ensures success of a program, but when they are all present, a program has a better chance of success and is more likely to continue for a number of years. In these last pages of the book, we discuss these three ingredients. We take a close look at the KLICK after-school program (Zhao, Mishra, & Girod, 2000), a well-funded, wellstaffed operation with substantial organizational support.

MONEY: FUNDING AFTER-SCHOOL PROGRAMS The after-school programs presented in this volume present stark contrasts in funding. Some programs (e.g., KLICK) are well funded, at least for the present, and other programs are not. It is not just the flow of money that creates a good after-school program, of course, but a sufficient quantity of money makes it easier for good people to offer good programs. Staff can be hired so that a program doesn’t depend on a single individual. Equipment (whether it is hardware and software for computers, Lego parts, or books) can be purchased. As Mike Cole (1996) reminds us in discussing Fifth Dimension work (see Gallego & Blanton, this volume, for more discussion),

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some of the most serious problems that after-school programs face are related to funding—understaffed sites and unrepaired or dated equipment. After-school programs are funded through different sources. The U.S. government has an ambitious program—the 21st Century Community Learning Centers program—that received congressional appropriations of $846 million in fiscal year 2001. It will support close to 4,000 rural and inner-city schools in close to 1,000 communities (KLICK is one of them, having received a grant of about $4 million in 1998, another $8 million in 2000). Other programs described in the book (e.g., Alvermann, Hagood, Heron, Young, & Ricks; Bruce & Bruce; Youniss, Gillingham, Nowatzki, & Roche, all this volume) have also received federal or foundation funds, from the U.S. Department of Education, the National Science Foundation, and the Annenberg Challenge, respectively. Some programs (e.g., Odyssey) are financed mostly through fees paid by participants’ parents. (This is a traditional source of support, of course: Parents pay for nonparental child care.) Funding matters to programs. Grosshandler and Grosshandler (this volume) describe in vivid and sometimes painful detail their struggle to keep Odyssey alive. Wasik, Bond, and Hindman (this volume) describe grassroots tutoring efforts where resources barely cover the cost of materials. The KLICK center in Baldwin (see Garner, Zhao, & Gillingham, this volume) would not exist if it were not for federal funds. The town of Baldwin is very poor. As Garner points out in the Introduction to this volume, the median household income in the area is low, and the percentage of children living in poverty is high. We know that a small community in a poor rural county could not have purchased staff and equipment (as well as transportation, training, and technical support) without external funds. We worry about what will happen when federal funding ends. There are, of course, benefits to running any program efficiently. When, for example, we discovered that none of 10 original KLICK sites had spent all their budgeted funding during a given year, we were able to carry over some funds into the next year, making it possible for the first KLICK sites to operate an extra year after the end of the first grant without any expenditure of new funds.

PEOPLE: THE ROLE OF AFTER-SCHOOL LEADERS Sticking with something seems to be an important part of leadership of after-school programs. Think about the Asian Literature Club (Vyas & Mishra, this volume). The adult leader relied on participants’ responses to change the goals, purposes, and structure of the club, but she stuck with the club, even when she wasn’t sure it would survive. There are other elements in adult leadership. Leaders have breadth of knowledge. They are responsive to the needs of the children with whom they work. Also, they are willing to put in long hours—especially the ones

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who teach all day and then work in after-school centers at the end of the school day. Some communities cannot find good leadership. Think about Granville School in Chicago (see Youniss et al., this volume). The school had a well-equipped computer lab, but staff and administration chose not to participate in the Chicago Computer Club program. We know of other programs that couldn’t complete documents on time and, for that reason, couldn’t receive funds that had already been awarded. Various people associated with the Fifth Dimension program (see, e.g., Cole, 1996; Gallego & Blanton, this volume; Gallego & Cole, 2000) have written about how some university-community partnerships struggle through adversity of various sorts (including funding hurdles) and other partnerships cease operations entirely. Clearly, it takes more than money to create and maintain a successful after-school program. Leaders of after-school programs are a rare, creative, and precious group. Dean, the leader of Odyssey (see Grosshandler & Grosshandler, this volume) has kept the program going through all sorts of adversity. Mac, the leader in Baldwin (see Garner et al., this volume), continues to get very high attendance after several years of operation. The leader in a Detroit KLICK center has attracted new support from local businesses and the school administration. Good leaders know their communities. They know the differences between school and after-school programs. They understand what attracts children to their programs and what keeps them coming. They are willing to learn new things—from university colleagues, from community members, and from the children with whom they work. (As for this last point, learning from child participants, think about what Alvermann et al., this volume, had to say about adolescents in the Read and Talk Clubs—how they let adults know what materials they wanted to read and how they wanted to discuss them. New ideas for organization of the clubs emerged from them.) SOCIAL ARRANGEMENTS: ORGANIZATIONAL SUPPORT FOR AFTER-SCHOOL PROGRAMS It seems to us that most after-school programs (especially programs serving rural and inner-city communities where many children live in poverty) benefit from the expertise and social support made available through large networks. There are at least four advantages to large networks. First, a good after-school program needs creative ideas, ideas that differentiate after-school programs from the school day and that offer more than basic child care. Many of those ideas are found in universities and colleges. Every program described in this volume has some linkage to a university. As Gallego and Cole (2000) describe Fifth Dimension work (similar in its basic outline to many other efforts discussed in the book), many adults at

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the after-school sites are college students, taking an on-campus course that prepares them to work in the community. Community hosts (schools, etc.) provide some supervision, some space, and some equipment. Second, a good after-school program needs expertise that may not be available locally. As the stories presented in this volume suggest, a program that wants to be more than basic child care or an extension of the school day needs knowledgeable people who can work with children. KLICK has had considerable success in providing out-of-community expertise in advanced digital video, Web publishing, robotics, and other complex areas of computing. Third, even talented, knowledgeable leaders of after-school programs need intellectual and emotional support. Running after-school programs can be very challenging, very lonely. Connecting leaders via electronic communication and face-to-face meetings has proven to be a good way for KLICK on-site coordinators to share their ideas and feelings. Fourth, a large network can help create a sense of community for both the leaders and participants of the programs. This sense of community can help retain participants as well as keep the program going. The KLICK network provides many opportunities for community building among its current cohort of 20 members. There are weekly on-line chats for children, and a weekly newsletter reports happenings within the consortium. There are monthly on-site coordinator training meetings and regular consortium-wide competitions. An annual summer KLICK Leadership Institute has children and adults from all 20 sites come together for a week of learning and fun on the Michigan State University campus. These activities help participants identify with the program. Other large programs described in the book make similar arrangements for groups to come together. As we close this discussion about organizational support, we should mention an obvious point, which brings us back to our initial comments about funding: Organizational support costs money. After-school programs—good ones—are not cheap. However, the potential benefits of having good programs, as the chapters in this book demonstrate, are enormous. NOTE KLICK is supported in part by a 21st Century Community Learning Centers grant from the U.S. Department of Education.

REFERENCES Cole, M. (1996). Cultural psychology: A once and future discipline. Cambridge, MA: Belknap. Gallego, M. A., & Cole, M. (2000). Success is not enough: Challenges to sustaining new forms of educational activity. Computers in Human Behavior, 16, 271–286. Zhao, Y., Mishra, P., & Girod, M. (2000). A clubhouse is a clubhouse is a clubhouse. Computers in Human Behavior, 16, 287–300.

10

Commentary: Crossing Lines Patricia A. Alexander and Jonna M. Kulikowich

When the bell rings at 3:00 P.M., the world of students is transformed. For most, they move from a context where learning has a certain readily identifiable character and where social interactions with peers and adults follow established rituals within constrained parameters. After the bell rings, however, variations in contexts and activities are as numerous as the individual differences of the students themselves. Some participate in sports. Some perform in the band. Some run to their buses hoping to get home in time for their favorite afternoon television show, or head to the mall to hang out with friends. And others, as we learn in these chapters, take part in various after-school programs, each with its own unique mission and configuration. For an entire population of school-aged learners, the ringing of the dismissal bell is a critical point of demarcation. On the one side is the context of formal schooling. On the other is the world of after-school. So much of what we learn in the pages of this volume about after-school programming comes by contrasting that world to the activities, goals, and interactions associated with formal education. That is why we have chosen to cast our examination of these diverse and intriguing portrayals of after-school programs within the metaphor of crossing lines. The metaphor, crossing lines, may invoke the images of stark boundaries like those we view on maps. Although we will present five themes

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that may similarly suggest such stark distinctions, our intentions are otherwise. Rather, what we envision is that these lines are quite permeable, like the membranes of cells. In a cell, there is continuous movement of matter from without to within and out again. So it is with these after-school programs. The fundamental beliefs, knowledge, and expectations of student and adult participants do not cease to exist with the ringing of the school bell. Some residuals are carried forward with the agents as they step across those imaginary lines. And those residuals influence, for better or for worse, the world on the other side. Of course, the most evident line we must discuss is that which exists between the realms of in-school and out-of-school. What is it like for student and adult participants as they negotiate these two contexts? To some contributors to this volume, the venues on the two sides of this line represent rather competing contexts that give rise to tensions and conflicts in participants as they negotiate program boundaries (e.g., Vyas & Mishra; Youniss, Gillingham, Nowatzki, & Roche). To others, the line between these two is far more permeable, with after-school programs complementing or extending the world of formal schooling (e.g., Bruce & Bruce; Grosshandler & Grosshandler; Wasik, Bond, & Hindman). Related to this broader theme, various lines demarcate the agenda of after-school programs, as compared with those of formal schooling. One of those lines draws on the contrast between tending to one’s own physical needs or well-being in the world outside school, and overseeing one’s own educational nurturance. Much is made throughout this volume about the problems that arise when students are left to their own devices once they cross the line from in-school to out-of-school. From Garner, Zhao, and Gillingham, statistical evidence is plentiful, and we learn, for example, that whereas crimes committed by adults reach their heights by 11:00 P.M., crimes committed by juveniles are most numerous between 3:00 and 4:00 P.M.—just after the school bell rings. But when they cross the line into the realm of out-of-school, many students must also care for their academic needs independent of adult guidance. What are the consequences of such educational self-care? Here, we explore the boundary between these two forms of self-care, physical and educational. We discovered another boundary when we examined why students attend after-school programs. Some students, such as the students in the Project SEARCH program (Bruce & Bruce), seek to gain knowledge and skills that may help identify career paths in science. For others, after-school programs are seen more as places to hang out and have fun. These varied goals define what we call the line between serious work and serious play. There is also the line that adult participants must cross between allowing students choice and maintaining control. To what degree are student participants free to define the context of these after-school programs and their roles within them? To what degree and in what manner are parameters set

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by those ultimately responsible to parents or funding agencies for the success of the program? We see this theme as particularly relevant to issues of motivation raised throughout these chapters and reflected in the line between what we call control and choice. We were struck by the manner in which authors composed descriptions of their programs and provided evidence of programmatic achievements. For us, this theme reflected the line that exists between documentation and narration. On the one side, there were efforts to establish program accountability through conventional means (i.e., documentation). On the other, there were the rich stories authors shared about their own experiences or those of student participants. These narratives consisted of anecdotes, chronologies, conversations, and scenes from these nonschool experiences that invited readers to sense the mood and tenor of these environments. Again, we emphasize that we see these “lines” as permeable markers, not impermeable barriers. By understanding the dynamic movement across these lines, we can better grasp the nature of after-school programs. By seeing one side of the issues we raise from the vantage point of the other side, as we do in the study of persuasion (Murphy & Alexander, 2001) and conceptual change (Guzzetti & Hynd, 1998), we gain more than if we approach them from a singular perspective.

IN-SCHOOL/OUT-OF-SCHOOL As noted, one of the characteristics of crossing lines between in-school and out-of-school programs is that some residual of those settings is carried forward into the next. One issue for contributing authors is how much cross-setting fertilization they perceive as desirable. That is, how much should the discontinuities versus the continuities in those in-school and out-of-school realms be central to program operation? On the “discontinuities” side, several authors voiced the opinion that success for their after-school program was largely dependent on students’ ability to discard any semblance of traditional in-school contexts as they crossed into the after-school environment (e.g., Garner et al.; Youniss et al.). To these authors, “out-of-school” must be clearly distinguishable from traditional school settings, since children and youth find settings in which after-school activities are indistinguishable from school ones unappealing (see, e.g., Garner et al.). In this instance, it is the contrasting images of in-school and out-of-school that are held up for scrutiny. For example, in-school is portrayed as a place where involvement is required and the academic agenda mandated (Youniss et al.). Teachers determine what will be done and by whom, and they regulate the discourse of others while doing most of the talking themselves (Alvermann, Hagood, Heron, Young, & Ricks; Garner et al.). Further, learning in these in-school contexts is depicted as fragmented, unengaging, and relatively uncon-

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nected to students’ personal lives, interests, and goals (Gallego & Blanton; Vyas & Mishra). Out-of-school contexts, by comparison, are marked by their voluntary nature. Students can come and go as they please and use this power to exert strong influence on program agenda. Out-of-school contexts are also described as engaging places where adults play supporting instead of starring roles and where student talk dominates—if not at first then certainly as the character of the program transforms (Alvermann et al.). Let us also not forget that food and drink seem to be ever-present features of out-of-school contexts, and are an element that Youniss et al. consider essential for success in after-school programming. There are certainly data to support this perception of the realms on each side of the in-school and out-of-school line. For instance, there is ample evidence that students learn better when they are physically and cognitively engaged (Cognition and Technology Group at Vanderbilt, 1996). Also, learning is enhanced when students see the educative purpose as meaningful and personally relevant (Alexander & Murphy, 1998) and when they can contribute to the ongoing agenda (Deci & Ryan, 1985). Being nourished after a long day does not hurt, either. Yet, other programs described in this volume borrowed more intentionally from what we know about effective teaching practices. This smaller “continuities” cluster advocated for some transference from the in-school and out-of-school venues. Of course, even these authors acknowledge that there are less desirable aspects of schooling that would interfere with programmatic goals, such as less opportunity for one-to-one attention (Wasik et al.) and more stereotypical notions of science (Bruce & Bruce). Thus, this cluster accentuates positive aspects of in-school settings in their own programs (e.g., committed and knowledgeable adults) and seeks to constrain cross-line fertilization only to those favorable elements. In the Wasik et al. review of effective tutoring programs, for example, there is discussion of the elements of best in-school practices that relate to greater effects for after-school tutoring programs. So, why should anyone have to live with any tension between the in-school and out-of-school worlds? Why not simply make in-school contexts indistinguishable from out-of-school ones? The answer is that we cannot and perhaps do not want to eliminate the transformations that occur when one crosses the boundary between in-school and out-of-school. These two realms exist because they must. Further, because they serve diverse purposes, in-school and out-of-school programs must remain distinguishable to some degree. In effect, as soon as we attempt to make out-of-school the model for in-school functioning, we recognize the faulty logic that ensues. Even the most effective teachers operating in ideal learning environments could not adopt some of the central characteristics of out-of-school programs. Schools cannot operate on voluntary principles, where students choose to

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come and go as they please. Schools cannot ignore their educative mission or allow that mission to become a side effect or background to other goals. Nor can those responsible for guiding young or naïve learners along the path toward competence in schools permit those learners free rein in choosing what is to be learned and how (Alexander, 1997). Moreover, without the existence of the seemingly less attractive in-school contexts, after-school programs would not be able to complement, extend, or elaborate in the manner that they do. For instance, students who have not begun to unlock the linguistic code would find it unrewarding to share their interpretations of books, even those they self-select. Granted, in some cases it seems that the programs exist primarily for the purpose of correcting misperceptions fed by traditional education. In Project SEARCH, those misperceptions pertain to the very nature of science as a discipline, whereas in others, they deal with malformed views of gender (e.g., Alvermann et al.) and cultural diversity (e.g., Vyas & Mishra). But, what we learn from research on persuasion (e.g., Murphy & Alexander, 2001) is that we have a better chance of altering beliefs when relevant notions—whether favorable or unfavorable—exist and can be given voice. Put another way, it is easier to help students reconceptualize science or to rethink their views on diversity when they have some foundation of knowledge and experience upon which to draw. In-school contexts have long played a role in establishing such academic foundations for a cross-section of our young population, in spite of whatever other shortcomings those contexts may manifest. Perhaps the lesson learned from the Bruce and Bruce and Wasik et al. chapters in this volume, as well as from other contributions, is that as the academic mission of a program rises in importance so does its need to appropriate the best features of in-school contexts. What is most important about the out-of-school programs described in this volume is not that they can be distinguished from in-school contexts, but that those distinctions fit the goals and audience they are intended to serve. Thus, when that bell rings at 3:00 P.M. and students cross the line between in-school and out-of-school contexts, they are not simply throwing off the semblances of one venue, but are purposefully acting to take on the attributes of another.

PHYSICAL SELF-CARE/EDUCATIONAL SELF-CARE Another strong theme of this volume involves the notion of self-care. After-school programs are presented as havens from unhealthy environments where students tend to their own physical and social needs, often with negative consequences both for themselves and for others (see, e.g., Garner). There is no question that the trend toward self-care is a growing national concern. That case is made often and strongly in these chapters (e.g., Garner et al.; Youniss et al.). There is also no question that students deserve suitable

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places to hang out—places that buffer and protect them from undesirable circumstances. Yet, as students move into the realm of after-school programs of the kind captured in this volume, there is much more that is and should be taking place than physical self-care. There is care for the mind and for the academic development of these children and youth. In that way, these programs clearly exist as alternatives to educational self-care. Grosshandler and Grosshandler describe this as protection from physical violence and also from anonymity of some traditional settings. In certain instances, such as the tutoring programs analyzed by Wasik et al., the educational agenda holds sway over any focus on fun, leisure, or basic custodial care. In some cases, concern for educational well-being extends beyond the children to adults or students who assist. For example, Project SEARCH was created as a learning experience for university science students, as well as to improve the science education of children in the community. Student mentors or assistants in other programs, such as Odyssey (Grosshandler & Grosshandler), also gained from the after-school experience. In fact, we are of the opinion that to think of these innovative and enriching programs solely as arenas for physical self-care overlooks one of their valuable features. These programs intend much more than physical self-care of participants, and that is what sets them apart from other after-school venues where children and youth gather when the bell rings at 3:00 P.M. In effect, when we hold these models up against other standards for after-school programming, such as sports or social clubs, we see that each one espouses goals that pertain explicitly to student learning. We wonder if these authors would devote themselves to the creation and maintenance of these after-school programs if it were not for the educational elements—if they did not assume that they were making differences in students’ thinking, problem solving, epistemological or ontological beliefs, and self-concept. For example, where would the Asian Literature Club be without its concern for the high school students’ exploration of bicultural identity through literacy activities (Vyas & Mishra)? The same could be said about the Critical Literacy Club and its focus on gender issues (Alvermann et al.). Both programs place high value on students’ sociocultural understanding of self by inviting them to participate in literacy discussions. We do not want to underestimate the importance of physical self-care, but we do want to note that in many instances the parents of participating students wanted more from these after-school programs than just the physical self-care of their children. Those parents supported their children’s attendance, sometimes financially, with the expectation that their children would gain knowledge, skills, or insights that could not be garnered elsewhere (e.g., Grosshandler & Grosshandler; Wasik et al.). In fact, at Odyssey,

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parents depended on Dean’s expertise to help students develop academic competence. Further, just as there are degrees of physical self-care, there are certainly degrees of educational self-care within these programs. Some are far more student-directed and participant-defined than others. Some have far more well-defined academic goals than others. These are issues we discuss in the topics that follow. Yet, in all cases, when students leave the world of school and cross into these realms of after-school programs, they undeniably step into settings that aim to offer alternatives to self-care both of the body and of the mind.

SERIOUS WORK/SERIOUS PLAY When reading the chapters in this volume, we continually encountered the word “play” (see, e.g., Gallego & Blanton; Grosshandler & Grosshandler). Authors frequently characterized after-school programs as places of play, in contrast to in-school settings where play is often discouraged. In fact, Youniss et al. explicitly described in-school as devoid of play—a condition they attributed to the pressures of high-stakes testing. Thus, with the removal of such stressful factors as testing, grades, or assignments, students in their program experience playful activity. To a certain degree, this contrast between work and play as indicative of in-school and out-of-school environments is misleading. Upon deeper reflection, we witnessed consistent crossing between the line of what we will refer to as “serious work” and “serious play” in these descriptions. Although both of these realms constitute activities that are goal-directed (e.g., building a Lego model, preparing for a test, performing a role in a play), we believe that serious work relies on our abilities to use our knowledge and strategies effectively (Alexander & Judy, 1988). By comparison, serious play permits our knowledge to interact more freely with personal or individual interests (Hidi, 1990). In any academic venture where there is meaningful learning, we argue that there is continuous movement between serious work and serious play. The resulting dynamic among knowledge, strategies, and interest in pursuit of a meaningful goal allows for crossings of the line between work and play (Alexander, 1997; Dewey, 1913). When these dynamics are optimally experienced, Csikszentmihalyi (1990) might say we are in flow. To illustrate this movement between serious work and serious play, we look at the activities of two programs in this volume: Project SEARCH (Bruce & Bruce) and Fifth Dimension (Gallego & Blanton). The goals of Project SEARCH include invitations to university personnel and school-aged students to collaborate in scientific exploration. In fact, at Project SEARCH, participants aim to practice science as scientists do. Like scientists, children theorize, design, experiment, and try things out. In effect, one major contribution of Project SEARCH is the changing of beliefs

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and perceptions among children of what science is and who scientists are. Science is not about finding correct solutions in textbooks. Neither can the procedures be mastered quickly. The serious work of science involves many years of commitment of regular-looking people, not nerds, who cherish dedication in work and persistence. But also, science, as with any other domain, entails pressure-free and playful observation. Csikszentmihalyi and Sawyer (1995) consider both serious work and serious play to be sources of creative insight. Based on their interviews with renowned scientists, they discovered that innovation happens in stages. First, scientists labor at defining their problems, searching for resources, and contemplating solutions. But then, these experts step back from the process and just tinker with ideas. Often, this playing with ideas occurs when one is relaxing alone. Through the transition between effort (i.e., serious work) and relaxation (i.e., serious play), an important insight is realized. Then, serious work resumes as professionals attempt to bring their projects to closure and convey their results to others. Csikszentmihalyi and Sawyer’s stages apply not only to science but also to any complex domain of human endeavor. Within the walls of Project SEARCH, the permeable lines of serious work and serious play are often crossed, not merely because students need breaks from effortful activity, but because we have to step back and notice things without pressure. Doing so motivates us to tackle new challenges and to achieve closure. Like Project SEARCH participants, students in Fifth Dimension (Gallego & Blanton) manifest these crossings between serious work and serious play. One’s first impression of Fifth Dimension may be of a world of games such as Lego/Logo and Battleship. Thus, all activities seem representative cases of serious play. Upon closer examination, however, we learn that students learn a great deal about effective communication. Here, the line is crossed from serious play to serious work. At Fifth Dimension, students work to acquire the knowledge and strategies of social conventions through written and verbal tasks. These social conventions include the abilities to delegate tasks, establish and abide by rules, and negotiate wisely with others. Many modern perspectives on learning and educational programs espouse tenets of community and society (e.g., Lave & Wenger, 1991; Rogoff, 1990). Those holding to these perspectives pay careful attention to the conventions of participants’ language and communication, using ethnomethodological tools such as conversation and discourse analyses (e.g., Schegloff, 1992; Stevens & Hall, 1998). What is rare in these programs, however, is any explicit assistance to help students who must become attuned to their communication patterns. Fifth Dimension accomplishes this by requiring students to become socially obligated. As such, students do not move from game to game by defeating the villain in the highest level of competition. Instead, task cards specify obligations. Students fulfill these

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obligations by communicating in multiple forms (e.g., personal journals, hints books, videos, and artwork)—all manners of inscription representing both the knowledge and strategies used to play the game. We could not help but think that students could compile a portfolio without awareness of what they had accomplished. We also wondered if such purposeful record keeping is one of the main reasons for the significant gains among participants on near and far transfer tasks in computer skills, mathematics, and reading. To us, this seems likely. It is difficult to leave this section without emphasizing the importance of knowledge, strategies, and interest. True, it may be the case that in-school is a place where testing is prominent and pressures to reach criterion scores extreme (see Youniss et al.). But, even in after-school programs, where the demands of testing are removed, the interplay of knowledge, strategies, and interest remains extremely important. Therefore, it is important to seek out engaging experiences both in-school and out-of-school that promote principled knowledge acquisition, strategic processing, and personal interest (Alexander, Murphy, & Woods, 1996; Garner, 1987; Hidi, 1990). These three variables remain important foci for discussion as we explore the boundaries between control and choice. CONTROL/CHOICE For some authors (e.g., Garner et al.; Vyas & Mishra), school is characterized as a place where control of activity resides primarily with teachers who impart knowledge to their students. Students rarely have choices in deciding what to study or what types of tasks to complete. In contrast, all things are matters of choice for students in after-school programs—where participants sit (e.g., Vyas & Mishra), what books they read and what topics they discuss (Alvermann et al.), what games they play (Gallego & Blanton), what procedures they follow in computer assembly (Youniss et al.), and what Lego designs they create (Grosshandler & Grosshandler). However, we question whether crossing the line between control and choice rests simply on the issue of who makes decisions. In fact, we contend that whether in-school or out-of-school, control versus choice is a line that is crossed dependent on at least two important factors. These factors can be framed by two simple questions: Who has knowledge? And, what are the goals that we choose to adopt? The first of these factors pertains actually to who has principled knowledge. Principled knowledge, unlike knowledge of simple facts and procedures, is enduring and transfers readily from situation to situation (Alexander & Murphy, 1998). Additionally, those with principled knowledge tend to be strategic in how they use information in the environment. Finally, they display marked enthusiasm as they work to achieve goals, thereby illustrating their personal interests. In many of the chapters in this volume, we see that there are interesting adults in the programs who know a lot about a lot of different things. We re-

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fer to individuals who have these characteristics as knowledgeable others (Kulikowich & Young, 2001). Knowledgeable others provide scaffolding for those who are less knowledgeable (e.g., McNair, 1998; Metcalf, Krajcik, & Soloway, 2000). Such scaffolding regulates the movement across the line from control to choice. Those who scaffold well also know how to manipulate the environment so that those less knowledgeable can begin to acquire the knowledge and strategies necessary to regulate the dynamics between control and choice (e.g., Alexander, 1997; White & Frederiksen, 2000). Arich account of the value of knowledgeable others to the movement between control and choice is chronicled in Grosshandler and Grosshandler. While working with the children who attend Odyssey, Dean is described as an arbiter who monitors design planning and implementation of a Lego environment. He does not tell students what to build or control their building. The students make those choices. However, Dean maintains the rules by which students build, and thus exercises some control of the learning environment. Some rules are simple. One child cannot remove another child’s creation from display. Resources must be allocated effectively. If parts are limited, Dean decides how to obtain parts from previous creations while minimizing damage to original works. Other rules are more complex, placing students in situations of justification. For example, children must explain why a part in an existing creation is essential in a new design. These simple and complex rules are important social constructions, for they assist children’s understanding of the boundaries between control and choice. Rules control what others can and cannot do to our personal creations. Rules also demand that we make meaningful choices (e.g., who has the right to a needed part?). Therefore, as the knowledgeable other, Dean does more than provide an environment of creative opportunity for his students. He constantly engages with the cognitive and social dynamics as a role model at Odyssey. Consistently, he balances control and choice. His context is rather simple but well chosen. One lazy Susan turntable permits small hands equal access to tools, and only two bookshelves afford display of children’s carefully selected creations. Yet, Dean establishes a context blossoming with activity. This context allows each participant to cross the line between control and choice, while respecting others’ needs for control and choice. The second factor that catalyzes movement between control and choice pertains to one’s goals. The goals that we adopt should be meaningful or purposeful (Kulikowich & Young, 2001; Young & Barab, 1999). Because they are meaningful or purposeful, the realization of these goals bears outcomes of clear value (Sadler, Coyle, & Schwartz, 2000). Reaching a meaningful goal requires self-constraint, the dynamic movement between control and choice (Young & Barab, 1999). That is, with any goal that specifies a clear outcome (e.g., fixing a computer, designing a website, or maintaining an after-school program), individuals regulate between controlling

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stages of a plan and allowing for choices that enable revision and modification of that plan. Vyas and Mishra discuss this extensively with their goal to design an after-school Asian literature club. Another example of such self-constraint can be found in the activities of the Baldwin center (see Garner et al.). Students at the Baldwin center recognized the everyday community need for an emergency (911) home page. Choices of websites belonged to the students, but they exercised control in selection based on an important societal need (i.e., helping citizens acquire emergency information). The societal need of a 911 home page was a meaningful goal with a clear outcome that had high value—providing information that could save lives. Its accomplishment was achieved, in part, through the orchestration between control and choice.

DOCUMENTATION/NARRATION The final line crossed depicts the movement between documentation and narration. We see documentation as a means of justification and accountability, whereas narration is a means of revelation and illustration. It is difficult to discuss the line between documentation and narration without reference to methodology, since many align these two realms with particular approaches. Documentation tends to be quantitative, resting on descriptive data and statistical analysis. As examples, in her introduction, Garner informs us about the proportion of the nation’s mothers who are in the labor force. In recording the activities of Odyssey, Grosshandler and Grosshandler tell us what percentage of sessions were taped. Other documentation related to financial expenditures (e.g., Grosshandler & Grosshandler), attendance records (Garner et al.), and the power of test scores in administrative decision making (e.g., Youniss et al.). In contrast to documentation, narration tends to be qualitative. Unlike the statistics and percentages that typify documentation, narration takes on many verbal forms ranging from chronologies (e.g., Grosshandler & Grosshandler) to conversation (e.g., Alvermann et al.) to rich descriptions of artifacts, creations, events, and settings (e.g., Bruce & Bruce; Garner et al.; Vyas & Mishra). However, we believe that it is misleading to examine the crossing of documentation to narration by mere inspection of one’s quantitative versus qualitative approaches. Both quantitative and qualitative accounts can easily justify our need to establish after-school programs (i.e., documentation). Similarly, both numbers and words can convey stories (i.e., narration) about our belief systems, perceptions, and values revealing who we are. Therefore, the important feature to observe in the movement between documentation and narration is our set of intentions for communication. Two examples from this volume showcase the importance of documentation and narration based on authors’ intentions to communicate about

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their programs. First, many statisticians would be pleased to see the meta-analysis of Wasik et al. on after-school tutoring programs. The authors evaluate 11 programs intended to help at-risk students become better readers. Using effect sizes, they inform us of the degree to which tutoring improves reading and spelling by comparing scores of those who attend after-school programs with those who do not. Wasik et al. also provide information about the number and length of sessions, activities in sessions, and descriptive statistics about tutors and tutees. From this approach to documentation, we learn about principals who vary in their commitment to the programs and the effect such commitment has on program success. We are also informed about the nature of training provided to tutors, as well as the need for incentives (e.g., stipends, recognition ceremonies, or certificates) to keep tutors involved in these programs. Finally, we even become aware that tutors wore vests identifying their after-school affiliation to promote a sense of belonging. In effect, the authors’ documentation permits identification of essential components for success (i.e., justification) in after-school tutoring programs. By comparison, Alvermann et al. rely extensively on narration to give us rich, descriptive excerpts of students’ book discussions. It would be difficult for us to forget Bob as he talked with Beth, Moon, and Diego about the pink pen. As we turned the pages, we learned of Bob’s continuing struggle with stereotypic gender perceptions. This struggle becomes visible through conversation and event summaries. Through narration, we are invited into the social dynamics among students as they converse about important cultural, emotional, and personal issues. Alvermann et al.’s narration provides more than an appreciation for students’ discussions of books. Their storytelling is a revelation. We learn about who the students in the book clubs are.

CLOSING THOUGHTS ON CROSSING LINES When the alarm rings at 7:00 A.M., the lives of students are again transformed as they begin the transition from out-of-school to in-school settings. This act reminds us that students are continually crossing lines in their educational lives, as are those who guide their learning and development. In this commentary, the metaphor of crossing lines between in-school and after-school has allowed us to capture some of the underlying themes in this collection of informative and varied chapters. Those themes related to the permeable boundaries between one’s physical and educational self-care, students’ serious work and serious play, participants’ control and choice, and finally, authors’ documentation and narration. As we became immersed in the metaphor of crossing lines, we were reminded of the important interplay among characteristics that shape best teaching and learning experiences. Globally, there is constant interplay

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among physical, cognitive, affective, social, and contextual factors whether we are in school or out of school. Specific manifestations of these global features appeared throughout the chapters. They included principled knowledge, strategic regulation, personal interests, meaningful goals, and clear intentions for communication about our accomplishments or revelations of who we are. The blending of these elements made us think of Hegel (1807/1977) and his concept of the dialectic. The overarching metaphor of crossing lines may appear to cast sides as opposing forces. However, when you move between the lines, the sense of opposition diminishes, leading to a synthesis that is better than what exists independently on either side. This synthesis can now serve us as we guide students in their continual and inevitable crossings from the realm of in-school to out-of-school and back again.

REFERENCES Alexander, P. A. (1997). Mapping the multidimensional nature of domain learning: The interplay of cognitive, motivational, and strategic forces. In M. L. Maehr & P. R. Pintrich (Eds.), Advances in motivation and achievement (Vol. 10, pp. 213–250). Greenwich, CT: JAI. Alexander, P. A., & Judy, J. E. (1988). The interaction of domain-specific and strategic knowledge in academic performance. Review of Educational Research, 58, 375–404. Alexander, P. A., & Murphy, P. K. (1998). Profiling the differences in students’ knowledge, interest, and strategic processing. Journal of Educational Psychology, 90, 435–447. Alexander, P. A., Murphy, P. K., & Woods, B. S. (1996). Of squalls and fathoms: Navigating the seas of educational innovation. Educational Researcher, 25 (3), 31–36, 39. Cognition and Technology Group at Vanderbilt. (1996). Looking at technology in context: A framework for understanding technology and education research. In D. C. Berliner & R. C. Calfee (Eds.), Handbook of educational psychology (pp. 807–840). New York: Simon & Schuster Macmillan. Csikszentmihalyi, M. (1990). Flow: The psychology of optimal experience. New York: Harper. Czikszentmihalyi, M., & Sawyer, K. (1995). Creative insight: The social dimension of a solitary moment. In R. J. Sternberg & J. E. Davidson (Eds.), The nature of insight (pp. 329–363). Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Deci, E. L., & Ryan, R. M. (1985). Intrinsic motivation and self-determination in human behavior. New York: Plenum Press. Dewey, J. (1913). Interest and effort in education. Boston: Riverside. Garner, R. (1987). Metacognition and reading comprehension. Norwood, NJ: Ablex. Guzzetti, B., & Hynd, C. (1998). Perspectives on conceptual change. Mahwah, NJ: Erlbaum. Hegel, G.W.F. (1977). The phenomenology of spirit. (A. V. Miller, Trans.). Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. (Original work published 1807)

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Hidi, S. (1990). Interest and its contribution as a mental resource for learning. Review of Educational Research, 60, 549–572. Kulikowich, J. M., & Young, M. F. (2001). Locating an ecological psychology methodology for situated action. The Journal of the Learning Sciences, 10 (1 & 2), 165–202. Lave, J., & Wenger, E. (1991). Situated learning: Legitimate peripheral participation. New York: Cambridge University Press. McNair, R. E. (1998). Building a context for mathematical discussion. In M. Lampert & M. L. Blunk (Eds.), Talking mathematics in school: Studies of teaching and learning (pp. 82–106). Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Metcalf, S. J., Krajcik, J., & Soloway, E. (2000). MODEL-IT: A design retrospective. In M. J. Jacobson & R. B. Kozma (Eds.), Innovations in science and mathematics education: Advanced designs for technologies of learning (pp. 77–115). Mahwah, NJ: Erlbaum. Murphy, P. K., & Alexander, P. A. (2001). Persuasion as a dynamic, multidimensional process: A viewfinder for individual and intraindividual differences. Manuscript submitted for publication. Rogoff, B. (1990). Apprenticeship in thinking: Cognitive development in social context. New York: Oxford University Press. Sadler, P. M., Coyle, H. P., & Schwartz, M. (2000). Engineering competitions in the middle school classroom: Key elements in developing effective design challenges. The Journal of the Learning Sciences, 9 (3), 299–327. Schegloff, E. A. (1992). On talk and its institutional occasions. In P. Drew & J. Heritage (Eds.), Talk at work: Interaction in institutional settings (pp. 101–134). Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Stevens, R., & Hall, R. (1998). Disciplined perception: Learning to see in technoscience. In M. Lampert & M. L. Blunk (Eds.), Talking mathematics in school: Studies of teaching and learning (pp. 107–149). Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. White, B. Y., & Frederiksen, J. R. (2000). Technological tools and instructional approaches for making scientific inquiry accessible to all. In M. J. Jacobson & R. B. Kozma (Eds.), Innovations in science and mathematics education: Advanced designs for technologies of learning (pp. 321–359). Mahwah, NJ: Erlbaum. Young, M. F., & Barab, S. A. (1999). Perception of the raison d’être in anchored instruction: An ecological psychology perspective. Journal of Educational Computing Research, 20, 119–141.

11

Commentary: After-School Programs and Structured Activities that Support Children’s Development Deborah Lowe Vandell and Kim M. Pierce

The chapters in this volume describe a rich array of learning experiences that have been offered during out-of-school hours to some lucky students. Students at a computer-oriented KLICK program in Baldwin, Michigan, created Web pages for local businesses and produced a clay animation film. Students at a computer club in Chicago repaired and distributed computers at their school, and assisted classroom teachers with software and hardware problems. Students at another Chicago school worked together to design a PowerPoint slide presentation about their school. Activities at the Odyssey Center for Education occurred around a large lazy Susan that organized thousands of Lego parts, which students used to design complicated Lego structures that then were displayed at the center. Students at the Fifth Dimension program spent the after-school hours in another form of serious play, an educational game world in which the participants made their way though a complicated, multilevel maze by mastering computer games such as Carmen San Diego, Amazon Trail, and Lego/Logo, and board games such as Mastermind and Battleship. Still other programs focused on literacy-related activities. A public library’s Read and Talk Club was a place where small groups of avid middle-school readers could meet, socialize, and talk about books they were reading. An Asian Literature Club provided firstand second-generation American high school students an opportunity to talk with each other about the challenges they faced at home and at school.

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This array of activities raises provocative questions about the growing field of after-school programming. One set of questions revolves around what it means to be an after-school program. Is any structured activity that occurs during the after-school hours a “program?” How often does the activity need to occur to be a program? A second set of questions pertains to the components or features that characterize successful programs. How are activities structured in programs that are successful? What is the role of staff in a successful program? What is the role of peers in successful programs? These questions point us, then, to a third issue: How can we assess that a program is successful? The programs described in this collection suggest a number of strategies and approaches to program evaluation. Central to the issue of program evaluation is a determination of what constitute reasonable goals and expectations for a given program. These goals and expectations operate at three levels: (a) the quality of experiences that young people have while attending the program, (b) possible effects on students’ intellectual and social development, and (c) long-term sustainability of the program. By informing the reader on each of these questions, the current volume can be of substantial use to practitioners, researchers, and policy makers in their efforts to identify and support successful programs.

WHAT IS AN AFTER-SCHOOL PROGRAM? The most obvious feature shared by all of the structured activities described in this volume is that they occurred in the afternoon after the regular school day ended. Is this feature alone sufficient to make an activity an after-school program? Traditionally, programs have been differentiated from other after-school experiences in terms of how often the activity occurs. Some researchers (Hofferth, Brayfield, Deich, & Holcomb, 1991; Marshall et al., 1997; Vandell & Shumow, 1999) have used variations in hours and scheduling to distinguish between after-school programs and structured activities. Programs typically were construed as operating 5 days a week for several hours each day. Enrichment activities or structured activities, in contrast, typically were defined as endeavors that occur on a more sporadic basis during out-of-school time. These types of activities included lessons in piano, dance, swimming, and gymnastics. One of the reasons for distinguishing between formal after-school programs and enrichment activities in this way is that they can serve different functions. Programs that meet daily for 2 or more hours are better situated to meet the needs of families in which mothers are employed and child care is needed while they are at work. These families sometimes seek out programs as an alternative to self-care. Because enrichment activities are shorter in duration and occur less frequently, they are less likely to function as child care or as an alternative to self-care. Even when parents piece to-

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gether several enrichment activities, someone (a parent or sitter) has to drive the child from place to place. Thus, parents’ primary motivation for enrolling students in these structured activities is more often student interest and enrichment, not child care. These distinctions are borne out by national surveys such as the National Child Care Survey (Hofferth et al., 1991) and the National Household Education Survey (see Brimhall, Reaney, & West, 1999), and by developmental studies (see Laird et al., 1998) that report that children whose mothers are employed are more likely to attend formal programs than children whose mothers are not employed, whereas participation in structured activities is either unrelated or negatively related to maternal employment. The programs described in this volume met for varying amounts of time on varying schedules. The computer-oriented KLICK program in Baldwin was the only program to meet each weekday afternoon after school. Other programs such as Read and Talk and Odyssey met once a week, and some programs, such as the Asian Literature and Chicago Computer Clubs, met only biweekly or monthly for an hour or two. The lengths of individual sessions also varied. The reading tutorial programs met for a half hour or so. The book discussion groups met for 45 minutes to an hour. Computer programs met for longer periods, for 2 hours or more. With these schedules, the programs would have been defined as enrichment activities by other researchers (e.g., Hofferth et al., 1991; Pettit et al., 1997). By including this range of activities in this volume, the editors have demonstrated the value of bringing together these different types of after-school experiences and of conceptualizing the experiences in terms of opportunities for enriching activities. Abenefit of the more inclusive approach adopted in the current volume is that readers can examine how programs can be mounted effectively for all students, from school entry at kindergarten to graduation from high school. The collection of essays also serves as a reminder of the variability and diversity in the structural parameters of after-school programs. Some programs such as the Asian Literature Club were quite small, with only three or four youth in attendance. Other programs such as the Read and Talk Club and the Critical Literacy Club were a bit larger, averaging six attendees. KLICK, the Baldwin 21st Century Community Learning Center, was one of the largest programs in the current collection, with an enrollment of 125 students and a daily attendance of 25 to 50 students. The Chicago Computer Clubs had 12 to 25 students in attendance. We have observed similar variations in program size in our own work in formal after-school programs serving elementary schoolchildren, with total enrollment ranging from 10 to 76 and daily attendance ranging from 8 to 55 (Vandell & Pierce, 1998). Staff-to-student ratios in the programs described in this volume also varied substantially. For example, the reading tutorial programs had ratios of

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1:1, whereas ratios were 1:13 in the KLICK program. These variations are consistent with ratios of 1:4 to 1:24 reported in the National Study of Beforeand After-School Programs (Seppanen, deVries, & Seligson, 1993). What is interesting about all of these figures is that they make clear that programs can come in all sizes. They also suggest that program size and staff-child ratios may be related to content domain. At least in the current collection of programs, literacy-related programs tended to be smaller in size and to have lower staff-student ratios than did computer-based programs and “traditional” after-school programs. At the beginning of this section, we asked what activities constitute an after-school program. The editors and chapter authors of this volume have collectively made a case for adopting a more inclusive approach in which after-school programs include structured activities that occur on a regular basis during the after-school hours. In the next section, we consider three components that characterize successful programs. WHAT ARE THE COMPONENTS OF SUCCESSFUL PROGRAMS? The program descriptions in this volume underscore, we believe, the importance of three key elements for program success. The descriptions suggest that after-school programs are more successful when (a) they offer substantive, authentic activities that are intrinsically motivating and that foster sustained engagement; (b) they offer sustained relationships with a knowledgeable and emotionally supportive staff; and (c) they afford opportunities for positive and supportive relationships with peers. Let’s consider each of these components in turn. Intrinsically Motivating, Substantive, Authentic Activities The successful programs described in this volume provided youth with meaningful opportunities to make their own decisions about program activities. In programs where adults initially set the agenda, the participants appeared disengaged, subdued, and sometimes antagonistic (see, for example, Alvermann et al.). Under these conditions, programs had difficulty attracting students in the first place and attendance was poor for those students who had initially agreed to participate. The level of engagement was higher when students were allowed to create their own structure for the programs or change the design of the programs, and to self-direct their activities. When the literacy clubs described by Alvermann et al., and the Asian Literature Club described by Vyas and Mishra altered their agendas in response to student resistance to the school-like nature of the programs—with adults deciding the activities and how the students would do them—student engagement in the programs increased. The students, in es-

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sence, demanded a greater say in deciding what to read and in organizing the format of the discussions. If the programs had not adapted, it seems likely that they would have ceased to function as the students elected to go elsewhere. Other programs were designed at the outset to meet students’ needs for autonomy and independence. For example, the Chicago Computer Clubs allowed students to set the rules and guidelines under which the clubs operated, and the students could choose their activities and how to pursue them. The success of this approach was reflected in consistent attendance at the program. Similarly, attendance at the KLICK programs was highest where adults did not control how time was spent and which activities and materials were available. At the Fifth Dimension programs, one of the longest-running programs, students were offered a myriad of opportunities to determine strategies and make choices about their progress through the maze of educational games. Another notable feature of successful programs described in the current volume is that they are characterized by activities that were authentic and substantive. Students at the Chicago Computer Clubs prepared computers for classrooms at their school. Students at KLICK assisted businesses in their small town of Baldwin by designing Web pages for them. Projects often resulted in tangible products—impressive Lego structures, book-length works—that required substantial persistence as they underwent repeated revisions. Many of these activities required sustained concentration for an entire 2–hour session and sometimes persisted over multiple days. Projects were not “busywork.” They were not a boring repetition of worksheets. These types of activities differ from the activities that occur in the other major settings in children’s lives. Larson (2000) has observed that the regular school day is typically directed by teachers, with minimal input from students. Leisure time with peers and families typically requires little concentration or persistence. Structured activities in after-school programs may well represent a unique context in which autonomy, intrinsic motivation, authentic endeavors, and substantive engagement are united.

Access to Supportive and Knowledgeable Staff A second component of successful after-school programs, described in detail in several chapters, is the presence of staff who combine emotional support with substantive knowledge. Successful programs met students’ needs for ongoing relationships with nonfamilial adults (Bryant, 1989)—relationships in which students experience reciprocity and respect and that allow them to seek support when needed. For example, when participants in the Media Literacy Club were allowed to design their own activities and pursue them independently, the students nonetheless involved

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the program supervisors by seeking their input and approval. At the Odyssey Center for Education and at the Fifth Dimension programs, staff participated in activities alongside the students, and students could solicit staff input when it was needed. When students were able to forge supportive and reciprocal relationships with adults in the programs, they were more likely to sustain their involvement. Several exemplars of supportive and knowledgeable program staff are represented in the current volume. Dean at the Odyssey Center and Mac at KLICK are two after-school professionals who played critical roles in their programs’ success. These professionals displayed deep knowledge within specific content domains: Legos and manipulatives in Dean’s case and computers in Mac’s case. Their deep knowledge then freed up the men to be more playful and inventive with the materials because they were not preoccupied with mastering the basics of the domain. This type of playfulness may well be one of the markers that distinguish successful after-school programs from less successful ones. Also, when staff members have deep knowledge of the content specialties, they can serve as valuable resources for their students, some of whom had considerable expertise as well. When after-school professionals love working with the materials, their enthusiasm often rubs off on their students who attend the programs regularly. Professional staff also do a better job when they have more background and knowledge about how to work effectively with children. Dean, for example, had worked for many years as a classroom teacher before moving to after-school programs. Both Dean and Mac had a well-articulated understanding of hands-on educational experiences and were strong advocates of activity-based learning. As a result, these experienced leaders succeeded in organizing their programs so that students had opportunities to work together in meaningful activities. In our own empirical research (Vandell & Pierce, 2001; Rosenthal & Vandell, 1996), we found that after-school staff members who have more education and training interacted more positively with their students than did staff members who had less education and training. As this volume amply demonstrates, after-school programs also make considerable use of volunteers. Almost every program described in this collection included volunteers as part of their front-line staff. In some cases, adult volunteers resembled Mac and Dean in that they were highly knowledgeable in a content domain. For example, an adult volunteer taught the youth at one of the Chicago Computer Clubs how to take apart (and put back together) the computer hardware. Other programs were staffed with college student volunteers. The volunteers in the SEARCH program were undergraduate science majors who had varying levels of expertise in science and in working with children. As authors Bruce and Bruce noted, some of the college students struggled to engage the elementary students’ interest. They sometimes fell back on standard classroom teaching tech-

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niques of lectures, demonstrations, and group recitation such as saying, “Bernoulli” in unison. Difficulties occurred in part, we suspect, when college students were still shaky in the content area and they had little experience working with groups of children. Of course, all after-school staff are novices at some point. The point is how to support staff so they can offer meaningful experiences to children and can increase their own knowledge and skills. Interestingly, some of the SEARCH volunteers noted that, over the course of their experience, they learned how to design activities that interest children and how to communicate with children. The field notes from a college student who had worked several years in the program reflected the enthusiasm, content knowledge, and pedagogical sophistication of a seasoned and skilled professional. College student volunteers and work-study students also staffed several of the after-school tutoring programs that were described by Wasik, Bond, and Hindman. In these programs, college students worked one-on-one with primary-grade children who had been identified as needing help with reading. The demands on these volunteers differed somewhat from those in the SEARCH program because the tutors worked with a single child and each tutoring session was relatively brief—30 minutes or so in length. A notable aspect of the successful tutoring programs also was the presence of systematic supports for the tutors’ efforts. Support came in several forms: preservice training that ranged from a few hours to several weeks, a rich collection of graded reading materials that could be matched to the children’s skill levels, the presence of an on-site coordinator who acted as a resource person, and manuals on reading instruction. Across a number of different programs that offered these types of instructional supports for volunteers, Wasik et al. reported evidence that tutoring was associated with improved reading performance relative to performance in comparison groups. Similar types of instrumental support may be equally important for volunteers in other types of after-school programs. This possibility needs to be explored. Also, what is not clear from the available research reviewed by Wasik et al. is whether some forms of support are more important than others for volunteers. It would be useful to obtain field notes from tutors similar to those reported by Bruce and Bruce for the SEARCH program. These field notes might illuminate tutor-tutee interactions that are associated with higher tutee engagement. The field notes may serve as a first step in evaluating the efficacy of different pretraining activities and different instruction manuals, and might supplement observational assessments of tutor-tutee interactions to further inform researchers and practitioners of how this form of after-school programming can be improved. Even with support, it is unlikely that volunteers can replace professional staff who have deep content and procedural knowledge. Volunteers can, however, provide valuable assistance, especially when provided with some training and necessary materials.

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Opportunities for Interactions with Peers Part of the attraction of going to an after-school program is an opportunity to spend time with peers who have similar interests (see Alverman et al., this volume; Vandell & Shumow, 1999). Thus, another marker of successful programs is that they are structured to facilitate a variety of positive peer interactions. Part of the appeal of the Asian Literature Club, for example, was that it gave the students a chance to talk about their relationships with their boyfriends (which their parents knew nothing about), as well as opportunities to talk about difficulties surrounding the cultural discrepancies between school and home, with classmates who had similar experiences. The Read and Talk Club functioned as a peer network for students who liked to read and felt isolated at their schools. Although the adult facilitator was a bit uncomfortable with the format, the students wanted their meetings to resemble the free flow of a bull session, not the structured framework of the classroom. Students talked all at once and interrupted at will. In addition to offering a peer support network for students who might otherwise be isolated, after-school programs provide youth with opportunities to develop skills that increase their status with peers. For example, the attainment of computer-related skills conferred positive attention and higher status with classmates for students in the Chicago Computer Club programs. In the KLICK program, more skilled students taught less skilled students how to set up email accounts and operate software packages. Former Odyssey students were invited back to serve as student mentors. At one of the Fifth Dimension sites, a fourth grader assisted a younger child with a computer drawing. These types of interactions provided the students with opportunities to solidify their own skills and to assist others. As indicated by many of the program descriptions, the three key elements of successful programs are authentic activities, knowledgeable and caring staff, and ample opportunities for positive experiences with peers. In the next section, we consider several strategies for ascertaining whether these features are present. HOW CAN WE ASCERTAIN THAT A PROGRAM IS SUCCESSFUL? As the chapters in this volume demonstrate, the components of program quality are reflected, first and foremost, in the quality of experiences that young people have at their after-school programs. Several authors suggested ways of measuring or assessing these experiences. Vyas and Mishra, for example, included the club facilitator’s journal entries as qualitative indicators of when the program was working well and not so well. Another window onto program quality is the students’ own accounts. Student notebooks and activity logs were used by staff at the Fifth Dimension programs

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as a way of tracking children’s experiences. A third strategy, suggested by Garner, Zhao, and Gillingham, is the use of informal interviews with young people about their program experiences. In our work in formal after-school programs in Wisconsin (Pierce, Hamm, & Vandell, 1999; Vandell & Pierce, 2001; Vandell, Shumow, & Posner, in press), we rated the age appropriateness of available activities, programming flexibility, and child autonomy in selecting activities, and staff positivity and negativity with children. We also collected time sample data that yielded frequency counts of both positive and negative interactions between staff and children and between children and their peers. In these observations, we found that higher-quality experiences at the programs were associated with children being reported by their teachers at school as having fewer behavior problems, better social skills, and better grades and work habits, both concurrently and longitudinally. Positive links between program experiences and children’s adjustment at school may be viewed as one indicator of program success. Another indicator of the success of an after-school program is student satisfaction with the program. Perhaps not surprisingly, students perceive a program more positively when a variety of activities are offered and when they have fewer negative interactions with staff (Rosenthal & Vandell, 1996). These positive perceptions in turn may be associated with attendance at the programs. Poor-quality programming during one school year has been implicated in elementary schoolchildren subsequently spending more time in self-care during the next school year (Dadisman, 2000). In this volume, we saw evidence that some programs were more successful than others at maintaining attendance. For example, consistent attendance was reported for the Chicago Computer Clubs and one KLICK program. Odyssey students were eager to return to the program long before the next session began. The autonomy afforded the students in these programs and the availability of supportive and knowledgeable staff likely are not coincidental to the good attendance figures. We believe that consistent attendance is important in measuring program quality and program success. Consistent attendance also is necessary if students are going to have opportunities for sustained learning that are reflected in the children’s developmental outcomes. In some of our own research involving after-school programs serving at-risk students, we found that students who attended the programs most often during the school year were rated by their classroom teachers at the end of the year as having improved work habits and ability to work well with others relative to their performance on these measures a year earlier (Vandell & Pierce, 1999). Improved functioning was less evident for students with lower attendance. The available research suggests that children’s experiences in formal after-school programs are associated with children’s developmental out-

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comes. But what about programs like those described in this volume, most of which typically would be defined as enrichment activities? According to Larson (2000), voluntary structured activities (i.e., not required for school, but with constraints, rules, and goals) such as sports and other enrichment activities are particularly well suited to the development of initiative, an attribute he characterizes as essential for creativity, leadership, and engagement in the life of the community. Features of after-school programs that contribute to their success in terms of student attendance and enjoyment also may contribute to the development of initiative. First, when students are allowed to determine what activities they will pursue and how they will pursue them, it is more likely that they will want to do the activities and be invested in them—in other words, have intrinsic motivation to engage in what the program has to offer. Second, supportive (but not intrusive) interactions with adults in the programs likely enhance or contribute to the collaboration with others that Larson believes is necessary in the development of initiative—a collaboration characterized by student effort toward a goal, feedback from a knowledgeable adult about progress toward the goal or the means of attaining the goal, potential changes in strategy to reach the goal based on the feedback, and so on. Several of the structured activities and programs described in this volume appear well situated to contribute to children’s positive development because of the provisions made for autonomy and for interactions with supportive adults. Only one chapter in the current volume—Wasik et al.’s description of programs devoted to academic tutoring—reported findings from systematic evaluations of program effects on child developmental outcomes. These studies suggested some positive effects on children’s reading skills, which was the primary aim of the tutoring programs. As Wasik et al. noted, other aspects of children’s development were not assessed. We agree with Wasik et al. that focusing only on reading skills is too limited. Broader scale evaluations are needed because after-school programs of the sort described in this volume may affect a broad array of child skills, including persistence, self-concept, and social competencies as well as academic performance. It is important to note that the ideal time for evaluation is after the first year, after program design changes have been made and programming is fairly stable and settled. As we read the chapters in this volume, we were reminded of just how fragile many after-school programs are. Some of the programs such as the Asian Literature Club and the Critical Literacy Club were dissertation projects and were, by design, only 1 semester in duration. Other programs received temporary funds from private foundations and/or the government. For example, the three computer clubs in the Chicago public schools were supported by foundation funds and outside volunteers for a year. Two of the clubs did not exist the following year, and the third club got off to a slow start. Baldwin’s KLICK is school-based and is one of the 21st Century Com-

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munity Learning Centers funded by the U.S. Department of Education. CLCs are awarded for 3 years and programs are expected to obtain operating funds from other sources after that period. Still other programs were university-affiliated projects that were often part of faculty research projects. Even the projects with the longest tenure do not seem that secure. The SEARCH project has been in existence for 10 years and began as a public school classroom teaching experience for college science students. Only recently has the program expanded to after-school activities. Its success will hinge on its ability to continue to attract college student volunteers. The instability and transience of the after-school programs raise the issue of sustainability. One strategy is for programs to be linked more closely with public schools. As described by several authors, current connections are often tenuous. The need to improve or maintain scores on high-stakes testing has led schools to see after-school programs as a way to extend the school day and to use the time for additional test preparation. For example, Chicago’s Lighthouse program operates out of 401 Chicago public schools and is mandatory for students who are failing academically, who have frequent absences, or who have behavior problems. Homework Club is offered at 250 elementary schools and 60 high schools. An unanswered question is whether these extended-day approaches are efficacious or whether hands-on, activity-based programs are more effective. Clearly, broad-based and carefully conducted evaluations are needed. These evaluations may help target the types of efforts that merit public expenditures. In the absence of ongoing financial support, it is not clear how many after-school programs can continue. Salaries for professional staff are essential, as are funds for equipment and materials. The computer-based programs (see Fifth Dimension, KLICK, Chicago Computer Club) require a sufficient number of computers with adequate software; in the absence of the necessary equipment, students will go elsewhere. Programs that emphasize literacy skills (the Asian Literature Club, Read and Talk, tutoring) required a large supply of different books to be responsive to student skills and interests. These materials need to be supplemented with other materials such as video equipment and movies. The point is that programs cannot be done on the cheap and require a substantial investment of both money and people.

REFERENCES Brimhall, D. W., Reaney, L. M., & West, J. (August, 1999). Participation of kindergartners through third graders in before- and after-school care. Statistics in brief. U.S. Department of Education, NCES 1999–013. Bryant, B. K. (1989). The need for support in relation to the need for autonomy. In D. Belle (Ed.), Children’s social networks and social supports (pp. 332–351). New York: Wiley.

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Dadisman, K. (2000). Factors associated with the use of self-care as an after-school arrangement. Unpublished manuscript, University of Wisconsin-Madison. Hofferth, S. L., Brayfield, A., Deich, S., & Holcomb, P. (1991). National child care survey, 1990. Washington, DC: The Urban Institute. Laird, R. D., Pettit, G. S., Dodge, K. A., & Bates, J. E. (1998). The social ecology of school-age child care. Journal of Applied Developmental Psychology, 19, 341–360. Larson, R. W. (2000). Toward a psychology of positive youth development. American Psychologist, 55, 170–183. Marshall, N. L., Coll, C. G., Marx, F., McCartney, K., Keefe, N., & Ruh, J. (1997). After-school time and children’s behavioral adjustment. Merrill-Palmer Quarterly, 43, 497–514. Pettit, G. S., Laird, R. D., Bates, J. E., & Dodge, K. A. (1997). Patterns of after-school care in middle childhood: Risk factors and developmental outcomes. Merrill-Palmer Quarterly, 43, 515–538. Pierce, K. M., Hamm, J. V., & Vandell, D. L. (1999). Experiences in after-school programs and children’s adjustment in first-grade classrooms. Child Development, 70, 756–767. Rosenthal, R., & Vandell, D. L. (1996). Quality of care at school-aged child care programs: Regulatable features, observed experiences, child perspectives, and parent perspectives. Child Development, 67, 2434–2445. Seppanen, P., deVries, D., & Seligson, M. (1993). National study of before- and after-school programs. Washington, DC: Office of Policy and Planning, U.S. Department of Education. Vandell, D. L., & Pierce, K. M. (1998). Measures used in the study of after-school care. Unpublished glossary, University of Wisconsin-Madison. ——— . (1999, April). Can after-school programs benefit children who live in high-crime neighborhoods? In N. L. Marshall (Chair), Children’s out-of-school time: The next generation of research. Poster symposium conducted at the biennial meeting of the Society for Research in Child Development, Albuquerque, NM. ——— . (2001, April). Experiences in after-school programs and children’s well-being. In J. L. Mahoney (Chair), Protective aspects of after-school activities: Process and mechanisms. Paper symposium at the biennial meeting of the Society for Research in Child Development, Minneapolis, MN. Vandell, D. L., & Shumow, L. (1999). After-school child care programs. The future of children: When school is out, 9 (2). Vandell, D. L., Shumow, L., & Posner, J. (in press). Children’s after-school programs: Promoting resiliency or vulnerability? In H. I. McCubbin, A. I. Thompson, J. Futrell, and M. D. McCubbin (Eds.), Promoting resiliency in families and children at risk: Interdisciplinary perspectives. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage.

Index

Boldfaced page numbers refer to entries in Reference sections. Adams, Gina, 4, 15, 116–117, 134 Adult leadership in after-school programs, 6–7, 9–11, 12, 14, 20, 24–25, 31–33, 37–38, 46–47, 61, 96, 109, 122–123, 127–128, 130–131, 141, 150–152, 154–155, 161–163, 170–174, 176 Alexander, Patricia A., 19, 36, 38, 155, 156, 157, 159, 161, 162, 165, 166 Alvermann, Donna E., 14, 15, 19, 20, 21, 29, 31, 39 America Reads Challenge Act of 1997, 93–94 Asian Literature Club, 75–91, 150, 158, 169, 170–171, 174, 176–177; and bicultural identity, 78, 88; design modifications in, 75–77, 79–88; as different from other book clubs, 78, 88; and films, 83–84; roles in, 85–87 Baldwin, Michigan: 19th-century logging in, 1–2; part-time and seasonal

work in, 1–3; poverty in, 1–3, 7–8, 14 Barab, S.A., 162, 166 Barthes, Roland, 11, 15 Bates, John E., 4, 16, 169, 178 Batson, T.W., 69, 74 Beach, Betty A., 5, 15 Belle, Deborah, 4, 15 Blanton, William E., 138, 146 Boys and Girls Club, 41, 44–45, 73 Bruce, Bertram C., 43, 44, 45, 56, 57, 69, 74 Bruce, Susan P., 43, 56 Bryant, B.K., 171, 177 Capizzano, Jeffrey, 4, 15, 116–117, 134 CASA (National Center on Addiction and Substance Abuse at Columbia University), and data on substance abuse in rural America, 3, 16 Census Bureau, U.S.: data on computers in homes, 8; poverty data, 7–8

180 Charles Stewart Mott Foundation and public support for after-school programs, 5 Chicago Computer Clubs, 113–135, 171, 172, 174, 175, 177; and computer maintenance in, 119–120, 122–123, 132; as different from the Lighthouse Program, 116, 124–126, 134; and ECN (the Education Connection Network), 114, 128; and play, 128 Chicago, Illinois: Great Migration (of African Americans from the South) to, 126; immigrant communities in, 113–114, 118; poverty in, 118, 121, 123–124, 126; and segregation, 113–114 Child care, and mothers’ work, 150, 152, 168–169 Child Care Patterns of School-Age Children with Employed Mothers (The Urban Institute), 4, 15, 116–117, 134 Child-centered pedagogy, 54 Children’s Defense Fund, 4–5 Cognition and Technology Group at Vanderbilt, 156, 165 Cole, Michael, 10, 16, 45, 57, 69, 74, 137–138, 142, 146, 147, 149, 151, 152 Collaboration, 42, 65, 69–70, 137, 175–176 Community service, 14, 53–54, 117, 128, 132 Computers: and communication, 13–14, 125–126; computer games, 10, 42, 137–139; digital photography, 12–13; Internet searches, 7, 31, 42, 44, 128–129; and learning, 5–7, 9–11, 138, 140–145, 152; moviemaking, 6; studying components, 119–120, 122–123, 127, 133, 171; Web design, 12–14, 171. See also Lego/Logo Concentration, as mental effort exerted to perform activities in after-school programs, 9–10, 171 Conrad, R., 43, 56 Creative thinking, 11–12, 176

Index Critical Literacy Club, 25–30, 36–38, 169, 176 Csikszentmihalyi, Mihaly, 62, 74, 159, 160, 165 Cuban, Larry, 134, 135 Department of Education, U.S., 5, 176–177 Dewey, John, 54, 57, 159, 165 Dodge, Kenneth A., 4, 16, 169, 178 Duckworth, Eleanor, 12, 16 Dyson, Anne Haas, 6, 16 Enrichment activities, 42, 46, 66, 67, 168–169, 175–176 Evaluation of after-school programs, 174–177; based on attendance records, 14–15; formal, 43–44, 96–104; problems with, 75–77 Fashola, Olatokunbo, 93, 95, 109–110, 111 Feynman, Richard, 48, 57 Field notes, 9–10, 141–145 Fifth Dimension sites, 137–147, 151–152, 160–161, 171, 172, 174–175; choices in, 140–141; and communication, 137, 139; and communities of practice, 138; and Vygotsky’s theory, 138–139. See also ZPD Flavell, John, 11, 16 Freedman, Sarah Warshauer, 13, 16 Freire, Paulo, 54, 57 Funding of after-school programs, and sustainability issues, 63–65, 116–117, 134, 149–150, 152, 176–177 Gallego, Margaret A., 137, 138, 146, 147, 151, 152 Garner, Ruth, 9, 12, 16, 161, 165 Geertz, Clifford, 3, 16 Gender: awareness and sensitivity, 19–20, 25–30, 36–37, 38; differences in after-school program participation, 7, 130–131 Gillingham, Mark, 9, 16 Girod, M., 5, 17, 149, 152 Green, Colin, 14, 15, 19, 21, 29, 39

Index Griffin, Peg, 142, 146 Hagood, Margaret C., 20, 31, 39 Hamm, J.V., 175, 178 Hayes, B.A., 138, 146 Heron, Alison, 20, 31, 39 Hogan, Maureen P., 44, 57 Homework, 6, 10–11, 22, 31, 32, 34, 45, 82, 93, 116, 123, 129 Huang, H., 43, 56 Hughes, P., 20, 31, 39 Hull, Glynda, 38, 39 Idlewild, Michigan, 8–9 Initiative, development of, 175–176 Internet use, 6, 7, 8, 10, 22, 30–32, 33, 36, 114, 123, 125, 139–140 Jackson, Wes, 1, 16 Judy, J.E., 159, 165 Kafai, Yasmin B., 90, 90 Kenan, Randall, 9, 16 King, C., 137, 147 Kirn, Walter, 3, 16 KLICK (Kids Learning in Computer Klubhouses), 1–17, 149–152, 163, 169–170, 171, 172, 174, 175, 177; and creation of books and films, 6, 12–14; and development of creative thinking, 11; as an inclusive setting, 7–9; summer institute in, 152; and teaching adults computer skills, 6–7; and Web design for the community, 14–15 Kulikowich, Jonna M., 162, 166 Laboratory of Comparative Human Cognition, 142, 146 Laird, Robert D., 4, 16, 169, 178 Larson, Reed W., 171, 175–176, 178 Lave, Jean, 61, 74, 138, 146, 160, 166 Lego/Logo, 60, 61, 62, 63, 140, 162, 171 Lewontin, Richard, 12, 16 Literacy clubs. See under names of specific clubs Madden, N.A., 95, 102, 112 Matfield Green, Kansas, 1 Media Club, 30–35, 36, 37, 171–172

181 Middlebrooks, Sally, 127–128, 135 Miller, Patricia H., 11, 16 Miller, Scott A., 11, 16 Mishra, Punyashloke, 5, 17, 75, 90, 91, 149, 152 Mitchell, Lucy Sprague, 54 Moll, Luis, 138, 147 Moon, J.S., 31, 39 Moorman, G.B., 138, 146 Murphy, P.K., 155, 156, 157, 161, 165, 166

National Child Care Survey, 1990 (The Urban Institute), 169 National Household Education Survey, 169 National Study of Before- and After-School Programs, 169–170 New Literacy Studies, 20–21 Nicolopoulou, Ageliki, 137, 138, 146 Odyssey Center, 59–74, 150, 158, 162, 172, 174, 175; and financial setbacks, 63–65; physical environment, 69–71; reasons for parent support, 66–68; and student mentors, 65–66. See also Lego/Logo Paley, Vivian G., 129, 135 Papert, Seymour, 10, 16, 62, 74, 89–90, 91 Peer interaction, 21, 25, 29, 36, 69, 153, 171, 174, 175 Perkins, D.N., 12–13, 16, 88, 91 Perspective taking, 11 Pettit, Gregory S., 4, 16, 169, 178 Peyton, J.K., 45, 57, 69, 74 Pierce, Kim M., 169, 172, 175, 178 Play, 11, 31, 32, 34–35, 46, 47–48, 49, 62, 115, 117, 118, 123, 125, 127–128, 159–161; and Fifth Dimension sites, 137, 139, 140–141, 142–144 Posner, Jill K., 4, 16, 19, 39, 175, 178 Poverty. See under communities (Baldwin, Michigan; Chicago, Illinois) Problem solving, 75–76, 137, 140, 145 Project SEARCH (Science Education and Research for Children), 41–57,

182 154, 157, 158, 159–160, 172–173, 177; and computer activities, 41–42, 44, 46; and images of science and scientists, 47–54; and science experiments, 42, 46, 53; as a service learning program, 42, 53–54; in a variety of settings, 44–46 Read and Talk Clubs, 21–25, 36, 37, 169, 174, 177 Reading: amount of voluntary, 13–14; skills, 93–95, 108–109, 173, 176 Reading Recovery, adapted for after-school use, 95–96, 100–101, 103–104 Ricks, Beth Jones, 19, 26, 40 Rogoff, Barbara, 10–11, 14, 16, 62, 74, 138, 147, 160, 166 Rosenthal, R., 172, 175, 178 Rubin, Andee, 45, 57 Rueda, Robert, 138, 147 Sawyer, Keith, 160, 165 Schauble, Leona, 9, 17 Schultz, Katherine, 38, 39 Schustack, Miriam, 137, 147 Scribner, Sylvia, 142, 147 Self-care, 3–5, 14–15, 116–117, 157–159, 168–169, 175 Shumow, L., 168, 174, 175, 178 Sickmund, Melissa, 4, 16 Slavin, Robert E., 95, 112 Snyder, Howard N., 4, 16 Social pretend play, and perspective taking, 11 Stegner, Wallace, 2, 3, 16 Stepto, Robert B., 8, 17 Su, Hsiu-chih, 3–4, 5, 17, 19, 40 Success for All, adapted for after-school use, 95–96, 102–103 Tan, S., 75, 90, 91 Thakkar, U., 44, 57 Thinking: language as tool for, 138, 145; self-reports on, 12 Tout, Kathryn, 4, 15, 116–117, 134 Turkle, Sherry, 7, 17, 89–90, 91, 128, 135

Index Tutoring programs, 93–112, 156, 163–164, 176, 177; for at-risk children, 93–94, 109; and community volunteers, 93, 94, 95, 96–97, 99, 100–101, 102, 103–104, 105, 106, 108, 172–173; and resource problems, 108–110, 150 University-community links, 5, 15, 42, 45, 47–48, 56, 65, 137. See also Fifth Dimension sites; Odyssey Center; Project SEARCH Vandell, Deborah Lowe, 3–4, 5, 16, 17, 19, 39, 40, 168, 169, 172, 174, 175, 178 Vásquez, Olga, 137, 147 Voss, James F., 9, 17 Vygotsky, Lev, 138–139, 147 Wade, Suzanne, 19, 36, 38 Warner, M., 138, 146 Wasik, Barbara, A., 93, 95, 96, 102, 103, 112 Wells, Gordon, 145, 147 Wenger, Etienne, 61, 74, 138, 146, 160, 166 Wertsch, James V., 139, 147 Williams, K., 20, 31, 39 Wisenbaker, Joseph M., 14, 15, 19, 21, 29, 39 Woods, B.S., 161, 165 Writing: about personal experience, 13–14, 27–28, 29–30; process, 138, 139, 140, 142–143; vs. oral expression in after-school programs, 77–78, 83–84, 85–86 Yates, Miranda, 132, 135 Yoon, J., 20, 31, 39 Young, Josephine Peyton, 14, 15, 19, 21, 26, 29, 39, 40 Young, Michael F., 162, 166 Youniss, James, 132, 135 Zhao, Yong, 5, 17, 75, 90, 91, 149, 152 Zimmerman, S.J., 138, 146 ZPD (zone of proximal development), 138–139, 142–145

About the Editors and Contributors

Patricia A. Alexander is Professor of Education and Distinguished Scholar-Teacher at the University of Maryland. Her research focuses on learning in academic domains. Recent work addresses the role that formal education plays in changing students’ knowledge, beliefs, and motivations for learning. Donna E. Alvermann is Distinguished Research Professor of Reading Education at the University of Georgia. Her research focuses on adolescents’ media literacy practices in after-school settings. From 1997 to 2000, she co-chaired the International Reading Association’s Commission on Adolescent Literacy. William E. Blanton is Professor of Education at the University of Miami. He has been involved in the evaluation of effects of children’s participation in the Fifth Dimension (5thD) program. He coordinates a 5thD center in the “Little Havana” section of Miami. He also directs the 5thD Clearinghouse. Mary Alice Bond is a senior curriculum specialist for the Early Learning Program of the Center for Social Organization of Schools at Johns Hopkins University. Her work involves development and implementation of language and literacy programs for preschool children. Bertram C. Bruce is Professor of Library and Information Science and a Senior Research Scientist at the National Center for Supercomputing Appli-

184

About the Editors and Contributors

cations at the University of Illinois. His research focuses on information and communication technologies and includes situated studies of educational practices. Susan P. Bruce is an education consultant in Urbana, Illinois. From 1990 to 1999, she worked on a variety of research and development projects at the College of Education, University of Illinois. Prior to that, she developed exhibits and programs, including many after-school programs, at the Boston Children’s Museum. Margaret A. Gallego is Associate Professor of Education at San Diego State University and a Research Associate with the Laboratory of Comparative Human Cognition at the University of California, San Diego. Her research has focused on sociocultural influences within learning environments. Ruth Garner serves as an evaluator for urban and rural after-school programs in Michigan. Her early books and articles address children’s cognition in school. Recent work focuses on out-of-school settings, on children’s and adults’ thinking about practical problems. Mark Gillingham heads the technology team at the Great Books Foundation in Chicago. Prior to that, he taught children and teachers about various technologies. He is particularly interested in out-of-school uses of computer technology in urban and rural communities. Dean J. Grosshandler was a National Science Foundation graduate student trainee in the Technologies for Learning Program at the University of Illinois from 1996 to 2000. He created Odyssey Center in 1992. Prior to that, Dean lived in Japan, working and doing research in Japanese public schools. Elizabeth Niswander Grosshandler is Director of the Research Opportunities Office in the College of Education at the University of Illinois. Beth lived in Belgium during her childhood and in Japan more recently. Her research lies at the intersection of anthropology and education. Margaret C. Hagood is a doctoral candidate in Reading Education at the University of Georgia. Her research interests include local and global trends in adolescents’ literacy practices related to media, particularly as those practices intersect with out-of-school uses of popular culture. Alison Heron is a doctoral candidate in Reading Education at the University of Georgia. She is interested in student agency and in inquiry-based instruction. She has taught English in New York and Atlanta. Annemarie Hindman is a research assistant with the Early Learning Program of the Center for Social Organization of Schools at Johns Hopkins University. Prior to that, she worked with young children in the Head Start

About the Editors and Contributors

185

programs of New Haven, Connecticut. She is interested in language and literacy development. Jonna M. Kulikowich is Associate Professor of Education at the University of Connecticut. She studies and teaches about quantitative methods. Current research focuses on a new methodology that she and a colleague have proposed for the study of complex problem solving. Punyashloke Mishra is Assistant Professor of Technology and Education and a Research Associate with the Media and Interface Design (MIND) Lab at Michigan State University. His research focuses on the psychological and social aspects of working and learning with information technologies. Donna Nowatzki has been a teacher and program coordinator in the Chicago Public Schools for more than 15 years. She is currently working with fourth- and fifth-grade students on technology projects, both during the school day and in an after-school program. Kim M. Pierce is a researcher in the Wisconsin Center for Education Research at the University of Wisconsin. Her research has focused on after-school programs and associations between children’s after-school experiences (including self-care) and developmental outcomes. Beth Jones Ricks is a doctoral student in Language and Literacy Education at Arizona State University. Her research focuses on using critical literacy activities with adolescents in literature studies. Erin Roche has taught in the Chicago Public Schools for 6 years. Outside the classroom, he has coached boys and girls, worked with student government, and been adviser to the school newspaper. Deborah Lowe Vandell is Professor of Education at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. She holds joint appointments in the Department of Educational Psychology and the Department of Human Development and Family Studies. Her research addresses effects of early child care experiences on development. Sapna Vyas is Assistant Professor of Education at the University of Michigan-Flint. Her research interests lie at the intersection of bicultural identity, literacy, and the home-school connection. She is involved in the evaluation of an after-school program for minority high school students who want to teach. Barbara A. Wasik is Principal Research Scientist and the Director of the Early Learning Program at Johns Hopkins University Center for Social Organization of Schools. Her research focuses on literacy interventions. She is developing language and literacy training materials for preschool teachers.

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About the Editors and Contributors

Josephine Peyton Young is Assistant Professor of Literacy Education at Arizona State University. Prior to working in higher education, she taught in middle school and high school. Her research interests include adolescent literacy practices and gender. Ellen Youniss is a technology specialist at the Great Books Foundation in Chicago. From 1998 through 2000, she assisted Chicago teachers in the Education Connection Network in using computers for communication and instruction. Yong Zhao is Associate Professor of Technology and Education at Michigan State University. He is also the founding director of KLICK, a large consortium of urban and rural after-school programs. His research interests include technology-supported informal learning environments.