In Search of Wonderful Ideas: Critical Explorations in Teacher Education 080776518X, 9780807765180

Table of contents :
Contents
Acknowledgments
Introduction • Mary Kay Delaney and Susan Jean Mayer
1. Beginnings • Eleanor Ruth Duckworth
2. Pedagogy as Counternarrative • Mary Kay Delaney and Susan Jean Mayer
3. Engaging the Subject Before the Word • Bonnie Tai
4. Awakening to Teaching: Critical Explorations, Imagination, and Equity • Mary Kay Delaney
5. Teaching and Learning for Deeper Learning • Fiona Hughes-McDonnell
6. Give Them the Butterflies • Lisa Schneier
7. Meeting Student Resistance • Susan Rauchwerk
8. The Teaching and Learning of Elementary Social Studies • William Shorr
9. A “Why” Approach to Mathematics Teacher Education • Houman Harouni
10. Observing, Exploring, and Learning in Science and Its History • Elizabeth Cavicchi
11. Vital Experience • Keri Gelenian and Yeh Hsueh
12. Looking Back and Moving Forward • Susan Jean Mayer
Notes
References
About the Contributors
Index

Citation preview

In Search of Wonderful Ideas

In Search of Wonderful Ideas Critical Exploration in Teacher Education

Edited by

Mary Kay Delaney Susan Jean Mayer

Published by Teachers College Press,® 1234 Amsterdam Avenue, New York, NY 10027 Copyright © 2021 by Teachers College, Columbia University All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the publisher. For reprint permission and other subsidiary rights requests, please contact Teachers College Press, Rights Dept.: [email protected] Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Delaney, Mary Kay, editor. | Mayer, Susan Jean, editor. Title: In search of wonderful ideas : critical exploration in teacher education / edited by Mary Kay Delaney, Susan Jean Mayer. Description: New York, N.Y. : Teachers College Press, 2021. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2020053076 (print) | LCCN 2020053077 (ebook) | ISBN 9780807765180 (paperback) | ISBN 9780807765197 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780807779484 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Teachers—Training of. | Student-centered learning. Classification: LCC LB1707 .I528 2021 (print) | LCC LB1707 (ebook) | DDC 370.71/1—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020053076 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020053077 ISBN 978–0-8077–6518–0 (paper) ISBN 978–0-8077–6519–7 (hardcover) ISBN 978–0-8077–7948–4 (ebook) Printed on acid-free paper Manufactured in the United States of America

There was this one sentence of Freire’s that became a revolutionary mantra for me: “We cannot enter the struggle as objects in order later to become subjects.” Really, it is difficult to find words adequate to explain how this statement was like a locked door—and I struggled within myself to find the key—and that struggle engaged me in a process of critical thought that was transformative. —bell hooks

Contents

Acknowledgments ix Introduction 1 Mary Kay Delaney and Susan Jean Mayer 1. Beginnings Eleanor Ruth Duckworth

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2. Pedagogy as Counternarrative Mary Kay Delaney and Susan Jean Mayer

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3. Engaging the Subject Before the Word Bonnie Tai

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4. Awakening to Teaching: Critical Explorations, Imagination, and Equity Mary Kay Delaney

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5. Teaching and Learning for Deeper Learning Fiona Hughes-McDonnell

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6. Give Them the Butterflies Lisa Schneier

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7. Meeting Student Resistance Susan Rauchwerk

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8. The Teaching and Learning of Elementary Social Studies William Shorr

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viii Contents

9. A “Why” Approach to Mathematics Teacher Education Houman Harouni

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10. Observing, Exploring, and Learning in Science and Its History Elizabeth Cavicchi

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11. Vital Experience Keri Gelenian and Yeh Hsueh

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12. Looking Back and Moving Forward Susan Jean Mayer

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Notes 169 References 173 About the Contributors

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Index 189

Acknowledgments Mary Kay Delaney Thank you first to Karine, Ruth, Ms. Howard, and Ms. Caldwell for making this work possible and making the world better. I miss you. To all of my students from the beginning to now, you have been teaching me since we first met. I am grateful. To colleagues at Meredith College, this work is possible because of your support, and I have benefited from your creative and passionate commitment to teacher education. I am deeply grateful for our many collaborations. The sabbatical support I received from Meredith College in the spring of 2015 provided the gift of time to think and write. Many ideas in this volume took fuller shape and form during that spring. Fellow alumni from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and our mentor, George Noblit, I cannot imagine work in education without you. You make the work easier . . . and harder—laughing, thinking, working for a more just world. Fellow coeditors of Professing Education, Gretchen Givens Generett, Paula Groves Price, and Joseph Rayle, I am grateful for your ways of thinking and being in the world. Gretchen, our talking kept me going. To the authors of this volume, we have been learning together, many of us, for a long time. I am grateful for your creativity, challenge, patience, and willingness to respond to last-minute emails. We are all grateful for our enduring mentorship by and friendship with Eleanor Duckworth. Finally, to my family—Fritz, Paul, Kate, Michael, Kellie, David, and now Delaney. Thank you for your love and support. This one is for Delaney and all the people she will live with on this planet. May we leave a more just, joyful, and peaceful world. Susan Jean Mayer I am grateful to Eleanor Duckworth for carrying something true and important from Geneva and for keeping it alive in a new place where I—and so many—could discover it. And I am grateful for my many colleagues in this work who have also sought to sort through just what those startling encounters in Eleanor’s course might mean for our lives as educators. I am particularly indebted to two represented here—my coeditor, Mary Kay Delaney,

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x Acknowledgments

who first insisted I take Eleanor’s Learning and Teaching course, and my partner at Critical Exploration Press, Bill Shorr. My work also builds directly upon the work of other educators and educational philosophers who have taken up John Dewey’s questions about what educating for a democratic social order can be seen to mean and to entail—I have worked and studied with any number of them. My thinking has broadened, as well, during discussions with colleagues in the field of curriculum studies, who have insisted on keeping the necessary complicated conversations alive even as their foundation courses were being eliminated from their institutions’ catalogs. In particular, I would like to thank Eleanor and George Hein, each of whom sat for wide-ranging interviews, and also to recognize several people who read and responded to parts of this book: Nikomo Peartree read and commented on the introductory material; Howard Gardner read and responded to an early draft of the final historical chapter; and Cindy Ballenger read and discussed more drafts of the introductory material than either of us could count. Mary Kay and I would also like to thank Eleanor for her many close readings of and thoughtful contributions to this text. Chapter authors also often read and commented on each other’s work, and various configurations of us met a number of times as this volume was coming together to present and discuss our work as it was taking form. As always, I have also relied throughout on the support of my family members, whose love and confidence in me has strengthened and sustained my professional life—Ken, Madeleine, and Zoe Parsigian; my parents, Jean Yost Mayer and Endre Mayer; and my sister, Sandra Mayer DiNatale. Thanks to Ken, I have always had someone with whom to mull the insights and quandaries along the way.

Introduction Mary Kay Delaney and Susan Jean Mayer

This book is about a particular approach to teaching called Critical Exploration in the Classroom (CEC) (Duckworth, 2006a), which the authors all employ in our teacher education programs. But it is about much more. It is about the work of teacher educators and about the need to engage teacher candidates in experiences that inspire imaginative (Greene, 1995) and soulful (Roosevelt & Garrison, 2018) teaching and thinking. It is about learning to teach in ways that nurture teachers’ and students’ attention to, fascination with, and joy in their own learning and discovery—in ways that position them as the subjects of their own learning rather than as the objects of others’ intentions for them. It is about encountering one’s teacher-self and one’s pre-K–12 students as whole and “brilliant” beings (Delpit, 2013). We view such teaching and learning as integral to a democratic pedagogical vision, a vision that provides all children with opportunities to grow and to thrive as individuals and as members of caring and intellectually vibrant school and classroom communities. As many of those cited in these pages agree, such teaching and learning are born of teachers’ developed knowledge, skills, and wisdom in the practices of intentional listening, observing, and responsive commenting and question-posing. In our experience, such teaching and learning are also fueled by open and materials-based explorations that are designed to involve all students in critical study, reflection, and analysis. As we seek to demonstrate throughout this volume, the practice of CEC can support this quality of exploration. As discussed at further length in Chapter 2, contemporary understandings about learning, equity, and democratic teaching practices also suggest the value of engaging learners in open, probing, and materials-based investigations. Such investigations have long been seen to provide more diverse and accessible openings for learners into subject areas of every kind than prepared explanations or demonstrations can (e.g., Duckworth, 1990). Even so, the implications of these established understandings remain underdeveloped within most of the teacher education programs in this country. There are many reasons why this promising vision for more intellectually vibrant and equitable schools remains underrealized. In our view, one 1

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barrier has been that, while we as teacher educators often theorize and discuss the relevant research and implied practices, we are for a variety of reasons less likely to enact the more dynamic and interactive pedagogical forms that this research implies. The authors of this text have come to believe that we cannot simply explain to teacher candidates why they should open their classrooms up in these ways and empower their students to think imaginatively and collaboratively. We also need to provide opportunities for teacher candidates to experience what it means to learn in this way. The authors of this volume have all drawn on the practice of Critical Exploration in the Classroom in order to support our efforts to provide such opportunities within our teacher education courses and programs. We have done so in hopes of enlarging our students’ conceptions of what classroom learning and teaching can feel like and lead to, and in order to teach them about how they, too, might learn to see their students in new ways and to orchestrate learning experiences that inspire fascination and joy. In the process, we are introducing our students to our vision of what it means to teach within a diverse and democratic society. WHAT WE SEEK TO SHARE The practice of CEC can be thought of as a form of what we are calling teaching-learning research practices. Such practices are conducted both as a form of teaching and as a form of research. Teaching-learning researchers prioritize the work of revealing, exploring, and advancing their students’ thinking over the goal of arriving at a predetermined set of understandings. By positioning their students’ observations, ideas, and questions as central to the life and learning of their classrooms, teaching-learning researchers deepen their own understandings of and connections to students, creating new rhythms and relationships within a classroom and establishing a classroom culture in which all students expect to contribute to the intellectual and social life of the classroom. While CEC is most often spoken of in these chapters as a specific form of pedagogical practice, it is a practice that shares this orienting teachinglearning research stance with a number of related practices (e.g., Ballenger, 1998, 2004, 2009; Carini, 2001; Himley & Carini, 2000; Hooper, 1996; Kamii, 1982, 1985, 1994, 2004). Assuming the stance—that is, the mindset and habits—of a teaching-learning researcher informs and transforms all aspects of a teacher’s practice. By opening the floor to the questions and connections of their students and by learning to unpack and respond with authentic interest to those contributions, teaching-learning researchers strive both to recognize and to challenge all students before them, using available opportunities and resources.

Introduction 3

In CEC, this concern with revealing and engaging student thinking is paired with a commitment to establishing and sustaining a peer-driven form of knowledge construction process based in the Piagetian research tradition (Mayer, 2012). Students construct increasingly robust and reliable content understandings on their own authority by (1) working to develop their own ideas and questions; (2) returning continually to the materials before them to extend, deepen, and test their ideas; and (3) learning to attend to and reckon with all that their classmates have to say. Rather than ratifying, modifying, or contradicting their students’ contributions, teachers continually return students to the shared materials and support a thoughtful and fair-minded consideration of all ideas. As a result, teachers and students alike can come to appreciate the diverse bases upon which shared and satisfying understandings can be constructed— the different lines of reasoning people might employ to establish the same mathematical relationship, for example (Duckworth, 1987; Kamii, 1982). At the same time, participants may also begin to anticipate and appreciate that people have different histories, experiences, and values and thus have different relationships with the world and its artifacts—such as a historical document, for example (McKinney, 2012, criticalexplorers.org). By providing these openings, CEC can be seen as balancing traditional teacher-driven discussion practices, in which the teachers direct the content of classroom discussions in accordance with their priorities and vision.1 As discussed at further length in the first two and final chapters, the practice of CEC emerged from the Piagetian research tradition and takes its name from Genevan learning research, which adapted Piaget’s clinical method (Mayer, 2005) to the study of learning (Inhelder, Sinclair, & Bovet, 1974). As Piaget had, Genevan learning researchers strove to do everything possible to avoid giving the children they were working with any idea of what they would like them to say. Likewise, teachers practicing CEC also strive to listen and observe for a student’s current thinking and to suspend judgment and avoid conclusions. This openness to learning about students’ thinking, rather than focusing more narrowly on evaluating students’ knowledge consumption, means that teachers avoid obscuring or shutting down student reasoning. The aim is to bring the pathways and content of students’ reasoning into view—for teacher, student, and ultimately for all members of the classroom community. While some may be surprised to hear the authors refer to Piaget, we turn to Piaget—and to the work of his colleague Bärbel Inhelder and their student Eleanor Duckworth—not for Piagetian stage theory but rather for the sensitive strategies that Piagetian researchers developed for revealing and understanding—and, in Inhelder’s and Duckworth’s work, fostering— the intellectual growth of others. The practice of CEC adapts a proven method for studying the thinking of individuals (which Piaget called clinical

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In Search of Wonderful Ideas: Critical Exploration in Teacher Education

interviewing) to the work of advancing and studying the learning of groups of learners. Learners’ approaches to making sense are now seen to vary as a result of more than just developmental influences: Cultural, racial, linguistic, socioeconomic, and individual experiences are all also recognized as influencing the ways in which any individual student may be approaching a topic. The following chapters illustrate the ways in which teacher educators can support their students’ learning by querying their claims with genuine interest and by continually positioning their students’ ideas into relation with the materials before them and the claims and observations of their peers. Teachers often also introduce additional curricular materials and challenges in order to encourage students to take up questions that have arisen during their investigation, to sustain student interest and inspire related investigations and discoveries, to provide implicit challenges to a given line of thinking, or for some combination of these and other reasons. By eliminating, for a time, the teacher’s traditional contributions as the provider, explainer, and arbiter of correct answers, the practice of CEC radically reorganizes the relationships among teacher, students, and content. Teacher and text are decentered as the exclusive sources of valid knowledge, and students learn to rely on one another and the materials in new ways. As they begin to accept that they are not being surreptitiously guided in a predetermined direction but are genuinely being asked to think for themselves, otherwise disengaged and resistant students may enter the conversation, further reorganizing established patterns of classroom interaction. THE CHAPTERS Our stance as teaching-learning researchers organizes all aspects of the work we do as teacher educators. We view the interest we take in the character of our students’ thought as essential to the project of challenging our students to think in new ways. While many of us do not entirely forego our roles as the providers and explainers of established thoughts and theories, we all continuously seek to prioritize the work of inspiring and attending to our students’ efforts to construct their own pedagogical visions and understandings. As a practice, CEC finds diverse expression within our professional lives, which are also influenced by the pressures and priorities of our particular institutional cultures and the other pedagogical commitments and frameworks we claim. Given our desire to explore the situated relationships between CEC and other related strands of our work and the work of others in our field, we have sought to embrace and portray this variety here. The chapters that follow therefore offer diverse portrayals of extended engagements with CEC and with practices that have been informed by CEC

Introduction 5

within a broad variety of teacher education contexts. In relationship, these chapters reveal more than any single-authored book could about the kinds of contributions that experiences with CEC can make to the professional perspectives and lives of teachers and teacher educators and about the kinds of questions and challenges that are likely to arise along the way. 2 In Chapter 1, “Beginnings,” Eleanor Duckworth recounts the ways in which the different phases of her professional journey led to the practice she now calls Critical Exploration in the Classroom. In this story, a startlingly original methodology for studying the thinking of children arrives in Cambridge, Massachusetts, amidst the ferment of post-Sputnik curricular innovation and is transformed, over time, into a new approach to teaching. In Chapter 2, “Pedagogy as Counternarrative,” the coeditors of this book further elaborate on our claim that contemporary understandings about learning and development, equity, and democratic teaching practices all suggest a need to reimagine and revitalize the pedagogies of teacher education. In the process, we link the practice of CEC to the work of other aligned educators and to related areas of scholarship and practice. In Chapter 3, “Engaging the Subject Before the Word,” Bonnie Tai discusses the challenges that her preservice teachers have faced as they strive to apply their new understandings of CEC to their developing practices in assessment, curriculum, and teaching within the context of an environmentally oriented teacher-education program. Drawing on her analysis of student writings, Tai considers how mystery, freedom, and student choice come to stand out for four students as important elements in exploring the subject before the word. In Chapter 4, “Awakening to Teaching: Critical Explorations, Imagination, and Equity,” Mary Kay Delaney draws on Maxine Greene in portraying the ways in which her students’ experiences engaging Students of Color with CEC serve to open their imaginations to tentative understandings about teaching and about students’ “wonderful ideas.” Delaney views such openings as essential to preservice teachers seeing the intellectual capacity of children and youth and to many White teachers seeing the full potential and humanity of students who are Black, Latinx, Indigenous, and Asian. Such openings, therefore, are essential for practicing culturally responsive teaching as described by Gloria Ladson-Billings and Geneva Gay. In Chapter 5, “Teaching and Learning for Deeper Learning: ‘It came from a process and experiment that I built for myself,’” Fiona HughesMcDonnell reviews longstanding progressive commitments as articulated by John Dewey and considers the connections among these commitments, the term deeper learning, and the theoretical and research-based roots of Critical Exploration in the Classroom. McDonnell draws on research she conducted with her students to develop and illustrate her proposal that CEC unites Dewey’s vision with the ideas and methodology of Genevan learning research.

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In Search of Wonderful Ideas: Critical Exploration in Teacher Education

In Chapter 6, “Give Them the Butterflies,” Lisa Schneier portrays the development of preservice teachers’ thinking as they engage in designing materials-based learning encounters. Schneier discusses the characteristics of primary source materials that make them compelling and accessible for student exploration and the related challenges of designing interactions that are truly exploratory. In Chapter 7, “Meeting Student Resistance,” Susan Rauchwerk describes her efforts to engage the resistance of teacher candidates who struggle with or who actively oppose the practice of CEC. Rauchwerk draws on a 10-year study she conducted in her required science methods course to offer an analysis of different forms of student resistance and the processes she undertook to design, enact, and evaluate a series of responsive interventions. In Chapter 8, “The Teaching and Learning of Elementary Social Studies,” William Shorr reflects upon his efforts to maintain a strong link between curriculum and real-world issues through his global crisis project, a central feature of the social studies methods course he developed and taught for many years. Shorr’s various curricular decisions and modifications reveal characteristic features of his CEC stance in regard to design, implementation, and revision. In Chapter 9, “A ‘Why’ Approach to Mathematics Teacher Education,” Houman Harouni describes an experiment in working with preservice teachers to raise and address questions regarding why math is taught and why it is taught in the way that it is. Using a dialogical approach that draws upon both CEC and the work of Paulo Freire, Harouni presents his students with artifacts and problems that embody some of the defining tensions of mathematics education. In Chapter 10, “Observing, Exploring, and Learning in Science and Its History,” Elizabeth Cavicchi portrays the pedagogy of CEC as practiced in a university seminar on the history of science in which students interactively evolve course activities. Through observing everyday phenomena, several prospective teachers come to realize uncertainties in what they previously assumed they understood, demonstrating the unsettling and potentially disruptive possibilities of the pedagogy. In Chapter 11, “Vital Experience,” Keri Gelenian and Yeh Hsueh trace methodological aspects of CEC back to the French philosopher Henri Bergson and his early influence on Piaget. Playing with Bergson’s conceptual vocabulary, the authors consider the ways in which CEC provides a vital experience for teaching candidates because CEC produces direct and personal awareness of their experience as learners in a manner that can be generalized to others. In the final chapter, “Looking Back and Moving Forward,” Susan Jean Mayer reflects upon the professional journey of Eleanor Duckworth, who transformed a research method designed to probe the thoughts of individual children into a pedagogical approach capable of stirring the thoughts and

Introduction 7

imaginations of many. The traditions of learning research and of progressive teaching practices that have informed this project, Mayer argues, continue to offer valuable direction for the work of conceptualizing and enacting distinctively democratic pedagogical encounters in classrooms today. Throughout, chapter authors write as teacher-scholars—as teachinglearning researchers whose practice is teacher education. Our perspective as practitioners distinguishes this work from that of researchers who write and speak about teacher education from more general and abstract perspectives. Most of the authors represented here spend our time primarily on teaching or on projects related to teaching. Our work, including the chapters in this book, unfolds in relationship to the specific programs and institutions in which we work. As teacher-scholars, we seek to represent and understand those worlds. Though teacher educators are not always supported with the paid leave and research assistants that make it easier to contribute actively as scholars within their field, they (like teachers themselves) have access to the kinds of situated events and phenomena that educational learning theorists need to understand. The practice of CEC provides a methodical approach to documenting and studying these events and phenomena at close quarters, enabling teachers to study the work and thought of the specific learners before them, as well as generating broader insights that can contribute to the field of educational learning theory. As a group, these chapters also illustrate the many ways in which CEC experiences can initiate a process of intellectual discovery by positioning teacher candidates as the subjects of their own learning and orienting them toward ambitious intellectual aims for all. Just as pre-K–12 educators can draw on the practice of CEC to empower young people, we have found that as teacher educators we can draw on the practice to invite our students into active engagements with the urgent issues and tensions of our field in these times. As teacher educators, we continuously strive to deepen our understanding of each of our students and subject matter(s) and to learn the discipline of seeking to see the world through our students’ eyes. We have learned that the vibrant interactions among ourselves, our students’ selves, and our content areas that these commitments generate serve to center our humanity, our person-ness, and ourselves as they simultaneously center our students’ humanity, person-ness, and selves.

CHAPTER 1

Beginnings Eleanor Ruth Duckworth

If we listen, they will hear their own answers. —Lisa Schneier

Mary Kay Delaney and Susan Jean Mayer have assembled nine stories of people who have undertaken the difficult work of educating teachers in this overtested and underfunded time for public education. They understand and present the challenge. They understand that in this time when goals dictated from the top and checked up on with paper-and-pencil tests are all-powerful, teachers have two sets of orders to follow. One is to prepare their pupils for the tests that determine their institutional success in the system—a huge responsibility. The other is to prepare their pupils for a humane, generous, thoughtful, confident life—in most ways, a more important one. As Delaney and Mayer establish here, the need to prepare teachers for the second set is well understood. But the focus of most school systems is the first. And most students preparing to become teachers know about that from their own school experiences. So teachers of teachers actually have three conflicting jobs. One is to prepare teachers to address the top-down dictates; one is to persuade their students, teacher candidates, that the second set of goals is necessary and possible; and one is to prepare teachers to teach, some of the time, in a very different way—for the second set. Delaney and Mayer present these dilemmas clearly and have chosen nine stories of teacher educators—Delaney herself is one—who are finding ways to help teachers see the importance and possibilities of bringing deep ideas and values into their classrooms. They focus on the work we have called Critical Exploration in the Classroom, and they carefully place this work in the recent history and current situation of teacher education. The approach these teachers share is surprising in several ways, so in this brief introductory chapter, I try to give a mini-history of its development. The ideas behind Critical Exploration in the Classroom started with

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two extraordinarily lucky situations for me and then developed with the help of all the teachers and students with whom I have worked. The first lucky situation: Because of an interest in big ideas, a desire to see the world, a wish to help humanity recover from the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and a generous Rotary Club fellowship, I found myself in a class given by Jean Piaget, who that year was traveling from Geneva to Paris every 2 weeks to give a course at the Sorbonne. I had never heard of him, but his course was required in the psychology program that I had enrolled in. His thinking swept me away. I found support to work with him in Geneva for two additional years. I was not the slightest bit interested in education; I was interested in Pia­ get’s ideas. He was interested in big questions about the nature of knowledge, and he chose to study those questions by studying the development of knowledge in children. His questions were of this sort: For young children, it is not a given that if A is heavier than B and B is heavier than C, then A must be heavier than C. How does that come to be undebatable? I was fascinated by his accounts of children moving from one set of ideas to another. How words are neither the essence nor the source of knowledge. How starting in infancy our thinking is grounded in actions, rather than words. How each mind constructs its knowledge in its own way. How a shared experience has a different meaning to each person: Each of us takes it in in our own way—understands what is happening—in our own way. During these years, I was also a research assistant to Piaget and his colleague, Bärbel Inhelder. This practice had even greater impact on my later work than the theories did. Their research question was always, How do children think about this? They would develop some interesting way to ask a child what they thought, often putting the child in a situation where two of the child’s thoughts would contradict each other. They were good at listening closely to what a child said and finding ways to follow through with questions that would help to clarify what the child thought. Two things were and remain essential: that the child be interested enough to be giving real thought to the questions, and that the interviewer be totally neutral with respect to whether they like the response or not. Piaget and Inhelder were researchers seeking to understand children’s thinking on its own terms. It would do them no good to influence what the children said. The second lucky situation: A few years later, I began working with the Elementary Science Study in Cambridge, Massachusetts, developing elementary school science curriculum. Most of my colleagues were research scientists who had taken a year or two or three away from their academic lives to work on science education for young children. They all loved their science—whether it was about electric circuits, molds, pendulums, frogs, ice

Beginnings 11

cubes, germinating seeds, or the night sky—and they wanted nothing more than to help young children, and their teachers, too, to love the phenomena and their mysteries. To do that, it was clear to them that words about their subject were not what was needed. They wanted the children to delve into the subject, with real things. Since I knew little science, I served as the sample child when they wanted to try things out! I learned a great deal of science through my own explorations of the phenomena presented to me (Duckworth, 2006a, pp. 125–132). In my 21 years of formal education, my job had always been to learn what somebody else was telling me. Now, for the first time, I was invited to develop my own thoughts. It was exhilarating. I didn’t want to be told; I wanted to explore these fascinating phenomena— both the materials and my own thoughts. As my colleagues took their materials and ideas into classrooms to try them out, I went with them to see what the children were making of their experiences. Here, I found that I could really be useful. My Geneva training enabled me to talk with the children and hear their thoughts without giving them hints about what to think. And I found that, as in the research setting in Geneva, when I showed interest in their thoughts instead of wanting them to be interested in mine, the children remained engaged. When we came to introducing these curricula to teachers, we had the idea that the best way to have the teachers learn the science would be for them to learn it through the same materials and explorations that were prepared for the children. And that certainly was the case—for the teachers as it had been for me. As with the children, the teachers became more engaged in their own and their colleagues’ explorations than in any authority’s. This was fascinating. It became the basis for my approach to teaching, and teaching became my passion for the rest of my life. Teaching came to mean “helping someone learn,” rather than “telling someone what you know.” “Helping someone learn” turned out to be a matter of getting and keeping students involved in the subject matter itself, in the world itself. “Telling someone what you know” usually had a negative effect. So then the questions arise: How can you help someone learn without telling them what you know? How does what you know help you as a teacher? My science colleagues helped me answer these questions. You know the subject well enough to know its surprises, mysteries, beauty, interesting challenges, the funny turns things take—and you call on these characteristics to capture the learners’ interest. As a teacher in a school of education, I had questions about my own subject matter, which I thought of in these terms: How do people learn things, and what can anyone do to help? So how was I to get my students to delve into that subject? I needed to offer my students the “surprises, mysteries, beauty, interesting challenges and funny turns,” as referenced above, in the world of teaching and learning. I chose these phenomena:

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In Search of Wonderful Ideas: Critical Exploration in Teacher Education

• First phenomenon—as observers: I would do some Geneva-style interviewing of children so the students could see the following: what it was like to have a conversation with children about their thinking, without trying to shape their thinking; how long children were willing to think when they could think for themselves; and how they can often think themselves through to new understandings without being told. I generally worked with two children at a time, sitting on the floor in the middle of the room, with 40, 50, 60 students circling us. With one break, the children would usually keep thinking, happily, for an hour or more. • Second phenomenon—as learners: For me, this was the most important one—to help students learn by engaging them as learners in poetry, math, physics, history—three or four subject matters. Often, students would at some point find themselves becoming engaged in a subject matter that had always frightened or bored them. Or perhaps, after hearing someone else’s thoughts, they would come to new ways of thinking about a topic they thought they had understood thoroughly before. My goal was to have students experience new learning at each end of this continuum. • Third phenomenon—as teachers: Each week students would take the questions and problems explored in class and practice getting a learner interested, and keeping them interested in those same questions and problems while trying not to direct their thoughts. This was the hardest part for teachers. Conventionally, they saw themselves as “explainers”—but now they had to learn how not to explain. For the last half of the course they were to develop materials and questions that would engage someone in something the student teacher knew well—and then try them out. Through their work in this final project, my students showed me that the approach the scientists took would work with just about all subject matters: history (documents and artifacts), math (well-presented problems), poetry (poems!), Chinese brushwork (Chinese art, brushes, ink), bicycle repair (bicycles, tools), and medicine (huge range). Piaget first called his way of studying children’s thinking “clinical interviewing.” He saw it as related to psychiatric interviewing—not limited by a fixed series of questions but rather following (in this case) the child’s thoughts (see Mayer 2005, and the final chapter of this book). I therefore began by calling my work extended clinical interviewing—extended in both the number of learners and the period of time. In the 1970s, Piaget’s colleague Bärbel Inhelder had employed a new name: exploration—critical exploration. This name seemed appropriate to me. The learning research Inhelder discusses involves far more than interviews. Getting and keeping

Beginnings 13

children interested becomes a more involved and salient part of the work—a part that teachers know a lot about. So I now call our work Critical Exploration in the Classroom. And with this name, I mean to point out: The Genevan research is being carried out in classrooms. The teacher’s job is to get children to think hard about important matters. That is exactly the Genevan researcher’s job! In classrooms, the research is simply, as I wrote above, extended in the both the number of learners and the period of time. I believe that the practice of Critical Exploration in the Classroom can make an important contribution to research on learning. I see it as “methodical inquiry into learning in all of its interpersonal, feeling-laden, time-demanding, situation-dependent complexity” (Duckworth, 2001c, p. 182). In this work, the researcher needs to be the teacher: the teacher whose main responsibility is—as is the researcher’s—to keep the learners connected to and attentive to the subject under discussion. That is the only way to come to understand their learning. The teacher listens rather than tells and is therefore in a position to develop hunches about what learners are understanding, and what questions or materials would be best to offer next in order to sustain the students’ interest and curiosity and to help them listen to one another. For this reason, teachers must also be the ones to write the story. Their hunches along the way are part of it. They are the people who can tell the significance of both their moves and learners’ responses, the ones who know the specifics of how the story has evolved. Piaget, Inhelder, and their colleagues in the Genevan research tradition take care not to influence children’s ideas because it would ruin the work as research. As teachers, we hold back our own ideas because we want children to stay engaged and to be connected to their own ideas. In both cases, “not telling” stimulates the children’s engagement and provides an opening into the children’s own thoughts. For the last 40 years of my professional work, I had another lucky break. I was in a position to teach what and how I saw fit. But for most of my students and colleagues, that has not been the case. The teacher-scholars who have written these chapters are for the most part limited by school system, state, and national regulations, as well as by the received conventions to which all this regulation has led. Their ways of doing this work are creative and skillful. I am grateful to Delaney and Mayer for bringing these teachersscholars together in this volume and showing their valuable work.

CHAPTER 2

Pedagogy as Counternarrative Mary Kay Delaney and Susan Jean Mayer

While a fortunate few of today’s teacher candidates have experienced the kinds of creative and transformational pedagogical encounters that interest us here, most preservice teachers currently entering our classrooms do not naturally associate such experiences with school life. By the time most candidates reach our programs, their “apprenticeships of observation” (Lortie, 1975) as pre-K–12 students have generated internalized visions of teaching and teachers based on the contemporary context of teach-and-test. Our candidates are quite skilled at “doing school”—completing assignments, committing material to memory, reproducing that material during assessments. Their understandings of “good teaching” generally involve caring people who organize content thoughtfully and deliver it in engaging ways. “Good teachers” help students “do school.” For these teacher candidates, a technical, instrumental approach to education is normal, expected, and therefore valid and valued. The schools in which we place them may also serve to reinforce this notion. In many districts, for example, mandated elementary school schedules permit science and social studies for no more than 30 minutes per week and may require scripted curricula that limit teachers’ ability to respond to what students know or to the related questions that arise for them. Schools and school districts strapped for resources and/or under pressure due to their students’ low reading and math scores may provide few opportunities in the creative arts or for open exploration. In such schools, our candidates will learn how easily one can begin to see students through the lens of their test scores, which loom large in the minds of all. Some of the teachers and administrators they encounter, intent on making sure their students are successful in these terms, may refer without thinking to groups of students by their score-based placements—my “1s” or “2s” or “my Tier 2” or “Tier 3.” This understandable concern for students’ academic performance and advancement—as calculated by these highly public and consequential mechanisms—will threaten to overshadow our candidates’ appreciation for the brilliant singularity of each and every child. 14

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As we who seek to provide a larger vision of teaching and of teacher education reflect on our own complicity in these processes of objectification, we ask ourselves, How can we and our students learn to embody a different story—a story whose narrative includes students and teachers as subjects, joined together in a pursuit of creative, soulful, and joyful learning? How can we interest our students in learning to envision the work they have chosen in new ways—in ways they might come to find so true and important that they choose to take up these new ideas about teaching and to pursue them throughout their careers? What begins as a considerable challenge grows greater still amid the current pressures to neglect and even abandon these larger purposes within teacher education. As Zeichner (2014, 2018), among others, has discussed, the rise of privatization and free-market policies within education has served to foreground two contrasting visions of teacher—which he terms teacher as technician and teacher as professional—and to cast doubt on the value of the latter. The teacher as technician paradigm frames problems of educational inequity and underperformance primarily as the result of inadequate teachers and teacher education programs and therefore focuses on attracting “better” candidates and providing them with better technical instruction. This approach risks reducing the work of teaching to the command of “high-impact” strategies that teachers learn to do to and with students, a model of teaching that Schön (1983) referred to as technical rationality. In contrast, professionally minded teacher educators move from a vision of practice that Schön (1983) called reflection-in-action. As Schön and Zeichner would agree, developing the self-possession required to reflect seriously in the midst of a busy classroom requires the personal integration of a diverse range of pedagogical theory and personal experience and a growing confidence in one’s own capacity to construct practice-based knowledge, skill, and wisdom: A professional preparation for teachers also seeks to help teachers learn how to exercise their judgement in the classroom and adapt what they do to meet the continually changing needs of their students; to learn how to learn in, and from, their practice so that they continue to become better teachers throughout their careers and are active participants in school renewal (Darling-Hammond, 1999; Kennedy 1987). (Zeichner, 2014, p. 559)

Yet today, those of us who share this vision, and who look to our teacher candidates to imagine and enact the renewal our schools need, find that current policies and programs imply and promote the teachers as technicians paradigm. In many states, high-stakes teacher education accountability measures exert pressure to devote limited course hours to direct instruction models. National pedagogy assessments, such as edTPA (ed-Teacher Performance

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Assessment) or the PPAT (preservice performance assessment of teaching), are now pervasive (American Association of Colleges of Teacher Education, n.d.). While these assessments may ensure that teacher candidates achieve a passing familiarity with the skills, theories, and ideas they cover, students’ relationships with these constructs often remain cursory (Dover et al., 2015). Such resources can grow meaningful and accessible to novice teachers only through their practice-based and professionally oriented integration of them in conversation with others (Conley & Garner, 2015)—through their development, in other words, into reflective practitioners (Schön, 1983). Furthermore, aims for early career teachers have not historically included learning how to study their students’ thinking in real time. Teaching-learning research practices bring the tools of developmental learning researchers— thoughtful challenges, close listening, sensitive questioning—into the classroom and make these resources available to teachers. In learning, either as learning researchers or educators, to quiet our own priorities for a time, we position ourselves to hear the operative assumptions and intellectual connections of others. As Herrenkohl and Mertl (2010) observed, “as students become knowledgeable in new areas of study, they are also becoming certain kinds of people in relation to that subject matter, one another, teachers, parents, the larger community, and their future selves” (p. 6). As our teacher candidates work in our courses and in their practica, they are also being and becoming certain kinds of teachers. Experiences with teaching-learning research practices during this time can encourage preservice teachers to view the practice of understanding learners on their own terms as integral to the teacherstudent relationship. Today, concerns regarding various forms of standardized assessment performances continually threaten to usurp the psychic space required to explore these more involved dimensions of our teacher candidates’ professional journeys. Where and how will teacher candidates learn to study and grow fascinated with the psychological, social, and intersubjective complexities of teaching and learning? Where and how will they begin to recognize and respond to the relationships among their sociocultural identities, those of their students, and the social systems and structures that are organizing their work together? The conundrum these circumstances appear to pose suggests a need for teacher educators to attend ever more closely to the pedagogies we use in our teacher education classrooms. As Lortie (1975) argued, the pedagogies we enact and embody as teachers reveal and express our beliefs about learning and teaching. They tell our teacher candidates who we think they are in relationship to the content of our courses, to their students, and to our broader democratic society. The pedagogies we enact become the embodied stories we tell about teaching and learning and about our students’ identities as teachers and learners.

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INTERSECTING COMMITMENTS REGARDING LEARNING, EQUITY, AND DEMOCRACY Professionally minded teacher educators have always sought out scholarship and developed practices to engage teacher candidates with the larger realities and implications of classroom teaching and learning. We offer the following accounts of our work with the practice of Critical Exploration in the Classroom (CEC), not to replace these other practices and frameworks, but to augment and engage them. We share these stories because we have found that this particular pedagogical practice reliably disrupts our students’ received understandings and suggests to them the need for a new story, a counter-story, about teaching and learning and students. Through the practice of CEC, the authors of this volume have themselves been startled into engaging more deeply with the realities of classroom life. As a result, our teaching has come to be more clearly grounded in a number of intersecting understandings and commitments. One shared commitment, discussed further in Chapter 5, is to the work of deepening learning, in the sense of enabling learners to create new understandings from what they know. In our vision, this requires a teacher stance that views teaching and learning as deeply emmeshed in specific people, relationships, and settings and that prioritizes “finding out” about students and the ways they learn. This call to attend to the intellectual lives of our students has also challenged and informed our thinking about the work of promoting equitable teaching practices. Enacting the practice of CEC engages teachers in the project of understanding their students’ sense-making—of self-reflecting based on their documented observations of their and their students’ actions and thoughts, and of considering their and their students’ relationship to the content. These practices are also integral to culturally responsive and culturally sustaining pedagogies (Gay, 2010; Alim & Paris, 2017; Paris, 2012). Working with the practice of CEC—as either student or teacher—can contribute in this way to a teacher candidate’s development as an equityoriented and antiracist teacher, as discussed in Chapter 4. Finally, we have come to appreciate the ways in which the practice of CEC supports the development of a pluralistic, democratic learning culture in our classrooms. By inviting all students into the exploratory process, shifting final authority for knowledge construction to students, and fostering students’ ever more cogent and well-supported reasoning, CEC experiences demonstrate the democratizing power of accessible and transparent knowledge construction processes. In creating and sustaining a place for a plurality of views, CEC also provides opportunities for engaging tensions regarding the cultural and contextual rootedness of human understandings. In the rest of the chapter, we explore each of these three areas of concern: deep and culturally situated learning, equity-oriented and antiracist pedagogies, and democratic values and knowledge construction practices.

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In each case, we reference the scholarship that supports our claims and discuss some of the ways in which these concerns connect our practice of CEC to the related ideas and practices of others. DEEP AND CULTURALLY SITUATED LEARNING The practice of paying close attention to student thinking has been integrated within the world of classroom practice in large part due to the methods and findings of developmental researchers. The Piagetian and Vygotskian conceptual frameworks and their subsequent extensions and reinterpretations are all methodologically rooted in a common understanding that one must attend closely to the words and actions of children and youth in order to be in meaningful communication with them. In response to these fertile and, to some extent, complementary methodological visions, contemporary learning theorists and researchers have come to understand intellectual development as the emergence of embodied human capacities in interaction with people’s material environments and sociocultural communities over the course of their lifetimes (e.g., Gutiérrez & Rogoff, 2003; Witherington & Boom, 2019; Wozniak & Fischer, 1993). In keeping with this dynamic and systems-oriented perspective, learning is seen as a multidimensional process that occurs in context and is influenced by the continual interplay of many factors. Due to the historically narrow focus of U.S. learning theorists—originally on behavioral change and subsequently on cognitive processes—some educational theorists in this country have been slow to arrive at these more holistic and contextually situated concepts of learning and development. Increasingly, however, the irreducible complexity of all learning processes is being recognized, suggesting a more multidimensional conception of teaching and of learning environments. In addition to the limitations created by narrowly behaviorist and cognitivist models of learning, a systemic undervaluing of the contributions of practitioners and practice-based knowledge has contributed to the underfunding of school-based professional collaborations and teacher leadership models. Historically, White male learning researchers believed that academics could and should explain to practitioners, then as now primarily women, how to teach (Lagemann, 2000). In addition to their gendered and racialized roots, the assumptions at issue can also be traced to a failure to entertain either the intersubjective and cultural dimensions of learning or the culturally entrenched challenges to realizing educational equity and to fostering democratic aims in this country. Although scholarly research clearly has informed important aspects of classroom practice, a professional conception of teaching insists that teachers themselves must continually weigh and balance the manner in which multiple relevant forms of research can most effectively illuminate any particular pedagogical encounter (Schön, 1983; Shulman, 2004).1 Teachers

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need to be prepared to make tough calls informed by their knowledge of individual students and the particular places and spaces in which those students live, including their own classrooms. The philosopher John Dewey (1929/2013)—who believed that new classroom-based forms of educational research were needed to support the development of more democratic forms of school practice—argued as much repeatedly (Mayer, 2014), and his arguments have since been reprised by many others (e.g., Biesta & Burbules, 2003; Greene, 1988). The value that the practice of CEC places on revealing and responding to student understandings and ways of knowing situates CEC within this broader world of classroom-based research and progressively oriented practice. Related traditions of practice include educators who study and promote pedagogies centered on listening (e.g. Haroutunian-Gordon, 2009) and discussion (e.g., Kuhn, 2008; Lampert, 2001) and those who view practitioner research more generally as integral to teaching (e.g., Cochran-Smith & Lytle, 1999, 2009). Indeed, the practice of CEC can be seen to respond directly to the call Cochran-Smith and Lytle (2009) have made for practitioners to take up a stance of inquiry: We need teachers who do research about their own work, teachers who assume roles as co-constructors of knowledge and creators of curriculum. Now more than ever, we need teachers to assume a teacher identity that entails becoming theorizers, activists, and school leaders. (p. 84)

Furthermore, in stating that “the overarching purpose of practitioner inquiry is to provide education for a more just and democratic society,” Cochran-Smith and Lytle (2009, pp. 126–127) suggest the central intersections between their pedagogical vision and the practice we are sharing here. The practitioners and scholars within these related communities of practice understand that the beliefs, experiences, and patterns of reasoning that the members of any classroom bring to bear in their work are likely to intersect in some respects and diverge in others, and they therefore look to draw out contrasting understandings, to place them into relationship with each other, and to reflect upon them together. They seek to provide opportunities for all of their students to make sense of matters in their own terms. By encouraging students to listen to and respond to one another, they look to provide them with rich, varied, and accessible opportunities to construct new understandings. EQUITY Teaching toward equity begins with the capacity to see all students and their families wholly and on their own terms. Considerable study and analysis suggest that in the absence of meaningful intervention, many teachers in this

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country view Students of Color and students who are poor through a deficit lens. In other words, they generally expect a lack of seriousness, intelligence, and school preparedness among students from minoritized groups compared to students from middle-class and White groups (Delpit, 2013; Gay, 2010; Valencia, 1997/2012, 2010; Valencia & Solórzano, 1997/2012). Unexamined classism and enduring legacies of racism and White supremacy can lead well-meaning teachers to devalue and dehumanize students in this way. Scholars of multicultural education, assets-based pedagogy, and critical race theory have therefore called for practices that direct teacher candidates’ attention to the capacities of Students of Color and the cultural wealth of their families and communities (e.g., Gonzalez et al., 2005; Ladson-Billings, 2014; Moll, 2013; Valencia, 1997/2012, 2010). In related work, scholars have pointed to the need to create classroom communities in which the intersectional plurality of students is seen as the norm, rather than perpetuate a conception of a single dominant “normal” group—White, middle-class, heteronormative, English-speaking—that casts Students of Color, poor students, and students who are LGBTQ+ as “deviant” (Paris, 2014). Again, if we seek to see our students fully in the context of their classroom lives, we as teachers need to ensure that students are the subjects of their learning rather than the objects of our intentions for them. In reflecting nearly a quarter-century later on her framework of culturally relevant pedagogy, Gloria Ladson-Billings (2014) explained that in shifting to the notion of culturally sustaining pedagogy (Paris, 2012), a new generation of scholars layer the multiple ways that this notion of pedagogy shifts, changes, adapts, recycles, and recreates instructional spaces to ensure that consistently marginalized students are repositioned into a place of normativity—that is, that they become subjects in the instructional process, not mere objects. (Ladson-Billings, 2014, p. 76; emphasis added)

As Ladson-Billings (2018) has also emphasized, this attention to positioning all students as subjects takes on added urgency when White and middle-class teachers, culturally primed to view marginalized students as less capable, are responsible for students’ intellectual growth. In learning how to reveal and explore student thinking, teachers create opportunities for students to display their originality, in turn creating opportunities for teachers to recognize—and celebrate—the grounded understandings and resources that are active in their students’ current lives (e.g., Ballenger & Rosebery, 2003; Bang et al., 2013; Delpit, 2013; Hooper, 1996; Rosebery et al., 2010; Warren et al., 2001). In contrast to practices that draw teachers’ attention to what students do not know or are unable to do, teachinglearning research practices train a teacher’s attention on locating the sense that the learner is making. They reorient the attention of teacher candidates

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from a concern with getting acontextual teaching strategies “right” and toward understanding the situated sense-making of students. The capacities of all students as intellectuals, as sense-makers, are both assumed and revealed. As Vossoughi, Hooper, and Escudé (2016) have proposed, an “assumption of human ingenuity (McDermott & Raley, 2011) positions researchers and educators as learners, inquiring into ways of asking, knowing, and relating” (p. 218). In our work as teacher educators, we have therefore come to understand CEC as contributing a valuable set of tools to our candidates’ development of culturally relevant and culturally sustaining pedagogical perspectives (CRP/CSP). CEC’s studied approach to inspiring and supporting learners’ intellectual engagement with shared materials and the thinking of peers locates all students as the subjects—the intellectual agents—of their own learning. We have all seen experiences with CEC create new openings for ourselves and our students by encouraging and enabling classroom members to experience and to understand each other in new ways. DEMOCRATIC VALUES AND PRACTICES Philosophers of democratic education unfailingly note the need for democracy to be recast and reborn in every generation and so call on schools to assume a central role in this process (e.g., Biesta, 2006, 2014; Dewey, 1938, 1944; Greene, 1988; Gutmann, 1987; Hytten & Bettez, 2011; Noddings, 2013). Contemporary scholars continue to draw upon the dynamic interplay about which John Dewey (1938, 1944) and Jane Addams (Seigfried, 1999) theorized between the insights and perspectives of diverse individuals and the cultural frameworks and resources they share as members of the same society (e.g., Burbules, 1993; Haroutunian-Gordon, 2009). The practice of CEC provides not only a means of revealing and interacting with students’ thinking but also a principled means for positioning each student’s thinking into relationship with these shared frameworks and the understandings of others. In addition to returning students continually to the materials, teacher inquiries encourage students to listen to each other closely and to seek to understand each other’s observations and questions, evolving interpretations and hypotheses, and different background understandings and forms of evidence. Duckworth (2016) has discussed this aspect of the practice of CEC in the following way: “We call it a Democracy of Ideas, when all ideas in a classroom are given serious consideration—not just the ideas of the ‘smart kids’ or the textbook or the teacher. . . . One reason that it is difficult to get good conversations going in classrooms is that students fear a dismissal of their thoughts.” At the same time, the practice of CEC invites learners into all of three processes integral to a principled construction of collaborative understandings:

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(1) framing questions and puzzles for investigation (2) developing responsive ideas and theories, and (3) evaluating these ideas and theories in relation to respected experience and evidence (Mayer, 2012).2 As portrayed in Chapters 9 and 10, in some domains, students’ efforts to evaluate their ideas can lead to their devising and undertaking of experiments together. As students learn to take an interest in unraveling their own and each other’s ideas, they begin to experience themselves as authorized knowledge creators. The notion of “evidence-based” reasoning takes on real meaning when teachers invite and support their students’ efforts to demonstrate the bases for their contrasting claims and perspectives and then keep space open for a diversity of views to coexist. In response to this diversity, students must rely on each other and the materials themselves in order to discern a path forward. All the while, as demonstrated in Chapters 7 and 8, teachers also need to be prepared to introduce strategically framed questions and counterevidence as required, in order to challenge problematic assumptions and reasoning and to sustain a responsible and balanced exploration. By empowering students to interpret and theorize about natural phenomena and cultural materials on their own authority, educators are positioning students to participate fully in distinctively democratic knowledge construction processes (Mayer et al., 2019). As Mayer (2012) has previously proposed, such processes can be usefully conceptualized as meaningful, powerful, and transparent: Each of these adjectives—meaningful, powerful, and transparent—represents an organizing line of thought within the world of democratic learning theory. I specify meaningful because we now understand that ideas only take root and grow when they are linked to a student’s concerns, understandings, and conceptual frames; powerful because all citizens in a democracy need to master the languages, ideas, and practical tools required to become fully participating members of the broader society; and transparent because transparency is essential to the democratic construction of publicly held understandings. (pp. 1–2)

Distinctively democratic knowledge construction processes are contingent and unpredictable. They are marked by the willingness of all, including teachers and other authority figures, to locate and reconsider their own beliefs and assumptions, to entertain unfamiliar and nonintuitive possibilities, and to live with a certain degree of uncertainty and doubt. By demonstrating the empowering potential of collaborative and evidence-based reasoning, such processes help to foster a pragmatic orientation toward shared human understandings—the sense that all human knowledge is constructed intersubjectively and ultimately relies on the quality of the participants’ attention and thought and a culture within which all thoughts are valued and entertained.

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We view this understanding of knowledge construction as essential for understanding teaching and learning in a pluralistic and democratic society. Yes, democratic citizens will need to appropriate cultural tools and languages and many of the expert understandings of their day in order to participate actively in the issues of their time. In a democracy, people also need to appreciate the ways in which those tools and understandings have evolved over time and may need to be challenged and at times abandoned as new struggles and insights arise—including changes in power relationships—calling for new thinking and practices. Educators therefore need to become partners in learning with students: to assist them in developing critical and collaborative reflection and decisionmaking capacities and in acting to make change in their lives based on the authentic questions and issues that arise for them from within their lived experience.

CHAPTER 3

Engaging the Subject Before the Word Bonnie Tai

PRELUDE—TEACHING WITHOUT TELLING Eight fresh-faced, perhaps slightly wary, educators gather around me in the community garden, six women and two men. Luckily the sun is shining; the weeds grow high behind me in the plot across which I have just strung twine to divide four 5-square-foot quadrants where I will soon let them loose to explore. I had a couple of hours with this group of environmental educators, who would be working with children in grades 1–8 in Summer Field Studies (SFS), a summer day camp on our college campus. I told the director I would focus the time on the following questions: What are some ways to teach things without telling the kids what you know? What do you do with what you know if you can’t [don’t?] tell them? And finally, How do you know whether the kids have learned what you want them to learn? These are three questions I have found particularly compelling for environmental educators, many of whom have had little to no formal preparation in education. I hoped to challenge preconceptions that effective field-based environmental education involves bringing kids outside and sharing your expert knowledge about the plants, animals, and natural cycles that the kids would encounter. I also hoped that the educators would question the assumption that giving children complete freedom to play in nature as nonhuman animals (and other fun games and activities that involve scientific vocabulary and/or concepts) was enough to help the children develop an informed reverence for all living things. We do a quick round of introductions while standing between two garden plots and next to a bag on the ground containing hand rakes, trowels, eight pairs of garden gloves, hand lenses, graph and blank paper, clipboards, pencils, colored pencils, utility knives, and some spades. Only one or two of the educators have any gardening experience; one of them has extensive experience and formal education in botany, gardening, and 24

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farming. I ask all of the educators to pair up and choose a quadrant in the overgrown plot next to us: “This garden plot has been left untended for years. Take a look at what’s there. What seems most at home here? What makes you say that?” I pair them up so that there will be enough space for people to move around and follow whatever catches their eyes and interests. Most of the educators choose to pair up with the individual with whom they will be team-teaching over the summer. I ask the two who reported having prior knowledge to observe and listen to what their peers are noticing and questioning. It was important for me that these two not take on the role of experts who answered their peers’ every question about what they were finding but rather listened without judgment for the unique and diverse observations of their peers’ more “beginner” minds. The pairs set right to work. Wren and Phil begin noticing the various bugs in the soil or on the plants’ leaves and stems. Judy and Kris question each other about names of plants they think they recognize, moving on to figure out which plants are the same or different, as opposed to being at different stages in their life cycle. Judy and Kris appear to be seeking to determine the plants’ abundance as a sign that they are “most at home” (e.g., “Let’s see how many plants the vines are on!”) and are wondering if the holes in the leaves were from disease or bugs. In the adjacent plot, Anna and Emma also begin trying to identify the plants they can name (e.g., “This kind of reminds me of brassicas”; “Are they forget-me-nots?”). Emma begins drawing a dandelion with great precision in black ink. When the educators are visibly engaged with their investigations, alone or with their partner, I pause them to share what they notice. I had encouraged them to dig up some of the plants to look at the roots—especially of plants like the abundant comfrey that have impressively long and thick roots. Wren and Phil, a pair who had become intrigued by the bugs, had dug up some very large dandelions and found small larvae they couldn’t identify, as well as snails, fire ants, and egg masses, whose source they also could not identify. Along with their focus on the insects, Wren and Phil noticed that some leaves had holes in them while others did not. Emma the artist had dug up a dandelion and drawn the entire plant, roots and all. I pause the paired explorations and gather the whole group to ask them how they are determining which plants seemed most at home in their quadrants. One pair points out the plants that seem to be most abundant. At first, they saw only the Jerusalem artichokes, which grew nearly shoulder-high. With closer examination, in what one participant named the “understory,” they saw many other plants, including the bindweed curling around the taller plants like morning glory vines. Another participant suggests that the depth of a plant’s roots is an indication of that plant being most at home. Someone wonders which plant had been there the longest—did she mean the oldest plant? Or the group of plants that had been there long enough

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to colonize the largest area? Either question would have been intriguing to pursue. After this interlude, I encourage the educators to consider their own and each others’ observations and questions for a few more moments while they continue exploring their quadrants. After further exploration and a final discussion about what they were finding, we move under the shade of the apple orchard. I want to distance us physically from the plot to invite the educators to participate in a discussion that is at a different conceptual level. I ask them, What was it like to learn in this way? And what might a teacher discover about her learners from observing and listening? They reflect on how quickly and easily they could engage their curiosity in a place to which people don’t usually pay much attention (an overgrown weedy plot) but that is so “rich with possibility.” They appreciate the element of mystery and explain how helpful it was to stop midway through the activity to hear what others were investigating, how others’ ideas had fueled their own inquiries, and how the teacher’s open-ended questions allowed for the many different ways in which they had engaged with the initial question. Some note how they were not afraid to mess things up, to be wrong. Following this discussion, I ask the educators to brainstorm what they might do next if they were the teacher. Their responses are quite varied. A few of them make curricular connections, thinking about other activities kids can do with plants that are considered weeds that involve art or cooking. Some think about the choice of location and tools as helpful in planning curricula. Others observe the freedom they were given to engage with the subject and thereby reveal not only their interests but also how they were making sense of the question about ecological relationships. Through this discussion, we are able to return to the original questions with which I framed the workshop: How do we teach without telling? How do we know what the kids have learned? In their responses to a question about what they might do next, the educators identify the potential of providing integrated curriculum, exploratory freedom, engaging locations, and rich materials as alternatives to a mere telling of what they know. When I repeat this exercise the following year with a new team of SFS educators, I ask them to jot down three things they learned, two lingering questions, and a suggestion. In addition to responses I could not have anticipated (such as “dirt tastes good”), each educator articulated a learning outcome I had intended. Most outcomes were along the lines of “a few ways to teach without just telling,” such as “It’s important to pay attention to how you frame an activity” and “Create/enable mystery in learning” (emphasis in original). The educators expressed other insights related to teaching and their own learning, such as: “To be especially mindful of creating an environment where learning can take place, rather than laying all of the information out for the learner”; “How to help kids discover things for themselves”; and “There are many awesome things to discover in such a small area; I want to spend more time noticing.”

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This 2- to 3-hour summer workshop is an example of how I introduce educators to some of the insights I have gleaned from critical exploration as both practice and stance. I include the example here to give a sense of how I introduce my preservice teachers to CEC as they develop their teaching practice. TEACHER EDUCATION IN A SMALL ECOLOGY-FOCUSED COLLEGE As with most teachers, I face the challenge of a very diverse set of learners. The diversity of their preparation and interests is compounded by the emphasis on self-direction and programmatic flexibility valued by my students and colleagues at College of the Atlantic (COA). Due to the college’s small size, we typically offer courses required for certification only every other year. As with the group of SFS educators described previously, I often have students with extensive experience or formal education in teaching alongside those who are just starting out. Most of our students choose to spend at least a term abroad, and many elect to spend a term taking advantage of internships, language learning, and other off-campus opportunities, interspersing required certification courses with immersion experiences in specific content areas or interdisciplinary studies. As a result, it is nearly impossible for us to create cohorts greater than a few students who all follow the same path in terms of course sequence. Therefore, we have to plan and adapt our syllabi to those students who may only just be entering the program or who are in the final term of coursework prior to student teaching. In the courses I teach, none of which are devoted solely to teaching CEC, I have students at various points in their preparation. I have therefore tried to give students opportunities to learn some of the tenets of CEC through the following: (1) Experiencing learning from a particular way of teaching that may be to various extents unfamiliar to them; (2) Reading examples of CEC; and (3) Practicing assessing, teaching, and planning in ways that are informed by CEC. TEACHING AND LEARNING CEC Looking at a bird he says, “Do you know what that bird is? It’s a brownthroated thrush; but in Portuguese, it’s a . . . . [Y]ou know in all the languages you want to know what the name of that bird is and when you’ve finished with all that,” he says, “you’ll know absolutely nothing whatever about the bird. You only know about humans in different places and what they call the bird. Now,” he says, “let’s look at the bird.”1 (Feynman, 1999, p. 4)

The rest of this chapter provides examples from a required 10-week one-credit course (the equivalent of 3.3 semester-credits) for secondary certification

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candidates in English language arts, life sciences, and social studies, titled Curriculum Design and Assessment. In this course, I offer a progression of experiences from learner to teacher that aims to loosen students’ preconceptions about learning and teaching. Students study the actual pipe and not what the word pipe signifies, to avoid the treachery of words (with appreciation for Magritte and his painting The Treachery of Images). I reflect upon the experiences of four of the seven students enrolled in this course, each of whom I interviewed about half a year after they completed the course. In addition to analyzing my own class notes, student work, and interview transcripts for categories drawn from students’ own meaning-making, I gave participating student teachers an opportunity to provide factual corrections to the interview transcript and to their respective profiles. Elinore was a junior when she took Curriculum Design and Assessment. She was pursuing a Maine teaching certification in secondary English language arts education and had completed the first of three terms of her senior year when I interviewed her. Having completed all but two of her certification requirements, she was well prepared for the challenges of this advanced and required course for secondary teaching candidates. She chose her own pseudonym. Lucy was a senior and so had graduated and was about to depart on a solo canoe expedition when I interviewed her. At the time of the course, she had been working concurrently on her senior project. The course provided a learning community that could give her feedback on some of her curricular ideas, which she had the opportunity to implement during the April school vacation at a place-based natural history camp she had created for local youth. Lucy chose to use her real name. Roger was a junior when enrolled in the course and was finishing student teaching at the time of our interview, having completed all prerequisites prior to the course, including content requirements for secondary English language arts certification. Roger chose their own pseudonym and requested that I use gender-neutral pronouns. Jeana was a junior who was seeking certification in secondary social studies education at the time of the course. She had just completed an internship tutoring urban youth and was working on her senior project when I interviewed her. Jeana chose to use her real name. Loosening Preconceptions About Teaching and Learning After getting a sense of what the students know at the start of this course, I engage them as learners with authentic artifacts in the manner of a CEC learning experience (Duckworth, 2001b, 2006a). I usually start with a poem, because as a subject, poetry seems to be the least “intimidating” for

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the students who are attracted to teaching certification at my college. Also, many of my students have had memorable (or forgettable) experiences of learning poetry as a list of vocabulary and examples of figurative language like “onomatopoeia” or “alliteration” rather than as a collective and contested dialogue about the uses of language and the meaning of words in relation to each other and to our own experiences (cf. Schneier, 2001). It was therefore not surprising that it was the English language arts teaching candidates who found a CEC approach to poetry most troubling: In Elinore’s case in particular (see the following discussion), the openness to multiple and competing interpretations created a dilemma between the importance of an authoritative interpretation and the value of teacher neutrality in engaging diverse learners with poetry. With each new subject and learning experience, I facilitate a different conversation. After a discussion about what they notice in Lucille Clifton’s poem “miss rosie,” I ask students to compare and contrast how we just engaged with the poem with how they are used to reading and learning about poetry in school. Typical responses have been that in contrast to prior experiences, the students appreciated that there did not appear to be any one right way to read or interpret the poem, that everyone noticed different things, and that the group’s discussion highlighted interesting details that they hadn’t noticed when they read it to themselves. For homework, the students are asked to share the poem with a friend who is not necessarily someone who reads poetry on their own. I ask them to (1) “keep this person engaged” with the poem, and (2) to work to “understand what this person understands” in the poem. The tendency for many of us is to try to get someone else to see/hear/feel/experience how we analyze, interpret, or understand a poem. With this explicit pair of goals, I signal a different effort. I give students the choice of reading Apprehending Poetry (Schneier, 2001) either before or after they have shared the poem with a friend, as some students prefer the benefit of a model prior to engaging with a new experience while others prefer striking out on their own and then reading about others’ approaches. In the following class, we discuss Schneier’s (2001) chapter, which describes her engagement with 9th-grade students who are reading the same poem, “miss rosie.” We also discuss my students’ experiences with engaging a learner themselves. This experience can create ethical and conceptual conflicts for preservice teachers who see teachers as holders and dispensers of authoritative knowledge, as Elinore did. When she engaged a friend with the poem, at one point he asked her how she understands the last lines. Elinore had responded, “It’s not fair if I tell you,” using an ethical principle—fairness—to justify her withholding what she sees as her more authoritative knowledge about poems. In her notes on this experience, she continued this line of inquiry, asking herself: “Is there a ‘more right’ way to interpret a poem?” As she

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elaborated later in her interview, poems mean things, and having to withhold her interpretation in the interest of learning about her friend’s interpretation creates internal conflict regarding her view of the teacher’s role. A week later, we look together at photographs of President Obama in a range of roles both formal and informal (e.g., signing legislation, meeting with a foreign head of state, walking with his daughters). Again, we discuss what the students notice about the pictures and what questions had come up for them, after which we look at the photographs from the perspective of teacher rather than learner. We consider both the role of the material that provokes the inquiry and the role of peer interactions. Why had I chosen those particular pictures? Why not others? The students respond that the photographs show the different roles the president plays. They also wonder whether there should be captions for each picture, or at least source information with a date. Following some differences of opinion, we come to an agreement that it depends on what the teacher is trying to accomplish. What would the students themselves do next with their own students? They easily brainstorm many ideas, including inviting their students to choose their own photographs and researching the context for each image. In parallel with the preceding week, the students read Delaney’s (2001) chapter “Understanding the Presidency,” which characterizes this specific CEC, and engage a learner with these same photographs or some of their own choosing with the same instructions: Keep the learner interested and understand what sense the learner is making of these photographs. The students return to class and discuss the chapter and their own experiences. Later in the term, Jeana, a secondary social studies teaching candidate, modifies this approach in a collaborative unit she designs with Roger in which they seek to engage students’ emotions through provocative primary source materials. The unit includes critical explorations of primary sources such as W. E. B. Du Bois’s version of “My Country ’Tis of Thee” (1907), Nina Simone’s recording of “I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel to Be Free” (1967), and Bob Dylan’s song “The Death of Emmett Till” (1963), in addition to laws, court opinions, and documentaries. As Jeana and Roger express in a joint reflection on the unit, their goal is “to capture the emotion of the Civil Rights Era through music, literature, paintings, and short stories”; they understand the power of emotionally evocative materials to engage and drive continued investigation into a subject matter and as a starting point for further investigation of legal, governmental, and academic primary and secondary sources. Meanwhile, I engage students as learners one more time with a CEC learning experience called “floating and sinking,” during which they explore what floats and sinks using clear tubs half full of water and a variety of everyday objects that float at various depths or sink. These are usually familiar objects of different materials, shapes, and sizes, such as metal

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washers, wooden dowels, rubber bands, aluminum foil, clay, coins, and empty film canisters.2 The students then read “Inventing Density” (Duckworth, 2001b), an account of a critical exploration of this concept with primary school teachers in Switzerland. Several of the students I interviewed found the floating and sinking experience particularly memorable and saw it as exemplary of CEC. Lucy referred to this experience in her half-year follow-up interview as an example of CEC and noted that “it takes a lot of time, if you want to do it well.” When asked to elaborate on what it would look like if the teacher were doing it well, she expounds on the importance of confusion, frustration, and listening, which creates a space for learners to talk about their ideas, recalling Duckworth’s description of this work in her chapter: It’s the students themselves coming to their own understanding with your help but you’re not giving them the answers. Because of that, because they’re doing it themselves, you have to have points where if they’re really confused or where . . . they’re frustrated or maybe there’s conflict among them . . . [you need to offer] different kinds of things that don’t feel very comfortable so that they can get past that. . . . [I]t might not seem like it’s going well every second but that’s important to be able to get to the understanding, in my mind. . . . [T]hey [teachers] have to be a [sic] really good listener and communicator and really aware of where their students are at . . . you have to be a really good observer as facilitators . . . Um, you’re, how do I say this? It’s kind of like you’re looking for the gaps in their explanations . . . you’re just listening to how they explain what’s going on. Lucy refers explicitly to this essay when she thinks back to Duckworth’s role as a teacher educator and adds these additional thoughts: “not asking them leading questions and really listening to their answers. . . . You’re not telling them anything; you’re just bringing something else to the table.” This receptivity is an example of Lucy’s commitment to being “neutral to the substance while being encouraging” as her learners are thinking and questioning. Roger uses “the floaty rock thing we did in class” (referring to the floating and sinking exploration) to distinguish between CEC and other forms of experiential learning and uses it as an example of the role of discovery in the learning process: “We’re like figuring it out, like you know, it wasn’t like we learned about what floated and what didn’t and then did it. It was like a mystery. I guess there’s an element of mystery in critical exploration. . . . Yes, mystery and intrigue.” The order of things—not “learned about” first (presumably through a teacher’s mini-lesson, demonstration, or reading) and then explored, but rather learned about through exploration of the phenomenon—is key in Roger’s understanding of CEC. Learning through

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exploration preserves the “mystery and intrigue” that can motivate learners, as experienced in this learning experience about “floaty rock” things. Challenging and Deepening Conceptions of Learning In addition to these class experiences, throughout the 10-week term, students are invited to observe the moon and bring to class their observations of and experiences with the moon. We share these observations at the start of practically every twice-weekly class, discussing what the students notice and reflecting on their own engagement with this project throughout the term. Over time, students reliably construct a new understanding of what they see when they look at the moon and of the moon’s relationship with the Earth and sun.3 Moon-watching provides the students with a continuous, multiweek experience of learning about something through their own observing, questioning, and discussing. I have found over the years that moon-watching is a powerful long-term collective experience. It provides students with opportunities to learn beside each other a subject about which some feel they already know a lot, others very little, and a few have little to no interest in investigating. The moon provides an object of learning that is nearly always visible, raises a variety of vexing questions, and offers up mystery and novelty with nearly every viewing. The number of variables that students consider while watching the moon—looking for it and at it, considering its arc and color and size, comparing notes on their means of engaging with it—offers a high degree of complexity that keeps students challenged in a variety of ways. While Elinore and Lucy shared that they continued to look at and correspond about the moon long after the course ended, Roger complained that moon-watching induced vertigo. Roger’s inability to engage with and to “get” what other students appeared to be getting from moon-watching most tangibly raised the question of how to balance mystery and transparency as a teacher. When asked what elements of the course helped her to understand CEC, Elinore named moon-watching first, declaring that she still wrote letters to a classmate “about what we’ve seen of the moon. . . . I don’t feel compelled to ever, I have no deadline to come up to a conclusion about it. . . . I’m always just paying attention to what it’s doing and thinking about it in the back of my mind.” This course component provided her with the opportunity to see how learning could exceed a check-off-your-list kind of knowledge, that it could be fun and that not having “the answer” did not have to be frustrating. In contrast, Roger expressed very mixed feelings about the moon-watching. On the one hand, the experience exemplified the discovery process: “We didn’t know why we were doing it [watching the moon]. So it wasn’t like

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there were no expectations; we were just sort of like figuring it out. I guess that’s the thing that it’s not—it’s more like the process of figuring it out. So it’s—so it sticks.” On the other hand, the experience raised strong concerns about whether CEC requires a teacher to abdicate too much responsibility: And there’s part of me that’s still slightly concerned because I feel there’s room where people can be left behind with critical exploration. In a way that other forms of learning can, too . . . but it’s like, sometimes, I feel like there should be a follow-up or something. In the interview, Roger grapples with an ethical question most if not all teachers ask themselves at some point: “To what degree is the facilitator responsible to ensure understanding?” I think if it works and people figure it out it’s a really solid way to like imprint this concept into them because they did it and they figured it out for themselves, but then, what if they don’t get it, you know? The question “What if they don’t get it?” gets at the heart of this student teacher’s reflection on personal experience and the knowledge that certain approaches have not served this student in the same way that it served their classmates. LEARNING OPPORTUNITIES In the student experiences and perceptions characterized previously, mystery, freedom, and student choice stand out as important elements of CEC. At the same time, I am constantly balancing these elements with my desire to be transparent with students about educational aims and the need to provide the structure that some students prefer and others need. I acknowledge and live with this tension because I have come to believe that it is vital for teachers of all subjects and at all grade levels, especially beginning teachers, to learn CEC as a practice and stance. CEC provides student teachers with a visceral means to understand what it means to “construct” deep conceptual understanding. It also provides an established practice that challenges and empowers student teachers to revisit their assumptions about how we learn and therefore how we should teach. Duckworth’s following articulation of critical exploration as research method provides the foundation for the pedagogical work I do: Change the words “child” to “teaching candidate” and “research method” to “teaching method,” and the result describes my understanding of critical exploration as curricular practice and stance:

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In Search of Wonderful Ideas: Critical Exploration in Teacher Education Critical exploration, then as a research method, has two aspects: (1) developing a good project for the child to work on; and (2) succeeding in inviting the child to talk about her ideas: putting her at ease, being receptive to all answers; being neutral to the substance of the answer while being encouraging about the fact that the child is thinking, and talking; getting the child to keep thinking about the problem, beyond the first thought that comes to her; getting her to take her thinking seriously. These two aspects of critical exploration have their parallels in school teaching—and in teaching learners of all ages. One can think of curriculum as the domain of the first, and pedagogy as the domain of the second. (Duckworth, 2006a, p. 159–160)

Drawing from Alex Blanchet (1977), Duckworth lists the criteria that comprise “a good experimental situation” in the field of developmental learning research: [It ]must permit the child to establish plans to reach a distant goal, while leaving him wide freedom to follow his own routing. . . . The question must be clear; it must be broad enough to invite a response of more than yes or no; it must be appealing enough to invite the child to do something immediately; and the materials must be adequate to respond to further questions the subject may ask of them. (Quoted in Duckworth, 2006a, p. 159)

Whether it was with the SFS teachers in the weedy garden plot or in the Curriculum and Assessment class, these criteria have guided my decisions about what I wanted my students to learn, as well as about how they would learn and how I would teach them. These decisions have allowed me to provide my students with the following opportunities for learning and to follow their engagement with these opportunities in real time: 1. Opportunities to discover for themselves how much more personal and valuable new learning is when we construct it ourselves and when we’re given the opportunity to say what we think, to ask real questions, and to try and find answers to those questions with the guidance of someone who has explored this subject from many angles. We then appreciate and better understand the miracle of our own minds as well as the utility of taking wrong paths, asking “dumb” questions, and pursuing our own and our peers’ diverse observations, rationales, and arguments. 2. Opportunities to develop a greater understanding of the distinctions between really deep and complex conceptual understanding and more superficial knowledge or facility with linguistic representations of the subject (the word or image of a “pipe” rather than the pipe itself).

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3. Opportunities to connect with all kinds of learners and their particular prior knowledge, experience, and preconceptions as well as their unique and diverse questions, observations, and sensemaking about the target concept. I have found the practice and stance of CEC to be essential in the development of my students’ curiosity, self-possession, and self-direction in learning. Certainly, my students learn facts and disciplinary skills, but they also develop intellectually valuable dispositions and deep conceptual understandings capable of weaving those facts and skills together. In my opening story about introducing this approach to the SFS staff, I gave my students a small plot of land full of diverse life. The questions I posed to them were meant to get them thinking about organism–habitat relationships and how we might have come to know what we know about those relationships. I wanted them to think about relationships and not just a single species (although inevitably, some individuals will gravitate toward certain organisms, whether a dandelion or a snail). I gave them wide latitude for following their own “routing.” I intended my questions to invite several different kinds of responses, and I have discovered over time that these questions are appealing enough to invite students to explore the plot immediately. I provided various materials that can help the students to think about these relationships, but I did not require or instruct them on how to use the materials unless a student sought out a specific tool to extend their investigation. CEC inspires the development of curiosity, capacities, preferences, self-awareness of interests, and self-direction in learning. It is effective in teaching facts and skills, but it is particularly valuable in developing deep conceptual understanding that builds on the use of essential skills, the connection of relevant facts, and the shifting of deeply held dispositions. It is through this approach that I try to build student teachers’ abilities to develop curriculum that invites a diverse range of learners to respond through their own questions and along their own paths. In different ways and to varying extents, my student teachers have all begun to recognize the need for deep and broad subject matter and content pedagogical knowledge, rather than just expert conceptions of that subject matter. These student teachers also recognize the myriad ways that learners might conceive that subject matter as well as the need to have a vast set of materials and exper­ iences with which to engage learners with that subject or phenomenon. Furthermore, I consider CEC a powerful way to assess student learning, not in the sense of end-of-unit tests but in order to gain real-time, continuous information about how learners are engaging with the subject matter, what questions they raise, what preconceptions they hold, and how new exper­ iences and information might challenge deeply held preconceptions. By practicing more diverse means of assessing prior and developing knowledge

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and understanding, student teachers have a powerful means to complement culturally relevant pedagogy (Ladson-Billings, 1995a, 1995b), culturally responsive teaching (Gay, 2010), and culturally sustaining pedagogy (Paris & Alim, 2017).4 CEC synthesizes principles of and effective practices in assessment, curriculum design, and teaching. With learners, teachers explore phenomena that are critical to their subject matter, and they facilitate learners’ construction of understanding of a key concept using material that is authentic, complex, and multidimensional. This material invites diverse and competing or conflicting interpretations, solutions, and thinking processes. The teacher uses questions and real phenomena (e.g., a poem, a mathematical problem, media representations of political leaders and/or events, things that float and sink, a piece of artwork, a historical artifact, a weedy garden plot) to prompt learners’ articulation of their observations, questions, and developing understanding. Through this individual and collaborative articulation, learners confront phenomena, interpretations, and disparate explanations that challenge their own deeply held ideas about that phenomenon or material, whether biological, musical, physical, social, or textual. Ultimately, learners and teacher take a serious and sustained interest in learners’ thinking, which then furthers that thinking (Duckworth, 2012c). CEC, EXPERIENCE IN EDUCATION, AND FREEDOM TO LEARN Used with other effective teaching methods, CEC is a valuable addition to every teacher’s repertoire, regardless of age of learner or subject matter. The contributions this practice makes to teacher candidates’ dispositions, understandings, and skills are also consistent with Deweyan concepts and aims. The teacher educators develop a “continuity of experience” that builds on their shared experiences and that is guided by their questions, prior personal knowledge, and preconceptions about that subject. The “good project” requires the teacher, as Dewey has said, “to select the kind of present experiences that live fruitfully and creatively in subsequent experiences” (Dewey, 1938, p. 28). Dewey (1938) asks: “What does freedom mean and what are the conditions under which it is capable of realization?” (p. 22). In my experience with student teachers, freedom of the student to learn does not mean that the teacher’s job is to do nothing. Rather, the teacher’s job is to be intentional in creating the conditions—including mystery, intrigue, and opportunity for student choice—in which students might realize their freedom to question, observe, connect, wonder, choose, discover, and celebrate the vital growth of their learning. In CEC, the teacher, rather than seeking the single right answer, invites the reasoning behind both “wrong” and “right” answers as opportunities

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to understand student thinking. This invitation may require presenting artifacts or evidence for students to explore and interrogate, artifacts that challenge the preconceptions or prior understandings that are inhibiting new learning. By grappling with their preconceptions in the face of new, possibly contradictory evidence or phenomena, students must reconcile a prior belief with novel data, or they must reconcile two competing reasons that result in contradictory results. “Right” answers are not a reason to move on but rather to ask for reasons again, understanding that it is the meaning-making behind the response, result, or product that is of most interest to the teacher (and, hopefully, the learners as well). In this way, the learner experiences a freedom from social control—in the body and authoritative expertise of the teacher—through the unfettered and facilitated exploration of her own thinking, investigating, questioning, problem-solving, reflecting, articulating, and experimenting.5 POSTSCRIPT In looking closely at these encounters with CEC, there are a few changes I have made to the curriculum and assessment course both for our educator preparation program and for introducing CEC to educators in or outside of the classroom. Due to the short 10-week term in our trimester calendar, I replaced some of my teacher-led critical explorations of subject matter with more explicit guided opportunities for student teachers to practice developing, facilitating, and reporting in writing on a “first encounter” with subject matter (as Schneier describes in Chapter 6). I now ask student teachers to facilitate this first encounter with a minimum of three to four learners whom they have identified in their classroom observations as demonstrating different interests, prior knowledge, and learning preferences. Furthermore, I ask them to develop at least two extensions of these initial encounters so that they practice designing learning experiences that disrupt, challenge, or deepen learners’ existing understandings about the subject beyond the single lesson. Additional written reports on these extensions often reveal whether the student teachers are able to move beyond their inclination to observe and facilitate emotional engagement and social cooperation at the expense of cognitive disequilibrium. These “learner studies” give student teachers practice in keeping their learners thinking about the subject “beyond the first thought” and getting them to take their own thinking seriously. In reflecting on these student teachers’ developing understandings of CEC, I am also inspired to consider ways in which I could be engaging all my education students—even those who initially express no interest in teaching—more fully and deeply with the core of the content, whether the content is school change, place-based education, social power, or experiential learning. Giving all my education students a close encounter with

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learning and teaching that transforms their preconceptions about this essential human interaction may interest them in teaching—an enterprise and profession that they had heretofore discounted as undesirable or uninteresting. For example, in my Experiential Education course, rather than have students reflect on readings or abstract questions about experience and education, I now ask them to conduct learner studies and original curriculum research. I also ask them to write fieldwork reports to give them opportunities to look closely at learning a subject they may wish to teach, identifying immediately engaging first encounters, and reflecting on these first encounters to design subsequent encounters. Like the understory in the weedy garden plot, there is an understory in the learner’s perspective of a new subject, discernible only after a second look, in which the teacher, through careful choices of environment, phenomena, and tools, hints at the mystery still to be uncovered. As these undergraduates grappled with making sense of CEC, it was easy for them to value the importance of “mystery and intrigue” even while it challenged their desire to be transparent in their pedagogical choices. They similarly grasped the value of the freedom and choice that learners enjoy while worrying about whether the pace of discovery may result in some learners not “getting it.” By listening to their responses, taking their thinking seriously, and responding neutrally while probing further, I have had the opportunity to invite them into the work of taking their own and each others’ thinking seriously, while acknowledging that any articulation of our developing understanding of a subject will always be words—and not the subject itself.

CHAPTER 4

Awakening to Teaching Critical Explorations, Imagination, and Equity Mary Kay Delaney

The world of engaged and inspired classroom teaching is a world of possibility, challenge, and uncertainty—for students and teachers both. Characterized by “cognitive adventuring” (Greene, 1995) and intellectual imagination (Cohen, 2011; Greene, 1995), this kind of teaching requires teachers to search “more broadly for signs of minds at work” and to “step a bit outside their own thought worlds” (Cohen, 2011, ch. 3, sect. 3, para. 9). Greene (1995) argued years ago that standards-based accountability in public education, formed on little understanding of the diversity of strengths that students bring to school every day, threatened to constrain opportunities for students to grow. Greene speaks of calling out students’ own memories and resources and prompting students to rearrange them in order to learn to see their worlds in new ways. Working from their different perspectives, Greene and Cohen both describe a kind of teaching that leads students into encounters with materials and into complex conversations with themselves and others. As a White teacher educator preparing mostly White middle-class women candidates for teaching students who are racially, culturally, and linguistically diverse, I look for ways to engage teacher candidates in deep, meaningful, complex conversations and experiences focused on the interactions between and among culture, race, and education. I seek an approach that “foregrounds the positive learning possibilities of marginalized students and their heritage groups” (Gay, 2010, p. 51). In her description of culturally responsive teaching, Gay (2013) asserts her “ideological position that, whether positive, negative, or ambivalent, beliefs and attitudes always precede and shape behaviors” (p. 49) and that culturally responsive teaching requires a shift in belief structure based on deeper understanding of the learning of all children and youth. From this same position, I have found that many (but not all) candidates with whom I have worked have begun teacher education with deficit understandings about the school performance and cultures of poor and workingclass students, Students of Color, and students’ families. Most candidates 39

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have had little experience with African American, Latinx, or Native American people. Miller and Shiflett (2016), in analyzing written work of candidates, found that undergraduate candidates’ memories of teachers and teaching contributed significantly to preservice teachers’ “desired teacher selves” and “feared teacher selves” and that the memories were particular in expectations for teachers and students. Miller and Shiflett (2016) further observed that candidates emphasized the importance of getting to know students but did not include consideration of “changing demographics” and noted that “this may be one of the most troubling findings since the majority of teacher candidates share a White and middle-class background, recall teachers with similar demographic categories, and now desire to re­create similar models of teaching (Howard, 2007)” (p. 29). Many candidates with whom I have worked have also held linear conceptions of teaching and learning. All of this is important because candidates’ limited, culturally dominant experiences and conceptions of teaching and learning can become normative positions that render difference as deficient or invisible. Yet culturally relevant and responsive teaching requires that we learn to see pluralism as normative and diversity as a resource worthy of building from, on, and through (Gay, 2013). For 10 years, I have been asking graduate teacher candidates to engage a K–12 student in a Critical Exploration in the Classroom (CEC; Duckworth, 2001a, 2006a) in the role of teacher, as a vehicle for experiencing and learning to see the intellectual power and potential of all students, particularly Students of Color, and to understand the complexity of teaching and learning. I have watched as the practice of CEC has served in “releasing the imagination” of candidates and their students. In a course called Learning in Cultural Contexts, CEC has spurred candidates to imagine a counter narrative, a counter stance, to deficit thinking and teach-and-test orientations by revealing the contingent nature of all work with students and by challenging both students and teacher to think critically and creatively on their own terms. Lisa Delpit’s (2013) words frequently come to mind: When we educators look out at a classroom of black faces, we must understand that we are looking at children at least as brilliant as those from the well-to-do white community. If we do not recognize the brilliance before us, we cannot help but carry on the stereotypic societal views that these children are somehow damaged goods and that they cannot be expected to succeed. (p. 276)

Here, I tell the story of two teacher candidates and two students who adventured together through Critical Explorations in a community afterschool center. These stories come from a larger teaching-research project that a colleague and I undertook to understand the experiences of students in our classes. We viewed the research as a way to reflect on, critique, and revise our own teaching about learning and about teaching for equity. In the spirit

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of a critical exploration, we focused on the following questions: What do we notice about our students’ understandings of teaching and learning and teaching for equity as they engage a K–12 student in a CEC? What could be our next steps? Our commitment to an assets-based, deficit-dismantling pedagogy extends to choices of stories to include in this chapter. As Ladson-Billings (1994) focused on successful teachers of African American students, I have chosen to focus on two candidates and two students who successfully engaged in a critical exploration. I will begin with a brief description of the ideas that informed the course curriculum and then introduce the actors, setting, and research methods. Throughout, the work of Greene,1 on imagination and the development of social imagination, and the work of Cohen, on “teaching and its predicaments,” including the need to develop an “attentive teaching” practice (Cohen, 2011, p. 47), informs my analysis. While I have chosen excerpts from Greene and Cohen intentionally, I do not always explicitly connect the excerpts to the narrative, choosing at times to leave the excerpt and the narrative side by side for pondering and wondering. This practice recognizes that this work is partial and contingent. Names used throughout are pseudonyms. COURSE DESIGN AND CRITICAL EXPLORATIONS When, however, a person chooses to view herself or himself in the midst of things, as beginner or learner or explorer, and has the imagination to envisage new things emerging, more and more begins to seem possible. (Greene, 1995, p. 2)

In designing Learning in Cultural Contexts, my aim was to place students “in the midst of things.” Graduate students participated in three related experiences: (1) entering contemporary conversations about learning and culture and school through course readings and discussions, (2) tutoring in a community center, and (3) planning and sustaining a critical exploration. The ordering of course readings sought to scaffold increasingly complex understandings of culture and learning and to challenge previous approaches to the study of learning, approaches that resulted in deficit views of marginalized students and families. Tutoring that included leading a critical exploration provided a context for and real work in understanding particular students’ learning and community context. The following were among the underlying constructs animating the course design: situated cognition and activity theory; contemporary understandings of the complex, cultural, and interactionist nature of learning, including antideficit approaches to understanding learning; culturally relevant and responsive pedagogy; and the practice of CEC. I began with a

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commitment to building a course that would enable teacher candidates to experience the joy of teaching and learning and to see the beauty and strengths of their students. Work in situated cognition and activity theory became a beginning guiding principle: to align the tools used in the course with the tools that effective and equitable teachers use in practice. When cognitive schema and tools develop in context through practice, learners develop more nuanced, complex, and strategic understandings (Brown et al., 1989). Learning in context can introduce understanding that cognitive and affective resources, these knowledge frameworks and stances, carry a history and a legacy that inform their current use (Holland & Cole, 1995). Valencia (2010) calls for the “dismantling of [the] deficit thinking” that permeates many psychological approaches to learning, development, and school policy and practices. He describes deficit thinking as “a personcentered explanation of school failure among individuals as linked to group membership (typically, the combination of racial minority status and economic disadvantagement)” (p. 18). Recent understandings of learning (National Academies of Sciences, Engineering, and Medicine, 2018; Rogoff, 2003) emphasize the importance of context, culture, interaction, and activity and challenge previous approaches in psychology, offering analyses and frameworks informed by deeper understandings of the role of culture and community in learning (Gay, 2002, 2018; González et al., 2005; Gutiérrez & Rogoff, 2003; Ladson-Billings, 1994, 2001; Rogoff, 2003).2 Also guiding the course design and teaching was an explicit commitment to supporting candidates’ development of antideficit, assets-based thinking about students and their families and of dynamic, nuanced understandings of learning. All of these course ideas connected to culturally relevant and responsive teaching. In the literacy course they took concurrently, students learned about culturally relevant pedagogy in literacy. Learning in Cultural Contexts served as the deep background needed to practice culturally relevant teaching well. Ladson-Billings (2017) tells us that culturally relevant teaching involves “three main components: (a) a focus on student learning; (b) developing students’ cultural competence; and (c) supporting their critical consciousness” (p. 142). Ladson-Billings (1994, 2017) and Gay (2013, 2018) believe that a focus on student learning includes considering the whole child, holding high expectations, and looking for growth beyond test scores. It also includes, as López (2017) describes, “teachers’ knowledge about how to access and validate students’ prior knowledge in genuine ways that consider children’s culture as assets” (p. 197; emphasis added). With these commitments, I turned to critical explorations as a main assignment in the course. Through this assignment, conducted in a community center after-school program (partnership and program described below), the teacher candidates led a critical exploration, teaching and

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documenting their students’ learning. Duckworth (2001) explains the role of the teacher in a CEC in this way: The author [teacher] assumed a responsibility for sustaining the learners’ continued interest in, and developing understanding of, the matters they explored together. It is through helping learners learn [without explaining] that we come to see what is involved in learning. . . . [The teacher] is in a position to follow through on her hunches about what the learner is understanding, and what would be best to try next, in order to sustain the interest and develop insights. . . . All this is in the service of searching for the sense the learner is making and of facilitating its evolution—a sense usually very difficult to seize, because it is usually very different from the teacher-author’s own. (pp. xii–xiii)

Including the practice of CEC in the course served to encourage and ultimately to enable teacher candidates to focus on learning about a student’s learning as the student interacted with materials. This focus methodically positioned the student as subject of their learning rather than as object of the teacher’s intentions. RESEARCH APPROACH AND CONTEXT The cases that follow were developed as part of the teaching-researcher study to understand more about teacher candidates’ experiences and emerging understandings, with a focus on the CEC.3 A colleague, Amy Senta, who taught another section of the course, also joined the project as a teacherresearcher. Each of us collected preservice teachers’ written accounts of their critical explorations projects, including four session write-ups and one final paper-reflection, and we collected email correspondence related to the project and all course materials. Our early analysis had revealed the power of the critical exploration to induce “trouble” around dilemmas of practice. The primary dilemma teacher candidates voiced was, Should I explain/tell, or should I let students figure this out? Because the practice of CEC does not involve a teacher in explaining or presenting, the preservice teachers wondered, If I don’t tell, what will I do? This led to our first set of codes: trouble, valuing of telling, valuing of wondering, and [thinking about] phenomenon. Choosing the phenomenon, which is the subject matter under study and also the related materials for study, is a fundamental teacher engagement in a CEC.We then used narrative values analysis to analyze two cases in depth (Daiute, 2014). This analysis suggested the potential of the CEC process to open preservice teachers to new understandings of teaching and students (Delaney & Senta, 2015). The two cases here were chosen to illustrate the potential of CEC for teacher candidates at the beginning of their program. In other papers

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(Delaney & Senta, 2018; Senta & Delaney, 2016), we discuss the ways that “science” as conceived by our teacher candidates contributes to deficit approaches in understanding and analyzing the performances and actions of pre-K–12 students. AT THE COMMUNITY CENTER In the two cases presented in this chapter, Karine and Ruth, teacher candidates enrolled in the Learning in Cultural Contexts course, engaged Minerva and Ahmad, respectively, in CEC in the community center after-school program. Ruth, a teacher candidate with a strong interest in early childhood education, had previous education-related experience. She described herself as having family from both majority and minoritized groups. At the community center, Ruth tutored Ahmad, a 6-year-old student who is African American. Early on, Ruth noticed Ahmad’s interest in measuring things, and this interest started their CEC. Karine was a teacher candidate who is White and who also had prior classroom experience. Karine worked with Minerva, who is an African American 7th-grader with a very big interest in mythology, an interest based initially in her love of the Percy Jackson books. Ms. Howard and Ms. Caldwell led the center and after-school program. Ms. Howard, the director of the community center, grew up in the neighborhood in which the center is located and is African American. She knows the proud history of the neighborhood and knows, respects, and values the families and children who live there. Ms. Howard attributes part of her own success to her participation in the center as a youth and to her mentors. The center instructional leader, Ms. Caldwell, is a professional teacher and is African American. Ms. Caldwell established the routines, procedures, and protocols that organize life at the center and keep everyone focused. She is a “warm-demander.” For example, she frequently replies to students’ asking for help with, “Did you try it yourself yet? You know you can do it.” I am a local White professor at a small college. I have also been a K-12 teacher and a principal of an urban parochial school. I think students in my classes consider me demanding as a teacher. I also tutored weekly. The partnership with the community center after-school program began with a request from Ms. Howard, who sought reliable tutors to help students with homework and to create and lead enrichment projects. Our conversation led to a long-term partnership: The Master of Arts in Teaching (MAT) students tutored weekly for the academic year and provided enrichment by leading a CEC with one or more students. The after-school program took place in a large classroom or meeting place that included tables with seats for four or five. There was also a computer room, where the middle and

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high school students often worked. While the teacher candidates tutored one or two students, they were always in a classroom-like environment with a lot happening. For the CEC project conducted at the center, each teacher candidate planned and engaged in an investigation with the student(s) they tutored. Ideally, the candidate and the student(s) arrived at the focus of the exploration through discussion. The phenomenon under study had to be of interest to the student, have a good chance of engaging and sustaining a K–12 student’s interest over four 30-minute sessions, and be related to the state curriculum in mathematics, science, social studies, and/or English/language arts. The first session began with the preservice teachers presenting their students with materials to explore and a question or phenomenon to address. I asked each teacher candidate to strive to understand and document their student’s unfolding understandings of the topic and to design questions and activities to challenge the student from session to session. I explained to the teacher candidates that they would be teaching without telling or explaining. The teacher candidates wrote up each of the four sessions, documenting the students’ learning and connecting the session to a course reading. I gave written feedback to the teacher candidates as a form of coaching. At the end of the four sessions, teacher candidates analyzed their students’ understandings, conducted a literature review in response to a research question that had emerged for them, and reflected on their own ideas about teaching, learning, and curriculum. It was these session documents that my research partner and I analyzed. Our main aim has been to understand teacher candidates’ beginning ideas and their experiences with the CEC in order to understand how we can teach and support the work of our preservice teachers. What are teacher candidates’ experiences with teaching when “telling” is not an option? How does the work affect teacher candidates’ understandings of teaching and their students’ learning and potential? Related to these questions, does the work contribute to candidates seeing their students’ brilliance rather than deficits? Through these questions and based on our understandings of our students’ experiences in the CEC, we have sought to contribute both to the practical wisdom of teacher educators in general and to those using CEC in particular. SEEING AND HEARING “THINGS IN THEIR CONCRETENESS”: EXPANDED POSSIBILITIES IN CONTENT AND PROCESS Imagination allows us to particularize, to see and hear things in their concreteness. . . . It is imagination that draws us on, that enables us to make new connections among parts of our experience that suggest the contingency of the reality we are experiencing. (Greene, 1995, p. 30)

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During homework help time, Ruth had observed Ahmad’s interest in measuring and so designed a critical exploration around this interest. To their first session, Ruth brought a box holding all sorts of things to measure and tools with which to measure them. Ahmad excitedly unpacked the box, examining each item. This practice—Ruth bringing out the box and Ahmad examining the contents—was repeated at the beginning of each of the subsequent sessions. It became an important step in Ahmad’s thinking and part of their opening ritual. Ruth reported that Ahmad was initially disappointed because the box contained a cloth tape measure and not a metal construction tape measure. Nonetheless, he quickly started measuring the items in the box and in the classroom using the ruler that was also provided. Noting that Ahmad lined up the ruler “randomly” against objects, Ruth showed Ahmad how to use the ruler and the tape measure. Ruth wrote that Ahmad noticed that there were two sets of numbers on both the ruler and tape measure. He asked which one he should use and why these numbers were on both sides. At first, he thought they were the same but upon closer inspection he realized that the numbers on one side did not equal the other side. I explained to him about centimeters and inches and asked him . . . “Do both sides of the tape measure make the same length?” “I don’t know—I think this one has more numbers.” “Did you know there are more centimeters in an inch?” Then I had him measure the granola bar in inches and then in centimeters. We wrote each number down and again [Ahmad said] the higher number was the greater length. (Ruth, CE Session 1) Ahmad’s conclusion that the measurement in centimeters meant “longer” troubled Ruth: “I started questioning how I was explaining this and perhaps I was not being clear or savvy enough.” This uncertainty led Ruth to connect course texts to her experience and she continued: Then it occurred to me that what I was seeing was the tendency to not conserve as described by Jean Piaget. Because the number[s] were greater, that indeed had to mean that it [the side of the granola bar] was longer [when measured in centimeters]. She wondered if the project might contribute to Ahmad’s development of conservation. Is conservation “teachable”? she asked herself. With this question, born of the particular trouble and uncertainty in her work with Ahmad, Ruth raised a question that places her in the middle of a century-long conversation about learning and development. Connecting course readings, Ahmad’s thinking, and her own autobiography, Ruth was drawn to considering alternate futures (yes, conservation can be taught; no, conservation

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cannot be taught) and ultimately made a commitment to exploring Ahmad’s idea of more-numbers-means-longer-object. She came to all of these ideas on her own, and they inform her next steps. I noticed here that the CEC process itself reoriented Ruth. The driving force of a CEC is the pairing of purposes—understanding the learner’s learning and sustaining the learner’s interest in a phenomenon or object of study. This double imperative reoriented Ruth away from alternate futures about teaching and toward Ahmad’s learning. In so doing, Ruth reoriented away from considering what Ahmad cannot do/understand yet and toward what Ahmad is actually thinking and doing now. Students’ Solutions and Wonderful Ideas Teachers are regularly surprised by students’ interpretation of a story or their solution to a math problem and often must revise their approach in consequence. Human improvers cannot work without their clients, but work with them typically opens up uncertainty. (Cohen, 2011)

For the second session, Ruth wrote that she included the metal “constructiontype” measuring tape in the box. Immediately, Ruth continued, she changed her plan because “the student had a wonderful idea of how to use the construction size tape measure compared with the fabric tape measure and see if we got the same measurements”: We first start out by measuring the objects that I had brought for our last visit together. I pulled out my data from the measurements before [taken using a ruler], and [Ahmad] started to measure the items one by one using the tape measure and we compared it to our data before. I asked: What do you think will happen when we measure again with a different type of measuring tape? Will the numbers be the same or different? He answers: First the same and then different, and then I ask him what would make you think that the numbers would be the same or different? He points out that the tape measure is longer than the other one but we are measuring the same things so maybe it is the same. He is on the right track. (Ruth, second session) At the end of her reflection Ruth worried that she tried to explain too much, and she vowed to ask more questions. In this session, Ruth’s recognition of Ahmad’s “wonderful idea” of comparing measurements made with different tools informed her decision to set aside her plan for the day and instead go with Ahmad’s idea. This is a hallmark of a critical exploration—to center on the student’s problemsolving and to recognize (and trust) that this is legitimate. In other words, the process and stance of critical exploration privileges the student’s

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problem-solving. As a result of her decision, Ruth came to a new question: “What would make you think that the numbers would be the same or different?” Ahmad may have come to a tentative new idea to explore—that though one measuring tool is longer than the other, the measured items are the same. Committing “to the Search for Alternative Possibilities” To set students’ imaginations moving . . . may well be to confront the students with a demand to choose in a fundamental way, to choose between the desire for harmony along with the easy answer and a commitment to the search for alternate possibilities. (Greene, 1995, p. 129)

Ruth wrote that in the third and fourth sessions, she and Ahmad measured weight using a balance scale with one heavier object on one side and several smaller objects on the other for balance. Ahmad had many ideas he wanted to test in this process: Does the shape of an object matter on the balance scale? Does the position of the object on the scale change the balance? In her reflection on this particular experience with Ahmad, Ruth turned to Delpit (2013) as she began to see Ahmad’s “own brilliance” and in the process confront herself: We wrote down the number and then added the two numbers [Ahmad] had figured for the separate weights and found that they added up [to the same weight as the one object on the other side of the scale]. He never did come out and answer my question directly but by his actions and my belief in him I could see that he had figured it out and [he] was even able to predict and form his own experiments with very little help from me. I had not expected that. I changed from being a bit skeptical that learning would occur to believing through Lisa Delpit’s (2013) work that my expectations needed to be raised. Lisa Delpit’s work was very inspirational and has helped shape my views on teaching. She uses the term “warm demanders” to mean teachers who do not change their expectations regardless of the child’s race or ethnicity (Delpit, 2013). These teachers work to hold a mirror to a child’s own brilliance and [this] helps him to reach his potential. I see this as an important factor in working with all students but particularly with those for whom expectations have traditionally been lowered due to misconceptions, stereotypes, or racism. In this last session of the CEC, Ruth stopped explaining to Ahmad and leaned into his questions and explorations. Because of this, Ruth witnessed her student’s “imagination moving” (Greene, 1995, p. 129) as he explored his own questions. Ahmad’s discoveries, in turn, led Ruth to see multiple

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alternatives—for teacher, student, and content. Reflecting, Ruth juxtaposed her initial expectations to the expectations of teachers in Delpit’s text. She found in the description of “warm demanders” an alternative to her own “worrying observer” and found herself initially among those with low expectations. Delpit’s text in the context of the critical exploration in the community center serves to ignite the imagination of a teacher who recognizes her students’ discoveries and commits to higher expectations—to holding “a mirror to a child’s own brilliance.” “BECOMING A FRIEND OF SOMEONE ELSE’S MIND”: NEW WAYS OF SEEING STUDENTS This is another way to imagine imagining: it is becoming a friend of someone else’s mind, with the wonderful power to return to that person a sense of wholeness. Often, imagination can bring severed parts together, can integrate into the right order, can create wholes. (Greene, 1995, p. 38)

Karine initially thought that Minerva would be interested in exploring artwork, so she prepared a “book” of artwork for Minerva to notice and interpret. Minerva, Karine observed, was not interested: I was beginning to despair when [Minerva] stopped on a Greek stylized painting. She instantly connected with it and began sharing with me how it reminded her of her favorite Percy Jackson books and how she was interested in the Greek gods/goddesses that were in the book. I knew then that was the topic that we were going to discuss and instantly shifted gears. (Karine, first session) According to Karine, Minerva proposed that she construct a family tree to show the relationships between and among the Greek and Egyptian gods and goddesses. Minerva, Karine reported, felt that her lack of understanding of these relationships hindered her understanding of her favorite books. Karine agreed immediately to the proposal. Her confidence in shifting gears belied the “trouble” and uncertainty she expressed in an email to me later that day: So my student has developed our project into making a family tree of Greek gods and of Egyptian gods, and she is really excited about making them and we started today. . . . I am just worried that my CE does not really have a question to be answered but is more of me watching her learn and her learning more about a subject she loves. I guess what I am asking for is direction and making sure I am heading in the right direction. (Karine, personal communication)

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I responded: It also sounds as if you are exploring this: How does your learner understand the relationship between two sets of mythologies? It sounds as if your learner is exploring: How are the gods related to one another? These two questions seem very related to me. Do you see it? At times, you will feel as if you are “just watching.” You are observing and listening to understand how the learner is thinking. Do not make assumptions. . . . Ask him/her to explain his/her reasons for actions. In the second session, Karine listened closely to Minerva, and as she listened, she made at least two decisions to stay with Minerva’s course of thinking, suspending her “teacher’s” plan in order to follow and support the student’s thinking: In my previous write up I discussed how I had intended on starting with Zeus and Hara in the Greek pantheon, but during the session before this one Minerva expressed an interest to “start from the beginning,” so that is what we did. We started from Gaea and Uranus and have moved down to Cronus and Rhea and just began to get into Zeus and Hara at the end of this session. So far she has not brought up studying Egyptian mythology, and it is a topic I hope to broach the next time we meet. . . . She is so focused on understanding the stories that connect the family tree together in the Greek pantheon that I do not wish to transition over to Egyptian mythology unless she seems to be really eager to move on. (Karine, second session) The transgressions of the gods disquieted Minerva: Minerva was really interested in how Cronus could be so cruel when his father Uranus was the same way and met an untimely end. She then asked the question, “Do you think if Cronus was sent away to an island like Zeus was and was around humans that he would be different?” I asked her what she meant by that and she went on to explain that if maybe Cronus was around people that our ways would “rub off” on him and he would act with more sympathy and be a better father and that the whole war between the Titans and the Olympians did not even have to happen. I did not know how to answer that question, and her critical analysis of this problem made me see just how much thought and effort she has placed into this project that it elicited such an in-depth question. . . . I find it completely fascinating and I cannot wait to see where the project goes to next. (Karine, second session)

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As a result of Karine’s decision to stick with only Greek mythology, Minerva had the opportunity to imagine Cronus under different circumstances in a different world, and to talk about the imagined new world that might have been. As witness to this thinking, Karine was becoming a friend of someone else’s mind; Karine’s witnessing of Minerva’s thinking created space for Minerva’s uninterrupted deeper thinking. Minerva had created a new conception, a new whole, that Karine took up and embraced. This development shaped Karine’s imagination in at least two directions: for the particular future with Minerva and the gods and goddesses and for the more general future with future students. “Suddenly the World Seems New” We experience a sense of surprise oftentimes, an acute sense that things may look otherwise, feel otherwise, be otherwise than we have assumed— and suddenly the world seems new, with possibilities still to be explored. (Greene, 2001, p. 116)

In the third session, Karine realized that Minerva no longer compared “the information of Greek mythology to her beloved Percy Jackson books.” Reflecting on this, Karine turned to Piaget: I wonder if this phenomenon happens because she is experiencing Piaget’s adaptation. Minerva would compare our studies to her books and run into distinct differences and would begin what appears to be the process of assimilation by Piaget which states “[students] interpret new experiences with existing schemes in mind” (Piaget, J),4 which would be in Minerva’s case the Percy Jackson books and its portrayal of Greek mythology. She would then run into differences in our studies thus leading her into the stage of accommodation which “changes existing schemes to fit the world” (Piaget, J), which would be to base her new information on the gods from the actual myths we are covering. (Karine, third session) Connecting her observations of Minerva’s thinking to Piaget’s theorizing of the assimilation/accommodation tension leads Karine to wonder about “possibilities still to be explored” (Greene, 2001, p. 116) and her professional imagining of what might be: This adaptation to information as seen before my very eyes was fascinating to see. While it was interesting to read about, to actually see it being acted out before you is a totally different experience and makes me wonder what other events in learning I have missed . . . simply because I did not know about it. (Karine, third session)

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In this passage, Karine learns that a contingency of the teaching-learning dynamic is that the teacher might miss something simply because “I did not know about it.” This, it seems to me, is an important idea in moving away from deficit thinking and toward teacher responsibility for formative assessment, for example, a practice that has positive effects for Students of Color (Lopez, 2017). Beginning “to Construct a Sophisticated Practice” If teachers assiduously investigate students’ knowledge, they are likely to turn up a remarkable mixture of inventive ideas, insights, unfamiliar errors, and unusual formations. The more they familiarize themselves with such things and the more they teach in response, the more opportunities they can create to make connections with learning, the more chances they have to construct a sophisticated practice, and the more likely it is that they can devise more social resources of practice. (Cohen, 2011, ch. 7, sect. 1, para. 10)

In session four, Karine and Minerva did not get to their Greek mythology family tree project. Homework intervened. And in helping Minerva with her homework, Karine made a new discovery about teaching and learning: We were solving equations. . . . I realized that the way I learned it was different when Minerva was confused while I was solving a problem. . . . This was tricky for me. To be able to reach Minerva I had to have her show me how to solve an easier problem so that I could apply the same technique when she needed help on the more difficult problems. This made me see how problems could possibly arise for my students in my future class. What if I teach something a different way from the way my students have previously learned it . . . and they do not understand? As Karine continued, she asserted this new knowledge as a principle in her future teaching: Maybe their misunderstanding of a topic has to do with competing understandings that are taught by other sources (such as their content teacher since I am on the path to be an ESL teacher). This whole principle I will apply in my future teaching came from a small moment of doing math homework with my student, which I think is simply wonderful. While only four sessions were required for the CEC assignment, Karine and Minerva continued to explore the Greek gods and goddesses for three more sessions. Karine referenced trends from these sessions in her final reflection. Introducing her own learning at the start of the final paper, she

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declared, “Not only did I see how people associate data together and build new neural pathways to retain outrageous amounts of data but we also delved into a more humanistic approach that I had not counted on. We were not simply building a Greek family tree but we were analyzing behavior by discussing what is right to do in a family and what is not. What is moral and immoral behavior?” (Karine, final reflection). Karine explained further: Whenever a god was unjust or cruel to undeserving innocents, however, is typically when she lost interest in them. This set of immoral behaviors really turned her off of the content. She would explain to me that she no longer liked said god because she did not agree with how they act. I could see how knowledge does not only impact the learner mentally but emotionally as well. Going into this project I never would have thought that the content that we researched would be so heavily invested in by my learner. This is another aspect about the power of knowledge that I had not thought of or considered before this experience. (Karine, final reflection) Unexpectedly, Minerva’s ethical response to the material troubled Karine—troubled in the sense that she wanted to know more. When it came time to select a literature review, Karine chose to explore research and ideas on the relationship between moral thinking and social studies. In this move, she connected Minerva’s thinking and her teaching practice to a larger context and began to connect her teaching and her students to a social purpose. Taken with all of Karine’s other discoveries, we see in this last passage one facet of a much more sophisticated practice: My research into how morals impact education has brought me to the understanding of the much bigger role that teachers play not only in students’ lives but in the development of society as a whole. This makes me look at my future career in a different way and makes me aware of the power that I will hold, placing a new responsibility on me. . . . Students are not only learning about historical dates and events in history . . . they are beginning to form opinions about the world they live in. (Karine, final reflection) “IN THE MIDST OF THINGS”: AWAKENING TO THE POSSIBILITIES OF TEACHING, LEARNING, AND EQUITY Any encounter with actual human beings who are trying to learn how to learn requires imagination on the part of teachers—and on the part of those

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In Search of Wonderful Ideas: Critical Exploration in Teacher Education they teach. It takes imagination to break with ordinary classifications and come in touch with actual young people in their variously lived situations. It takes imagination on the part of the young people to perceive openings through which they can move. (Greene, 1995, p. 14)

In their accounts, Ruth and Karine documented their students’ and their own thinking. In the process, they showed us tender beginnings in the formation of a teacher’s professional imagination and the cognitive adventuring that characterizes complex teaching, inspired teaching. A fuller understanding of this process of awakening requires consideration of the people with whom Ruth and Karine worked and the setting in which the CEC took place. While the leaders of the community center and I believed that the community partnership would be valuable, I did not anticipate the profound contributions that the day-to-day actions and routines of the center’s leaders—the learning culture they had established—would make to our teacher candidates’ professional journeys. The community center was a living example of ideas in course materials related to assets-based teaching. African American educators, who had deep knowledge of the community and all of the students, modeled culturally relevant teaching. The director of the center had requested enrichment for students at the center and, in the orientation for tutors, directly stated that the vast majority of students needed challenge, not remediation. The instructional leader provided guidance on how the candidates could approach students with caring demands and families with respect and understanding. Kimberly Grayson, a school principal, explained how teachers in her school should continually ask themselves the following questions: “Are my Black students thriving? And are my students seen as partners in their learning?” (Chang & Mehta, 2020). Leading a CEC in the context of this after-school program helped to normalize Karine and Ruth’s asking of related questions about their particular students. Ruth and Karine had opportunities to explore a student’s understandings in ways that are not usually modeled in schools. Ms. Howard remarked several times that she loved seeing students involved in their critical explorations—making paper airplanes to figure out which design flies the farthest, moving lights and turning them on and off to understand how shadows work, writing poetry, and more. Preserving Moments and Imagining Possibilities The documentation required as part of this teaching-learning research assignment enabled both candidates to consider what had happened and to reflect more deeply. Gay (2018) describes this as necessary in culturally responsive teaching. Talking about students in her courses, she writes: “They learn from the outset that every teaching exchange involves describing,

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documenting, and analyzing experiences or events; sharing individually and communally; engaging in personal and professional reflections; learning by doing; and constantly seeking to improve classroom instruction for the benefit of underachieving students of color” (p. 253). In this way, the teacher candidates entered into authentic teaching problems and dilemmas of practice as they engaged Black students in serious intellectual activity. As we see in Ruth and Karine’s accounts, these authentic teaching challenges included questions about time and timing, about when to press students and when to stay out of their way, about what content to explore and what to leave out (even when it is in the plan), about spending more time on a topic or moving on, about when to talk and when to stay quiet. As Ruth and Karine faced these issues and as they recognized the ingenuity in their students’ thinking, they (and others) began to have their own ideas about planning, curriculum, and student learning. The teacher candidates in my classes often experience critical explorations initially as simply the taking-away of the option of “telling,” which frequently causes some distress. Yet, in this absence, Karine and Ruth reassessed their relationships and repositioned themselves as learners in relation to their students. Karine, White, and Ruth, multiracial, refocused quickly toward their understanding of the relationship between the student’s thinking and the materials. Because CEC depends on the student’s engagement, teacher candidates gradually deepened their considerations of materials, content, and the student’s actual thinking. They sought new ways of questioning and of setting up problems. They considered students’ interests and needs. They listened and documented. Students and teachers became partners in learning. Looking and Listening for Learning Perhaps most centrally, this CEC process shifted the looking and listening of the preservice teachers from a focus on themselves to a focus on their students. Karine, noting that Delpit (2013) tells us that underachievement has its roots in racialized stereotypes about ability, wrote that this is “one of the gravest injustices I have learned and read about . . . and I hope to avoid in the future through the empowerment [provided by] newly found knowledge.” She also noticed that she and Minerva learned differently from each other, and this noticing dislodged assumptions about the universality of her experiences: “This is important for me to know as well as other teachers. We cannot take our personal experiences with learning and try to apply them to our future classroom across the board. . . . We have to develop ways to reach all kinds of learners . . . to foster a learning environment that is conducive to all students to make sure that they are successful in their schooling careers.”

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This shift, coupled with the skills candidates learn in sustaining students’ interest and encouraging them to share their thinking, overlaps with those skills needed for becoming culturally responsive teachers and for “closing the ontological distance” between teachers and students, a process integral to decolonizing teacher education as described by Dominguez (2017): Closing the ontological distance requires enriching and intentional experiences that bolster teachers’ appreciation for the ingenuity, knowledge, and deeply rooted wisdom youth and communities of color already possess. As such, field experiences in decolonial teacher education must disrupt illusions of expertise, helping teachers recognize the contingency of their own knowledge and perspective. Teachers can then defer to the expertise of youth, position themselves as learners, and center their work on students’ wisdom, practices, and ingenuity. (p. 236)

“THE PURSUIT OF WHAT IS NOT YET” We are interested in releasing diverse persons from . . . confinement to the world of techniques and skill training, to fixed categories and measurable competencies. We are interested in . . . the kind of wide-awakeness that allows for wonder and unease and questioning and the pursuit of what is not yet. (Greene, 2001, p. 44)

CEC is not the only way to engage teacher candidates in a process that challenges their pre-existing ideas about teaching, learning, and students. It is one way, and in the context of our teacher education program, it has appeared to make a difference. The practice of CEC points to the possibilities for engaging preservice teachers’ imaginations in ways that reveal the complexities of teaching and learning, that have the potential to counter deficit thinking, and that orient preservice teachers to students’ brilliance, which is especially urgent for Students of Color. Absent from or perhaps emergent in Karine’s and Ruth’s accounts of their CECs is the “most neglected” (Ladson-Billings, 2018) aspect of culturally relevant teaching—critical consciousness. The candidates do not take up analyses that locate the causes of low expectations and underachievement in social structures, policies, and practices. My hunch is that they did not yet have the tools to do this. In these accounts, they are just beginning to wonder and question their aims as teachers. To support the development of social analysis and critical thinking in the course following Karine and Ruth’s semester, I reorganized the course content so that traditional psychological approaches to learning were paired with critical sociological and cultural approaches, as a way to invite direct critical conversation. This work is not done; I continue to ponder questions related to developing

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critical consciousness because I recognize that it is essential. As Vossoughi et al. (2016) explain in writing about making5 as educative process, “Treating sociocultural experience and interaction as constitutive of individual and collective sense making opens up more nuanced views of pedagogy” (p. 227). I read Karine and Ruth’s work with Minerva and Ahmad with both caution and hope. Their work/our work in the course was an opening, not an ending. Recognizing how new and tentative these ideas about students’ thinking; about schools, teaching and learning for Students of Color; and about teaching in general are to both candidates, I want to underscore the need for this kind of learning to be nurtured and challenged throughout a teacher education program and also in schools. As professionals, each of us has to maintain a focus on the brilliance of our students, making sure that all students are thriving—always checking, “What strength am I seeing?” and always considering/assuming strength. I feel urgently the need to keep learning—to dive into scholarship on sustaining cultures and decolonizing teacher education, to talk to people, to explore curricula. Watching Karine and Ruth see their students’ brilliance through the practice of CEC, I see my students’ emerging ideas about teaching, learning, and students, and I find myself in “wonder and unease and questioning and the pursuit of what is not yet.”

CHAPTER 5

Teaching and Learning for Deeper Learning Fiona Hughes-McDonnell

“It came from a process and experiment that I built for myself.”

Introducing authentic learning experiences into the preparation of students of teaching, which supports them in enabling deeper learning for all students, is both a matter of equity and social justice and a pedagogical challenge for teacher educators. Duckworth’s Critical Exploration in the Classroom (CEC) (2006a) is a theoretically grounded “pedagogy for teacher education” (Loughran, 2006) that responds to this challenge. Critical Exploration in the Classroom, I propose, unites Dewey’s vision of progressive education with the ideas and methodology of Piaget and Inhelder’s Genevan learning research. In developing this proposal, I review (1) longstanding progressive commitments as they have been articulated by John Dewey; (2) the (re) emergence of deeper learning as an educational aim for all students, and (3) the groundings and roots of CEC. Following these discussions, I reframe data gathered from my own teacher education classroom to illuminate the possibilities of CEC as a pedagogy that develops students of teaching as researchers of learning. As emergent learning researchers, teacher candidates practice insights and skills needed to transform classrooms into places that engage all students in deep learning. This reframing reveals the potential of the practice to inspire and enable students of teaching to begin the active construction of a teaching framework that can guide them, as teachers, in their journeys with students. PROGRESSIVE EDUCATIONAL PRINCIPLES John Dewey (1928/1959b), addressing members of the Progressive Education Association in 1928, noted elements of progressive education that together might form a “coherent body of educational principles” to inform “intelligent and stable educational practice”: 58

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respect for individual capacities, interests and experiences; enough external freedom and informality at least to enable teachers to become acquainted with children as they really are; respect for self-initiated and self-conducted learning; respect for activity as the stimulus and center of learning; and perhaps, above all belief in social contact, communication, and cooperation upon a normal human plane as all enveloping medium. (pp. 115–116)

These principles project a vision of active and socially embedded learning, in which both students and teachers have agency and the freedom to choose lines of inquiry to pursue, and belief in their capabilities, possibilities, and potential as meaning-makers and thoughtful and reflective decisionmakers. Schools as Places of Transformation Progressive education is progressive in the sense that it is concerned with the progression of both the individual and society. At the heart of Dewey’s (1928/1959b) progressive education is a concern “with growth, with a moving and changing process, transforming existing capacities and experiences. . . . Possibilities are more important than what already exists” (p. 119; italics in original). Schools are places of imagination and transformation. Schools, while reflecting existing social structures, can become places of imagination and transformation by modifying organizational structures, curriculum, and instructional methods, in the interest of advancing democracy and social progress for all. Dewey (1900/1990) recognized that if education is to fulfill this vision and promise, each school must become “an embryonic community life, active with types of occupations that reflect life of the larger society” (p. 29). Active methods and self-initiated learning are central features of progressive education. And while active methods do not in themselves guarantee progressive outcomes, Dewey put high value on “expressive and self-directing factors . . . all of which are necessities of the larger social evolution” (p. 29). Through students’ agency and self-direction, “learning [is] . . . put into circulation . . . a distinctively learned class is henceforth out of the question. . . . Knowledge is no longer an immobile solid; it has been liquefied. It is actively moving in all the currents of society itself” (p. 25). Materials and Projects In Dewey’s (1900/1990) conception, projects selected from the world in which students live and work (the occupations) provide the “organ of understanding” (p. 22); materials provide the “educative” medium. Dewey offers two “tests” for a “good project.” The first involves determining whether the project “is sufficiently full and complex to demand a variety of responses

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from different children and permit each to go to it and make his contribution in a way which is characteristic of himself.” The second asks whether the project might be carried out over a sufficiently long time-span so that a series of endeavors and explorations are involved in it, and included in such a way that each step opens up a new field, raises new questions, arouses a demand for further knowledge, and suggests what to do next on the basis of what has been accomplished and the knowledge thereby gained. (Dewey, 1928/1959b, p. 122)

By introducing into the learning environment materials that are drawn from the world of work and occupations and that sustain and respond to close observations of learners’ self-initiated exploration of those materials, teachers become learning facilitators. Teachers do not impose predetermined curriculum upon students, nor do students’ activities become the sole determining factor. New relationships are created among student, world, and teacher, relationships that are dialectic rather than hierarchical in nature. Two Sides of the Educational Process The educational process, as Dewey (1897/1959a) saw it, has two sides—one psychological and one sociological. On the psychological side, “the child’s own instincts and powers furnish the material and give the starting point for all education” (p. 20). Society and society’s needs represent the sociological: “Neither side can be subordinated to the other” without adverse consequences. Dewey (1902/1990) cautioned against choosing between either the “child or the curriculum.” When this happens, a really serious practical problem—that of interaction—is transformed into an unreal, and hence insoluble, theoretical problem. Instead of seeing the educative steadily as a whole, we see conflicting terms. We get the case of the child vs. the curriculum; of the individual nature vs. social culture. (pp. 182–183)

A challenge for teaching is “to discover a reality to which each [child and curriculum] belongs” (p. 182). As Dewey explained, “It is a development of experience and into experience that is really wanted” (p. 196). New educational models must build on students’ experiences, developing their capacities for creativity, imagination, innovation, and problemsolving— attributes needed to transform their world—while supporting the competencies to successfully engage with the adult world as it is. Mike Rose’s (2004) sensitive description of vocational education points to what can happen when schools separate “hand and brain,” and restrict education

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to that which equips students only with the technical skills needed to meet anticipated conditions. “DEEPER LEARNING”: EDUCATING STUDENTS FOR AN EVER-CHANGING, UNPREDICTABLE WORLD Writing within the context of the “advent of democracy and modern industrialization,” Dewey (1897/1959a) proposed, “Education is a process of living and not a preparation for future living” (p. 22). Dewey argued that rather than preparing students with skills designed to meet “a precise set of [anticipated] conditions,” education must instead develop students’ capacities to the fullest such that they gain “command” of themselves. Students’ eyes, ears, hands, and judgment are the needed tools to navigate and adapt to an ever-changing, unpredictable landscape. Dewey writes, It is impossible to foretell just what civilization will be twenty years from now. Hence it is impossible to prepare the child for any precise set of conditions. To prepare him for the future life means to give him command of himself; it means so to train him that he will have the full and ready use of all his capacities. (p. 21)

Educating for the “Needs of the Future” Technological advances have accelerated. We have entered the “Fourth Industrial Revolution,” characterized by rapid advances in robotics and new forms of machine intelligence (World Economic Forum, 2016). Ted Dintersmith (2018) presents the current situation in blunt terms: “Machine intelligence is racing ahead, wiping out millions of routine jobs as it reshapes the competencies needed to thrive. . . . Absent profound change in our schools, adults will keep piling up on the side lines jeopardizing civil society” (p. xiii). The 2016 report The Future of Jobs (World Economic Forum, 2016) observed, “in many industries and countries, the most in-demand occupations or specialties did not exist 10 or even five years ago” (p. 3). WEF findings support the research of economists who, following analyses of “task shifts” resulting from technological advances and computerization across the business and industry sectors, predicted an increase in demand “for highly educated workers who hold comparative advantage in nonroutine versus routine tasks,” for which “the rules are not sufficiently well understood to be specified in computer code and executed by machines” (Autor et al., 2003, p. 1283). Resulting economic impacts, the economists asserted, make it essential that “all students, not just the students aiming

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for competitive colleges, must now excel at expert thinking and complex communication” (Murnane & Levy, 2004; emphasis added). Organizations in business and industry have proposed models to prepare today’s students to meet the needs of a changing landscape. A report sponsored by The Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD) (Ananiadou & Claro, 2009) listed 15 skills as being needed competencies for “new millennium” 21st-century learners. Drawing on this OECD report, the Hewlett Foundation (2013) presented “deeper learning” as an “umbrella” for the skills and knowledge needed to be successful “in twenty-first century jobs and civic life.” In the Hewlett model, “deeper learning” is evidenced by six competencies: mastery of academic content knowledge, an ability to engage in critical thinking and complex problem solving, an ability to work collaboratively, an ability to communicate effectively to share findings and thoughts, an ability to monitor and direct one’s own learning and understanding how to learn, and an academic mindset with a positive attitude and belief about themselves as learners. Education 4.0 (World Economic Forum, 2020) proposes to serve as a “new momentum for action to transform the future of education.” The initiative describes eight “critical characteristics in learning content and experiences [that] define high-quality learning in the Fourth Industrial Revolution” (p. 4). These attributes include a focus on innovation and creativity skills, complex problem solving, collaborative learning, and student-driven learning. Deeper Learning Redefined Our students are more than a workforce and future employees. As Ron Miller (1992), a historian of progressive education, has written, “Education should be, as its Latin roots suggests, a humane and nurturing art of drawing forth the potentials that reside in every young person” (p. 7). Educational organizations and educational researchers have sought to open up what teaching and learning for deeper learning looks like in practice. “Helping students to understand.” Urged by educational organizations, the National Research Council (NRC) (Pellegrino & Hilton, 2012) established a Committee on Defining Deeper Learning to “more clearly define ‘deeper learning’ and ‘21st century skills,’ consider these skills’ importance for positive outcomes in education, work, and other areas of life, address how to teach them, and examine related issues.” Chaired by James Pellegrino of the Learning Science Institute in Chicago, the NRC Committee viewed 21st-century skills as “dimensions of human competence that have been valuable for centuries, rather than skills that are suddenly new, unique and valuable today” (p. 53). The committee further asserted that “the hallmark of deeper learning is helping students understand the general principles underlying specific content.” Through

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“the process of [engaging in] deeper learning, students develop twenty-first century competencies, transferable knowledge and skills.” To support deeper learning in classrooms, the committee recommended that teachers utilize instructional practices that “encourage elaboration, questioning, and explanation,” “engage learners in challenging tasks,” and “use formative assessment” to monitor student understanding (pp. 181–182). “Helping students to flourish.” As part of a study to examine “what it would take to create intellectually vibrant learning environments for all adolescents,” researchers Jal Mehta and Sarah Fine (2019) visited “break the mold” schools across the United States to look for “places that were not merely achieving academic minimums but helping students to flourish—to think critically, to become engaged in their learning and, in a variety of ways, to prepare for the demands of twenty-first century life” (p. 3, italics in original). Creating environments of deeper learning and thinking is difficult to achieve, even for those teachers who aspire to the vision. While the researchers did find some “bright spots,” which they termed the “progressive frontier,” for the most part, the researchers found what they present as an “aspirations gap.” To assess the learning happening in classrooms, the researchers drew on the concept of higher-order thinking, and they took notes on the “instructional triangle,” looking at the dynamics among teachers’ actions, students’ responses, and the nature of the task. Using their classroom observations, Mehta and Fine proposed their “own distinct vision” of deeper learning. Their vision involves the intersection and coalescence of three elements: mastery, meaning that students have opportunities to develop knowledge and skill; identity, meaning that students come to see themselves as vitally connected to what they are learning and doing; and creativity, meaning that students have opportunities to enact their learning by producing something rather than receiving knowledge. “A vision that’s powerful, that’s achievable.” Ted Dintersmith (2018) visited classrooms across all 50 states. In schools across America, he observed “a mosaic of innovative classrooms and the conditions that let [students] blossom.” Dintersmith noticed commonalities: students attack challenges they know to be important and that make their world better (purpose); students acquire competencies and dispositions needed in an increasingly innovative world (essentials); students own their learning, becoming selfdirected, intrinsically motivated adults (agency); and what students learn is deep and retained, enabling them to create and to make new things (knowledge). Dintersmith commented that while this learning reaches “only a sliver of our kids,” Dintersmith reports that what he observed inspired “a vision that’s powerful, that’s achievable, and that just might enable our country . . . to preserve the American Dream” (p. xv).

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Preparing Teachers “to Enable Deeper Learning for All Children” If more students are to experience classroom environments that engage them in deeper learning, we need a coherent theory of teacher education. As Loughran (2006) stated, “articulating a pedagogy of teacher education is crucial for it is at the heart of challenging teaching as telling and fundamental to teaching for understanding” (p. 10). In a study designed to illuminate “what it takes to prepare teachers to enable deeper learning for all children—and, in so doing . . . teach for equity and social justice as well” (p. 4, italics in original), educational researchers Linda Darling-Hammond and Jeannie Oakes and their team (2019) examined teacher preparation programs with a reputation for training teachers to use “deeper learning pedagogies with strong equity tools in their teaching” (p. 352). Analyses revealed “a deep structure . . . and coherent grounding in how children learn and develop, with an insistence that the opportunities for such development be available to each and every student and teacher” (p. 4).

CRITICAL EXPLORATION IN THE CLASSROOM Committed to the ongoing growth, development, and transformation of students and social structures and rooted in practices and findings from developmental psychology, Duckworth’s Critical Exploration in the Classroom (CEC) constitutes a theoretically grounded and progressively minded “pedagogy for teacher education.” As such, the practice of CEC introduces opportunities for deeper learning into the preparation of students of teaching. Progressive Values and Genevan Learning Research as Theoretical Grounding Progressive educator John Dewey (1859–1952) and developmental psychologist Jean Piaget (1896–1980) shared a concern with the transformation of structures. Whereas Dewey’s interest primarily concerned the transformation of social structures and the development of a democracy, Piaget’s primary interest concerned the transformation of cognitive structures and the growth and development of thought within the individual. Both Dewey’s progressive education and Piaget’s research methodology acknowledge the critical role of the external environment in the transformation process. Both social and psychological structures are seen to build on what is and so are shaped in their growth and development by the external world, physical and social. Both scholars’ visions recognize that knowledge structures

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are developed through action and interaction with the external world, with learning resulting from what learners do—their efforts to assimilate and transform the world—rather than what is done to them. Dewey and Piaget also shared a concern with what they saw presented in schools as “active learning.” Piaget (1969/1971c) decried so-called “active methods” that presume that the mere manipulation of objects results in learning. Knowledge, he asserted, derives not from objects manipulated, but from the actions of the child and their coordination . . . the most authentic research activity may take place in the spheres of reflection, of the most advanced abstraction, and of verbal manipulation (provided they are spontaneous and not imposed on the child). (p. 68)

Both Dewey and Piaget put high value on environments that support learning by allowing for and encouraging self-directed inquiries, invention, and creativity for both students and their teachers. Both philosophers viewed teaching as a highly skilled profession with its own bodies of specialized knowledge and expertise. Dewey founded the University Elementary School as a “laboratory” to explore principles of learning to inform practice and develop a stable theory of education. Piaget (1969/1971c) called for “teacher training” to include “training in psychology,” involving “active” approaches in which teachers “undertake some research project of one’s own” (p. 129). Piaget was impressed by preparation programs in which teachers “learn how to record facts and how to question . . . children . . . since it forces them to understand the complexity of the questions involved.” Engaging teachers in experiences of this nature, he explained, provides “opportunities for theoretical exploration and technical improvements” (p. 130). Piaget recognized a connection between making inquiry into children’s learning an integral part of teacher education and elevating the status of teaching from that of a craft or trade to that of a profession: In a word, it is by and through research that the teacher’s profession ceases to be merely a trade . . . to acquire the dignity of all professions that draw upon both the arts and sciences, since the sciences concerned with children and their [education] constitute an inexhaustible field of endeavor, now more than ever. (p. 130)

Reinventing Critical Exploration for Classrooms and Educational Settings As also discussed in the early and final chapters of this volume, some of Piaget’s colleagues, including Bärbel Inhelder, Hermine Sinclair, and Magali Bovet (Inhelder et al., 1974), sought to build on Piaget’s findings related to the nature of knowledge structures and development by investigating

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“the mechanisms of [concept] transition from one major stage to the next” (p. 14). Understanding this mechanism, the researchers recognized, constituted one of the “unsolved problems” of developmental psychology. Their challenge was to devise a methodology appropriate for the research. In the researchers’ words, the methodology must allow the researchers to “study the dynamic processes of learning through the observation of cognitive construction when it takes place in conditions that . . . provide the child with optimal possibilities of interaction with the environment” (p. 10; emphasis added). In response to these requirements, Inhelder and colleagues sought to devise ways to explore children’s thinking such that it becomes visible in what they do: It is essential that [the researcher] be fully aware of the various hypotheses which can be formulated about the child’s reasoning and of the different techniques that can be used to test these hypotheses. [They] must know how to observe and listen to the child and how to react to responses, which will frequently surprise him. . . . It is only when an inventory has been made of as many types of responses as possible for the different developmental levels that a selection can be made from among the situations, types of questions, and counter-arguments which seem to be the most relevant and instructive. (pp. 21–22)

These learning studies provided evidence of the interactionist position that development does not result from maturation alone. Environmental conditions and modifications introduced into the environment can initiate learning among the developmentally prepared. This finding, the researchers acknowledged, “is of theoretical and practical importance, particularly for education” (p. 16). In the Foreword to this work, Piaget noted that for him, the importance of the researchers’ findings was that “[the learner’s] creative capacities are encouraged rather than suppressed” (p. xiv) and that the resultant “learning” (transitions) is more stable and longer-lasting than that produced by behaviorists through stimulus-response. Teacher Education In the courses that she teaches for students of education, Duckworth does not present her students with textbook accounts of how children learn, but rather involves her students as teaching-learning researchers. Students conduct studies with learners to explore and follow learners’ sense-making, as those learners explore situations that they, the learning-teaching researchers, have presented to them. Students of education gain insights into learners’ sense-making in a range of domains, and they see what is involved in supporting learners in their own learning. As Duckworth (2006a) has explained, research of this kind has two important aspects:

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(1) developing a good project for the child to work on; and (2) succeeding in inviting the child to talk about her ideas: putting her at ease, being receptive to all answers; being neutral to the substance of the answer while being encouraging about the fact that the child is thinking and talking; getting the child to keep thinking about the problem, beyond the first thought that comes to her; getting her to take her thinking seriously. (pp. 159–160)

This description belies the complexity and challenges involved in the work of putting these two aspects of the work into practice. As in the spirit of Genevan learning researchers, Duckworth does not give students of education a specific protocol or script to follow to explore learners’ learning and sense-making. The practice relies on and develops students’ ideas and creative capacities to devise ways to follow and sustain learners’ explorations and learning. In this way, the work develops both students’ theoretical knowledge of learning and technical skills of teaching as they engage in the practice of exploring learning. Fieldwork assignments require that students assume a research stance and that they put their own knowledge and experience toward understanding what the learners are seeing, noticing, thinking, questioning, and wondering. Again, Duckworth (2006a) puts it this way: Rather than being concerned with telling his students what he knows, then, a teacher involved in critical exploration must find something else to do with his knowledge. Just as a researcher’s knowledge guides her further questioning, and gives rise to the next problem she asks them to consider, so a teacher, convinced that he cannot put his own understanding into the learners’ heads, uses that understanding to help the learners take their own thoughts further. His own understanding determines what he sees and hears in the students’ responses, and suggests further questions to ask, further resources to offer, further stories to tell. (p. 162)

STUDENTS OF TEACHING CONSTRUCT PEDAGOGICAL PRINCIPLES: A REFRAMING OF DATA I have reported before on research I have conducted on my use of CEC in baccalaureate and postbaccalaureate teacher licensure programs (HughesMcDonnell, 2009) and as part of a multiyear professional development program to support teachers in engaging elementary and middle school students in inquiry-based science learning (Hughes-McDonnell & Burgess, 2011). In the sections that follow, I reframe data from an earlier study employing the lenses of deep learning and progressive values. The data were generated in an undergraduate foundations-level curriculum course that I reconceptualized and redesigned for liberal arts majors who had an interest in teaching

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at the secondary level (Hughes-McDonnell, 2016). In the course’s original format, lectures and reading materials instructed students of teaching in a repertoire of discrete teaching techniques; the course did not include field assignments and did not involve students of teaching in making close observations of children’s learning. The reconceptualization of the course centered on understanding the nature of learning as a basis for thinking about teaching and introduced course field assignments that engaged students in three sets of learning studies. The learning studies were modifications of fieldworks that I conducted as a student in Duckworth’s Teaching and Learning course. In one set of learning studies, undergraduates explore different materials and phenomena that I presented to them—pendulums; balls and ramps; batteries, bulbs, and wires; mirrors; magnets; poems and speeches; paintings and maps; and so on. In a second set, undergraduates worked in pairs to engage a small group of volunteer learners (students from another course section) in exploring materials and phenomena that they had explored themselves with classroom peers. In the third study, undergraduates collaborated on the development of an exploratory, materials-based experience for students in a local middle school. Students first piloted their materials with peers. Findings such as those discussed below show that exploring learning was instrumental in helping students of teaching to reorganize deeply rooted ideas about learning and construct new insights into the nature and dynamics of learning, along with ideas about how they, as teachers, can support learners in their own learning. What Is Good Teaching? Early in the course, I gathered students’ responses to the writing prompt “What is good teaching?” The responses indicated that these undergraduates held strong transmission conceptions of teaching. Ariel, an English literature major, responded: Good teachers are excellent communicators. They have strong organizational skills and excellent presentation abilities. They create lesson plans that make a specific point. In a subsequent journal entry, Ariel reflected on what she “assumed” she was going to learn in the course and why this assumption “confused” her about the course assignments. I assumed that in this course we were going to learn ways in which to tell students the information they need to know to be successful in life. Initially, I was confused about what mirrors had to do with education, or why as an education student I was studying them. (italics added)

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Ariel was not alone in wondering why she, as an aspiring teacher, was exploring mirrors, pendulums, and other materials. Ariel reported that “over time I came to look at the learning happening. Looking at learning has really helped me come to a new understanding of what it means to teach.” Ariel reflected on how her own self-directed exploration and experimenting and what she learned were transformative in helping her arrive at new ideas about teaching: I was working with the subject, discovering it. Pendulums were not simply a topic, an abstract idea. Instead, they became a very concrete reality which I was able to explore and assimilate to my thinking in my own way. This made it significantly easier to retain information that I learned because it came from a process and experiment that I built for myself. In response to the same introductory prompt, Michelle, a third-year mathematics major, had written: Teachers must have excellent presentation skills and good communication skills in order to provide students with the information they need. I also believe that they must have extensive knowledge in the area they are teaching. Teachers must be able to explain a difficult concept in a way that students understand. These are the hallmarks of good teaching. (italics added) Toward the end of the course and having completed several learning studies, Michelle now recognized that teaching involves “exploring what students are learning.” Learners must be engaged with what they are learning, and teaching means to explore what students are learning and understanding. Exploring what students are learning is hard work, but I think it is very valuable to the teacher and the students. Educational Principles Under Construction In the following sections, I extract narrative excerpts from students’ reflective writings to illuminate ideas that they have begun by now to form about teaching. Collaboration. At the course outset, Ariel, a high-achieving student, had expressed skepticism about “group work.” She shared that in her high school experience, group work had not been “productive” and had “mostly been a waste of time.” This view began to change as she realized that the

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other students’ insights into the materials were valuable to her own understanding of a complex phenomenon that she had struggled with in high school. Experiencing the power of her own learning significantly affected her experience in the course: It was interesting to see how each person went in a different direction given the same starting point and materials. What was even more interesting was that everyone came up with new information that helped other people in what they were doing. For me, this really made learning through exploration seem viable. I can tell you more [about mirrors and pendulums] than I would have been able to after our 2-week unit on them in physics. The reason behind this was also becoming clear. Darien, a history student, also shared that her new ideas about teaching involved greater appreciation for the role of collaboration and questioning in learning: At the beginning of this class I had a very different view of what teaching and learning actually is. . . . Learners discover their own ideas by collaborating with and questioning others. Materials. Students such as Ian, who was also a history major, began to notice the importance of choosing materials that connect with students’ interests and activities and learning from observing what students do with those materials: Learning from students and the importance of choosing the right materials has become a very big idea that I will take from this course. It’s one thing to say what you want to do and another to actually know how to accomplish it. Ian, who initially saw the teacher as the presenter of information, developed an appreciation for teaching as choosing materials that respond to students’ activities. Ian now saw the teacher as a guide in the sense [of] making sure that students are always actively engaged in the material. Teachers need to encourage ideas and understand each student’s learning process. Teachers must be willing to learn from their students. Experimenting and Exploring. Ian also reflected on the important role that “exploration” conducted with others played in his learning:

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I am seeing that exploration broadens the topic. . . . People learn by asking questions and experimenting with ideas that people in the group bring up. I am seeing that with the people [Michelle] and I worked with this week in our session, and it is something that I noticed when I worked with [Darien] on our pendulum experiment. Michelle, the mathematics major who entered the course holding a transmission view of teaching, was beginning to see teaching from the angle and perspective of learning. When viewed from this angle, a good teacher “uses her knowledge to help students explore their own ideas and thoughts”: By allowing students time to explore their own questions instead of setting them on a certain right-answers path, as a teacher you are allowing them to leave with a greater knowledge then what they had before. I now see the role of knowing the right questions to ask that will help further the student’s understanding. This is nothing that I have experienced before in my own learning in high school. A good teacher shows respect for all of their students’ ideas and opinions and can use her knowledge to help students explore their own ideas and thoughts. Eight weeks into the course, Michelle was beginning to see new relationships among teachers, students, and subject matter: I can see how individuals can construct their ideas and explore an idea, communicate with each other, and get a better understanding as a whole. . . . An educator can achieve insight into student understanding by observing, listening, and talking with students as they work through complex problems. This is not at all how I used to see the relationship. Guiding, Directing and Facilitating Learning. Students experienced and recognized a certain tension between “guiding” and “directing” learning. Acknowledging this tension, students realized, is an important aspect of teaching. Katrina recognized: The teacher also needs to be genuinely fascinated and interested in what the learners’ ideas are. The teacher needs to understand how a learner understands something . . . the teacher is a guide that keeps his/her opinion to them-self [sic] (this is very hard) and is willing to accept and explore the learners’ ideas. The goal is to uncover a subject and help the learners create their own interests about it. I have noticed that it is always best to be accepting of learners’ ideas and willing to incorporate those ideas into the thoughts on the

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subject. This includes considering all the learners’ ideas and asking questions that apply to those ideas. In learning studies, teacher education students are not passive observers of learning. Instead, they are to observe and follow the dynamics of learning by responding to what they see and hear in ways that serve to sustain learners in their own learning. Jillian, a Spanish major, acknowledged the tension she felt when conducting learning studies between following the learners’ activities (what she termed guiding) and imposing curriculum (what she termed directing learning). Dewey (1902/1990) presents this as the “radical fallacy” (p. 251) of choosing between either “the child or the curriculum”; the decision to “leave the child to his own unguided spontaneity or to inspire direction upon him from without.” As Dewey wrote, “Guidance is not external imposition. It is freeing the life-process for its own most adequate fulfillment” (p. 238). In a moment of deep insight, Jillian recognized that by introducing materials into the setting that respond to her close observations of learners’ activities, curiosities, and interests, and that draw on her deep knowledge of the “discipline” of study—what Dewey called “educative materials”—she could create what Dewey would describe as an “educative” learning environment. In this approach, the role of curriculum “is to enable the educator to determine the environment of the child, and thus by indirection to direct” (p. 252; italics in original). I have to create an environment in which I can explore how my students are thinking and working while they are exploring things that they care about. . . . For me, the greatest challenge is knowing the difference between directing and guiding. . . . I intend to work at this because I know that grappling with their own confusions and findings will enhance not only the [students’] interest in learning but their ability to question what is presented to them independently, along with the ability to explain what they are thinking [italics in original]. Katrina enjoyed sharing her insights into materials she and her peers were exploring. She realized that when creating environments of deep thinking that allow “for learners to create and form their ideas,” her role, as a teacher, is to put her efforts toward understanding “how the learners understand something”: I need to be able to restrain from voicing my own opinions and ideas about the subject in order for learners to create and form their ideas. . . . The teacher must create a comfortable, accepting, and nonjudgmental environment for learners. It is the teacher’s job to try to understand how the learners understand something. (italics in original)

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A NEW VISION AND A NEW JOURNEY Critical Exploration in the Classroom provided my students of teaching with opportunities to observe the phenomenon of learning for themselves and to question, reconsider, and reorganize their deeply rooted transmission ideas about learning and therefore teaching. Insights that they gained launched my students on a new journey and new direction, one that put them into newly dialectic relationships with their students and the world. I, along with others who integrate CEC into their work, trust that our students will continue to look closely at learning and develop their practice on this basis. We trust that as teachers, our students will establish organizational structures, make curriculum choices, and enact instructional practices that advance social progress for all people, reflecting an abiding belief in the potential and possibility within all learners, and their capacity as meaningmakers and decisionmakers. We trust that the learning communities they establish in their classrooms will nurture those humanistic values we hope to see advanced in the wider world. The recent consensus among leaders in industry, business, and science— who call for schools to put greater emphasis on creativity, collaboration, innovation, and problem solving, and to provide experiences that engage students in active learning and meaning-making, allowing for self-directed and exploratory learning—converges with established understandings in the world of progressive educational practice. This convergence provides an opportunity to realize these understandings about what teaching and learning can be more broadly throughout the schools of our land. As Dewey (1900/1990) envisioned: “All that society has accomplished for itself is put, through the agency of the school, at the disposal of its members. All its better thoughts of itself it hopes to realize through new possibilities thus opened to its future self” (p. 7).

CHAPTER 6

Give Them the Butterflies Lisa Schneier

What you do is you give them the butterflies, or the magnifying glass and the waterdrops, and you don’t give the words about those things. —Eleanor Duckworth (1999)

Because critical exploration relies on the learner’s direct encounter with the materials of a subject matter, the choice of materials is a crucial aspect of the design of a learning experience. The materials are the embodiment of the subject matter that I am trying to teach. What I think about in making this choice depends to some degree on where we are in the study: beginning, middle, or end. The first material seeks to secure the learner’s engagement; succeeding materials work in relation to the first material and to each other to deepen engagement and ideas. Part of that work is for materials to also serve as a testing ground for current ideas—to give learners feedback about the adequacy of those ideas to the current situation that they are investigating. I also consider the design of the students’ interactions with the chosen materials, particularly at the beginning of a study. What kinds of interactions can encourage students’ interest to deepen and can invite students’ ideas to develop? I teach preservice teachers in a teacher education program that results in Massachusetts state teaching certification. The account I give here involves a class studying teaching and curriculum at the elementary level. It is important to me to give my education students experiences in which they themselves are learners, experiencing encounters with materials themselves as a means toward learning to teach in this way. At the beginning of the course, I construct the studies we engage in and then we discuss the students’ experiences. Halfway through the course, I ask my students—the preservice teachers—to design a learning experience of their own for a grade level that interests them. This assignment involves them in both the selection of materials and the design of the initial form of interaction with the materials that their 74

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grade 1 to 6 students will have. Each of these challenges requires a developed sense of the character of critical exploration as a pedagogical practice. Working through these challenges with my guidance enables students to begin to develop the underlying understandings. I include here descriptions of my work with students on these lesson designs. AT THE BEGINNING: FIRST ENGAGING STUDENTS Choosing Materials As we begin, I want a material that will move the students in some way— spur a response that is spontaneous, that is felt, that generates a physical quickening of interest. One quality that can achieve this is beauty—a many-colored or intricately symmetrical natural object, a piece of text with a dramatic rhythm, a painted ceramic artifact of an ancient culture. It may be a material that needs interaction to show itself fully—like a mirror that needs to be moved, interacted with, in order for a learner to see how it is working within the qualities of light. Another quality that can generate this quickening is surprise—something familiar does something unfamiliar. If I am studying poetry, I choose poems with very ordinary words used in unfamiliar ways. Or in preparing an exploration of what makes things float or sink, and knowing that a common belief is that the deciding factor is weight, I bring in heavy objects that will float. And deeply related to these other two, but perhaps also a quality of its own, is wonder—a glimpse into a larger world than we knew, perhaps by the presence of a living creature, or by a close-up look through a magnifying glass or a telescope at something we cannot usually see, or by a graph of data or literary voice that offers a new perspective, or simply by observing much more closely than we usually do. Designing Interactions With Materials In designing what students will do to interact with the materials, the main focus in critical exploration is inviting each student’s initial connection with the object of study. Often this is also an opportunity for students to become aware of each other’s connections, enlarging the experience for all. Often the question is “What do you notice?,” as I describe in a blog post on the Critical Explorers website: What do you notice about the poem, the painting, the birds’ nest, the ancient document, the passage of music? What do you notice about the sunflower, the series of solutions to mixed-number fraction problems arrayed on the board, the frogs darting through the pond’s shallows? What do you notice about the autumn tree,

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There are varied aspects of this kind of interaction with material that I see as valuable, but crucial for me is the invitation for each individual learner to become aware of some—any—initial connection with the material: “What do you notice?” asks them to make their own connection to the object of study, and in the specificity that the question asks for, it opens that potential connection to everyone. Anyone can say what word or phrase jumped out to him/her in a poem, what feature or movement of a frog, what figure or color in a painting. (Schneier, 2010, emphasis in original)

Another kind of interaction with materials centers around prediction, which invites the learner to bring forth their current beliefs and ideas. At the beginning of an exploration, it can be particularly helpful for the material to lend itself to prediction. Predicting allows learners to call forth beliefs or ideas that had been beneath awareness, to become, in the act of predicting, conscious of what they assume. Learners are therefore able to consider current ideas in light of new experience. We see the moon right now; can you predict where it might be in an hour? Tomorrow at this time? Can you predict what this shadow will look like in midafternoon? These predictions are initial acts of connection to the object of study as learners bring their deeply held experience to bear on their initial responses. These initial acts of connection are crucial. They allow students to start from where they are. How we invite students to encounter a subject is where we embrace or lose their current and closely held ideas, and therefore the depth of their learning. In my years as a teacher, it became increasingly clear to me that much of school curricula leaves out this level of encounter by focusing prematurely on symbolic representations or explanations without giving students opportunities to connect these to the recognizable stuff of the world. This is how students can lose their connection with the power of their own ideas. I explore this in an earlier paper, which centers on the question “How do we, as teachers, help students to call forth the vitality of their own minds?” (Schneier, 2018, p. 20). Encounters with the materials of a subject matter offer us this possibility. AN EXAMPLE OF MY DESIGN In my first semester with preservice teachers, we undertake several explorations of materials in different subject matters. My students are the learners.

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I don’t remember exactly how I first decided to bring in a variety of fruits in order to study floating and sinking. I am sure surprise was high on my list of reasons—both the unexpectedness of the material itself sitting on the front table in a college classroom (even material as simple as common fruits and a large transparent container of water) and, even more importantly, the potential surprise of how the fruits actually behave in water. This material has the potential to counter the students’ expectations (I was sure the pumpkin would sink; it’s so heavy) and therefore bring those expectations to light. Also, beauty had a role—the varied deep colors of the fruits and their different sizes, shapes, and textures all arrayed together. I also had Duckworth’s (2001b) “Inventing Density” in mind, the fascinating story of a group of adults spending 8 weeks in deep puzzlement and growing fascination as they explored the floating and sinking of varied objects in a course for science teachers. Here is how Duckworth begins that account: “This is a story about the collective creation of knowledge; its multiple beginnings, its movement forward, backward, sideward; its intertwining pathways” (p. 1). The “collective creation of knowledge” is what I wanted my students to experience as preservice teachers. In the process, I also wanted them to experience playfulness, fun, choice, action, and movement. I wanted them to feel their relatedness to the world’s common materials as we studied them together, and to experience their ideas deepening and expanding through their own investigation. This class is a multidisciplinary introduction for elementary teachers and is not solely science-focused. I can well imagine having done this same activity in a class for secondary science teachers. Another aspect I liked about using fruits for floating and sinking is that it opens up room for prediction. We can start with students predicting what fruits will float and sink. This is an opportunity for them to become aware of the beliefs that they already hold. As I noted earlier, often these beliefs are not within their awareness—the students have never been asked to call them into consciousness. The fruits have varied features of shape, size, weight, and solidity that students can consider when they attempt to become aware of what makes them think that something will float or sink. These features are an essential part of the subject’s complexity—the complexity of how we experience floating and sinking. Also, prediction sets up curiosity, and even suspense—will this object do what I predicted it will do? Prediction puts the learner into a relationship with the material being studied. Encounters with others’ points of view follow, and discussion follows naturally upon that: Why did you predict that? I think it will do this. “I think the banana will sink because it’s pretty solid.” “No, I think its shape will make it float because it has a lot of area.” “I think it will sink, but I don’t even know why. I have the feeling.” Once the students have each written their predictions on a simple chart, we put the fruits in the tank of water. Curiosity is high. As the students

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become surprised by the behavior of a certain fruit, the interest in the room escalates. I drop the apple in first. Not much surprise there. Most of the students have bobbed for apples and had predicted that the apple would float. Some surprise over the clementine. More over the banana. Astonishment over the pumpkin. Questions emerge: What if we took the skin off the clementine? What if we took the peel off of the banana? How could some blueberries sink while others floated? What if we left them all in water for a while? Would they all sink as they got waterlogged? I encourage the students to do all of what they suggest and add the results to the chart. Each experiment adds new information and helps them to think further. The banana goes into the water without the skin. The skin goes into the water without the inside. More to consider. This particular study helps me think about materials as a testing ground for ideas. If we want students to be able to progress in their thinking, to deepen their initial ideas without being told by an authority what to think, they need feedback on how well their ideas hold up—how adequate the ideas are as an explanation of the situation the students are exploring. This floating and sinking study has a very clear testing ground: a container of water. We can put an object into the water and see immediately what that object does. For me, this study has become emblematic of this purpose of material in a critical exploration: Have we incorporated into a learning exper­ience a “bucket of water,” whatever the subject matter? What can the students do to test out their current ideas? This floating and sinking activity also highlights the issue of adding materials to a study in progress. In designing a critical exploration, there is a dynamic interplay between the students’ emerging ideas and the potential materials that might still be introduced by the teacher. Deciding when to bring in what material, depending on how ideas are developing, is an essential part of the work. As my students’ ideas developed into a clear consideration of the roles of weight in floating and sinking, I introduced a large pumpkin and had them each hold it before predicting (they held all of the objects, but this was especially important because of the ideas about weight). In addition, after they predicted, but before we tested, what the pumpkin would do, I introduced two smaller pumpkins—one tiny and the other middle-sized (sized between the other two). I then asked for predictions about the other pumpkins. Good-natured groans arose as the students could feel the situation getting more complex. Many predicted that the large pumpkin would sink and the small one would float. The predictions about the middle-sized one varied. A few students predicted that the pumpkins would all float, a few that they would all sink. This is what I think of as the juxtaposition of materials—putting one material against another so that together they will add complexity that is productive for the learners (Duckworth, 2006c).

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Students gained significant insight about floating and sinking through this study. I use it here to draw attention to the aspects of materials that I consciously pay attention to when creating a critical exploration. I turn now to a description of the assignment that asks the students to design their own materials-based learning experience after exploring several that have been designed for them. WORKING WITH PRESERVICE TEACHERS ON MATERIALS-BASED LESSON DESIGN After we engage in several learning experiences together as a class, I ask the preservice teachers to design a materials-based learning experience that invites their students’ ideas about a subject and helps them to develop those ideas. This assignment has several parts. Following is the description that the students receive. Description of “Critical Exploration Lesson” Assignment The purpose is to create an experience—a lesson—that is a first encounter with a subject matter. This will require choosing an “object of study”—something that the learners will study that will give them entry into the subject matter. We have had three experiences of this thus far in this course: the “Going to the Movies” activity, the study of Richard Wilbur’s poem “The Writer,” and the floating and sinking study. Each of these activities asked you to enter a subject matter through the study of particular material. I’m now asking you to create such an experience in a subject of interest to you that you will teach. The point is to get students interested in the subject and thinking about it in ways that will help their ideas develop. This assignment is a chance for you to do original curriculum research in the way I have found it most productive to do it: think about how to engage learners in an experience and then actually do it with learners and see where it goes, following their ideas. That will give you a sense of the possibilities of the material/activity and how you might revise and extend it. In the case of our class, you will have each other to try it out with. You will also try it out in your pre-practicum classroom. Your challenge in creating this activity seems to me to have two facets: (1) engaging learners where they are and (2) giving them ways to develop their ideas further. Both facets are necessary to engage people in real learning. If you don’t start where the learners are, you will lose their genuine thought. If you don’t help them extend it, they’re not learning. Here are two questions to ask as you create your activity:

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1. What is the potential of the activity or object of study to invite learners’ own current knowledge and beliefs? 2. What is the potential of the activity or object of study to extend learners’ current knowledge and beliefs? You should research at least two sources (at least one should be a content source) and write up in a proposal (template on course site) your ideas of what you want to do and what materials you will use. I will respond in time to give feedback/suggestions before you try out the lesson with learners. Please write back to my comments to answer questions and develop your design in light of the comments. These are the basic instructions. (The questions on the referenced template are included at the end of this section on p. 81.) I provide students with the following schedule of project steps: • Topic—You will choose a topic or material of interest and at least one Common Core standard or MA curriculum framework that you will work with. • Research report—As you clarify your topic, you will complete a two-page research report that investigates further the subject and possible materials and cites at least two sources. • Lesson proposal—After you have learned more about your topic through the research report, you will complete a lesson proposal. This is where you structure your lesson, with attention to your beginning material/activity and other materials that you can add depending on the students’ ideas. • Lesson tryout 1—You will try out your lesson with your colleagues and then discuss their experiences with them. You will audio-record your lesson tryout and discussion. • Lesson tryout 2—The second lesson tryout is your opportunity to do your lesson again with a different group, preferably elementary students. This allows you to make revisions that were suggested in your first tryout. • Reflection report—After you complete your lesson tryouts, you will reflect on them using notes that you took during the lessons along with video or audio recordings. • Unit template—This is the final project that students present at the end of the course. It includes the lesson designed in the steps above. This is a formal write-up that outlines the students’ unit in detail. The phases of the assignment inform each other, of course, but the one I will focus on here, because it is most important to the students’ thinking about choosing materials, is the proposal stage. The proposal stage involves the students’ describing at least the material/activity they chose to begin the lesson (and other possible materials if they can), explaining why they chose

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it (what potential they see in it for inviting learners’ ideas about the topic), and demonstrating how they will structure the students’ experience with the material. The proposal also requires the students to answer a series of questions in as much detail as possible and then engage with me in a written dialogue. I comment on the initial proposal, and the students write back to me to clarify thoughts and make revisions. When I approve the proposal, the students are ready to try out the experience they have designed with learners. Sometimes the main challenge for the students is choosing a material that helps learners enter the chosen topic, and sometimes the challenge is to find the topic that a chosen material allows learners to study. In my classes, students often start with a topic because they are incorporating standards at the chosen grade level. They then need to find a material that in some way approaches or exemplifies the topic—for example, the elements of a story. But I also encourage students to first try out a material, if it is interesting to them, and then find the topic that the material might embody. What topics might that material enable students to study? What other materials juxtaposed with it might help guide that study? This dialogue around students’ choice of materials and design of how to use them is among the most fascinating aspects of my work. It always provides a challenging exercise of my own skill at thinking through the potential depth of materials and their ability to arouse interest in a learner. The elements I noted earlier—beauty, surprise, wonder, and engagement of current beliefs—are crucial to the work at this stage. Following are the proposal questions that the students answer. I also ask them to attach the materials themselves or pictures if necessary. I find it helpful to have as much detail as possible as I respond. 1. What is the topic/knowledge/skill into which you are trying to bring the student through this exploration? 2. What standard or standards are you addressing from the Common Core? (You can also refer to the Massachusetts Curriculum Frameworks.) 3. What are the materials or activities you could begin with? (Describe the material and attach it (or a photo) to the proposal if possible. Discuss why you chose it. What makes this material inviting of students’ ideas? 4. Describe the sequence of the session as you envision it. What will the students do? What will you do to encourage them to develop their ideas? 5. How will you reveal students’ thinking (through discussion, writing, drawing, dramatizing, etc.)? 6. What are additional materials/activities that you might use to extend the exploration?

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Three Examples In the following examples, I discuss the development of three students’ initial proposal ideas. What I am focusing on here is my process of thinking about the materials and interactions in question so as to achieve a richer learning experience than initially proposed. I provide these examples to give a closer look at the complexities of choosing materials and designing learners’ interactions with them. In each example, I am trying to encourage my student to move from explaining to investigating. In the student’s original lesson design, the material was used to provide or detail an explanation, and I am trying to help alter the position of the material so that it becomes the object of the student’s genuine investigation. In two of these examples, the material that the student originally proposed does not change, but I suggest using that same material differently. Example 1. Grade 1: American Symbols. My student’s original idea was to teach the symbols of flag and eagle by showing images of them in contexts that are used to represent the United States. This idea was challenging to me. Where was the depth here? The idea came from the Massachusetts Curriculum Framework for history and social science: 1.1. Identify and explain the meaning of American national symbols. (H, C) A. the American flag B. the bald eagle C. the White House D. the Statue of Liberty After some thought, the student and I studied a page of flags of the world and were ourselves deeply engaged in what we noticed—the patterns, shapes, emblems, colors, resemblances between flags of certain countries. We noticed that this material—this page of flags—highlighted these aspects of the symbols as a result of both the similarities and the differences between the varied flags. The material raised powerful questions about what these aspects represent, and about what it means to represent, as well as questions about the relationships between flags that are similar. Are there historical relationships that led to those similarities? These also became questions about the U.S. flag. This material became the student’s focus with her 1st-grade students. Example 2. Grade 3: Life Cycle of a Sea Turtle. My student’s original idea was to print out a diagram of the sea turtle’s life cycle that included pictures of each stage and to explain, either in person or through a video, each of these stages. She saw the diagram of the life cycle stages and the video as

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the materials of the lesson. This idea typifies one of the complexities of designing this particular form of curriculum: learning to use a material for investigation rather than as a means of explanation. My student was using this material as explanation. I suggested that we keep the print of the life cycle stages but cut it up so that each stage was a separate picture. The learners could then be asked to put the stages into the order they thought made sense, and to talk about what made them think so. We also added an initial activity that involved drawing the life cycle from scratch, to see what the students’ initial ideas were before encountering the ready-made pictures. Example 3. Grade 1: Giraffes Can’t Dance: Elements of a Story. This student started with a book that she loved, Giraffes Can’t Dance by Giles Andreae. Her idea was to use this book to teach the elements of a story, which was part of the curriculum of the classroom she was visiting. Her original plan was to teach the students what each element was, and then, as she read the book aloud, the students could participate in filling in a chart that gave examples of the story elements. The challenge here was allowing the children’s encounters with the book itself to become the central focus. Otherwise the richness of their experience of the text could become obscured by the charting of story elements. I asked this student to turn her plan around—to have her students listen to the book and say what they noticed in the pictures and the story. Lots of their noticings could be written on the board without any classifying into story elements. Then, after listening to each other and discussing all they noticed, the students could categorize these noticings into what they thought was needed in a story, and compare that to the traditional story elements. CONCLUSION I have found that experiences of thinking about how materials embody the subject matter we want our students to explore deepens preservice teachers’ conceptions of the subject matter and of the acts of learning and teaching. The direct encounter with materials allows students the full use of their own powers of thought and feeling in response. It does not dilute the thing to be studied but honors its innate complexity. This, in turn, allows high expectations for every learner. In each case, the work I have described involves looking for the deep ideas that the subject embraces. That innate complexity also allows for different pathways, varied initial connections based on learners’ previous exper­iences, and different initial points of interest. The work of teaching becomes the work of including this complexity. And, profoundly, studying the materials of the world rather than secondary explanations of them contains the potential for equity and empowerment of learners. The authority

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of what constitutes an adequate explanation for a situation moves to the learner in interaction with the materials. Each learner, in this interaction, becomes equally an authority, as Mike Savage (2020)1 describes: Once people are working with materials, trying to answer their own questions, they don’t care if they’re arguing down the head of state, you know, I mean it. It takes away all other stuff, except how you’re working with the materials you’re working with. (p. 8)

CHAPTER 7

Meeting Student Resistance Susan Rauchwerk

One of the things that really bugs me about this class is the fact that we get no answers. At the same time though, we are doing a lot of questioning and analyzing to come up with our own answers, which I think is what science is all about. —EEDUC 5135 student quote

WHAT DO YOU NOTICE? Twenty teacher candidates sit silently in small groups, each with a carton of a dozen chicken eggs of various colors and sizes. Chicken eggs are an intentional choice for reasons of equity and content. Almost everyone has encountered chicken eggs in their life, but few have spent time closely observing them. The wide array of colors and sizes confounds what one expects to find in an egg carton, and eggs embody a host of complex biological, chemical, and physical phenomena. I ask, “What do you notice?,” and invite candidates to silently document what they observe. They begin to study the eggs without touching them, making note of the number, color, and/or size of the eggs. Many seem to need permission to touch the eggs and use all of their sessions to explore. I pay attention to those candidates who seem reluctant or confused, and model ways they might pick up and closely examine an egg, or compare several eggs. When most candidates begin to look up or around rather than at the eggs, I invite individuals to share within their group. I help stimulate discussion if I sense that confusion, shyness, or concerns about being “wrong” are restricting involvement. To encourage shared understanding and further exploration, I request that candidates use the eggs to show what they mean by bumpy or smooth, pointy or round, top or bottom, striped or freckled, normal or weird, brown or tan, translucent or blue, smelly or rotten, wobbly or stable, thick or thin. Looking closely and sharing observations invites candidates to build connections between what they know or have

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experienced, what they have observed, and what they wonder. I ask individuals and groups to write questions on the board as they arise, which we review for further consideration, thought, or inquiry. As observations lead to questions, I offer new materials such as a scale or a balance to those thinking about weight or relative size; graduated beakers of water and a spoon to those who mentioned displacement or volume, or who asked whether an egg floats; or measuring tape and string to those focusing on height or diameter. Confusions and insights are added to the board as the inquiry expands. If common questions surface among several different groups, I might bring the class together and invite discourse by asking for observations and ideas and by encouraging close examination and documentation of details. For example, if several groups wonder about eggshell color, I might ask the whole class to consider the question. Someone might say that eggshell color is like hair color; for example, siblings with the same parents can have different hair color. Another candidate might suggest that eggshell color is determined by what the hen eats, and another might offer that the color depends on the breed. Some who have raised chickens may share their experience or insights about variation or lack of variation in color in eggs laid by an individual hen. While I can anticipate many of the questions and inquiries that a class might pursue, a CEC ensures novel opportunities for each learner, myself included. A few examples of the paths pursued over the years include: how and when an egg gets fertilized; whether the same hen can lay eggs of different sizes and colors; the meaning of the terms hen, rooster, and chicken; comparing hen egg-laying to a woman’s menstrual cycle; taste differences of organic versus brown or blue eggs (based on the information printed on a carton of eggs); the causes of shell color, yolk color, or egg size; chicken breed; what chickens eat; whether a hen needs a rooster to lay an egg; and where and how do chickens live (cage free, free range, pasture). Some groups establish a mini-study, such as measuring the relative size and weight contributions of the yolk, white, and shell; comparing cooking times of different sizes, parts, and types of eggs; monitoring the pH of egg whites and yolks over several days; documenting variation in shell size, thickness, and color; and testing the rolling trajectories of eggs classified by pointiness. We journey through cycles of things noticed by individuals and the group. When we don’t have the materials or the time to pursue our questions fully, we collectively design investigations to further study the question/ phenomena. PURSUING PUZZLES At times, I respond to a direct question by suggesting that candidates might find what they are looking for in the materials or by asking one another.

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While this may inspire some to look more deeply or to engage in discussion and argumentation, it can also have the opposite effect, causing others to become frustrated and argumentative. Some who feel confused by the process ask what they are supposed to be learning and when will I provide the “real answers” and vocabulary. I sometimes respond to a perceived lack of answers by asking for a specific question they want answered. “How DOES a chicken egg get fertilized?” is an example of the type of question I might get. If some candidates start to search on the Internet for an answer, I discourage them, suggesting that the abundance of information available online can co-opt their attention and distract them from the essence of their initial question. I point out that they deserve to think deeply and trust their ideas, offering that collaborative thinking and life experiences are valuable tools for understanding scientific phenomena. I encourage candidates to draw on their background knowledge, prior experiences, and the eggs in front of them to uncover supporting evidence that might verify or disprove an idea or question. I retrieve supplies that candidates request from the prep room or that I think can contribute to their working through an idea. I offer a fact that might help spark, rather than terminate, inquiry. Most candidates willingly use observational evidence, experience, and logic to muscle through some of the complex questions and ideas raised. Generally a rich discussion unfolds with a sorting-out of many possibilities and uncertainties. I might highlight interesting ideas, ask for clarification, and report back what I heard. I wrap up the discussion by pointing out that the question came from their own explorations and included an expansive collection of stories, remembrances, ideas, questions, feelings, understandings, and experiences related to fertilization. I recall many other questions they encountered, such as: Does a hen need a rooster to lay an egg? Are all eggs fertile? Does sperm get into the egg before or after the shell? Can you tell a fertile from infertile egg? Can a hen tell the difference? Do hens have all their eggs like humans do? Is egg-laying like a woman’s menstrual cycle? Are the chicks partially developed in the egg by the time it is laid? How does sperm get in the hen? Does a rooster mate with a hen every day? How long can sperm live in a hen? How does a hen know if an egg is not fertile? Will a hen sit on nonfertile eggs? Despite my assurance that they are indeed pursuing the lesson as I intended, some candidates still feel destabilized (Cavicchi et al., 2009) by a perceived lack of focus, direction and “answers.” Pedagogical Resistance to CEC When we begin to reflect on the experience as learners, most candidates express joy, deep engagement, and exhilaration. Most cannot believe that 90 minutes have gone by. I hear comments such as, “I see eggs every day of my life but never thought of how complicated they are,” “This is the best science class I have ever had,” “How will we top this next week,” “I didn’t

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know eggs were this interesting,” and “I’ll never be able to look at an egg in the same way.” I ask if anyone found it hard to engage. Often a few students say the activity was frustrating, unclear, and/or unfocused, citing as barriers the lack of goals, the unanswered questions, and the lack of direct answers and formal scientific vocabulary. Though I observed these candidates participating in scientific exploration and discourse, they appear not to recognize or acknowledge the experience as learning or engagement. Few realize that they are engaged in scientific thinking and practices. Some of those who identify as disengaged seem embarrassed or frustrated, rather than awed that examining a simple and familiar egg raises so many confounding questions. They prefer to seek validation from me, asking if what they are doing, thinking, or wondering is “right.” When I again assure the students that they are doing what I expect, they press me to be more specific. When I respond by citing specific examples of what I observed as their developing understandings of science, collaboration, exploration, and argumentation, I seem to fuel rather than assuage their frustrations. Scaffolding in CEC looks different from the scaffolding that most candidates have experienced as learners. In most school situations, students learn to attend to and anticipate the teacher, but in a CEC process, the teacher attends and responds to the students’ intent and direction. There is no singular, structured pathway to follow for the students or for the teacher. Instead, teachers focus on assessing the learner’s thinking, the materials and the physical tasks available, the content, the emotions students express, and the potential lines of inquiry that can lead to understanding concepts and phenomena. The majority of candidates have had minimal exposure to science, and the experiences they did have were largely focused on learning facts rather than engaging in exploration. The profound differences between what candidates have experienced as learners in my course and what they see happening in schools seems foundational to their discomfort with and skepticism of CEC. In order for candidates to think more deeply about the differences between learning science through a CEC and learning science as it is most often taught in schools, I invite students into multiple CEC exper­iences throughout the course. Candidates are exposed to a wide variety of common materials that embody phenomena across a range of scientific disciplines. Each experience is designed to help candidates have, follow, and test out ideas. Listening to Resistance As you have read in other chapters, most learners experience transformational shifts in their thinking while participating in a CEC. They speak of feeling engaged, empowered, supported, and invested in their own questions

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and ideas. However, there are often a few candidates who disengage and resist. Some may even become belligerent at times, “hijacking” a portion of class sessions to prove their point that I (the teacher) never provide any answers to their questions. Some are quiet resistors who don’t allow themselves to linger in confusion about content, or about teaching, or about learning. Whether they are forthright or reserved, these resistant candidates find that CEC lacks familiar pathways, processes, and outcomes. After years of struggling to minimize and counter what I experienced as the debilitating repercussions of candidates’ disapproval and refusals, I became determined to undertake a systematic effort to understand these candidates and their negative responses more deeply. I collected evidence that documented the self-reported and observed experience of candidates who would not or could not fully engage in CEC. I began with two questions: 1. How do I keep learners engaged in thinking and constructing science understanding when they continually seek immediate and specific answers to their questions? 2. How do I invite healthy debate between those who find the method engaging and enlightening and the dissenters who loudly co-opt or quietly resist engagement in CEC? I presented the issue of the disruptive dissenters and these questions to a peer research study group. I provided quotes from candidate work and class discussion that I had collected over several years and multiple classes. A sample of quotes reveals the range of issues facing resistant candidates. There just seems to be more questions, never any answers. It seems like you are withholding information on purpose. I think the time for exploration is done. They have had more than enough time to explore the materials, and they now need more concrete and correct information. I do not think the methodology that we have been studying is appropriate to take us beyond that stage. Such quotes suggest that a leading questions such as How does water move?, Is a twig alive?, or What is a rock? were better answered for students through providing explanations or a collection of scientific vocabulary, rather than by beginning an exploration of the many complex factors influencing phenomena. Whether the candidates participated in the CEC as a learner or observed me working with children, they felt that these explorations lacked both focus and culmination. When some of these candidates shared ideas publicly during an exploration, they sometimes found that their thinking was not accurate in the face

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of the evidence provided, sparking feelings of insecurity that may have led to disengagement: During the egg observation I offered an explanation to a fellow classmate’s observational statement. As soon as I had made the statement I discovered I was wrong and perhaps confused. Although I have learned to willingly take chances, note my thoughts, opinions, and observations, and fully participate, I did temporarily feel the shame and anxiety I avoided as a young student. In a way, this feeling of confusion makes me want to learn more and understand it. But at the same time, I could see students checking out and feeling lost or unintelligent. Our job as teachers is to keep students engaged and validate their thinking. I can remember feeling the same kind of confusion and loss when I was in elementary school. When that happened, I kept quiet and tried not to draw attention to myself so no one would think I was unintelligent. Other candidates seemed not to appreciate the multifaceted ways in which their understandings expanded when the teacher was not the teller, giver of answers, and director of conclusions. They may not value the motivational aspects of frustration, or they may find that the skills that made them successful in school are not necessarily useful in this course: At this point in the process, can the teacher tell the students they are allowed to go get encyclopedias and start searching for the answers? I realize that the frustration I was feeling was a driving force in my desire to learn the answers and to explore the world of eggs, but at what point do we give our students the answers? I was engaged in the class for the whole period, but I do agree with some of my classmates when they said that they thought that there were stopping points during the egg activity where they thought that things should be wrapping up. How do you bring all students to a similar level of comprehension if they have only explored one particular aspect of it? Some candidates found it difficult to generate thoughtful questions from encounters with materials. When working with children on a CEC that they had previously participated in as a learner, they described lack of engagement as a student deficit rather than as the teacher’s responsibility. It was difficult for these candidates to transfer feedback from one experience to the next:

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While taking part in the activity, I kept asking my group mates, and myself, what are we supposed to be doing? What are we supposed to be looking for? I know that you are the teacher and I the student, but I must say that I question at times the entire idea of giving the children what seems to be free range. Sorting Through Underlying Perceptions and Feelings After collectively reviewing the data in detail, the research group suggested that I conduct one-on-one interviews with each dissenter to invite a dialogue with them about their experience as a learner of science, a learner of CEC, and a learner of teaching. For several years I invited every learner who appeared agitated, disruptive, or apathetic to meet with me about their learning experience in the course. I started the meeting by repeating an idea or comment I had heard them say or had read in their written work, a comment that indicated the course might not be fully meeting their needs. I asked each candidate to tell me more about what they were experiencing or feeling about the CEC experiences in the course. During these meetings candidates shared comments like those expressed in class discussions and/or written assignments, sometimes elaborating with more examples. After they expressed their concerns, I highlighted when I thought they engaged in CEC. We discussed moments in class investigations or their applications of CEC with children. Since they are required to practice teaching the students the very CEC they just experienced in class, I also invited them to tell me about a student remark or action during their CEC fieldwork that surprised, challenged or delighted them. We discussed this remark or action in detail, and I collaborated with them to analyze student understanding; it was usually a rich dialogue. Some key findings from these meetings suggested that resistant candidates: • believe that their primary responsibility as a teacher is to help students reach an end point, identify the correct “answer,” and succeed on high-stakes tests; • have little experience in engaging with materials, pursuing ideas, questioning, testing, wondering, doubting, and collectively constructing understanding; • do not understand how generating unconfirmed answers and sitting with ideas might constitute learning; • prefer to observe rather than engage with materials, and read rather than generate and follow their own questions and ideas; • are satisfied with “answers” they find on the Internet even when the “answers” do not directly address their original question;

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• rarely question the source of the information they read against their own experience and conceptions; • perceive science as a set of answers, not as a process for making sense of the world around them; • equate the use of scientific terms and the teaching of scientific vocabulary with understanding; • wonder how intellectual engagement and the having of wonderful ideas can prepare students for the demands of standardized tests or scripted curriculum as outlined by principals and curriculum directors; and • see exploration and engagement in stark contrast to what students actually experience in most classrooms. These individualized meetings lasted 10–20 minutes. My facilitation included listening, acknowledging what they felt, and letting them know that my desire for the meeting and class was to support their learning. I thanked them for their time and encouraged them to continue to speak out whenever they felt disconnected to the process or content. To my surprise, these meetings had profound results. Most resistant candidates returned to class after these meetings willing to participate more intentionally and more thoughtfully. When confused or disengaged, they raised their concerns and frustrations for discussion. Resistance transformed into dialogue. ADDRESSING RESISTANCE This close study provided insights that led to several new practices. I realized that, while these persistently resistant candidates were in the minority, it seemed likely to me that all of my students held on to one or more of these beliefs to some degree. About one-third of the way through the semester now, I invite all candidates to a one-on-one meeting in which I ask about and listen carefully to their thoughts on and experiences in the class. I now also provide more explicit supports, such as: discussing resistance and what it may look and feel like; offering steps that might help resistors engage more fully in their own learning; and brainstorming guiding principles and questions that candidates can use when conducting a CEC with children. Following each CEC, we map experiences to curriculum standards, to science content learning, and to lesson planning, citing evidence of what candidates observed their classmates or students doing or saying. Together we generate additional materials, activities, questions, and strategies that we might use based on this evidence. We read articles and discuss ways in which CEC contrasts or aligns with more typical teaching practices, and we note how CEC can fit into or enhance existing curriculum. The timing and structure of each of these supports are designed to anticipate

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the challenges learners experience across the trajectory of the course. I am humbled by the complexity of teaching teachers how to teach science using CEC. Trusting the process, the content, and the learner means that I must be willing to respond to the evidence I uncover as I teach the practice of CEC by involving my students in CEC learning experiences. Teaching is a privileged and powerful position. Remaining open, flexible, and responsive to the learners helps them access the potential, privilege, and power that CEC offers each learner.

CHAPTER 8

The Teaching and Learning of Elementary Social Studies William Shorr

ORIENTATION Half a century ago, Illich denounced conventional educational practice, noting that “The pupil is thereby schooled to confuse teaching with learning, grade advancement with education, a diploma with competence, and fluency with the ability to say something new” (Illich, 1970, p. 1). Sadly, this instrumental rationality (Weber, 1978) that Illich decried continues to dominate schooling 50 years later. This chapter describes an approach to educational practice that is a departure from that rationality, an approach in which the roles of “teacher” and “student” are transformed; subject matter (content) and curricular paths are less rigidly prescribed; real-world problems and phenomena, with all their complexities, are less compartmentalized; and learners’ emergent understandings are elevated. It is an approach that “embrace[s] scientific discovery and systematic thinking, while challenging the dominant scientific discourse of rationalism, and the patriarchy that re-inscribe[s] it” (Shorr, 2013, p. 173). Ours is materially focused work that takes into consideration relationships of power and the power of relationships. We lift up the ideas and voices of all, not just the teachers and experts. As bell hooks affirmed, “the capacity to generate excitement is deeply affected by our interest in one another, in hearing one another’s voices, in recognizing one another’s presence” (hooks, 1994, p. 8). But our work is not just about listening to students. As teachers, we elevate not only the voices of the learners but also the role of materials. In doing so, we celebrate the triumvirate of authorities—educator, learner, and subject matter—described by David Hawkins (1974/2002c) as “I, Thou, and It.” He wrote, “Without a Thou, there is no I evolving. Without an It there is no context, no figure and no heat, but only an affair of mirrors confronting each other” (p. 52). 94

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But how does one teach a new pedagogical orientation, especially in recent years, as teacher education programs have pared down their offerings and hours and focused on practical training (Johnson et al., 2005) in a market-driven effort to stop the precipitous enrollment decline in teacher preparation programs (Partelow, 2019)? Even if simply explaining to my students the theoretical underpinnings of this different orientation would help them assume this stance—and Bandura (1977) argues otherwise—there isn’t sufficient time to address the nature and limits of the current epistemology, describe the alternative, and teach the corresponding pedagogical stance. Our approach has been to immerse pre- and in-service educators in a version of what can be characterized as legitimate peripheral participation (Lave & Wenger, 1991). As teachers of critical exploration, we first explore materials as learners, then we immerse our students as learners in curricular experiences based in those materials, and then we ask our students to do the same for other learners. This process, which is iterative, allows for a deepening experiential understanding of critical exploration and increasing capacity to enact it. The teacher chooses materials that reveal the complexity and contradictions in subject matter and puts learners in contact with these materials, with their individual ideas, and with each other. Teachers rely principally on the learners’ curiosity as the motivation for intellectual engagement, and they establish community norms of attention, curiosity, critique, and respect— particularly with regard to learners’ ideas. In respecting and encouraging the students’ curiosity and thinking, rather than using external reward and punishment structures, the teacher provides the least amount of external support necessary. The forms of support the teacher does provide include listening closely to what students have to say about the materials, helping students hear and respect everyone else’s ideas, and providing timely follow-up materials to explore. In recent years I have heard Eleanor refer to the work as creating a “democracy of ideas” (E. R. Duckworth, personal communication, September 25, 2018). After a decade of teaching and learning in this spirit, I joined the education faculty of a small liberal arts college, where I taught graduate and undergraduate versions of a course called The Teaching and Learning of Elementary Social Studies. In undergraduate and graduate versions of the course, which students took in conjunction with the applied sociology course Race, Culture, and Identity, I wanted my students—mostly preservice elementary teachers—to expand their own notions of the social studies and how to teach it. I aimed to provide my students with opportunities to • discover and develop their own curiosity and ideas about the nature and possibilities of social studies as an academic field; • experience learning as the process and result of extended engagement with complex materials as individuals and as part of a group;

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• “investigate the evolving ideas, interests, and commitments of individual students, and, consequently, over time, the evolving ideas, interests, and commitments of learners collectively” (Shorr, 2007, p. 370); • bridge the roles of teacher and global citizen; and • recognize the rich pedagogical possibilities provided by the phenomena of daily life, classroom life, and world events. COURSE OVERVIEW Toward these aims, I designed the course with four primary components: explorations, global crisis project, learning journals, and final reflections. Each of these components evolved over time as I responded, semester by semester, to my understanding of what students needed to have experienced and when. From the beginning, students participated as learners in explorations that I created and led. They kept learning journals, in which they observed and wrote about the social studies learning that was or wasn’t visible in their practicum sites. They carried out a multistep major project, learning and teaching about a global crisis in a style that was informed by their exposure to the explorations I led in class, and wrote about their teaching in a style that was informed by the writing they did for their learning journals. At the end of the course they described their own learning trajectories in a reflective final essay. Explorations In order to introduce students to the critical exploration stance that I would be asking them to assume, I modeled it, engaging students in multiple, 45- to 90-minute explorations of “traditional” social studies subject matter. I provided students with an object or text, asked them what they noticed as they engaged with the materials/text, and used their developing questions and ideas to inform both what I asked of them next and how I would follow up. My aim for these learning experiences was for all of us to be intellectually engaged in an exploration of authentic materials in order for these teacher candidates to have shared social studies learning experiences that would be the basis for their own undertakings. I chose materials, rare or common, that I found complex, compelling, and accessible. Each material or pairing of materials allowed for explorations that could go in many directions and provide contrasting perspectives on culture, history, and curriculum. For example, I showed video clips from the opening scenes of HBO’s miniseries John Adams, based on the biography by historian David McCullough, that reflected authentic Colonial New England architecture, clothing, technology, gender roles, community life,

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and educational practices of the White landholders. I used a selection of old military maps that could generate questions about maps, geography, aviation technology, international conflict, American history, and hegemony. I used a set of texts, gathered by Lisa Schneier, that lifted up different historical perspectives on the rise of the civil rights movement. We examined picture books that reflected a range of themes: the beauty and the challenges of Haitian village life, nontraditional family structures, modernization, and so on. I used common, industrially produced artifacts like a water bottle and the physical classroom itself. I also used coins. Having lived for years in Latin America, I have collected currency from various Latin American countries. In the investigation, everyone received a non-U.S. coin and spent time studying it. I then asked students what they noticed and what questions they had. When one class of 24 students seemed less curious, I asked students to generate 10–20 questions about their coins. After observing as individuals, the students shared their “noticings” in pairs, combined their lists in groups of four, and shared their lists with the class. The process gave students the chance to explain the items on their lists and listen closely to others. Armed with up to six sets of lists, students worked to create one list without duplicating ideas, and then to group similar questions together. When groups made a narrow range of observations, I introduced coins or bills of a different denomination so that the contrast might spark their thinking. As in the case of other artifacts, coins led us in many different directions: the origin myths of nation-states, comparisons with U.S. coins, similarities and differences between cultures, the reading of maps, the role of money in an economy, the relationship between wants and needs, and the geopolitical structure of towns and cities. One semester, for example, students generated the following categories: physical characteristics; symbolism; current worth compared to dollars; changing worth of coins over time; history of a particular piece; history of coinage more generally; processes of coin production and wear; physical differences between coins, and then between U.S. and Mexican coins; and the role of countries in designing and producing the money. Each of these areas could generate a variety of social-studies–related questions. For example, the physical characteristics of coins and the differences among them led to questions about the materials needed to make them, the availability of natural resources, the wear and tear on individual coins, and differences in the ways that coins and paper currency may be used in society. Symbolism included questions and observations about history and mythology, the social identities of the people represented on the coins, and the power relations that were encoded on the coin faces. If time and energy allowed, I asked students to try to frame all of their concerns either as questions or as statements because the process of creating parallel structures fostered greater understanding of the relationships

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between listed items. When time was limited, I would move directly to students’ questions—first about the coins and then about my teaching —addressing both the social studies and pedagogy as subject matters. Follow-up questions often included, Who might you do this with? Why not with younger or older folks? What is the point of this activity? How does the activity connect to the National Council of Social Studies’ framework? What could this activity lead to? I encouraged students to respond to each other and to elaborate on their different perspectives. Not having the teacher’s “right” answers pushed the students to generate their own ideas, listen to each other, and evaluate the responses at a different level. They experienced and evaluated learning as an activity that involved seeing relationships: comparing and contrasting, grouping and isolating, generating categories from lists of particulars, and creating lists of particulars from more general categories. Because I didn’t know beforehand which of the fruitful paths a particular group of students would take in relation to the materials I provided or where the paths might lead, I was not explicit at first in the syllabus about which activities we would be doing in a given week. As I learned more about the range and frequency of ideas and questions that different materials tended to generate, and as some students rebelled against a perceived “fuzziness” regarding our schedule, I organized a syllabus with the activities in a particular order and then changed that order during the semester if I thought that a different investigation might be more likely to address students’ current questions. I also asked my students to employ the same kind of exploratory lens and process to reflect on their childhood experiences of social studies, as a way of accessing their understanding of the field of study, and then juxtaposed those ideas with multiple, sometimes conflicting, “expert” perspectives. I often began the course with students reflecting individually, then recounting in pairs, and then sharing in plenary a certain number of their personal social studies memories. Using childhood reflections as an object of study served multiple curricular functions. On one level, it served as a simple social icebreaker. On another, we were validating personal knowledge and student-centered discursive patterns. At the same time, we were generating a common list of social studies experiences from which we could begin to generalize about the character of social studies as the students had experienced it. Finally, I was introducing a model of intellectual work that was a central feature of the course—making lists and creating categories, revisiting these lists, revising the categories, and then comparing our categories with existing socially established “expert” categories. In Freire’s (1970) language, these expert objects and representations represent codifications that students de-codify in order to better understand themselves in relation to social studies, school, each other, and society (also

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discussed in Chapter 9). As students expanded their conceptions of the social studies, epistemology, and pedagogy, we were better poised to approach the central assignment of the course. The Global Crisis Project In order to design and teach a critical exploration, my students had to choose and research subject matter in the spirit of CEC with my guidance. Based on their research, they developed curricular materials, tested them among their peers, used them in their classrooms, and—after reflecting on their experience, my comments, and peer feedback—either produced and taught a followup activity or revised their original lesson and taught it to a different group of learners. I focused the course on global crises because teachers, especially social studies teachers, have responsibilities as global citizens. This was an important curricular decision that I made as the teacher. Students often but not always asked about it during the semester, but if they didn’t, I would raise that decision as a point of discussion before the semester’s end. Over time, after an initial attempt to leave the assignment more open, I developed specific guidelines for the project. In doing so, I weighed the benefits of learners structuring their own exploration with the constraints of time and the achievement-oriented demands of the program. When I simply asked students to find a crisis and explore it, we did not have sufficient time or opportunities to reflect on and adjust their projects in an iterative fashion. This project had five parts. Each involved a written assignment, and students responded to my feedback before tackling the next part. They wrote about their experience in the final course assignment. The following were the five parts of the project: I. Choosing a crisis II. Researching the crisis III. Connecting the crisis to social studies IV. Considering the learner V. Developing and using materials I. Choosing a Crisis. When asked to generate a list of “global social crises,” my students first tussled with the very idea of a global crisis, asking, What makes a crisis “global”? Was the Haitian earthquake a global crisis because “everyone” knew about it and “everyone” was concerned for the people of Haiti, or was it one example of the broader global crisis—earthquakes? Or was it not a global crisis because the primary event was on a small island? Or was it maybe a global crisis because of the range of stakeholders who were affected and the extent of the international response?

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The students also wondered what made a global crisis social. For example, they explored together the difference between a natural phenomenon, such as a tsunami, and the kinds of social crises generated by the tsunami. Throughout this activity, they wondered about how to choose a crisis that was “child-friendly.” I actively discouraged my students from choosing topics because they seemed “easy” or appropriate for children in some other way. I wanted each aspiring teacher to choose a topic for its importance to them. I wanted them to focus on what they considered the complexities of a crisis, not a simplified version of it. With these instructions, the students chose among the world’s crises and explained their choices. Over time, I noticed that students tended to choose their topics based on their prior interest and knowledge, a prior interest but limited knowledge, a new interest based on the cable news cycle, or a desire to fit the curriculum into their schools. Thematically, students’ choices of issues generally fell into overlapping categories including natural resource depletion, power relations between social groups, human health and welfare, and the consequences of natural disasters. This last category provoked questions about the social nature of natural crises, and ultimately about the sometimes murky distinctions between science and social studies. When humans played more prominent roles in causing the crisis, such as drug abuse, armed conflict, or even resource depletion, students tended not to engage the question of the relationship between science and social studies in the same way. I sometimes then provided them with two or three different lists of global crises, uniquely categorized and written by professionals in the field, so that my students could contrast their own work and also see that even experts didn’t always share categories. II. Researching the Crisis. Initially, the research some students produced made me wonder if they were “not really trying,” but over time, I noticed that students who were able to talk conversationally about a global problem and answer questions about that problem were not necessarily able to generate and organize the questions that could frame robust explorations. A student might name the lack of access to water as a regional or national issue without recognizing how different populations within the region or country have different relationships to water, or how a lack of access affects various populations differently. Many students were unable to find a range of trustworthy sources and were so quick to identify with a “position” that they never considered other perspectives, or even realized they existed. In response, I took two different courses of action, both of which I had initially avoided. One was to spend part of an early session exploring a crisis together, as a model for the students’ own study. My initial hesitation to provide a model had stemmed from not wanting students to be able to “copy” what we had done in class. In the end, I decided to tell students that

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whatever crisis we started together couldn’t be the focus of their individual projects. The other course of action was to have students generate a set of shared questions that would then drive their own research and curriculum development, rather than receiving a list of preformed questions and expectations from me. The first couple of semesters we created the project guidelines together as we went along. The brevity of our time together meant that we didn’t have enough time to get through the whole project. Furthermore, the students experienced the openness and scope of the project with such trepidation and angst that I felt compelled to be more explicit with the program components, starting with the kinds of questions that my students should be investigating. A question such as How might we explore the hunger crisis? became a more explicit request to consider the actors, origins, and historical context of hunger; the potential solutions for hunger; and the credibility of the source material on hunger. Providing the frame for these questions had its drawbacks, but I was able to ensure that my students took into account underrepresented standpoints (Hartsock, 1983; Hill, 2000) and had more time and calm later in the semester to develop and enact curricular activities with their students. I considered having my students work together on one crisis for the whole semester. I liked the idea of the whole class training its attention on the same subject all semester, as Duckworth did with her moon study, and as I had done in a research methods course I had taught. For this course, however, I opted against it, in part because I wanted each student to do original curriculum development, and in part because I wanted them to have the opportunity to explore a crisis of their choosing—a topic that caught their “voluntary attention” (James, 1916). I wanted the students to then extend that attention throughout the course, without the external support of the group’s collective attention. I did, however, give certain kinds of support, such as providing some students with materials on their chosen topics when I thought that I needed to expand their range of credible sources or introduce an alternative perspective. III. Connecting the Crisis to Social Studies. Having completed some research on their topics—causes, stakeholders, conflicts, possible responses—students worked on clarifying the connections between their chosen crisis and the big themes of social studies. In doing so, they had to apply their developing understanding of social studies as a multidisciplinary field and broaden their notions of what their crisis afforded them in terms of potential subject matter. As we generally discovered when students reflected on their experiences as social studies learners early in the term, most students entered the course thinking of social studies as synonymous with history, or as a combination of history and political geography. During those early weeks, we also examined the historically contested nature of the social studies curriculum.

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Initially, I assigned The Social Studies Wars (Evans, 2004). Students, however, struggled with the text, so I replaced it with a pair of reviews that summarized and analyzed Evans’s work. I also began responding with brief mini-lessons to students’ questions about historical events and movements outside the academy that informed what was happening inside. In the context of students’ exploration of their own social studies exper­ iences, and our reading of Evan’s version of the history of the field, I shared with students the social studies framework from the National Council for the Social Studies (NCSS, 2010). Their 10 categories, listed here without their subcategories or descriptions, became a structuring force for the course: 1. Culture 2. Time, Continuity, and Change 3. People, Places, and Environments 4. Individual Development and Identity 5. Individuals, Groups, and Institutions 6. Power, Authority, and Governance 7. Production, Consumption, and Distribution 8. Science, Technology, and Society 9. Global Connections 10. Civic Ideals and Practice At this point, I encouraged my students to incorporate their developing understanding of the framework into a semi-structured exploration of materials and asked them to look at prior objects of study together and develop questions related to each of the framework’s categories. As we explored the framework through the materials and the materials through the framework, I challenged students to memorize the categories, though this challenge was never a graded quiz. Once familiar with the categories, students explored the relationship between themselves and their chosen global problem topics. For example, one student teacher, Teresa, with obesity as her chosen crisis, connected the crisis to the first of the categories—Culture—saying, “Some cultures believe that being overweight to the point of obesity is something admirable instead of thinking of it as being destructive to health.” Another student, Bess, wrote about the era’s oil crisis and its connection to the category Production, Distribution, and Consumption, saying, “Right now because of the oil crisis people are cutting back on their spending not only on gas but also on their consumerism [sic] of material things. People have needed to re-evaluate their spending habits and find new budgets to fit in what is important.” IV. Considering the Learner. Students’ questions about what can be appropriately taught to elementary school children were present from the beginning of the semester. I made it clear in the syllabus and when asked that my

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students should initially bracket this issue. I assured them that we would address it prior to the creation of materials. I explained that they would have the opportunity to learn what their students already knew and to engage them in the foundational concepts that undergird their crisis issues. As Croft (2013) explains, “Critical Exploration promotes a certain comfort with unanswered questions. Not total comfort . . . but a level of comfort which is often discouraged in traditional classrooms” (p. 72). The question always re-emerged, as it did one semester for Stephanie, an undergraduate student, who asked, “What am I supposed to teach my 1st-graders about international sex trafficking, and how am I supposed to do it?” Three other students responded, in succession and with attitude, supporting what they understood to be Stephanie’s underlying position, “I can’t teach about the war in Iraq!” “I am sorry, but I am not going to teach 1st-graders about world hunger!” “Do you expect me to teach my students about how drug cartels leave mutilated bodies in the street? I don’t think so.” In response, I would ask my students to think for a moment and write on the two prompts that follow. I no longer have the list of comments that this particular class made, but over time my classes generated versions of the following lists: Why not teach about your crisis? • I don’t want to generate stress about things that kids can’t control. • I’m scared I’ll give students nightmares. • I don’t want to anger parents. • I don’t want to anger the principal. • I could lose my job. • I could get in trouble. • I don’t want to say the wrong thing to students. • I don’t want to give incorrect information. • I’m not sure what I really believe, and that makes me hesitant to discuss it. It is not my job to teach politics. • I don’t know what is appropriate developmentally. • I don’t want to upset students and then not know how to respond. • It is not right to take away student innocence. • I want to avoid conflict. I’m concerned that the subject will hit too close to home—teaching about homelessness and hunger. Some of my students live in shelters. Why teach about your crisis? • I should teach about the real world. • We can’t make a difference on these issues if we ignore them. • As a society we need to face our problems. • The fact that I don’t want to teach everything doesn’t mean that I can’t teach something.

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• As teachers we can have conversations with our students that parents don’t have or aren’t willing to have. • We should prepare students for the real world. • Kids learn about all sorts of stuff without us. • It is better to have them learn from me than from each other. • Kids are great change agents. • Kids can teach their parents. • Learning about the real world is exciting. After writing such lists together, students generalized, working to group similar responses, striving for categories that were both inclusive and parallel. More than one class came up with some variation of the following three categories: concern for myself as the teacher, concern for the students, and concern for society. After recognizing the merits of the ideas and categories my students had generated, I could challenge the strength of their commitment to these ideas and categories and offer contributions to their lists to see how that might affect their thinking. When I was concerned that my opinion would be given too much or too little weight, I framed the ideas as notions that I’d heard others express. For example, if I noticed that students might benefit from considering a cultural perspective that they hadn’t yet mentioned, I might say, “A few semesters ago a student said she wouldn’t want to offend her ancestors. What do you make of that? Where does that fit into your thinking?” This conversation challenged my students to establish their ideas about what was important when teaching kids about a crisis. We practiced being knowledgeable about the social studies framework and how the crisis connects to that framework. Classes always raised or reinforced the notion that it was important for the teacher to have considered the crisis from a child’s perspective, taking into account their age, developmental status, and prior exposure. My students needed to understand that what children already know differs from community to community. Many children are already exposed to issues through media and/or direct experience, and while we do not want to expose students unnecessarily to the traumas associated with war, poverty, corruption, and natural disasters, neither do we want to underestimate what children are already grappling with, especially if that underestimation might lead to further misunderstanding or pain. Learning what it is that students already know and seeking to understand their levels of stress around that knowledge are essential as part of this teaching process and are hallmarks of Critical Exploration in the Classroom. After addressing these questions at length, I asked my students to consider which aspects of their crisis they might bring to their students. I turned the question back to them: “What can Stephanie teach her 1st-graders that

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will help prepare them to understand at a later age the ugly phenomenon of international sex trafficking? What about the war in Iraq, world hunger, drug cartels?” Students learned that the activities and materials they design do not need to appear explicitly connected to their crisis. For example, an economics activity that engages students on the differences between “wants” and “needs” is foundational to developing an understanding of any issue for which inequality, poverty, or distribution are important. Students began teasing out distinctions among their concerns about teaching this subject matter. They worked, as teachers do, to balance a need to create safe, supportive classroom environments with the need to engage real-world issues, keep things interesting, and confront pop culture. They needed to begin distinguishing between their concerns regarding their students’ emotional safety and those having more to do with their own emotional comfort. V. Developing and Using Materials. Having completed the first four parts of this project, my students submitted learning activity proposals. In these proposals they were to describe in detail what they would say and do with a group of learners from their pre-practicum classrooms, what kinds of activity this prompt might generate on the part of their learners, and what they might say or do to keep their learners engaged when their attention might normally flag. After incorporating my feedback, my students enacted the bit of curriculum, wrote about what happened, and then described what they might do to follow up with their students at a later date. Although I studiously and explicitly avoided the language of “teaching a lesson,” hoping to move my students away from their deeply established notions of “instruction,” the distinctions between the tradition lessons and critical explorations were not always easy for students to grasp. Joan, who had chosen to research the global water crisis, had focused on problems of access to potable water. She explored the problem’s causes, consequences, and possible solutions, and she considered who was more and less affected by the crisis. After considering the social studies connections to the crisis and the age of her students (second-semester 1st-graders), Joan decided that she wanted her students to be thinking about their needs and desires for water, how they use water, and how people around the world get water in different ways. Initially she planned to begin with a “know, want to know, and learn” (KWL) chart. She would ask her students about how they use water and what they use it for. Then she would read the students a book about water access in a region negatively affected by the crisis, in order to “help students who may struggle with the idea that not all water comes directly into one’s home.” In her proposal, Joan used a modified Learning by Design curriculum design format that she had adopted from a prior course. I had decided that

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she could use whatever she considered to be the most sensible structuring tool, as long as its use didn’t obscure her understanding or impede the creation and execution of her activity. I did, however, strongly encourage her to consider alternative activities that did not have typical classroom learning objectives. In particular, I asked her to incorporate the kinds of hands-on activities that might allow her to witness the developing ideas of her learners as they approached her goals. In the end, Joan asked her students to imagine living in a community with a population the size of their classroom. She told them that this community had no running water, that getting water would take a long time, and that they would have to hand-carry the water back in seven buckets. The students’ task was to figure out when would be the best time to go get the water, how they would share it once they brought it back, and what they would use it for. They broke into small groups and began. Joan refrained from participating directly in the ensuing discussions, but she took notes on what she saw and heard and provided structure where needed. When students didn’t know how much water they would have to work with, Joan provided them with a container that they could see. When they wanted a notetaker, Joan volunteered to keep track of their ideas for them. In the end, Joan was happily surprised by the direction and depth of the discussion, writing, “I was floored by their discussion of wants and needs.” The groups compared their lists and their thinking, and Joan noted the active and insightful participation of a student who was usually considered disruptive. Joan described not only what happened but also what didn’t happen, writing that the children had not had time to discuss how they “would dispense the water.” Joan also pointed to ways that the activity might have been even more productive and things she might have done differently. Learning Journals: Learning to Write Narrative Description After the first semester, I realized that students needed practice in observing learning and in writing narrative descriptions. Because their pre-practicum classroom placements were the same semester as my course, I had my students observe the learning of social studies in their mentor teachers’ classrooms. I should say “observe the learning or its absence” because most of my students had one of two experiences: either their mentor teachers weren’t teaching social studies or they weren’t teaching it in a way that allowed an observer to see “learning.” I introduced Eisner’s (1994) notions of explicit, implicit, and null curriculum so that these students could write either about what was being taught that could be considered social studies, albeit not explicitly (the implicit curriculum), or about “missed opportunities” when social studies could have been taught but wasn’t (the null curriculum). Through these learning journals, students thought more about social studies and how to incorporate the subject into existing curriculum, often

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in cross-disciplinary ways. The activity also prepared students for the type of writing they would need to do for their crisis projects and provided an opportunity for them to see how hard it is not just to see learning but to teach in a way that reveals learning—a revelation that is at the core of critical exploration. Final Reflections Assignment Precisely because I tried to refrain from using my authority to sanction student ideas, many students did not realize that they had been learning to learn and to teach. Other students realized they were involved in a learning process but hadn’t yet named it or recognized its implications. As a result, I added a short, final writing assignment, a reflective essay for the course in which the students were to describe what they had learned or, at least, had experienced. I asked them not to evaluate the course in this paper but to mentally gather up the activities and conversations in which they had engaged, to name them, and to reflect upon them. I did so trusting that they would find many of these activities and conversations to have been of use and hoping that in the process they might take steps toward coordinating those elements in such a way that created new connections, leading them to discover or rediscover ideas about social studies, learning, and teaching. While some of their responses generated or confirmed ideas about how I might refine the course, many of the adaptations that I made to the course over the years were based more on my own observations about what had worked and what had not. It was when my students produced work that uniformly didn’t match my expectations that I was forced to reconsider my practice, to look at my own teaching as the subject matter of my critical exploration. CONCLUSION In this course I asked my students to create curricular activities that would keep learners engaged and reveal how their thinking changed over time. The creation of an activity grounded in critical exploration is complicated, in part because it demands a radical shift in goal and style from traditional curricula. Combine that difficulty with the added issues of complying with state frameworks and severe time constraints, and the planning process can quickly become quite complicated. Many students suggested activities that were perfectly adequate for a conventional teaching experience but did not allow enough time for student exploration, or didn’t allow sufficient space for their learners to communicate their own ideas, often because the activities required too much talk and instruction, and not enough listening and watching, by the teacher.

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As the teacher of the course, I devoted myself to creating activities and modeling this different orientation to learning and teaching. I created opportunities that would allow my students to discover the methods and activities that would suit their needs for the course. There were times, though, when I found myself becoming more directive with some students, rather than allowing them the opportunity to find or create an activity on their own. In the course’s early years, if my students’ first attempts didn’t result in activities that would allow my students the opportunity to encourage thinking and to document it, I would ask them to return to the drawing board. If they were running out of time, I would sit with them and work through their thoughts and ideas so that they could experience the process of creating materials with my support. In my last semesters of teaching the course, I was more willing to be more directive earlier in the process in the interest of time. Unlike K–12 schooling, where a teacher has the opportunity to return to a subject or lesson over the weeks or months ahead, my students and I had only 7 undergraduate or 10 graduate 3-hour sessions. While my preference was that students create their own materials and activity that would reveal student learning, if they were short on time it was more important that they be able to observe learning and write about it. Their written description of what they had done and how students had responded was central because it was the only access I had to what they had done. As discussed previously, many of the learning activities that I modeled during the course involved creating categories and coordinating ideas. Through the practice of generating brainstormed responses to questions and then organizing and synthesizing those responses, students had the opportunity to explore, recast, and claim for their own many categories and concepts that pertain to social studies. In doing so, they engaged in category construction as learning. A central feature of learning is establishing increasingly parallel and inclusive categories and subcategories with consistent relationships between them. Herein lies another important distinction between the work of CEC and much of what passes as conventional teaching in schools. Conventional teaching often focuses on receiving known socially sanctioned categories and their definitions, while CEC focuses on creating opportunities for learners to develop their own analyses, their own categories, first, with the option of later comparing their ideas with socially sanctioned ones. My general tendency, informed by my work with Eleanor Duckworth (2006a) and critical exploration, has been to present a challenge in all of its rich complexity rather than breaking a subject down into simple, bite-size chunks from the start. A benefit of such an approach is that it gives learners the opportunity to find wonder and puzzles in the world as they encounter it and then to have that wonder and curiosity serve as their motivation, rather than to be driven to achieve simply by means of competition, praise, and/

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or advancement. Such experiences sometimes reminded student teachers of what a learner is capable of, prepared them to teach with that awe-inspiring creative capacity in mind, and reoriented them to goals of lifelong learning. This approach, however, is not without its challenges. Aside from the general challenge of bucking what has become the conventional wisdom and practice in teacher education circles, this particular curricular aim—shifting the sources of students’ motivation—demands a reevaluation and deemphasizing of traditional motivating tools. It is exceedingly hard to know if students are motivated by their own curiosity when they are so keenly aware of external motivators like grades and external certification assessments. And if the traditional carrots and sticks are deemphasized without tapping deeply into curiosity and sustaining that curiosity, the quality of student production is likely to suffer. Try as I might, I could not entirely escape the academic system in which grades were required and desired. As a result, I felt compelled over time to let students know what was expected of them more specifically in order to grade them fairly, which undercut my attempts to support their developing intellectual sovereignty. There were moments over the years when I wondered if some students were conspiring to do as little work as possible, and on an occasion or two, I might have been right. But when students weren’t describing their chosen crises in rich detail, or were not producing narratives that allowed readers to follow what was happening in classrooms, the problem was not necessarily the students’ lack of desire. I was asking them to do a kind of hard intellectual work that felt unfamiliar, and I was eschewing forms of authority that accompany the role of teacher as grader and dispenser of expert knowledge. Even those students who were motivated intrinsically were forced to choose between devoting their energies to courses that would reward them more traditionally and this one that did not. There is a question here about the use of authority, but I am at the edge of my understanding. POSTSCRIPT I was initially excited to see that my 8th-grade daughter was being assigned a version—albeit a diluted one—of my global crisis project in her humanities class. She was told to pick a global problem from a list and research it by answering a battery of specific questions. After sitting with her as she worked on it, I watched as she chose the easiest possible route with the least amount of thinking to fulfill the requirements for the assignment. Answering the open-ended questions of the assignment in a classroom culture that prioritized correct answers generated high anxiety for her. The assignment had failed to catch her interest other than as a procedural means to an acceptable letter grade, and I was reminded again of a central feature

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of this work—a tenet of William James (1916), John Dewey (1913), Jean Piaget (1945/1951), David Hawkins (2002a), and Eleanor Duckworth (1996), among others, but practiced uniquely by Duckworth and those who have been influenced by her—the piquing and holding of the learners’ interest in the subject matter itself.

CHAPTER 9

A “Why” Approach to Mathematics Teacher Education Houman Harouni

THE WHAT, THE HOW, AND THE WHY OF MATHEMATICS EDUCATION The following discussion takes place in week 8 of a semester-long course on mathematics for preservice teachers. Shannon, a 19-year-old preservice teacher, speaks up after a pause in the class discussion: I’m going to try and say it again, but it won’t come out right. There is “one,” and it’s like an adjective, “one apple,” “one kid.” . . . But, what Plato is saying, there’s also “oneness,” and that doesn’t have anything to do with things. . . . Oneness is the concept of “one”; you can’t cut it up like you do with an apple and then call each part “one half of an apple.” Oneness is its own thing. The class is reading through a section in Plato’s Republic that deals with the teaching of arithmetic (Plato, 2004, pp. 255–257). Shannon’s explanation is the closest the group has come, after 45 minutes of discussion, to articulating Plato’s distinction between two definitions of the number one— in Shannon’s articulation, it is the distinction between “one” as something that describes real things and “one” as a concept unto itself, the pure number. The class is at the same time grappling with another issue from the text: Plato believes that each conception of numbers belongs to the education of a particular sector of society. Jim has focused on this aspect of the dialogue and returns to it: “He [Plato] wants the important people in the city to study arithmetic, but—” He stops midsentence and after a few seconds gives up and goes back to squinting at the page in front of him. “Go on,” I say. Jim reads directly from the text:

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In Search of Wonderful Ideas: Critical Exploration in Teacher Education It would be appropriate . . . to persuade those who are going to take part in what is most important to the city to go in for calculation and take it up, but not as laymen do . . . not like tradesmen and retailers, caring about it for the sake of buying and selling, but for the sake of war and for ease in turning the soul itself around from becoming to truth and being. (Plato, 2004, p. 220)

Aaron, who is usually quiet in the discussions, makes the connection that Jim seems to be hinting at: “Learning about ‘one’ is for regular people. Learning ‘oneness’ is for people who run the city.” Jim seems to feel the importance of this point more than the others in the class do. It takes until the very end of the discussion for him to voice what is bothering him. “I think,” he says, “in school they only teach us about ‘one,’ but never about ‘oneness.’” Immediately, Janine and Dana disagree with him. Their own experiences were different. Jim, however, holds fast to his opinion. In his journal entry for the week he writes: “I keep returning to the question of oneness. I feel like in my [teacher training] courses I’m told what to teach, but no one ever talks about why we are teaching things. Why would you teach more about ‘one’ than ‘oneness’?” PURPOSE AND CONTRADICTIONS The why of a subject matter or a curriculum—why it is taught and why in a particular way—can never be adequately taught as a lecture. These questions always involve arguments whose logic depends on one’s relationship to society. There are, of course, explanations that can help our thinking. We can, for example, draw genealogies of current practices and the forces that shape them (e.g. Harouni, 2015b; Hoyrup, 1994; Swetz & Smith, 1987), and we can connect these histories to teacher or student “beliefs” about what and how mathematics is taught (e.g., Handal, 2003; Weldeana & Abraham, 2014). Such efforts, however, can never go far enough. Both the historical structures that give shape to a piece of curriculum and the educator’s understanding of him or herself in relationship to those structures exist, in great part, within a social or individual unconscious (Harouni, 2013). These relationships are rooted in interests, histories, and authorities that are present but not fully apparent. They are, one can say, ideological. What is required is an active investigation that will constantly turn against the investigator’s own limitations, not the least of which is his or her formal education. The process of better understanding the purpose of pedagogy is inevitably about deepening the educator’s questions about society and oneself. In this chapter I will describe an attempt at mathematics teacher training that reaches beyond exploring what to teach and how to teach in order to provoke the why questions of mathematics education. The experiment

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took place as a semester-long, 22-session course on mathematical problem solving for a group of students composed for the most part of preservice teachers. The attempt was fundamentally different from offering potential teachers either explanations or an experience in a curriculum or a pedagogy that they were to deploy in their future classrooms. The course, instead, concerned itself with those questions for which there are no entirely objective explanations—that is, with pedagogical problems that spin out of contradictions at the core of the individual’s relationship with mathematics, society, and schooling. Here I must acknowledge a problem that shapes the experience and its present discussion. On the one hand, the contradictions I refer to in the previous paragraph can make sense to students only if the contradictions arise out of the students’ own interactions with the topic of mathematics education. On the other hand, at many junctures the students need me, as the teacher-researcher, to intervene and confront them with pieces of evidence or even dilemmas within their own thought process to which they would not normally have access. I cannot approach the situation without my own preconceptions about what does or does not constitute a contradiction in mathematics education. This tension can never be erased. My first partial solution at this point is to create a learning environment in which the tension itself is constantly turned into a topic of discussion. My second solution is to be open to following the students in their thinking by taking even their most simple questions about the materials seriously. The result is that the themes and contradictions explored in this chapter appear partly out of my reading and research into mathematics education and partly out of what the students brought to the table. This means that the description of the mathematics teacher training is just as much an account of failures—failure to enter an important theme or pay attention to a significant comment—as it is of headways. The discussion on Plato, which opens this chapter, gives an example of the way in which complex themes develop through interactions among teacher, students, and materials. With the experience of the course behind me, I can identify at least four major, interconnected contradictions that the students address in the brief space of that exploration. These four themes serve as the organizing elements of this chapter. The first theme or contradiction involves each student’s own relationship to schooling. Although modern schools claim to prepare their students for every profession and social position, in reality students must go on to live in a society defined by strict division of labor and, therefore, trainings. How, the students ask, do schools define their purpose, and what roles are allotted to students? There is, usually, a strict divide between those who set the curriculum and those to whom the curriculum is applied. And yet even the briefest open investigation of a curriculum—here, Plato’s—gives rise to a sense of unease among the students. Jim, my student, asks himself in his

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journal entry, “Why have I been subjected to this particular vision of mathematics and education?” His frustration with his own training as a future elementary school teacher is not only a challenge to educational hierarchies (in the quote from his journal entry, he attacks his past teachers and current teacher educators) but also a form of concern for one’s own place within society. The second contradiction is between school mathematics and the real world. Mathematics standards and curricula are chock-full of truisms about the usefulness of mathematics in labor and citizenship, but the individual mathematical topics in these texts are presented without clear and specific justification (Heymann, 2003; Lave, 1988; Noyes, 2007). The lack of justifications serves to further obscure a basic feature of school mathematics: In schools, mathematics, like any other subject, is more than itself because it is also a commodity in a false economy of diplomas and certifications. Having lost its real cultural and economic context and, therefore, meaningful expression, school mathematics is in a sense something less than mathematics—it is a simulation of skill-earning played out on academic records (see Lundin, 2010). Can this contradiction between school and practical mathematics ever be overcome? A third tension arises out of the conflict between the commonly held opinion that mathematics is a single, coherent discipline and the fact that the practice of mathematics, as well as its teaching and learning, can assume wildly different forms. Plato confronts us with two historical views of the definition of numbers. Historical research has shown how, until the modern era, each definition was adopted by a separate economic sector (Harouni, 2015b; Jackson, 1906). Even today, the academic mathematician and the engineer, for example, employ numbers according to quite distinct working definitions. When we talk about “mathematics” as if it were a single, perfectly defined discipline, we turn math into myth. This mythologization, however, is the rule when it comes to the discourse surrounding mathematics education (Harouni, 2015a). A fourth conflict concerns the relationship between mathematics and truth—which is, one can say, a political relationship. In the discussion of Plato’s Republic, this theme is present only in its embryonic form, as a suspicion that perhaps Plato wants the general populace not to have access to a certain type of mathematical thinking. There are many aspects to this tension, but one in particular is important both to understanding mathematics education and to the class discussions in my course. Mathematics has the potential to illuminate relationships, but it also has an essential, abstracting function that obscures reality. Salient evidence of this conflict is the politicians’ use of statistics to obscure the realities of a situation—realities that could not have been grasped without the use of numbers in the first place (Frankenstein, 2009). The problem, however, runs much deeper, stemming from those activities that engendered mathematics as their most potent

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intellectual instrument: commerce and administration. Mathematics as a commercial-administrative tool upholds the entire field of economic relations, the reduction of living people’s life-force to abstract value—wages, work hours, and exchange rates. In the same breath that we speak of the uses of mathematics, we must address its abuses. One is not external to the other. How is one to address these four contradictions? Schooling as an institution is so well-established that it can deal with them offhandedly. K–12 teacher training programs can engender a self-referential logic that seems to justify school mathematics. A common approach is to add a “math in context” course to the training—usually a piecemeal syllabus that inevitably takes some version of school mathematics for granted. Such courses have neither the ability nor the intention to deal with contradictions as deep as the four that I have named so far. We find a different solution in writings that try to initiate teachers into the disagreements surrounding mathematics as a subject (e.g., Freudenthal, 2002; Heymann, 2003; Noyes, 2007). It would be impossible to pass judgment on all these efforts here; however, I can point out one significant shortcoming endemic to the effort. Because these writings are designed for teachers, who are supposed to enter the classroom and act as confident agents, the authors try to eventually arrive at a place of productive harmony. Though the authors acknowledge that mathematics curricula are subject to the value systems that form them, they end up presenting curriculum design as a sort of balancing act between various values and priorities. But this balance is a fantasy. Curriculum design and standard-setting are, by definition, forms of tilting knowledge toward a particular perspective. The process involves creating and forcefully maintaining imbalances. We then arrive at a third, more candid approach: to speak to teachers from a specific, declared political and cultural position, shedding the mantle of disinterest. This is the case, for example, with what is referred to as “critical mathematics education” (Frankenstein, 2009). In this approach, teachers study the political conflicts that help shape their pedagogies. The method is more transparent, but it does not go deep enough. The conflicts and contradictions of mathematics education involve mathematics itself. Unless a pedagogic approach already contains a strong theory of mathematics that allows the teacher to distinguish the contradictions of mathematics education, it will have no choice but to take some definition of mathematics for granted. The implications of this lack of theory are dire for teacher training: the teacher, who is supposed to take a critical position vis-à-vis society, is to accept the fundamentals of the subject matter uncritically. In brief, engaging the conflicts and contradictions of one’s own practice is by no means a matter of simply being aware of such conflicts. It means actively gauging them against one’s own experience and values and understanding them in light of history, labor, and politics. To any conception of

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teacher knowledge I add this necessary complement: the ability to act as a cultural critic at least within one’s own practice (Harouni, 2013). This is different from learning about theory (though that might be involved); primarily it means to enter that forge of reasoned uncertainty in which theory is constructed. CONTEXT AND METHODOLOGY The course this chapter describes took place in a New England university with a strong teacher-preparation program. Fifteen of the 22 students were preservice educators. As with the majority of preservice educators in the United States (Gresham, 2007), they had entered college with more aversion toward mathematics than the average college student does. In the beginning of the course, all but one of the students described themselves as experiencing mild to very high levels of math anxiety—the fear to perform or even think about mathematics. The university marketed the course, titled Problem Solving: A Critical Approach to Mathematics, primarily to students who had not been able to pass their teacher certification exams. The students who were not in teacher-training programs took the course out of personal curiosity or out of a desire for an easy class to meet college mathematics requirements. We met as a class for 12 weeks, over 22 sessions, each 75 minutes long. The teaching-research team employed a methodology that is an extension of what Eleanor Duckworth has called Critical Exploration in the Classroom—an application of Jean Piaget and Bärbel Inhelder’s clinical interviewing method to teaching and learning (Duckworth, 2006a). The teacher presents materials or a problem that he or she expects will give rise to a range of problems in the students’ minds. As students encounter the materials, the teacher-researcher tries to understand their thinking by asking questions and providing secondary problems or materials designed to complicate the students’ reasoning. As students wrestle with their own reasoning within the context of a trusting environment in which all participants feel free to give voice to their confusions, they come to ask increasingly probing questions and to think more rigorously. From this process, the teacherresearcher gleans new data for designing new materials and investigations. In its strengths and problems, Duckworth’s method closely resembles Paulo Freire’s critical pedagogy. Freire, too, presents the students with materials, which he calls “codifications,” that contain a range of dilemmas (Freire, 1970b). Students analyze these codifications and, furthermore, analyze their own analysis—in this way arriving at an understanding of their own assumptions. Both Duckworth and Freire’s open-ended approaches to teaching nonetheless provide the teacher with powerful means of highlighting, through the juxtaposition of materials, almost precisely the

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contradictions that he or she means to highlight. The investigative teacher risks a great deal more uncertainty than their traditional counterpart, yet the investigative teacher, too, faces challenges to his own assumptions and has access to mechanisms for parrying away these challenges (Harouni, 2013). My solution to this problem has been to encourage my students to critique their relationship to me and to the institution of teaching in general. This is a central aspect of the work, and I will return to it in the body of the chapter and in my conclusions. The data gathered from the course included pre- and post-surveys, transcripts of class discussions, weekly student journal entries and fieldwork reports (no less than five double-spaced pages from each student, each week), one-on-one interviews, and final papers. After almost every session, a research assistant and I shared and discussed our observations, deciding on the best way to proceed in the next session. In other words, the curriculum was not set in advance. This chapter, then, does not describe a curriculum so much as it focuses on considerations that might inform the type of continually evolving curriculum that would be required to address some of the fundamental questions of mathematics education. COURSE COMPONENTS: ACTIVITIES, ARTIFACTS, AND READINGS Whereas in traditional teacher education the goal of every activity is to familiarize students with some aspect of the topic, in this work perhaps the first goal of each activity is to defamiliarize the topic, creating a distance from whose vantage students can view their own basic assumptions. A fluid, adaptable curriculum is key because it allows the facilitators to flexibly deploy each component to disquiet the particular stasis reached by the group. The three main components of the course—problem solving, artifact decoding, and readings—worked together to allow for this type of flexibility. Problem solving refers to activities that engage students in a mathematicsrelated phenomenon. Each activity inspires the question, Is what I am doing mathematics? One activity, based on a problem Duckworth regularly posed in her own teaching, asked students where on a wall should they place a small mirror in order for two people standing at random locations in the room to see each other in the reflection. For an hour or so students played with mirrors, strings, and flashlights to come up with a surefire way of choosing the right spot on the wall. It was learning, but was it mathematics? Voicing their doubts gradually brought the students to one of the main conflicts in mathematics education. Central to any theory of mathematics education is the debate regarding whether everyday life can lead to mathematical learning or whether educators tend to impose mathematics on everyday activities that do not require it (Dowling, 1998; Lave, 1992).

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Artifact decoding, the second component of the course, refers to the investigation of primary texts that are dense with contradictions. The purpose of artifact decoding is to spark conversations that would not normally arise but to do so without hitting the students over the head with an already formulated problem. Students formulate a problem out of their own sense of the materials. So, for example, when I give the class a set of extremely similar word problems that were drawn from disparate eras ranging from ancient Babylonia to modern times, I have consciously coded—to use Friere’s (1970b) terminology—a number of contradictions into these artifacts, and I expect some of them to emerge from the collective decoding of the texts. What I cannot anticipate is what experiences or connections the students will bring to bear on their reading of the materials. Finally, the course readings addressed three broad categories: history of mathematics (e.g., Cuomo, 2001; Jackson, 1906; Swetz & Smith, 1987), pedagogy (e.g., Duckworth, 2006a; Harouni, 2013; Kohl, 1991), and theories of mathematics education (Dowling, 1998; Frankenstein, 1983; Lave, 1992). While I chose most of the readings before the course began, I ordered their assignment based on classroom discussions. A few readings were added in response to topics that became problematic for this particular group of students. I assigned Herbert Kohl’s (2001) essay on student resistance to learning, for example, because of an important discussion about students who remained silent in our sessions. THE LEARNING EXPERIENCE When dealing with a topic that involves multiple interrelated themes, the collective understanding of students expands and contracts in overlapping circles. A confusion that develops in one corner of the classroom might manifest itself only weeks later and initially as an inarticulate non sequitur. I will therefore describe the experience thematically, organized along the four major contradictions of math education that I described earlier and will preserve a roughly chronological sense by presenting these themes in the order in which each reached its zenith in classroom discussions. Who Decides What and How to Learn Most of what I did in the first 4 weeks of the course centered on disturbing the students’ notion of classroom roles. I would barely speak, breaking my silence only to try and better understand their ideas: I would ask what they noticed, what puzzled them, or what they thought of something that a classmate had said earlier. I never offered a justification for my choice of materials and homework, and I would reassign the same reading or assignment until it caused a backlash. Once the backlash was there, we finally had something

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to talk about—a text that coded both their and my frustrations with the teacher–student dynamics. Because my “unjustified” behavior spanned both our regular interactions and our mathematical activities, questioning either one would immediately lead to a discussion of the other element. The first reaction occurred when, in week 3, Sheila demanded that I explain what I wanted from students during our discussions of a particularly difficult reading (chapter 2 of Freire’s [1970b] Pedagogy of the Oppressed): Sheila: How am I supposed to know if I’m on the right track? I give you an explanation and you either nod or ask me questions that mostly just make me doubt myself. . . . Are you just trying to confuse me and get me frustrated? Houman: Tell me where those two options come from. Other students immediately seconded Sheila’s frustration: I had caused them pain, frustration, undue confusion. I was not allowing them to learn the materials because I was not telling them when they were or were not correct. It was a full 10 minutes before someone offered a different line of explanation: Madison: I think you [Houman] are trying to get us to think. You could obviously tell us the answers, but instead you want us to think for ourselves. I think. I could be totally off! Taylor [indicating Houman]: Still no answers! [Students laugh] Aaron eventually offered a more personal explanation: When you don’t answer a question, I have to think and be more sure of my own thoughts. I work harder, I perfect my method for myself. I think you’re training us to have real confidence, instead of just mirroring your confidence. The interaction does not challenge my authority, but it problematizes it. In their journals many students began to discuss the role of the teacher in the classroom, including their own role as future teachers. Dana wrote: “We are learning not only material but we are learning how we learn material. We are seeing the process not only of ourselves but of the overall roles of a student and a teacher.” Their relationship with mathematics became problematic in light of school relationships. In week 5, Janine mentioned that mathematics for her was really “school math,” and her relationship to it had always been defined through the authority of the teacher. Other students connected my deemphasizing of “right answers” to the overemphasis on right answers in traditional schooling and wondered about the reasons. Who is asking the

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questions? Why do most mathematical problems tend to have only a single correct answer? Later, in week 9, Jim, already involved in his exploration of the meaning of “oneness” (see the previous discussion on Plato), described the relationship between what he saw as my teaching style and mathematics in the following way: It’s crazy to even think about education and teaching that I’ve seen or been subject to when I really think of Houman’s teaching style. The number “one” brings me new questions every second, and that’s the way math should be for students. Houman makes us think about one thing, not just one question, but the one thing in every aspect. [emphasis added] In Jim’s complicated phrasing (he plays with the concept of oneness in many ways) my classroom approach appears as a particular experience that challenges the entire experience of the student with mathematics education. This is what he might mean when he says that I force him to think of “one thing, not just one question”: by refusing to filter his thought process or reality only through my own questions, I force him to consider mathematics or a specific mathematical topic (such as the number one) as a whole. It’s the whole, with its infinite aspects, that bursts out in “new questions every second.” To see social phenomena as pregnant with questions is the essence of a critical attitude—an attitude that requires an actual experience of one’s own questioning mind. Notice, however, in Jim’s comment the idealistic tendency to want to simply replace one system for another, improved one. “That’s the way math should be for students,” he says. My pedagogy—or rather Jim’s perception of it—creeps in as a ready solution. This is the danger that requires a recurrent process of self-examination both for me as teacher and for Jim as student—a process that is by no means complete once any given course has reached its end. By week 5, we had established enough critical distance between ourselves and the process of teaching and learning to be able to attend to the core question of this theme: Who sets the agenda for schooling, and how does that impact mathematics education? To attend to the question, however, we needed to know more about mathematics itself. The exploration at this point linked tightly with the second theme of the course: the dissonance between mathematics as a school subject and as a “real world” activity. School Mathematics and the “Real World”: Usefulness as a Problem Master: “For if numbering be so common (as you grant it to be) that no man can do anything alone, and much less talk or bargain with other, but he shall still have to do with number: this proveth not number to be contemptible and

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vile, but rather right, excellent and of high reputation, since it is the ground of all men’s affairs, so that without it no tale can be told, no communication without it can be long continued, no bargaining without it can duly be ended, nor no business that man hath justly completed.” (Recorde, 1543)

The passage above is from Robert Recorde’s opening dialogue to his widely read 16th-century introduction to arithmetic, The Ground of Artes. In the dialogue, a “master” and a “scholar” debate the usefulness of arithmetic, with the master ultimately demolishing the scholar’s flabby arguments against learning the subject. I gave this dialogue as a codification in the 6th week of the course. At first, almost everyone seemed to go along with the master’s reasoning. “This,” said Taylor, “confirms what I have been thinking since the beginning of the course: Math is in everything. It’s useful in everything you do.” In its initial function, the codification has solicited just the type of thinly reasoned generalization that nearly every curriculum or list of standards dishes out in its opening paragraphs. Now that a version of these commonplace arguments was on the table and spoken with conviction, eventually a second puzzle came to the foreground: Raven: I wonder who [“the master”] is arguing against. Taylor: He is arguing against the “scholar,” no? Raven: But the dialogue isn’t real. It’s not the master that’s talking, it’s [Robert Recorde]. He is trying to convince someone else that people should learn math. It means there were people who thought math shouldn’t be taught. Who were they? Houman: You want to know who . . . Raven: They had to be important enough for him to start the book with them. Though Raven’s significant comment (in fact, national standards also position themselves against unnamed opponents) came at the very end of that session, it made an impression. To aid the process, I assigned a reading from Frank Swetz’s (1987) book on the rise of arithmetic education in 15th- and 16th-century Europe. Swetz links the proliferation of mathematical training to an obvious fact: the rise of the money economy in Western Europe. The arithmetic taught in 15th- and 16th-century commercial schools closely resembles contemporary school arithmetic. Many students noted this similarity in their journals. Henry wondered in writing about the aim of his own mathematical training: The Swetz reading made me reflect on whether I’m learning for “mercantile pursuits” or whether I’m learning to better myself as an individual.

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This is a subtly worded question. By “mercantile pursuits,” Henry means both learning commercial mathematics and learning for a certification that would allow him, potentially, to make more money in the future. Henry goes on to say that school never taught him how to balance a checkbook. Although our curriculum seems similar to that of a 15th-century mercantile school, we have somehow lost nearly all the actual commercial content. All that remains, Henry says, is the pursuit of academic degrees. Struck for the first time by the existing connection between mathematics and commerce, some students began making comparisons between 15th-century commercial mathematics and mathematics in other contexts. Cara quoted in her journal from another artifact we had studied, an 11th-century Iranian astronomy primer by Biruni (1984) that contains an introduction to mathematics. This is the passage she refers to: What is one? It is that which takes on oneness and can be named. In its totality, it does not suffer reduction or increase, and it is not disturbed by multiplication or division [by itself]. It is the root of the powers and properties of all numbers. (p. 33)

Cara links Biruni’s more philosophical concerns with those of merchants: I wonder if when Italians [in the 15th century] were teaching about multiplication and division that they also taught how powerful “one” out of all the numbers is . . . The very asking of the question speaks of at least a nascent understanding of a link between the institutional setting in which mathematics is practiced and its teaching and learning. Four other students pointed out the dissonance between Biruni and commercial mathematics in their journals. My students’ comments evidence seeds of a critique of contemporary school mathematics: To what end has it been designed? How can variations in approach be explained? When, in the following week, I introduced a simple image of a group of barrel-makers as an artifact, the class quickly remembered the connection between institutional setting and pedagogy and now arrived at a puzzle about the role of mathematics in artisanal activities. Obviously barrel makers did not learn their numbering from mercantile schools—so where did they learn it, and did it have its own characteristics? At this point, the group began to speak about the biases with which schools evaluate skills. I will soon show how this conversation grew into a major topic for the class. In fact, the topic emerged time and again, whenever two different pedagogical approaches to a mathematical topic were seen in juxtaposition. Particularly in looking at ancient word problems, the students began to hypothesize about a possible relationship between single-answer, traditional problems and mercantile activity—a hypothesis

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that is upheld by historical research (Harouni, 2015a). This attention to the connection between institutional and pedagogical differences, in other words, led to a search for similarities and patterns—that is, attempts at creating theory. Mathematics as More Than a Single Discipline The discussions in the previous section already involve the tension between the perception of mathematics as a single, continuous discipline and its relationship to particular social contexts. I would like to focus on how parts of our conversation around this third theme unfolded in the course of a discussion in the 10th week of study. We had been discussing the difference between a philosophical and a mercantile approach to teaching mathematics. This discussion continued, meandering at times, until Eugenia, always ready to read beyond a text or a discussion, threw out what initially seemed like a non sequitur: Do you think that certain societies use math in different ways and so they would only need to learn those certain ways? Or do they use it because that’s what they’ve learned? I don’t know if that makes any sense. Reading closely and in light of the discussion that followed, we can get a sense of what Eugenia was asking: Do the uses of mathematics in society shape mathematics education, or does mathematics education shape its uses in society? The question was wonderfully complex, and it exceeded even her ability to voice it. She went on to clarify it, but in the process she moved into a related but slightly different question—the role of culture. Eugenia: Take China—I don’t know . . . because they live in China, do people need to learn a certain way to do math? I think that’s my question. Houman: Then there was a second part that was very interesting. You said— Eugenia: Yeah. Would they need to use the math that we use in the United States? Because it’s U.S. math and it might not pertain to Chinese society, would they need to learn it? I don’t know. That’s really confusing. This question immediately interested the rest of the group. On the one hand, they knew that mathematics has taken different shapes in different contexts. On the other hand, they also believed that mathematics is a single discipline, responding to basic human needs. The second idea is usually augmented by the belief, commonly held by many scholars, that mathematics

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constitutes a perfectly logical system that in its perfection must also be universal. “Every culture that builds any mathematics at all,” says Kamii (1982), for example, “ends up building exactly the same mathematics, as this is a system of relationships in which absolutely nothing is arbitrary” (p. 14). Sheila tried to reconcile all these ideas with logic that resembles Kamii’s: The Egyptians did it differently, I’m pretty sure, than [people did] somewhere in Europe, just because the stuff that they had to use were different. The way that they learned to do it was different; however, it all comes back to the same point. It’s just a different manner of getting to that point—[mumbling to herself] not necessarily in everything, though. . . . We can see that Sheila is not sure about her ideas. Janine tried to solve the problem by moving toward a postmodern explanation, softening the edges of the conflict to such fine grains that things could slide against each other without friction: I think there’s just a direct correlation between where you live, what you learn and what you do. . . . I’m not gonna be the same as you and you’re not gonna be the same as me. I feel like my math is not gonna be the same as anyone else’s. But this was not satisfying to anyone, including Janine herself. There were certainly strong similarities as well as differences between various conceptions and pedagogies of mathematics. Raven offered a solution that took many of these arguments into account: Raven: If you look back in time, the math that [people] were using would be a lot different depending on where you are, because . . . it depended on what they had and what they needed, but now everyone has the same needs . . . Eugenia [trying to make sense]: Because technology is so universal, everybody can kinda learn the same stuff now? I guess everybody—I don’t know. By “I guess everybody,” Eugenia was once again reminding herself that mathematics is certainly not always taught or seen in the same way, not even across the contemporary world. Nonetheless, the point about the divergence and convergence of economic and technological needs made a great impression on the group. Janine next tried to explain the similarities between various approaches as a matter of increased global communication. Sheila was not convinced. She immediately pointed out that the mathematics that is taught in

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schools today is extremely similar to what was taught in 15th-century Italian mercantile schools. And this type of mathematics, with some variations, is now taught all around the world. I would like to draw the reader’s attention to the variety and complexity of ideas that here emerge in a single discussion. Just as each speaker is about to finish commenting, he or she seems to confront evidence from past discussions. In the course of the discussion we can indeed see a tendency to quickly formulate an answer that can explain away the evidence. However, the back-and-forth among these students and the fact that each is willing to change his or her mind based on new ideas show that as we approach the final sessions of the course, the students have strong enough questions and pieces of evidence in mind to be able to consider any new hypothesis more carefully, draw further connections, and look for other pieces of evidence with enthusiasm. Mathematics Illuminating and Abstracting the World In her essay on mathematical word problems, Marilyn Frankenstein (2009) argues that a critical approach to mathematics education, while helping students understand what numbers describe in the world, should also help them understand “the meanings that numbers can hide in descriptions of the world” (p. 118). Frankenstein does not describe the cause of this tension, which, as her examples clearly show, is inherent to any application of numbers to social reality: Unemployment data in the United States or war casualty reports, for example, both indicate and hide the magnitude of the problems. I have proposed that the tendency to reduce reality to manageable numbers is a fundamental aspect of mathematics used as an administrative instrument (Harouni, 2015b). The reduction is part and parcel of economic systems that, by force or necessity, abstract human life and labor into a set of exchangeable or manageable values. Understanding this tendency, I believe, is an important step toward realizing a critical approach to mathematics education. Our course did not manage to study this set of conflicts in mathematics education with nearly as much depth or clarity as the topic requires. We arrived at the conflicts at the very end of the semester, and then, as I will show, only in the form of questions regarding the origins of mathematics. Our experience in this regard can be valuable for future efforts: It might be a good option to begin, earlier in the semester, with an exploration of the origins of mathematics. The early history of administration (particularly in Babylonia) can provide strong codifications for this theme. Our main conversation about the origins of mathematics took place in week 11, with Raven imagining a world without numbers. The image cut through all preceding conversations and pushed the entire group to try to gain what we can call an anthropological lens on mathematics.

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I was wondering . . . I understand that [math] is obviously there and people had to develop something to help them count. But I’m just thinking, what if no one did? What if we just looked at something, without labeling it with, like, “three”? Obviously when they did stuff, they needed something to count. They had to keep track of it. Notice the conflict in Raven’s mind. On the one hand, numbering seems to emerge out of human interactions, almost naturally (it is “obviously there,” people “had to develop” it); on the other hand, there seems to be a will behind that emergence. At this point in the course the students had not read anything about hunter-gatherer tribes that do not develop formal mathematical systems (see Gordon, 2004). Taylor, who until now had been proposing the theory that mathematics is a natural cognitive ability—“You can’t look at your fingers without knowing that five fingers is more than four fingers”—followed up Raven’s comment with a simple question: “Who invented math and when?” It might seem that we have entered fantasyland at this point: a world without counting. The ability to imagine such a world, however, can be helpful in re-examining our assumptions about mathematics in society. A political attitude toward mathematics education has so far been defined in the literature as one that, through mathematics, promotes greater participation in society. This, I believe, is only part of what constitutes a political approach to mathematics. A larger goal would include a radical rereading of mathematics itself. Here mathematics suffers a symbolic death in order to live again in a different world, possibly as part of a different, utopian set of economic relations. The course I have discussed did not manage to develop this theme. A course like this, in any case, will always conclude on the verge of possibilities that have not been visited. CONCLUSIONS If taught in isolation, as was the case here, a course like this will have to shoulder the responsibility of helping students reexamine their relationship with teaching and learning, with mathematics in schools and in society, with theoretical knowledge, and even with political economy. The takeaways and failures of a course that concentrates on generating questions about all these areas of experience can be adequately understood only over time, as students take these questions into their lives. In their final papers for the course, the students spoke about their learning experience. Their writings show that they also see the experience in terms of the possibilities it opens for thinking. As a future teacher, Jim connects these questions and possibilities to his own search for autonomy:

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The traditional teaching method is made for us educators to have children succeed in what authorities think needs to be learned. Children and teachers are provided with what to be taught and what to learn. With all these guidelines and standards, teachers must teach certain things quickly and efficiently. The main point in Houman’s teaching method is to get people to explore. Once children, teachers, and people explore they discover things that were not made to be discovered. Aaron, echoing Jim’s comment, points out the frustrations the course can engender in a future teacher. These frustrations, for him, are the takeaway: The fact that I was never given a choice, or explored enough to know that there was a choice for my future [teaching practice] frustrates me. . . . Am I going through life trying to understand what I don’t know, or am I simply accepting what I don’t know as something that I have to know in order to “benefit my future”? For the last 4 weeks of the course, students worked in pairs on designing and testing a mathematical learning experience. They were both the teachers and the students in the project. Each week, for 3 weeks, they turned in a report of what they had learned, what puzzles they had encountered, and what new materials they had designed for themselves. The range of their subjects is astonishing, showing a very broad understanding of mathematics. Some students, like Jim, who studied the meaning of the number one, took a philosophical approach. Others integrated mathematics with science, studying the relationship between shadows and objects, or measuring the strength of magnets, or calculating the formulas for sinking and floating. Some built things: Dana studied the geometric setup that would allow a certain number of vertically placed pencils to bear the largest possible weight; Shannon studied perspective in paintings. Henry (recall his thoughts on school as a “mercantile pursuit”) took a social-analytical approach: He conducted and analyzed surveys of students’ reasons for attending university. The course’s critical approach had led to new directions in teaching and learning mathematics. Finally, I should say something about my own learning experience as a teacher. A dialectical theory of education, one that sees phenomena and the perception of those phenomena as interrelated, cannot remain entirely insensitive to the student’s encounters with materials—no matter how basic or naïve the student’s perceptions may be. The theory takes even that naïveté as added material. My students, for example, turned me on to the importance of addressing the cultural and psychological origins of mathematics. Raven and the other students’ fantasy about a world without mathematics, though not a new concept for me, encouraged me to adjust my theory to account for

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both the common perception of mathematics as a “natural” phenomenon and for actual evidence from cultures that do not develop mathematics. More importantly, my students’ initial unwillingness to actively engage the materials, their tendency to treat even an invitation to think critically about mathematics as a chore, signaled to me that I had entirely underestimated the extent to which schooling can turn even the “why” questions of mathematics into moot points. The students’ resistance to engaging the questions, which softened only after I showed my willingness to radically address the teacher–student dynamic, was a legitimate response to an education system in which even exploration can turn into a tool for keeping students docile, compliant, and invested in the existing structure of schooling. Not only did I need to turn the teacher–student contradiction into a main theme of the course, but I also had to make sure that my theory did not take the same contradiction for granted. What is missing in most investigatory pedagogies is an active coinvestigation of the teacher–student dynamic by teachers and students. This investigation is not merely an exploration of the form of the dialogue between teachers and students; it must also take into account the content of learning and the way in which that content is mediated by the teacher, the institution, and society at large. I mentioned that for the first few weeks of my course I remained disturbingly silent during class discussions, sharing almost none of my own ideas. This tendency changed only once students became willing to attack all my choices. As they came out of resistant silence, I could gradually loosen the hold on myself and participate as an active member of the discussions. By the end of the course, I could even give a lecture on some of my ideas, knowing that the students would challenge them (which they did). In this way some small measure of freedom, for both teacher and students, could enter our interactions.

CHAPTER 10

Observing, Exploring, and Learning in Science and Its History Elizabeth Cavicchi

OBSERVING AS A LEARNING AND TEACHING EXPLORATION Wherever we are, in whatever the circumstances, by taking up the act of observing, our minds move in relation to something outside ourselves. On becoming aware of our own breath, for example, what do we notice in one instance, and during further breaths? Perhaps motion of body, sound, sensation, or pace? What we might otherwise take for granted, through being observed—or by our act of paying attention to it—becomes a matter for consideration that widens into many facets and relations. Although we typically overlook a shadow made by sunlight, upon observing it, we may notice something happening. Exploring a shadow might encompass watching it again, looking from another position, comparing another object’s shadow, marking or diagramming a shadow, or sighting the sun. Once engaged in the activity of exploring, the explorer can notice the experience of exploring, wonder what to do next, and imagine possibilities that were not evident moments before. Relationships emerge: physical relationships, such as among differing relative positions; and personal relationships, such among our curious selves, others, and the world. In working within these relationships, our capacity to consider and respond to their range and potential grows, and we learn. For pathbreaking scientists in history, acts of observing and exploring were their means of learning about the world; for students today, the opportunity to personally observe and explore can transform their understandings of this history and of science, learning, research, and teaching. In this chapter, I describe a university course that is exploratory in this way. Aspiring teachers, engineers, and scientists observe, explore, and reflect on those experiences. 129

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CONTEXT OF AN EXPLORATORY SEMINAR IN AN EXPERIENTIAL LEARNING COMMUNITY The Edgerton Center of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology continues the legacy of Harold “Doc” Edgerton as a learning community “where anyone could walk in and push buttons, study photographs, smell the burning machines, and find help with a project” (Edgerton & Killian, 1954, p. 18). People of all ages, from children to experienced teachers and beyond, are welcomed to meet each other and share in a fluid environment of exchange. Children and youth from communities underrepresented in engineering come for a hands-on lesson, a drop-in lab, or a summer program. Teachers do professional development workshops on maker space tools and molecular models. Undergraduates and alumni mentors undertake challenging engineering and teamwork projects. Anyone happening to walk down the Edgerton Center’s “Strobe Alley” may be spontaneously invited to join an ongoing group activity—the kind of invitation that Doc would extend in his day. In this experimental-learning setting, I have been teaching an elective lab seminar called Recreate Historical Experiments: Inform the Future With the Past, which is based in the practice of Critical Exploration in the Classroom. In addition to making observations, students are assigned readings and are required to keep a journal, and they must write a final reflective paper. See “Recreate Experiments From History: Inform the Future From the Past: Galileo” (Cavicchi, 2010), an OpenCourseWare representation of one teaching of the seminar in a 1-month format, having a theme of Galileo. This seminar is not a teacher education course; however, cross-registered teacher education students have applied the credits they earned in the course toward their teacher education degrees or studies at Harvard and other institutions. Teachers or teachers-to-be participate in this seminar alongside novice and advanced students of science and engineering. For teachers-to-be, seminar explorations are provocative for understanding education; the aspiring teachers may come to consider these explorations as preparation for teaching. For the science and engineering students, encountering the unknown in a classroom is an unusual experience that has the potential to prepare them to face and resolve uncertainties in their future work, in ways they may have not been encouraged to pursue before. As the teacher in this course, my role involves supporting all students in coming to their own observations, curiosities, and questions. In moderating science novices together with students who have extensive formal science training—but minimal observational experience—I invite all students to make personal observations of everyday phenomena during class and between sessions. I encourage students to share their observations in ways that are open and accessible to all classmates. In sharing and reflecting,

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students—including those with formal training—become aware of their own uncertainties, doubts, and gaps in what they previously assumed that they understood. As the teacher, I foster a classroom environment that supports students in voicing these doubts, and in sensing resonances between their experiences and those of historical explorers such as Archimedes, Galileo, and the Wright brothers. My classroom environment encourages students to cultivate doubt and questions, rather than certainty and answers. EMERGENT CURRICULUM In this seminar, students, guests, and I co-create curriculum. Curriculum emerges through our experiences in doing observational astronomy, experimental science, and historical research. As questions and curiosity arise among classmates, I look to facilitate extensions in further experience, experiment, observation, reading, and reflection. Before a semester begins, I have no idea what themes, explorations, and pursuits will emerge. I have inklings of possibilities. The lab environment, with its diverse materials and tools, facilitates spontaneity. Around the lab-bench counters of the classroom perimeter, before each class session, I lay out an array of tools, materials, artifacts, instruments, and books that span the range of what I envision might arise during the coming session. Once a collaborative activity is underway, I frequently dash out to retrieve items, stored in adjacent rooms, that are germane to what is happening. Through my extensive experience with historical materials, examples, and explorations, I encourage activities, often in the moment, based in materials and questions that have grown out of prior class discussions and activities. There is no set of materials or preset list of experiments and readings that I expect to introduce, attempt, or complete. Instead, I come to every class with a “playbook” that consists of a set of possibilities for how discussion and experimentation may develop and how I will respond as an instructor to each potential development. “Preparation” for a session consists of reflecting upon previously considered questions and organizing materials that might be germane to future questions, given the questions that have arisen so far. Between sessions, I develop assignments, select readings, and consider field trips—such as visiting inside the MIT Wright Brothers Wind Tunnel (MIT Aeroastro, n.d.)—that respond to students’ suggestions and sharing. My syllabus describes the principal undertaking of the course as “exploratory research projects” that we will develop “together in response to our curiosities and observations.” I ask students to do the following: Endeavor to be open to whatever may arise for you and others Stay with experiences of uncertainty and wonder

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Welcome the unexpected; accommodate fluidity in our undertakings and creations Take risks in your thoughts and expressions Listen thoughtfully to others—those present with us and those in the past . . . Critique your undertakings collaboratively . . . Observe, support and reflect on, evolving ways of our explorations In parallel with the students, I am a researcher as well. I observe, record, reflect on, and seek to extend the observations, questions, and activities among students and materials.1 I seek to follow and study these emerging interactions, taking notes, photographing, and recording them on audio and video. Between sessions, I transcribe notes and recordings and select excerpts to share with the class. For the next class meeting, I produce a summary of the previous one, including transcript excerpts, photographs, and brief summaries of experimental activities. By reading a summary together at the beginning of a next session, the students and I consider and connect with moments of our learning. These summaries assist us all in becoming aware of the understandings and relationships evolving in our sessions. This process, together with my close reading and responses to student journals, opens my thoughts to what is emergent for learners and for the collaborating group. After a semester ends, through continued reflection on experiences of teaching and learning in the seminar, I seek to further develop narrative accounts of the explorations. Because critical exploration is a research method as well as a pedagogy, my evolving research interrelates exploratory education and science history (Cavicchi, 2008a, 2008b, 2009, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2017, 2018, 2019). This chapter draws upon exploratory class experiences from one semester (fall 2012), during which the sundial emerged as an activity that extended across several class meetings. During that same semester, our activities and readings had also gravitated around the following:2 • • • • •

observations of the moon and sky flight balance historical explorations in aviation and space travel exploratory education

Seven students were taking this seminar for credit during the 2012 fall semester. Three were preservice teacher education students in master’s programs at Harvard Graduate School of Education (HGSE). Josh, a preservice history teacher, was also concurrently enrolled in the HGSE course Teaching and Learning, which was originated by Eleanor Duckworth and was being taught that term by Lisa Schneier. Danielle and Michaela were preparing to

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teach science in middle school and high school; this seminar was their only introduction to Critical Exploration in the Classroom (CEC). The others in the class were MIT students in science and engineering. The sundial project narrated in the following sections illustrates the spontaneous and thoughtful engagement that ran throughout the semester’s explorations. Classmates fluidly exchanged ideas with each other. Drawing on and upturning personal experience and assumptions, they playfully collaborated in improvising, experimenting, and discussion. Concurrently, the emergence of this entirely novel sundial project depended on my own evolving capacities to be open to students’ thinking, to take risks with students, and to reserve and respect the classroom as space for their authentic uncertainty and exploration. Wonder Amid Historical Volumes Each term, I arrange for this class to meet once in a study room of Harvard’s Houghton Library, which has an extensive collection of rare books and manuscripts. Through touching actual historical materials, students contact historical life with vivid emotion that cannot be generated by reading digitized texts. On the day this class visited the library, manuscripts and early printed books of science were arranged on one work table. These books ranged from facsimiles of Leonardo da Vinci’s notebook drawings in his Codex Atlanticus, which was created in 1478–1519 and portrays flying machines and other contraptions (da Vinci, 1973–1975), to Galileo’s (1610/1989) first telescopic observations of the moon, to Newton’s (1728) prediction of an artificial satellite’s orbit, to the elaborate calligraphy of an Arabic astronomy manuscript (Qādīzādah, 1854). I select the books we explore based on class discussions but do not hold any specific expectation for what may transpire during the library session. I do trust that the historical works will inspire wonder, deepening students’ relation to observing and understanding the world and human efforts in it. In every visit, I invite students to respond to whatever intrigues them, yet their reactions always surprise me. The marvel of peering into these works for the first time carries an immediacy that eclipses any background I might present. With this awareness, humbling for any teacher, I stay mostly silent, breathing in the wonder that students voice spontaneously. It was no different when this class experienced the materials. As the students were examining the books, Josh suddenly exclaimed, “I can’t believe we can touch this!”3 Nearby, others were looking at Cellarius’s (1661) atlas, which contains double-page maps ornamented with cherubim, clouds, and figures holding astronomy instruments. These students immersed themselves in studying the scientific understandings that the maps depict, including multiple interpretations of the planetary arrangements and the stars. For Becca, it was “really cool” to see the Earth prominent at the Ptolemaic system’s

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center and to follow that work’s “breathtaking” illustrations of successive models, all the way to a smiling sun occupying the center. Becca reflected: “If my current textbooks contained such beauty, maybe I would be more engaged and interested in the information presented.” Amid this immersion in the historical works before us, the group dwelled upon a new thought inspired by some historical engravings: the sun’s motion and how sundials might follow it. In writing that day’s reflection, Danielle noted that the students’ extensive questioning about the sun’s motion and the function of sundials seemed unlikely to come up in a typical science class. Yet it arose naturally “as we were looking through old books!” as she wrote in her journal entry of October 26, 2012. As of yet, class discussion had not gravitated toward questions about the sun. This attention to the sun arose late in the semester, even though throughout the course I had encouraged the students to notice the sun through my weekly observing assignments, such as the following from October 18, 2012: Watch for the Moon, sun, sky, whenever you can. Keep notes on what you are noticing, your curiosities. Evolving Project: Inventing Portable Sundials Following our library visit, Danielle and Michaela spoke about how they continued to ponder the sun during the intervening rainy weather. Because both were student teaching in public schools most mornings, it was daunting for them to consider the logistics of getting outdoors and observing the sun at hourly intervals, as would be necessary to chart the sun’s daily progress. Danielle envisioned a device for on-the-spot observing, “something we could pack up and fold.” Before anyone conjectured how this device might look, Josh spoke up, saying in class on October 30, 2012: They didn’t have digital clocks back in the day. You have to figure out a way to create the sundial without a digital clock! . . . That’s the best way to learn it! Danielle responded that she had recently noticed the sun change from a higher to a lower position in the sky. She speculated that a way to find time without a clock could involve “figuring out when the sun is at its highest.” Amid a general discussion of whether the sun’s highest position is at noon, I asked the students what they might do observationally to look for when the sun is at its highest. Michaela again proposed her idea of making a sundial, without suggesting that a sundial would necessarily address the question of the sun’s highest position. Michaela’s proposal was instantly overtaken by Josh’s ebullience about an awesome sky phenomenon, coincidentally seen by Neha on the same

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weekend afternoon. Josh and Neha entranced everyone by describing “sundogs,” which are paired rainbow spots, or “mini-suns” in Josh’s words, appearing on either side of the sun under some atmospheric conditions (see Figure 10.1a). The unexpectedness of what became an immersive discussion struck Reynold. Laughing, he said to me during our discussion on October 30th, “You didn’t know we’d learn about sundogs today!” Discussion of Michaela’s proposal resumed an hour later. Michaela went to the blackboard (Figure 10.1b), sketching while asking: What if we tried this sundial thing? Everyone would carry around like a paper with the clock, have a little sundial they fold out, make sure they are facing north, take note of the shadow position. . . . The question is, Do we want to use clock time?” In response to the suggestion by Aimee and Reynold that some additional reference be found for where the sun was, Michaela wondered how “the sun’s position in the sky” might be observed and recorded. Aimee queried, “Isn’t that what a shadow is?” Reynold recommended that the group follow how a shadow changes over time. Reflecting that “I am not there yet,” Danielle proposed that as “we move away from [clock] time” each of the students note the shadow on paper, look for other changes, and write down the clock time. Michaela described a sundial she had examined in a nearby campus garden. Others used their laptops to pull up website representations of sundials. Drawing on these examples, the students convened around the project of making an analog sundial from cardboard. In their design, adapted from a website diagram found by a classmate, a right triangle, having its hypotenuse sloped up at their latitude’s angle, would be mounted upright and oriented along a north–south line (Figure 10.1c). With 15 minutes remaining in that session, Michaela asked, “Do you think we could build that right now, so everyone had their sundials?” I produced cardboard, cutters, and protractors from the Edgerton Center work area, and everyone commenced cutting a triangle of their own (Figure 10.1d). Danielle summed up the class plan for using their handmade instruments: “I’m going to put this on my notebook and make marks, with the time and date. We are going to be finding north?” Upon proposing that everyone take a reference for north from the compass app on their iPhones, Aimee alluded to the fluidity of what had just evolved in class, saying, “I can’t remember how we got started on the sundial discussion!” Josh’s rejoinder, “I started it,” teased the group investment in their project, so evident in everyone’s intent participation, and in the triangle that each made and took with them after class. This sundial project was not among the possible activities that I had prepared for that session. Yet it exemplifies the core of what I seek to facilitate

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Figure 10.1. Developing the Cardboard Sundial While in Class A: Michaela’s diagram of sundogs

B: Michaela’s blackboard diagram of a right triangle having its slope angled at our latitude.

C: Michaela uses a protractor to check the slope angle of her cardboard sundial triangle.

D: A completed cardboard triangle.

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within the seminar: The students were defining an “exploratory research project.” Questioning and content arose interactively among us all. Having been prefigured by none of us, the project’s developments would be provocative for us all. As of yet, the sundials had not been tested through any personal observational experience with shadows cast by the sun. The observing that Aimee went on to do on her own, between class sessions, brought about unexpected uncertainty for her. In our next class, Aimee shared her doubt about her observations. As she spoke, a mutual awareness of confusion emerged from everyone. Being in confusion became generative for the students’ collaboration. That shared state of confusion supported them in critiquing their project and widening what they questioned and tried. Questions from Tests of Portable Sundials As everyone gathered in our lab for the next session on November 1, 2012, Aimee rapidly moved her cellphone, with its compass app on, attempting to calibrate it. When a quick comparison with Michaela’s cellphone compass showed a discrepant reading, Reynold, then Josh, joined in with their phones. The back and forth motions being applied, while vigorous, did not change the calibration of any phone. Because students failed to rotate their phones in all three directions along all possible axes, as stated in the instructions, their phones failed to calibrate to magnetic north, and their phone compasses remained relatively uncalibrated and therefore inconsistent with each other. Aimee tentatively offered her experience. Earlier in the day, just before noon, Aimee’s triangle had cast long shadows. Those shadows, “opposite of what I expected,” provoked her to suspect something was awry. She wondered if our current daylight saving time was involved. Thinking further, she supposed that “it wouldn’t matter where north was” if the object casting the shadow never moved. Reacting to Aimee’s confusion, Michaela proposed placing all their cellphone compasses on the table alongside conventional magnetic compasses. Everyone was confounded to see the diverse orientations of the needles.4 Reynold pointed to the wide range of discrepancies while gesturing in mutually perpendicular directions. Speaking in class on November 1st, he proclaimed, “That is awesome! South is either there or there or there!” Michaela, intent on testing her cardboard sundial, urged that we all go outside “with a compass that we decide to trust.” Amid general laughter, Aimee acted as a safeguard against any tendency to suppress and minimize the undertaking. Recalling a science camp activity that she had led, but which her classmates had never encountered, Aimee proposed making a compass by rubbing a pin on a magnet, to magnetize it, then floating the pin and looking for it to orient toward Earth’s north. I quickly gathered

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the bowl, water, pin, magnet, and Styrofoam peanut that Aimee requested (Figure 10.2a). As everyone readied to go outdoors, Michaela summoned, “Onward! Bring your iPhones.” Making and Observing with Homemade Compass and Sundial Outdoors Outdoors, multiple activities transpired simultaneously. Danielle set up a cardboard triangle in the ever-shifting sunlight and prepared to align it with the magnetic compass being constructed, and to mark its shadow. Michaela rubbed a straight pin along a bar magnet, then, after piercing it through a Styrofoam peanut, placed it in a plastic bowl of water. The buoyed pin floated and shifted direction (Figure 10.2b). Spontaneous cries of “Oh!” greeted the pin’s first orienting (Figure 10.2c), which then came under a flurry of questioning about north, magnets, magnetic poles, and telling north from south. As the students set themselves the challenge of constructing a compass that everyone could believe, much of what they thought they understood came into question. When the students found that they could not rely upon cellphones and/or the painted needles of commercial magnetic compasses to distinguish north, they discovered that the problem was more complex than any of them dreamed possible. At first, the floating magnetized pin aligned in a way that did not seem likely to be north. Someone discovered that the magnet, which had been used to magnetize the pin, was nearby and attracting it. Once the plastic bowl containing the floating pin was moved away from the magnet, the pin floated stably along an axis that coincided with where we believed north to be and with north as shown by a conventional magnetic compass—and even one of the iPhones! Wonder was immediate and shared. To Aimee’s appraisal, “I think this is a good experiment,” Josh affirmed, “Yeah! It’s our best compass!,” speaking in class on November 1st. Danielle repositioned the cardboard triangle along the north–south orientation indicated by the floating pin and traced its shadow. This sunshadow mark, the first of many further observations, was the result of a group endeavor. This class-initiated project took shape as a result of having the time and space to doubt and question together. Later, in writing her final paper on December 16th, Aimee elucidated the new ground of instrumental operability and science questioning that formed: We had finally found north. We were able to make a measurement with our sundials. . . . It was then that we began to wonder about the connection between the angle we measure on the sundial, and the angle we measure of the sun in the sky.

Observing, Exploring, and Learning in Science and Its History Figure 10.2. Developing and Testing the Magnetic Compass in Class A. Danielle’s drawing of the materials used in the homemade compass.

B. A floating magnetized needle points north within a plastic bowl.

C. The orienting compass evokes sheer amazement from Michaela and Becca.

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In that paper Aimee observed and described the class’ process of development that came about concurrently with the exploratory activity: We started with an idea, researched ways to get started, did a few measurements, encountered setbacks, and brainstormed ways to overcome them. Each step forward we made unraveled more complexity, and showed us how interconnected the phenomena we observed are. Practices and assumptions that each student carried about learning and knowledge had become unsettled. For Reynold, an aeronautical engineer, this project, together with other class experiments—such as testing a balance that compares an object’s weight in air with weights submerged under water (or alcohol), or modeling the moon and earth relationship (MIT Full Steam Ahead, 2020)—contributed to “debunking” long-held personal assumptions about aviation’s pioneers. He shared this insight in his final paper of December 17th: I found that the Wright brothers were incredibly methodical, and they worked from a variety of advanced principles for the time. Furthermore, and even more surprising, they collaborated with some of the other early workers in aviation, such as Otto Lilienthal and Octave Chanute. . . . Humorously, and yet at the same time not so funny, I failed to understand the basic build-up to my own field as it related to the Wright brothers. Reynold noted resonance between class experiences and readings exposing those pioneers’ working processes (Crouch, 1989, 2003; Wright, 2001): “The Wright brothers ended up doing just what we have been doing throughout the semester—exploring from the fundamentals using what is observable,” as he described in his final paper. Referring to an article by David Hawkins (2002a), Josh articulated in his final paper the dynamic and collaborative nature of this process: “We ‘messed about’ with the materials until we reached a consensus. . . . [The process of producing] consensus added complexity and other layers to our learning.” REFLECTIONS ON TEACHING AND EXPLORING BY THE THREE TEACHER CANDIDATES For Danielle, Josh, and Michaela, the three teachers-in-training, developing exploratory experiences together, including the sundial–compass project, proved germinal for their personal aspirations in teaching. In addition to enrolling in this seminar, these three chose to enroll with me during this

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same semester for further study, which in combination with the seminar would constitute the full credits of a typical MIT course. This further study provided the teachers with greater opportunity to reflect on their collective and individual experiences of exploring, learning, and teaching. The nature of this additional study was open; I encouraged the teachers to consider their process of planning as part of the study. They tried out several possibilities, such as making and launching soda-bottle rockets with the Edgerton Center teen drop-in group, sketching birds in flight while observing (as described in the journals of Michaela on October 16th and Danielle on October 15th), designing activities for school students that illustrate Newton’s third law (as described in Danielle’s October 15 journal), and visiting together two large-scale sundial sculptures on other campuses. The preservice teachers also chose to participate as a group in the regional joint meeting of physicists and physics teachers (American Physical Society, 2012), which was to occur late in the semester. Each teacher wrote a proposal abstract, developed an oral presentation, and delivered the presentation at the physics meeting. I also participated in the panel. During the session preceding the conference, we presented our talks to the class. With feedback from the others, the group decided on a presentation format in which I would speak first to introduce both the practice of CEC and our course experience. Following my introduction, Michaela, Danielle, and Josh would each give their presentations. Michaela’s presentation abounded with what she had experienced as surprises that arose through her forming of realizations and associations during class experiences. Speaking during the conference on November 6, Michaela directed an impassioned appeal to the physics teachers: I come here as both a student and a teacher. I think about these experiences and how I could apply them to a classroom in which I teach. I urge you to create these kinds of experiences for your students, so that they can build up these associations and eventually put them together into this deeper and more exciting understanding of physics that will spur them to continue exploring it, onward through their lives. After the conference, Michaela acted on this aspiration by conducting activities with teens after school. From the teens’ tendency to give up before exploring, she “lost heart” yet sharpened her imperative, as she expressed in her final paper of December 17th: Students’ feeling [that] they are capable of exploring the world . . . is rare in schools, but absolutely essential for life. It is my hope that . . . my students will learn how to explore with more confidence and fervor than they did before.

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In her presentation, Danielle illustrated how “our experiences with critical exploration have allowed us to delve deeper into the nature of science.” She analyzed how conventional academic practices, such as putting names to science concepts, function to suppress learners’ questioning. Under Danielle’s analysis, instruction that emphasizes proficiency in using the established names of things has the result of closing down learners’ potential to observe and question directly. As she saw it, exploration is incompatible with her prior science training, where “depending on the name [of a thing] as a source of knowledge inhibited us from trusting our own observations. The questions were answered before they were even asked,” as she noted at the conference. In reflecting on experiences shared with her seminar classmates, in which questioning drove their exploration, Danielle described to the audience members what she had come to view as the generative potential of learning, with others, in the unknown when she said: What more could we—individually, collectively—understand if we took the time to be perplexed by our observations? . . . It’s humbling, recognizing how much is unknown, to me, to others, to anyone. This not-knowing is the starting point for learning, something that we are never finished doing. That very condition of “not knowing” (citing Duckworth, 2006a) was highly uncomfortable for Danielle at the start of our course, as she confided in her final paper. Yet with deepening trust of others “and myself,” she came to value not knowing as “a launch pad for my future learning,” as she wrote on December 17th. Danielle found herself truly challenged to acknowledge and voice her emotions and innermost thoughts. In doing so, she began to discern how her mind harbored assumptions that she had never considered, or questioned, which influenced her outlook even while being ungrounded in the world. In a bit of self-referential humor, Josh asked what a history teacher was doing at a physics teacher’s meeting. Speaking at the conference, Josh described examples of how the experience of CEC had “provided for us structure, and that structure opened up pathways for our own learning.” Josh related how the structures I provided as teacher had facilitated Josh and his classmates connecting the worlds of physics and history, which were previously disparate for him. In a subsequent re-expression of this idea for his final paper of December 17th, Josh said, “What made our experience different [from conventional courses] was that we [students] inspired and perhaps even created the structure, and Elizabeth was responsive enough to put the structure into the curriculum.” Engaged by these presentations, audience members asked the three teachers to talk about how critical exploration figured in their student

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teaching, and about their thoughts on teaching and on standardized testing in schools. Danielle observed that as a student teacher, she had become predisposed to ask open-ended questions while leading class discussions. Michaela responded that she sought out stimulating opportunities for her students to learn, and Josh argued that such excitement on the part of students empowers them to excel, learn, and understand, even when confronted with tests. One physics teacher responded to these presentations by commenting that critical exploration appears “natural for preschoolers” and awkward for adults. Josh divulged that at the beginning of my course his reaction to its seemingly childish content and approach was to wonder, “What the hell is going on!?” Yet as class observation and investigation disclosed unsuspected layers, he “sort of [bought] into it over time.” Class explorations had Danielle being “child-like” with wonder; as a result, she came to value that quality and aspired to foster it through her teaching, as she wrote in her final paper: “I hope to encourage this in my students!” This renewed receptiveness to a child’s outlook was more fluid for our undergraduates Becca and Neha. In appreciating the discoveries young children make, Neha reflected in her final paper, “Fascination does not have to end [with childhood]. . . . I got my desire to inquire back throughout this semester.” In schools, assuming you ought to have the answer can get in the way of realizing that there are grounds for uncertainty and openings for inquiry. It can feel risky and unfamiliar for learners to undertake this kind of activity, in which vulnerability is essential and there is no authoritarian book functioning as a crutch. The transformative nature of the three teachers’ undertaking was elucidated by another audience member, that conference’s plenary speaker, physics educator David Hammer. In addressing these three teachers during their conference session on November 6, 2012, Hammer (http://dhammer.phy.tufts.edu/home/publications.html) observed that through doing exploratory activities, students in a critical exploration classroom are learning to articulate an idea—their idea, or any idea at all—and subject it to their own assessment of clarity and consistency. That is at the heart of science! It is closer to what scientists do in real life than is remembering what someone else has figured out. [Critical exploration] makes a space for that. It is not just the [educational] methods you are talking about changing. It is the target you are talking about changing, what you are trying to accomplish. Referring to these remarks in his final paper, Josh wrote: Hammer’s comments resonate with and speak to the fundamental purpose of critically exploring learning. . . . What matters in critical

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exploration is the process of learning. Outcomes matter too, but only to the extent that learners are still committed to achieving those outcomes. Considering his own future teaching, Josh envisioned his natural affinity for levity integrating with what philosopher David Hawkins (2000) depicted as the teacher’s “loan” of self (p. 44). In his final paper, he wrote: “I hope to follow this approach and ultimately offer my students a kind of loan of myself. . . . I hope to give them both time and space—to learn, laugh, and love their lives.” Exploration, learning, and life coursed together for the three teacher candidates that semester. By encountering CEC in a class combining science with history and everyday life, the three teachers-to-be developed multiple perspectives on this work and its potential for their teaching. They witnessed how students and teacher contributed to evolving a semester’s curriculum that encompassed history in their own lives and of past eras, personal observations and collaborative enactments with their bodies and models, and poetry and science. The curriculum that emerged interrelated our lives with the sun and other areas of study. It was not confined by the boundaries through which conventional instruction severs study of disciplines from each other and from our lives. Questions and observations of our explorations often challenged each of us—including those accomplished in related disciplines—to face up to our surprising lack of understanding. While these occasions held discomfort or a sense of inadequacy, the process of addressing them brought with it deep realizations about how people learn—and don’t learn—realizations that applied for historical pioneers as well as for us. Josh, thinking as a teacher, wrote in his final paper, “We became . . . Archimedes, Galileo or the Wright Brothers.” In solidarity with Reynold’s observation about the Wright brothers, the teachers became explorers who did not seek to pave highways for successors, but rather to invite future learners into endless conundrums, possibilities, and reflections. For science and engineering students, encountering the unknown in a classroom is an unusual and sometimes transformational experience that prepares them to face and resolve their uncertainties in their future work, in ways they may not have been encouraged to pursue in typical engineering classes. Participating students experience an integrative approach to knowledge, in which what they knew before is challenged, reinterpreted, and understood in the context of new observations and perceptions. Critical exploration involves and invites a state of mind, a zone of safety, a pattern of discourse, and a platform upon which unexpected explorations come to life. The ongoing relation between teacher and learners is a process of becoming receptive to, and supportive of, each other’s tentative emotions, perceptions, confusions, and attempts to communicate and act.

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With time, this process can encourage teachers to deepen in their openness to the ideas of students, and to develop an abiding faith that the community that one nurtures will eventually build understandings and experiences that are shared and coherent with the world. These examples demonstrate a very different form of intervention from the instructor, being imbued with patience and attention to maintaining the learning environment, rather than to specified topics, results, and goals. Acknowledgments. Thanks to the class: Michaela Danek, Aimee Gillespie, Danielle Goldie, Neha Hebbar, Rebecca Jackson, Josh Mishrikey, and Reynold. Thanks for support and participation: James Bales, MIT Edgerton Center, Ed Moriarty, Adrian Tanner, Amanda Bosh, Gary Van Zante, MIT Museum, Paula Labbe, Dietmar Höttecke, Steve Ray, Richard Perdichizzi, Dave Tucker-Smith, Houghton Library, Edison and Ford Winter Estates, Glen Beitman, Ralph Dionne, 495th R/C Squadron, Eleanor Duckworth, Alva Couch. Memory: Philip Morrison, Alanna Connors, Yan Yang, my parents.

CHAPTER 11

Vital Experience Keri Gelenian and Yeh Hsueh

The title of this chapter, “Vital Experience,” is a phrase we use to reference the French philosopher Henri Bergson’s (1907/1944) notion of élan vital, or vital impulse, which denotes the vital power of change and growth in a human’s life through time. By introducing Bergson’s ideas, we offer an interpretation of the intellectual lineage from Bergson to Piaget, and from Piaget to Duckworth. We view this philosophical inheritance as helpful in understanding the importance of CEC in teacher education. We begin by introducing two interrelated philosophical notions of Bergson’s: intuition and duration. These notions are traceable in Jean Piaget’s research program in developmental epistemology,1 particularly in his writing about children’s thinking and intellectual development. This lineage weaves through multiple disciplines from the philosophy of creative evolution to the pedagogy of critical exploration, a pedagogical approach by which Duckworth has made a unique contribution to educational practice with her extensive and in-depth work with teachers from a great variety of backgrounds. We then identify links between this intellectual lineage and examples from classroom records kept by Keri Gelenian, including journals and final papers written by his graduate students as they experienced CEC. We argue that these graduate students’ reflections represent a vital experience for students in Bergson’s sense of the term—that is, these educators-in-training becoming more aware of their evolving feelings and ideas about themselves as learners and becoming more responsive to the intellectual ideas of their students. BERGSON’S NOTIONS: THE INTUITION OF DURATION Of all Bergson’s books, An Introduction to Metaphysics explains at the greatest length “exactly what he means to convey by the word intuition” (Gouge in Bergson, 1903/1955, p. 7) and examines in detail what Bergson calls the intuitive method. Bergson explains that the mind can comprehend 146

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a thing in two ways: either externally, in relation to other things through analysis and translation into symbols, or internally, through a direct act of apprehension or intuition. Externally, understanding our existence and the world through what Bergson terms an analytical view freezes reality into distinct segments or finite elements. This external analysis impedes awareness of the flow of change and movement and does not allow for the reconstruction of movement that has been analytically broken down. Although analysis helps us capture aspects of an object at a particular moment of time, it does not engage us fully with a phenomenon as a unified intellectual movement. Thus, understanding something externally through analysis and symbols is always relative and limited because it is based on comparisons to what is already known. In contrast, understanding something internally through intuition is absolute because it is based on the thing itself, which is infinite, as “it can be seen from infinite points of view” (Bergson, 1903/1955, p. 21). Intuition allows us to see reality not as static but as a play between change and continuity as the past folds into the present in one continuous path of movement—that is, we are intuiting the infinite possibilities of reality in its ever-changing movement. To change is to endure. Because our life experience exists and changes on a timeline, Bergson (1903/1955) urges us to apprehend ourselves through his notion of durée (duration). Duration is embedded in intuition and carries a person deeply within the flow of their lives. We can comprehend the passage of time through our memories and intuit each moment of our own existence as being different from the ones before it. Our intuition of duration, that is, our ability to be in “sympathy” with ourselves, allows us to understand both the ever-changing nature of our experience or existence and an enduring sense of self. In short, duration is both an awareness of the multiplicity of moments of time and the unity that connects them (Bergson, 1903/1955). This evolving experience of being sympathetic with ourselves and things is inherently creative, which is a hallmark of our intuition of duration. JEAN PIAGET’S TRANSFORMATION OF THE INTUITION OF DURATION Bergson’s contrast between the intuition of duration and external analysis appeared to be a critical issue for an adolescent Jean Piaget when his uncle first introduced him to Bergson’s (1907/1944) Creative Evolution in 1911. This book ultimately inspired Piaget to develop what he called a biological theory of knowledge (Piaget, 1936/1963, 1952; Vidal, 1994). Although scholars believe that this was the only book by Bergson that Piaget read (Chapman, 1988; Vidal, 1994), the book carries many ideas Bergson had developed and explicated in An Introduction to Metaphysics several years

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earlier (Bergson, 1903/1955). Bergson’s notions of intuition and duration served as “the starting point of Piaget’s epistemological project” (Vidal, 1994, p. 60). Piaget explicitly adopted Bergson’s example of Zeno’s arrow in characterizing his own notion of epistemology, asking his audience to imagine a ball traveling along a line over time. Analysis can capture the ball’s status at point A, but as soon as the analysis is accomplished, the ball is no longer at A but at another point. The analysis at A is inadequate or incorrect because it cannot capture the ball’s movement through time or durée. Although later in his life Piaget (1952) spoke of Bergson going too far in downplaying the role of intellect or analysis in his celebration of intuition, we nevertheless see clear traces of Bergson’s attention to change across time in Piaget’s (1936/1963) methodology. Common North American misunderstandings of Piaget as primarily concerned with positioning a child within a static stage framework have regrettably obscured this defining aspect of Piaget’s project. This methodological inheritance can perhaps be most vividly seen in Piaget’s work with infants (Piaget, 1936/1963), in which he sought to get very close to children’s feelings and thinking even in the absence of an ability to converse. In the classic protocols with older children as well, though, Piaget sought to enter the child’s mind by following the movements of the child’s words and actions and by summoning many moments of time and connecting them as a unity (Mayer, 2005). The hallmark of this process, which Piaget (1926/1971a, 1965/1971b) called the clinical interview method, is to document a brief period of time in each child’s experience with a particular idea or concept. Recognizing this continual movement and change of children’s thinking with time provides a useful import for learning and teaching in education. INTERPRETING INTUITION IN CRITICAL EXPLORATION Piaget’s theory of knowledge development not only started with Bergson but also continued to be elaborated in light of Bergson’s ideas (Gruber & Vonèche, 1977; Piaget, 1936/1963, 1952, 1971). This intellectual heritage can also be seen in Piaget’s influence on Eleanor Duckworth, whose Critical Exploration in the Classroom (CEC) embodies the notion of the intuition of duration, allowing students, through direct acts of intuition, to deepen their engagement with curriculum materials, such as an object, a concept, a character in a play, and so on, directly and over time. CEC prioritizes an utter trust in the human mind to create its own connections or understandings. Just as Bergson and Piaget challenged the scientific perspectives and methods of their times, Duckworth’s CEC challenges taken-for-granted practices in school-based education. Learning activities that encourage and engage an infinite number of ideas turn industrialized formal schooling

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upside down by fostering learners’ efforts to search for their own connections and insights and to help one another to refine their various ideas. Critical exploration therefore presents an intellectual and institutional challenge to an educational system that emphasizes mastering established ideas and prescribed vocabulary. INFINITE POINTS TO LEARN The journal of Nicola Sellitto provides a case in point (Duckworth, 2010). Sellitto struggled to understand what was to be learned from exploring eggs in the classroom, an activity in which groups of students study eggs of different sizes, colors, shapes, and weights (characterized in Chapter 7 by Rauchwerk, the exploration’s creator). After a long night of reflection on what specific point she was supposed to learn in the absence of the teacher’s direction, it dawned on Sellitto that there was no one particular point to learn but that “there were an infinite amount of points! Some of them won’t even come to mind until the very last day of class” (Duckworth, 2010, p. 21). We would add that some may not come to mind until well after class is done. Sellitto’s insight brings forth the essence of her firsthand experience with the subject matter. As Bergson (1903/1955) suggests, a direct encounter with material reality allows one to “identify with the infinite” (p. 23)—in this case an infinite number of possibilities or ideas. This notion of infinite ideas represents all the potential ideas of a diverse group of people when they are allowed to experience an object of study through the eyes of their past experiences and personalities. The number of initial ideas generated can be as many as the number of participants in the class. These ideas will serve as intellectual resources for each person to think in multiple ways and for the group to consider while constructing their collaborative lines of inquiry. For Bergson, consciousness and thinking are likened to a spiritual awakening; they are not reducible to a recombination of what was already known with something new. Thinking is about movements, relatedness, and choices of thought from the past brought into the present, and about the creation of something that has not previously been imagined. These multiple possibilities hold the potential to crack open new understandings and relationships. It was such movements that interested the young Piaget and that can still be felt in Duckworth’s (2010) discussion of the idea that “there is not one point to be learned” (p. 21). CRITICAL EXPLORATION IN KERI’S CLASSROOM As a passionate and longtime student of CEC, Keri has been drawing upon this practice in his work in teacher education for over 20 years. The

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following example came from his work in a graduate education program. In a video he recorded of his class, Keri and 12 students roamed the classroom. Some were caught up with observing the materials in the room, others manipulated the materials, and a few conversed and meandered until an activity caught their attention. Keri had started his so-called kitchen-sink exploration several weeks earlier. He filled a glass with water and placed a plastic plate on top of it. Then, with one hand on the bottom of the plate, he turned the glass upside down. Students watched with surprise when the plate stayed in place as the hand was removed. Then they heard Keri’s questions: What do you notice? What can we do to find out more about why the plate holds the water in the cup and does not fall off? Every 2 or 3 weeks, Keri would bring in more materials based on kitchen-sink explorations that students had undertaken at home and documented in their journals. The class would explore together each week for nearly 20 minutes. Their experiments, observations, conversations, and writing generated many productive ideas, such as ideas about the weird ability of water to stick together and the behavior of tornadoes, pumps, and vacuum cleaners, among other phenomena. Each week, students extended their explorations in class and at home through their direct exper­ience with the materials. Their excitement could be felt deeply. In the video, an unexpected event caught everyone’s attention. On one table, Keri had piled empty plastic containers, a length of clear one-half-inch plastic tubing, rubber bands, balloons, electrical tape, straws, and other things. While other students milled around, Kimberly, a graduate student and experienced art teacher, busily worked alone at this table. Soon she took center stage when she stood on a chair and raised a gallon milk jug over her head, allowing water in the jug to run down through an attached plastic hose into a balloon resting on the floor. The balloon, getting ever larger, initially caught everyone’s attention. Then everyone noticed that the plastic jug was crushed. Kimberly grinned with pride and satisfaction. People shouted for her to lift the now fat balloon. Everyone watched as the water gurgled down the tube and refilled the jug, transforming it back to its original shape; this process was repeated several more times. Though it was unclear whether Kimberly’s contraption had in that moment moved her closer to understanding why the milk jug had been crushed, her many experiences exploring the plate and cup during the previous weeks had led her to create something that was similar to the plate “sticking” to the cup, even if the physical presentation looked very different. In this example, we witness the power of what Bergson (1903/1955, p. 23) would call the thing itself. We see Kimberly’s prior experiences and ideas spontaneously leading her to create her own unusual mechanism, to mobilize in an intuitive manner related concepts within physical science.

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In a subsequent discussion in Keri’s classroom, Amanda, another student, cried when she spoke about how her high school science teacher had tried repeatedly to explain Bernoulli’s principle in fluid dynamics to her, but she had never understood it. In contrast to her past frustration, her present understanding, achieved through these related CEC experiences, had gained her not only the concept but also confidence in her ability to employ the concept as a lens upon her world. The active and seemingly messy explorations awakened her mind to see multiple exemplars of Bernoulli’s thinking and to feel secure in her own understanding. All of Kimberly’s classmates appeared to share in the excitement of her creation. Their own emotional and intellectual struggles with the plate and cup explorations allowed them to empathize with the emotional reaction of Amanda’s account of her high school experience. Over the course of the semester, students had shared their observations and thoughts about their engagements outside of class with fieldworks such as plates and cups, drawing on their weekly journal entries and their feelings and thoughts about the various connections they had made with each week’s readings. All these experiences ultimately fed into the students’ final papers, in which they reflected on the evolution of their thinking over the semester. In their papers, students wove together their various experiences to come up with viable interpretations of the behavior of the balloon and jug, and of the plate and cup phenomenon. They offered deeper insights into their earlier thinking about such diverse subjects as suction cups, tornadoes, canning-jar lids, airplanes in flight, leaky shampoo bottles on planes, potato chip bags puffed up at high altitudes, and baking at high altitudes, to name a few. In reviewing 40 final papers from four different cohorts, Keri noted that the students had similar momentum in thinking on their own, enjoying discoveries and sharing understandings of the subject matter, although no other student ever again created anything like Kimberly’s jug and balloon contraption. MANY STUDENTS’ EXPERIENCES AND INFINITE LEARNING Amelia, another experienced teacher in the same class, spoke of struggling through frustration and boredom in the first part of the course. Only with time could she identify the cause of her struggle: As each [fieldwork] activity was introduced, I was often frustrated and bored. I was anxious to “find the right answer” and move on. . . . This desire to find, and familiarity with, the right answer caused me to work quickly through the fieldwork activity. If I am totally honest, I must admit I wanted to be the first one done. It is difficult for me to admit that I am a teacher [in this course] because the status quo in

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education worked very well for me. I work quickly, I am analytical, I am competitive, and I had enough success in the education system to maintain those qualities. Tara, in contrast, was not always confident in school, particularly in math. She reflected on the first day of the course in her final paper: As I was working on the problem, Keri came and sat next to me. As he began questioning me, I immediately thought that I had done something wrong. I was already uncomfortable working on a mathrelated topic, since math has never really been my strongest subject. . . . I was struggling with both a lack of confidence and feeling of confusion. I began worrying that the fieldwork topics would continually grow in difficulty and that I would not be able to keep up. However, the fieldwork experiences ended up being my favorite part of this course. Not everyone felt uncomfortable at the beginning, but many struggled in the course. Paul entitled his final paper “A Deeper Understanding of the Self: A Teaching and Learning Odyssey,” and in it he reflected as follows: The semester was a difficult progression for me. . . . Although reflection is a handy tool for looking into the past and making it right for the future, I find that it can sometimes be a hindrance to live in the past without moving towards the future. . . . I have realized that these experiences and skills will benefit me, but I must heed the call to break from the mold of my old self and move into the future of the new. This adaptation of mind and heart (with regards to teaching and learning) is a skill I acquired this semester, and I believe that it will manifest itself in a multitude of positive ways before my days are up. Some students’ struggles continued even after the course was over. Anastasia turned in her final paper a month after the semester ended. In fact, she had been very engaged in the class and had written insightful reports of her explorations all semester. Given her struggle with the final paper, Keri suggested that she simply write about why she was having difficulty writing. Keri finally received a final submission, 28 pages long, and with a personal letter attached. The letter stated, “There are many valuable insights I gained in your Pedagogy class; but finding myself in the boundaries of all I have ever known and trying to figure out how it is that I know, has been the most powerful experience of all.” She broke her writer’s block by listing what she thought the class was about:

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Learning Learning to learn, learning how I learn, learning how others learn Learning how to learn how others learn Learning how to listen, learning to take risks, learning to be creative Learning that there may be more than one right answer or that there may not be an answer at all Learning that not knowing something can be a very valuable opportunity, more precious than knowing ahead of time Learning what one does when one doesn’t know the answer is a better indicator of what one does know Learning that learning takes time Learning that our teaching is a mirror of our own understanding but does not always reflect the understanding of our students Learning that learning is not always located in our ability to produce a product but is always embedded in the process Learning that unilateral teaching may hinder learning Learning that learning is always occurring—it just may not be a learning we want, one we can measure, or be aware of Learning that having two ears and one mouth was nature’s way of helping us learn Learning that the past informs the present but does not define it Learning to break patterns and invent new ones Learning about the power of creating, expressed in words, and the sheer terror of having someone else validate them, especially someone powerful Learning about the ease with which we can inspire or discourage Learning how facile [sic] we are inspired or discouraged as well Learning how to apply what we know and do something with it, change the world, change the life of a child, and in the process save our own

This long and wide-ranging list of what Anastasia learned again suggests the potentially infinite nature of learning and reflects Anastasia’s experience of Bergson’s notion of the intuition of duration, our ability to understand our ever-changing existence and our enduring self. Recognizing the infinite and what it means for the limits of one’s knowledge, becoming comfortable with knowledge’s infinite nature, and growing confident in one’s own capacity for learning can prove to be daunting work: It often involves a journey through a full range of emotions from fear, confusion, and even anger, to exhilaration, joy, and liberation. Nearly all of the 40 final papers from that term contain students’ detailed descriptions of learning moments that they experienced in different CEC

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activities, both as learners and as teachers. For example, in Joey’s reflection of her learning that took place during an exploration of mirrors, she took a close look at when she was engaged and disengaged: We put a mirror on the floor and discussed where two people would need to stand in order to see each other in the mirror. The discussion moved along nicely, and I was staying involved until people started talking about mathematical formulas and quit using the manipulative (mirror). I am a hands-on learner and need to be able to move things to see how they work, so just talking about formulas lost me. Once we went back to moving the mirror, I was able to participate in the activity again. As Kimberly had, Joey sought to contrast two approaches to learning and the effects that each had on her through this particular activity. When her classmates talked in the abstract language of math, she shut down. When they returned to the material phenomenon, she reengaged. Along with many of her classmates, Joey exhibited a growing ability to generalize critical aspects of her own learning and compare them to the learning of others: “This is how some students feel when they don’t understand the wording that is used to help them learn. Learning and teaching need to be done without pressure in order for the student to stay involved.” Brett, an experienced math teacher, contrasted his experiences as a learner during the plate and cup activity with his initial negative impressions of Keri and the course: “I had so many ideas and questions that I couldn’t think of anything else. I hadn’t been that focused in a classroom (as a learner) for years. As the weeks progressed with the activity, I had more questions than answers, and began to obsess about the possibilities.” Brett focused on a moment that had raised questions for him: “Many questions went unanswered, but the point is this: When I was confused or surprised, I was curious and motivated to learn. Since I believe all human beings have a willingness to learn when their curiosity is sparked, I will try to provide as many surprises as possible for my students.” Finding surprises for students is very different from leading them “efficiently” to single right answers. The first sentence in his final paper delineated the trajectory of his learning: “I learned many lessons: The importance of asking questions at the right time, the need for students to have adequate time to digest and reflect on their ideas, and the need to engage students in a non-didactic fashion to promote maximum student interest in the subject matter.” Again, we see a movement from personal revelations about the nature of learning to generalizing about the needs of others. The movement from skepticism and confusion to new understanding comes as students struggle to make sense of personally relevant experiences in the course. The struggle produces an abundance of thinking and the development of new skills related to a broad range of professional areas in

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education (i.e., curriculum design, questioning, assessment, school structure, testing, cultural studies, group work, action research, motivation, organization of materials, observation, detailed descriptions of learning, listening, the moral dimension of teaching). FROM CHANGES IN THINKING TO CHANGES IN PRACTICE: NANCY’S STORY Nancy began her final paper by describing herself as a middle school math teacher in favor of using manipulatives to “help students explore concepts and discover meaning in a way that they can see, hopefully in a way that makes sense.” She said that in her classroom, “We use manipulatives or fraction strips to solve these types of problems until students see the ‘short cut’ or algorithm. . . . This is an example of my understanding and feeling about guiding student learning.” Nancy wanted her students to experience materials to better understand the relevant algorithm. Nancy’s experiences in the critical exploration course, however, unsettled her thinking about “guiding student learning.” In exploring “fourscoops”—a CEC experience that asks students to show all the possible combinations of four scoops of different flavors of ice cream that can be piled on a cone—Nancy carefully watched and listened to her partner’s explanation, which surprised her. She wrote: My partner then explained that it was like arranging a volleyball tournament. That’s something that I have no experience with at all. I found her explanation fascinating. She had only missed one set of six [arrangements of four flavors on six cones]. I struggled to find a way, using her analogy, to help her see she had missed one of the possibilities. I had a lot of difficulty and never did find a way to explain it in terms of her problem-solving method. I learned in this experience, and also in subsequent fieldwork with students on this topic, that the only helpful questions are the ones you phrase in terms of their analogy. Nancy’s attempt to pose a question based on her partner’s understanding of how to arrange a tournament was challenging for her. She discovered that her conceptualization of the algorithm for the problem, 4 × 3 × 2 × 1 = 24, got in the way of promoting a deeper understanding of her partner and got in the way of connecting with her partner’s prior experience and way of approaching the problem. Just as Kimberly’s idea to connect the balloon to the milk jug was a personal exploration, Nancy’s rethinking of her use of manipulatives occurred through her personal experience of listening to her partner’s unfamiliar set of connections. Altogether, these students’ insights or wonderful ideas were

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rooted in their continuous and collaborative exploratory activities with a variety of materials and with each other. To borrow Duckworth’s (1973) words, the students’ “previous work and familiarity with those materials were a necessary aspect of this occasion” (p. 266). Most traditional teaching starts with concepts or other forms of established knowledge. The teacher tries to explain the concepts with as little confusion as possible, eliminating opportunities for the intuitions that can generate diverse ideas and connections and that learners need in order to creatively construct a new insight in the moment of learning. Critical exploration approaches the concept—for example, the algorithm for permutation— through materials and challenges that embody it in order to mobilize many lines of thought, instead of enforcing one particular conceptual scheme at the cost of all others. Nancy’s story suggests the value of the learner and the teacher being engaged in a shared process of discovery. The learner is puzzling through thoughts triggered by the exploration, while the teacher continues asking the learner to explain and further develop those thoughts. During this process, the teacher gains access and insight into the learner’s relationship with the materials. Taking this discovery further, Nancy’s final paper described her experience using “the plate and cup” exploration with her 8th-grade students. She wrote, “My final fieldwork [plate and cup exploration] was both a surprise and the most relevant learning I had all semester. . . . I started my fieldwork thinking that my role was to guide students to the correct answer through exploration and following their own path.” This statement reintroduced the tension between using manipulatives to help students to a particular point and using them to understand the students’ thinking and help them develop their own ideas. Nancy’s first whole-class session surprised her because “there was a flurry of water, cups, plates, salt, and all kinds of ideas flying. The students were much more aggressive than Keri’s class had been. They played off each other and jumped from idea to idea. This was amazing to me. I was not sure what to expect, or for that matter, do for my next two sessions. I did ask the students who chose to participate [next morning] to come with an idea (hypothesis) that they wanted to explore.” The next morning, three sleepy students showed up with what seemed like little enthusiasm to do anything. But to Nancy’s surprise, one boy produced “his own plates, a straw apparatus, and his own salt” and asked if salt would make a difference in the plate sticking to the cup. As the action started, Nancy noted that “it was difficult to follow everything that happened. They also influenced each other’s learning in lots of ways.” Then came a moment of “a disaster,” when the salt explorer “pronounced that the plate would not stick with salt in the water.” Nancy “felt frustrated” and “kind of panicked inside” because she was not sure how she was going

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to address his certainty. Thankfully, another student came to the rescue by making a plate stick using salty water. Nancy continued: Pretty soon they were pouring large amounts of salt in the cup, on the plate, everywhere. I was totally amazed. The salt sequence changed my thinking entirely about guiding students’ learning. I am not guiding them towards understanding how things work. I am guiding them towards their own understanding. Their own understanding will result, eventually, into an understanding of how things work. I am not guiding them anywhere. This was huge for me. They will get there, but by their own paths. . . . By the time I started the next session I had a new vision and a new group of students. Here Nancy reframed her thinking about teaching. “Leading” students to the concept gave way to encouraging students to be in the moment with the materials and one another and to make sense of the action that unfolds as they work and talk. One student’s confident pronouncement that when water contains salt, the plate will not “stick” led another student to test again and prove it wrong. Nancy was allowing students to enter into the mindset of duration—to draw on their pasts to enter more deeply into the present and move to a changed future. She was inviting her students to enter into the phenomenon intuitively in a personal way instead of via a prescribed symbolic or conceptual system. As Bergson (1955) articulated in Introduction to Metaphysics, this method of beginning with an absolute experience rather than a concept designed to explain a phenomenon can bring forth internal shifts that would not otherwise be possible. Nancy ended with a reflection on the course: I have enjoyed my journey this semester, although at times I was unclear where we were going. I think the point is that we were going. Where I ended up is the sense that I have made of it. Others may have come to a different understanding. My big revelation, that will change my style of questioning students, is that the sense we make of things is individual. Students will understand concepts in the way that makes sense to them. The timing of the sense making will be theirs as well. It is important to provide many experiences . . . on an ongoing basis. THE MORAL DIMENSIONS OF CEC AS DEMONSTRATED IN NANCY’S WORK In reflecting in her final paper on a video recording of her students’ plate and cup exploration, Nancy addressed her own teaching and her changing relationship with the materials and the students:

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When I watched the video, I noticed I am more relaxed with my questioning. I have a new purpose; helping the students to clarify their meanings instead of the meaning. I asked more questions to get the students to articulate their thoughts in this session than the previous one. I asked, “How would you test that?” and, “What are you thinking will happen?” and made more observations and attempts to summarize for them what they had just done. We could say that Nancy is more in the moment with her students, which suggests certain moral dimensions to Critical Exploration in the Classroom. The first dimension has to do with the teacher’s ability to select and create materials and experiences that engage students’ thoughts and feelings. Thus, a first moral sense, or right thing for the teacher to do, is to prioritize learners’ interests in any attempt to teach. Of course, interest waxes and wanes within individuals during an exploration. In Keri’s class video, some students appear less active than others in messing about with the plate and cup materials. Yet when Kimberly presented her contraption, all eyes were upon her. Naturally, a few students will at times get “lost in the woods” or make things up to get a grade because it is difficult for them to overcome their habituation to seeking answers to known-answer questions, particularly for those who do it well. A classroom is what ecological psychologist Roger Barker (1968) calls a behavior setting: It tends to encourage and establish particular student behaviors. Critical Exploration in the Classroom encourages unfamiliar patterns of behavior, which may be confusing and frustrating for some primary and secondary students, just as it is for some teacher education students. It can be difficult to pull through this confusion and frustration without a strong relationship between the teacher and the student. This leads to a second moral dimension, namely, the need to make sure everyone feels safe in the learning process. When the teacher strives to be in deep sympathy with the ideas of all learners, even ideas that may seem confusing or initially unproductive, it produces a sense of safety in the relationship among students and between the students and teacher. This sense of personal intellectual safety forms part of the unique feature of “answers” in a critical exploration, in that no one can predict what “answers” might arise. From another point of view, everyone is an authentic learner. The students and teacher are all learning from the engagement with the materials and from one another. This sense of safety empowers the learner and democratizes learning in that it allows each student to enter materials in her own way, through her own observations, actions, and connections to her own unique experience. In addition, the multiplicity of ideas and perspectives brings forth a true community of learners, including the teacher as a learner and students as

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creators, where the value of knowing the “right answer” is replaced with a shared and collaborative effort to build upon each other’s, as well as one’s own, ideas. A great number of researchers have conducted research on critical exploration and have demonstrated this important dimension of listening to others’ ideas, making new connections, and contributing to one another’s ideas (see chapters in this volume as well as Cavicchi, 2008a, 2008b, 2009, 2011, 2014; Duckworth, 2001b; Rauchwerk, 2005; Schneier, 2001). As Hawkins (1974/2002) long ago suggested, the teaching and learning process should create a network of powerful, multidirectional relationships among students, teachers, and materials. These relationships are dynamic, creative, democratic, mutually informative, and sustaining. CRITICAL EXPLORATION: A VITAL EXPERIENCE FOR TEACHER EDUCATORS The practice of CEC rests on the time-honored idea that deep and meaningful learning does not begin with reading or hearing about abstract concepts. It begins with our experience of the world. In schools, this can mean that learning begins with an exploration of a material phenomenon suited to animate and sustain learning that allows infinite possibilities of knowing. Learning extends as students bring forth and share a multiplicity of viewpoints and perspectives, experiencing themselves and the objects of their study as ever-changing and moving, with each moment carrying with it all the moments from their various pasts. In this way, students can come to possess an enduring and fulfilling sense of their intellectual power through their direct and shared experience of the world in CEC. We believe that critical exploration is a vital experience for teacher educators because it allows them to develop a personal understanding of learning though direct experience with puzzling materials and interactions along with their personal and shared reflections on those experiences. Furthermore, we find that teacher education students are able to share many aspects of their CEC experience with other learners. This extended application leads to possibilities for deep changes in practice that have significant consequences for students in schools and in life. In our experience, educational practice does not change for most people without this kind of deep, personal shift in their understanding about learning.

CHAPTER 12

Looking Back and Moving Forward Susan Jean Mayer

By integrating the practice of CEC into our teacher education courses and programs, we have found ourselves enacting a counternarrative, one in which novice teachers learn to study their students’ learning in real time and become active participants in envisioning new forms of learning and of engagement within their local school communities and beyond. We have watched and listened with interest as our students have carried these new ideas and intentions into their schools and classrooms and have absorbed them into their professional identities. As we have sought to portray, inviting and supporting learners’ efforts to “make sense” in their own terms enables them to connect with and contribute meaningfully to the intellectual life of classrooms, while also enabling teachers to draw from and to build upon their intellectual resources. As progressive educators have long argued, one must animate learners’ thoughts in order to discern and engage the ways in which—and the means with which—they are making sense of the world around them (Engel & Martin, 2005; Meier, 1995). Achieving greater pedagogical equity and a fuller expression of democratic aims and values in our schools and institutions of higher learning requires that everyone’s ideas be positioned as worthy of attention and consideration in this way. PIAGETIAN METHODOLOGY AND THE MINDS OF CHILDREN A century ago, Piaget began the program of research that would be seen as having demonstrated that children perceive and process the world in different terms than adults do (Mayer, 2005; Piaget, 1923/1959). At the time, Vygotsky (1986) spoke of Piaget as having proven what the philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau had only theorized (pp. 12–13). Progressive educators who followed these early studies found in them affirmation of their own pedagogical commitments to attending to the distinctive intellectual worlds of children (e.g., Issacs, 1929).1 160

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Decades later, as Vygotsky’s (1978, 1986) writings began to be translated into English, scholars in the Anglophone world grew to appreciate the ways in which Vygotsky’s focus on the thoughtful introduction of cultural resources augmented Piaget’s interest in cognitive processes and peer exchange (Mayer, 2010). Since that time, many educational researchers have further developed Vygotsky’s insight into the ways in which cultural constructs operate within all human thought and can be brought to bear in promoting learning and conceptual change (e.g., Lee & Smagorinsky, 2000; Moll, 2013; Smith et al., 1997; Wertsch, 1998). Integral to all of this work and to Vygotsky’s notion of the zone of proximal development remains the Piagetian understanding that one must begin by revealing and engaging children’s existing observations and ideas in order to move into meaningful dialogue with them. As we have discussed, the manner in which the practice of CEC enables teachers to access students’ current thinking can be traced to Piaget’s original methodological amalgam of three previously existing methodological traditions: naturalistic observation and analysis, the logical challenges that Piaget encountered in the field of psychometrics, and—most daringly—the diagnostic clinical interview that he had practiced during his studies of psychoanalysis (Mayer, 2005). By engaging children in an intellectual challenge and employing an interested and nonjudgmental affect to query their beliefs and uncover their underlying patterns of reasoning, Piaget found that he could largely avoid the limitations that resulted from an exclusive use of either psychometrics or naturalistic observation (Piaget, 1926/1960, pp. 1–32). Through close observation of children’s actions and sensitive inquiries into the reasoning behind them, Piagetian researchers generated two complementary streams of data—one based on what the children said, and another based on what they did. The researchers could then compare these two sets of observations, strengthening their naturalistic analysis and interpretation of each set. Although Piaget did not study learning, his colleague Bärbel Inhelder and others working in Geneva during the 1960s and 1970s became interested in exploring the implications of Piagetian findings for fostering learning. This interest had been spurred in part by questions Inhelder encountered from U.S. scholars at the Woods Hole conference (Bruner, 1962; Inhelder et al., 1974). These explorations also built upon earlier studies Inhelder (Inhelder & Piaget, 1958) had undertaken of children’s ways of experimenting and coming to understand complex ideas and logical thought from early childhood to adolescence. In the learning studies, children were asked to consider some confounding matter over the course of several extended engagements, which unfolded over a number of weeks. Materials were specially designed to challenge assumptions that had been found to be common among children of different ages, and children were invited to manipulate and experiment with

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those materials. Throughout the studies, researchers sensitively queried the children’s reasoning in order to determine the extent to which they may have begun to doubt their initial explanations and to consider alternate possibilities.2 In these ways, the Genevan learning research tradition continued to enact Piagetian commitments to accessing and investigating children’s distinctive lines of thought on the children’s own terms through the close study of their actions and speech. Beyond these shared aims, the learning researchers also sought to reveal the processes through which children’s thinking might grow increasingly congruent internally and align with observable features of the natural world. The idea was to concentrate children’s exposure to confounding phenomena—both through the materials and by pointing out to them what seemed to be contradictions in their reasoning—and then to study their responses (Inhelder et al., 1974). PIAGET IN THE CLASSROOM The title of this section, “Piaget in the Classroom,” is drawn from a book of the same title (Schwebel & Raph, 1973). This book includes essays from a conference held at Rutgers in the spring of 1970 on the pedagogical implications of Piaget’s research.3 While the behaviorism of North American learning theorists had originally limited interest in Piaget’s research program based on Piaget’s situationally sensitive approach to querying children’s assumptions and understandings, by the early 1970s educational theorists had begun paying attention. The cognitive revolution—informed by the emergence of computers and an accompanying appreciation of behaviorism’s theoretical limitations (Gardner, 1985)—had sparked considerable interest in Piaget’s by now extensive body of findings on the development of scientific, mathematical, and logical reasoning. Regrettably, this new interest in cognitive processes did not result in a concurrent reassessment of Piaget’s methodological claims and innovations, the enduring challenges of which remain contested today. The new cognitivism continued to embed methodological biases of the field’s earlier behaviorism (Lagemann, 2000). Although the psychologist Herbert Ginsburg (1997) has since pointedly argued that all practitioners in the areas of human learning and development should learn to conduct clinical interviews, for example, one continues to see limited reconsideration of the significance of Piaget’s methodological integration of the clinical interview even today. The cognitive revolution did, however, reach into the world of schools. In 1957, Soviet scientists had launched the Sputnik satellite, spurring the “space race” between the two nations: U.S. scientists found themselves

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awash in federal funds earmarked for the education of a new generation of scientists and mathematicians. The nation’s instrumental priorities, as interpreted through the cognitivist lens of North American learning theorists, continued to provide an inadequate context, however, for appreciating Pia­ get’s philosophically and biologically oriented research program (Chapman, 1988). Greater attention was generally paid to the specific claims of Pia­get­ ian stage theory—claims Piaget regarded as partial and contingent—than to the remarkably generative methodological vision that had generated the underlying findings. It has therefore largely fallen to those who studied with Piaget and Inhelder to interpret the methodological significance of Genevan learning research for teaching within the North American context. Of these, two researchers in particular devoted their careers to studying the implications of Piaget’s methodological understandings for classroom practice: Eleanor Duckworth and Constance Kamii. Kamii undertook an extensive program of classroom-based research in preschool and early elementary classrooms, primarily in the field of mathematics (Kamii, 1982, 1985, 1994).4 As she discusses in Chapter 1, Duckworth played an early role in the Elementary Science Study (Education Development Center, 1970, 1973), which was founded in 1964 by Jerrold Zacharias, an MIT physicist who worked on the Manhattan Project during World War II. Zacharias had become convinced of the need to teach all democratic citizens to engage in cogent evidence-based reasoning—both to inspire the development of creative and independently minded scientists and to guard against the dark allure of fascism (Goldstein, 1992). At the Elementary Science Study (ESS), the intuitions of scientists such as Zacharias about the role of science in democracy and the importance of exploration to learning would mingle with the methodological insights of Piaget and Inhelder. Under the leadership of founding director David Hawkins, a philosopher of science who had met Zacharias while working as the official historian of the Manhattan Project, ESS had become a site for the exploration of compelling scientific phenomena of every kind. Zacharias had assembled a group of willing scientists—biologists, physicists, and environmental scientists—and charged them with figuring out how to bring the excitement and mystery of their fields to life within elementary classrooms. Based on the premise that to learn to think and act like scientists, children would need to study and theorize about the natural world, these scientists worked alongside ESS teachers to develop curricular experiences that enabled students to interact directly with representative phenomena from their fields (Hawkins, 2002a). As Duckworth also discusses earlier in Chapter 1, these materials-centered, problem-based curricula turned out to resemble the kinds of investigations that Genevan researchers had created in order to study learning.

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When it came time to pilot the new curricula in schools, Duckworth therefore drew naturally on her Genevan training, watching and listening to the children and, when possible, asking the kinds of neutral questions she had learned to ask about what had led a student to make a certain comment or had prompted a student to manipulate materials in a certain way. Duckworth also began introducing some of the ESS investigations to adult friends and, in this way, came to realize that both adults and children were often willing to puzzle through difficult problems for long periods of time when someone, first, allowed them to think for themselves and, second, took an active interest in their strategies and emerging ideas. A NEW KIND OF PEDAGOGY TAKES FORM After ESS, Duckworth continued to work in teacher education, program evaluation, and curricular development. In this work, she continued to position teachers as subject-matter learners, as they had at ESS. She also staged what she called “Piaget interviews” between herself and one or more child/ren, surrounded by a ring of practicing teachers or teacher candidates who silently observed the interaction. During breaks, Duckworth would ask the adults what they might want to ask next in order to determine how a particular child was conceptualizing the problem. These demonstrations reliably caused her students to reflect on many relevant areas of concern, including (1) how startling and nonintuitive adults often find children’s underlying assumptions and patterns of thought; (2) how tenaciously children will often hold to their own beliefs, even in the face of apparent evidence to the contrary; (3) how thoughtfully one must work to reveal and understand children’s divergent assumptions and lines of reasoning; (4) how much time children need to be given just to think; (5) how long and hard even young children will struggle to make sense of complex problems if they can do so on their own terms and have the curious attention of a keen observer; (6) and finally—as she always explained to her young participants—how children can learn a lot on their own without always having to be told. When Duckworth eventually joined the faculty of the Harvard Graduate School of Education, her students’ final projects began to reveal the pedagogical potential of these Piagetian interviews for engaging learners in subject areas of every kind. Duckworth’s introductory course, Learning and Teaching, quickly became known as a different sort of graduate course, one in which it was not unusual for students to find themselves rethinking some of their most basic ideas about learning and teaching. Survey research conducted in the 1990s suggests that the course permanently reconfigured many students’ guiding aims and concerns as educators (Richman et al., 1985; https:// cepress.org/membership-portal/documents/publications-scholarship).5

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SHIFTING PRIORITIES By the time Neil Armstrong stepped onto the moon in 1969, the social upheavals of the late 1960s had created new priorities. Concerns about racial segregation and educational equity had been brought to the nation’s attention as a result of the organized and spontaneous civil protests and actions of the period. In 1966, James Coleman and his coresearchers first employed standardized test results as evidence of the “savage inequalities” (Kozol, 1991) that existed between different racially concentrated schools and school districts with the United States (Coleman, 1966). Governmental interest in comparing and contrasting student performance across racially and socioeconomically defined subgroups has only intensified in the intervening decades. Such analyses have been embraced both by underserved parents and community leaders and by culturally conservative forces alarmed at the dramatic social changes occurring within and beyond schools. Today, mandated testing and time-consuming accounting procedures have eclipsed the federal post-Sputnik era efforts to move beyond a narrow focus on rote learning, particularly in schools that have been identified, based on mandated measures, as low-performing schools. In many places, the exploratory curricula of the 1960s and 1970s had also faced skeptical receptions from local curriculum directors who had not been invited to participate in their development and whose professional prerogatives had been curtailed as a result of increased federal involvement in curricular design (Marshall et al., 2000). The new curricula were also found to require more professional development and sustained material support than was often available. Duckworth first taught her introductory course Learning and Teaching in the spring of 1982. Although her thinking had been nurtured by the creative exuberance of the post-Sputnik reform era, by 1983 a report entitled A Nation at Risk: The Imperative for Educational Reform was speaking in dire tones about the “educational foundations of our society” being “eroded by a rising tide of mediocrity that threatens our very future as a Nation and a people” (National Commission on Excellence in Education, 1983, p. 5; capitalization in original). Section B of the commission’s five-part set of recommendations called for “more rigorous and measurable standards” and advised that “standardized tests of achievement . . . should be administered at major transition points between one level of schooling and another” (pp. 27–28). These recommendations did not explicitly dismiss the exploratory curricular reforms that the federal government had so recently championed: Some of the commission’s language can arguably be read as consonant with those reforms. Yet, as its title suggests, A Nation at Risk was intended to sound an alarm, one that some credibly viewed as reactionary: Traditional standards of academic excellence were seen as having lapsed during a period

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in which progressive shifts had taken place within and beyond school walls across the country. A decade later, the 1994 reauthorization of the Elementary and Secondary Education Act (originally signed into law by Lyndon Johnson in 1965) established accountability measures for all schools that received federal funds through the act. The 2002 reauthorization, entitled No Child Left Behind (NCLB), called for yet more testing and tied poor performance on such tests to “high-stakes” consequences, such as students not graduating and schools being closed.6 Unsurprisingly, those teaching in classrooms inhabited by the poor children whose interests the Elementary and Secondary Education Act was originally intended to serve experienced the brunt of the pressures that NCLB requirements generated everywhere. Many taught for years under the threat—and some lived through the reality—of school closure. The attention now paid to preparing for, taking, and analyzing the results of standardized tests has greatly reduced the amount of time and attention devoted to exploratory learning experiences within this nation’s schools. It is commonplace for those prioritizing standardized test performances to view exploratory learning experiences as unreasonably time-consuming and ill-defined in their learning outcomes. Subject areas and forms of reasoning that students will not encounter on their annual tests—including science and social studies—are often viewed as matters of secondary concern. Yet against this backdrop, many have continued to concern themselves with the work of listening to students and of inviting them into creative and collaborative explorations. Professional teacher organizations representing diverse disciplines continue to voice visions of learning that include students’ collaborative construction of shared understandings.7 Content goals are not diminished in these visions but, rather, are elevated through their association with the greater and more consuming project of learning to think in academic terms. Such calls are also in keeping with those in the Common Core State Standards (CCSS), which recommend that students learn how to undertake original research and to construct academic understandings based on collective study (http://www.corestandards.org/ELA-Literacy).8 These educators continue to engage visions based on the understandings and commitments we have discussed, visions that have been and continue to be intermittently realized in schools and classrooms across this country. MAKING DEMOCRACY It is by inviting students into academic interactions that they can experience as both personally meaningful and culturally powerful that educators perform the vital function of drawing our students into the work and purposes of our larger society. Nurturing students’ personal relationships with valued cultural practices, understandings, and perspectives represents the most

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reliable and authentic means that educators possess for motivating students’ learning and for fostering their interested and capable participation in democratic relationships and processes. Inspired and even lifelong commitments that involve young people in the issues and purposes of their social worlds may be born of such engagements. Participating in discussions that matter and that make sense to them also serves to nurture students’ personal sense of purpose and belonging both within and beyond the classroom (see Greene, 1988). Certainly, the social and intellectual demands of participating in the democratic construction of understandings—always significant—have only intensified as societies have grown more complex and as the problems facing humanity have grown more daunting. All of us need to be provided with opportunities to see and to experience ourselves as active participants within these kinds of difficult deliberations in order to grow comfortable with their challenges. The consequences of not teaching our young people how to listen and to reflect thoughtfully across the many differences of perspective they will encounter in our fractious and interconnected world have become all too clear. Deepening sociopolitical divides are threatening even our strongest democratic societies. Dewey (1927/2012), who long ago warned of the intellectual divides opening between citizens and the disciplinary experts responsible for informing them, would nonetheless be startled by the lack of respect and trust that some now direct toward experts of all kinds and toward scientific exploration itself as a respected form of cultural practice. MOVING FORWARD FROM HERE Teacher candidates have likely always arrived at the doors of their teacher education programs looking for clear and straightforward direction about how to manage a classroom. Yet learning to teach in view of contemporary understandings about complex and culturally situated learning, equity, and democratic values and practices has never been and could never be either easy or straightforward. As we have argued, the pedagogical vision suggested by these understandings implies challenging relational shifts among teacher, students, and subject matter. These shifts call for interpersonal insight and agility on the part of classroom teachers, and open and interested relationships with students and with members of the surrounding communities. The work of uncovering and examining inherited assumptions about culturally and racially diverse others also requires deep and determined exploration and reflection. Some sense of confusion and doubt can commonly arise; for some, the resulting sense of disorientation and uncertainty can generate frustration and even anger. It is in response to the disturbance and discomfort of such uncertainty that new perspectives and insights can take form.

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Through the years, we have watched as many of those who have struggled with the practice of CEC have gradually come to view their new profession in more promising and rewarding terms—even some of those who initially resisted the practice. While it can be difficult to stand aside and watch such growth unfold on its own terms and timetable, we have begun to accept, based on our personal experience, that some kinds of learning and growth can only ever unfold in this way. It is simply the case that not everything can be told or explained: Many ideas, important ideas, must be discovered and sorted through for oneself. When we speak of deep learning, this is what we mean. We are referring to the conceptual shifts, the insights, and the breakthroughs that people must work for and achieve for themselves. We are referring to the way in which, in the course of such efforts, people reflect back on their own past experiences and on those of others and connect what they can recollect of those experiences with what they have begun to notice or to wonder about now. We have come to recognize that these forms of deep learning are always driven by an authentic desire on the part of the learner to understand some aspect of the world in a new way. Teacher candidates who have experienced that kind of desire in themselves and who have struggled to piece together new insights and syntheses with the support of their teacher educators will be more likely to seek to inspire this kind of learning in their own classrooms. As these candidates begin to view teaching as much (or more) a matter of challenging and listening as of telling and explaining, they begin to recognize the relational dimensions of their new profession. They come to understand that the work of fostering their students’ learning may not be so much a matter of what they say as it is of inspiring thoughtful and responsive words and actions from their students. Whether they ever choose to enact the practice of CEC in their own classrooms—or have the opportunity to do so—they have begun to assume the stance of a teaching–learning researcher. The authors of this volume have therefore looked to balance our awareness of the pedagogical potential of CEC within teacher education programs with our appreciation of the complex demands that it makes of both our students and us. We meet these demands in our own practices, hoping that our students will choose to meet them in theirs. We strive to suggest and to explore some of the ways in which inspiring one’s students to ponder complex matters and diverse perspectives and to cope with doubt and uncertainty might be thought to relate to the practice of teaching in a democratic society. In so doing, we reveal the larger questions and commitments that have motivated our own careers and that have sustained our interest in our students and in the project of teaching them about the art and craft of teaching.

Notes Introduction 1. See Mayer, O’Connor, and Lefstein (2019) for focused discussion of the distinctively democratic tension between acculturating all students to valued practices and modes of thought and attending to student thinking on its own terms (also discussed further in Chapter 2). 2. In telling their stories, many authors write of specific students, use student names, and quote specific student work. In these chapters, some student names are pseudonyms and some are actual names, depending on the permissions. Chapter 2 1. In his discussions of teaching as a reflective practice, Schön (1983) drew on his familiarity with the MIT Teacher Project, which Duckworth had led alongside Jeanne Bamburger. 2. Mayer’s tripartite framing/developing/evaluating (FDE) heuristic supports analysis of the responsibilities students have assumed in the construction of classroom understandings. As Mayer (2012) has discussed, the FDE construct can be seen to subsume the well-known IRE/F analysis (Mehan, 1979), wherein the teacher assumes responsibility for both the framing of topic questions and the evaluating of contributions students have developed. Chapter 3 1. I’m grateful for Elizabeth Cavicchi, not only for her detailed and helpful suggestions for this chapter but also for reminding me of Richard Feynman’s recollections about how his father taught him to observe the world (Cavicchi, personal communication). 2. Many elementary teachers will be familiar with science teaching kits such as the one distributed by Science and Technology for Children (STC) that includes cylinders of the same volume made of different materials (wood, metal, plastic). My choice of everyday materials over machined objects not found in any other context reflects the kinds of decisions Schneier discusses in her chapter of this book. 3. Duckworth (2006a) and Magau (2001) have written about moon-watching among experienced teachers. Yang (2018) writes about her own experience of moonwatching and “what it means to learn through truly experiencing exploratory learning” (p. 69). 4. See Tai (2019) for an exploration of potential ways to weave critical exploration and culturally sustaining pedagogy across different content areas.

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170 Notes 5. David Kolb’s (1984) experiential learning cycle is also a helpful theoretical model that is consistent with this approach. In the previous example, I give the student teachers a concrete experience, ask them to observe and reflect on that exper­ ience, and then facilitate a discussion where they begin to generate a more abstract conceptualization from which they can actively experiment in their own learning and teaching. Chapter 4 1. After writing this chapter, I learned that Maxine Greene had an earlier connection to the work of Eleanor Duckworth. Her cover comments appear on two of Duckworth’s books and describe Duckworth’s work as “open[ing] new landscapes for research, teaching and interpretation” (Duckworth, 2001, back cover). 2. For more extensive discussions of deficit thinking and “dismantling deficit thinking,” see Valencia (2010, 2012/1997), and for work on affirming students and communities, raising academic expectations, and/or decolonizing the curriculum, see Delpit (2013), Ladson-Billings (2017, 2001), Paris and Alim (2017), Salazar (2013), and Tatum (2007). 3. The project received IRB approval in August 2013, and I collected data for the cases here in the fall of 2013. 4. In this passage, Karine, a beginning graduate student and novice with APA, uses the in-text citation of “(Piaget, J.)” to refer to the work of Jean Piaget. The two course readings related to Piaget were the Introduction and Chapter 1 of The Child’s Conception of the World by Jean Piaget (1971) and a discussion of Piaget’s ideas about learning in Seifert and Sutton (2009, pp. 35–36). 5. According to Singh (2018), writing from a business perspective: “The maker movement is a cultural phenomenon that celebrates shared experimentation, iterative learning, and discovery through connected communities that build together, while always emphasizing creativity over criticism.” Vossoughi et al. (2016), who critique mainstream maker connections to business and who seek to expand understandings of equity and making, describe it this way: “As a self-defined grassroots movement of backyard and kitchen tinkerers, the maker movement includes a range of perspectives on the definitions and purposes of making” (p. 210). Chapter 6 1. The transcript of this video gathering is available within the member portal upon registration at CEPress.org. Chapter 10 1. This seminar is conducted as an educational research project under MIT’s human subjects protocol (COUHES). Participating students sign informed consent for recording of sessions and for research writing based on their participation. 2. Course readings on these topics included the following: the moon (Galileo, 1610/1989); flight (da Vinci, n.d., 1956); balance (Galileo, 1961; Vitruvius, 1826); aviation and space (Copernicus, 1995; Crouch, 1989, 2003; Flatow, 2012; Glenn, 1962; Hergé, 2009; Hickam, 2000; Johnson, 1999; Kepler, 1967; NASA, n.d., 2012; Newton, 1728; Red Bull Stratos, 2012; Saint-Exupéry, 1974, 1982; Wilford, 1969, 2012; Wright & Wright, 2001), and exploratory education (Duckworth, 2001, 2006a, 2006b; Hawkins, 2002a, 2002b; Morrison, 1995a, 1995b).

Notes 171 3. Students were given instructions on the special handling necessary for historical documents. For works on paper, archivists request that bare hands be used to turn pages. Archivists recommend the use of gloves only for photographs and artifacts that might be damaged by oils of the hand (Harvard College Library, 2011). 4. Cellphone compasses also interact with each other, due to the magnetic fields generated by the cellphone; this would increase the error effect that classmates observed. Chapter 11 1. Piaget named his research program genetic epistemology, in which genetic means “developmental.” We adopt developmental epistemology to avoid associating the meaning of genetic with that of “genes.” Chapter 12 1. These educators were not always impressed, however, by Piaget’s interpretations of findings that his new research method had generated (see Issacs, 1929; Mayer, 2005). 2. The learning researchers found that some of the children were ready to make use of the contradictions posed by the experimental settings to consider new lines of reasoning that accounted for those realities, while others were not yet troubled by those contradictions (see also Gallagher & Reid, 1981). 3. Duckworth’s essay, “The Having of Wonderful Ideas,” first began as a conference presentation at this conference and was originally written for this book (Schwebel & Raph, 1973, pp. 258–277). 4. See, in particular, “Autonomy as the Aim of Education: Implications of Pia­ get’s Theory” (Kamii, 1982, pp. 73–86). Seymour Papert, a scholar of mathematics and computer science at MIT, developed the educational implications of Piaget’s work in relation to the fields of mathematics and computer programming, effectively launching the field of “maker” education. 5. This report is available within the member portal upon registration at CEPress .org. Students also read essays by Hawkins (2002a) that drew on his time at ESS and engaged in a semester-long exploration of the appearance and movements of the moon that expanded on an original ESS moon curriculum (see also Schneier, 2016). 6. The NCLB reauthorization called for the annual testing of all grade 3–8 children in reading and mathematics. Schools, districts, and states were required to report aggregate scores and to break them into demographic categories. Most controversially—and absurdly—all schools were required to better their scores annually according to a predetermined formula that stipulated that 100% of students in all demographic groups would reach a “state determined proficiency” level by 2013/2014 (No Child Left Behind Act of 2001, section 1111[2] [F]). 7. Policy prescriptions set by professional organizations such as the National Council for the Social Studies, National Council of Teachers of Mathematics, National Council of Teachers of English, and the National Science Teachers Association (and included in the Common Core State Standards) all embrace the goal of teaching students to become creative and independent thinkers, capable of employing disciplinary perspectives, methods, and understandings in order to cope with the unknown challenges of the future (see also Duckworth, 1984).

172 Notes 8. Federal efforts to promote the CCSS were tied to a new round of testing instruments during the Obama administration. Copyrighted by the National Governors Association, the CCSS were then pushed on states through the federal Race to the Top Initiative, which provided needed revenues to cash-strapped states based on a competition that required the state’s adoption of the CCSS and adoption, at the same time, of additional testing mechanisms, the results of which would then be tied to teacher evaluations.

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About the Contributors Elizabeth Cavicchi is a teacher at MIT’s Edgerton Center. She encourages students to be explorers, face the unknown, and collaborate. She completed her EdD at Harvard; a master’s degree at Harvard, Boston University, and MIT; and her undergraduate degree at MIT. Dr. Cavicchi has written and presented internationally on explorations interweaving history, science phenomena, teaching, and learning. Mary Kay Delaney, PhD, is visiting clinical professor, University of Denver, and formerly professor of education at Meredith College. Focusing on equity, social justice, and learning in teacher education, her work includes teaching, supervision of apprentice teachers, and writing. Born in Montréal, Eleanor Duckworth was a student of Jean Piaget and Bärbel Inhelder at the University of Geneva and translator of their work. She is currently Professor Emerita after 35 years on the faculty of the Graduate School of Education at Harvard University and continues her work as a performing modern dancer. Fiona Hughes-McDonnell earned her EdD in Learning and Teaching from the Harvard Graduate School of Education in 2000. Having spent most of her professional career teaching within the Department of Education, she identifies as a teacher educator. Her teaching and research explore practices to support teachers’ self-directed learning and development. Keri Gelenian has been the Head of Schools at Rivendell Interstate School District and Principal of Rivendell Academy since 2010. From 1998 to 2010 he served as an Associate Professor at Humboldt State University. Critical exploration has driven his most exciting and meaningful work as an educator. Houman Harouni is a lecturer on education at Harvard University. He was a student of Eleanor Duckworth and served as her teaching assistant while also teaching in public schools. His work examines the potential of education for the transformation of individuals and social structures.

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188

About the Contributors

Yeh Hsueh teaches human development at the University of Memphis and serves as a coordinator for its Educational Psychology and Research program. Inspired by the critical exploration approach, his research interest is in understanding how individuals and institutions develop in changing contexts. He received his EdD from Harvard University. Susan Jean Mayer, EdD, has worked in curricular development and teacher education, and is a founding partner of Critical Exploration Press. Her 2012 book, Classroom Discourse and Democracy: Making Meanings Together, draws upon her research on patterns of classroom discourse to characterize what she has called distinctively democratic knowledge construction processes. Susan Rauchwerk, EdD, is a Professor of Education at Lesley University, directs the WonderLab there, advises doctoral students, and teaches research, systems, and STEAM methods classes. She also supports teacher professional development in STEM and early science literacy in Ethiopia. Rauchwerk is committed to sustainability and keeps a small flock of chickens at her urban home. For over a decade, Lisa Schneier taught primarily English and writing in Boston public schools. She is currently an Assistant Professor of Education at Emmanuel College and a Lecturer at the Harvard Graduate School of Education, where she has taught Eleanor Duckworth’s seminal course, Teaching and Learning, since Professor Duckworth’s retirement in 2012. William (Bill) Shorr, EdD, is a founding partner of Critical Exploration Press and has been a college professor of teacher education and K–12 teacher of Spanish and humanities. His doctoral dissertation explores the evolving conceptions of peace and curriculum by a group of social studies educators. Bonnie Hao-Kuo Tai directs the Educational Studies program at the College of the Atlantic, where she has taught on the faculty since 2000. She earned her EdD in Learning and Teaching from the Harvard Graduate School of Education. Critical exploration has inspired and informed her teaching and teacher-education practice since 1989.

Index Accountability standards-based, 15–16, 39, 56, 166 Active learning, 10, 42, 65, 69, 73 methods, 60 Activity theory, 42 Addams, Jane, 21 Agency, 35, 59 Alim, H., 17, 36, 42n2 Amanti, C., 20, 42 American Association of Colleges of Teacher Education, 16 American Physical Society, 141 Ananiadou, K., 62 Anti-deficit pedagogies, 30–31, 40–45, 52, 56–57 Archimedes, 131, 144 Armstrong, Neil, 165 Assessment, 14–16, 37, 109, 143, 155 formative, 35–36, 52, 63 Authentic learning, 34, 58, 158, 167–168 relation to Genevan learning research, 65, 162, 162n2 Authentic questions, 23, 55 Autor, D., 61 Ballenger, C., 2, 20 Bamberger, Jeanne, 18n1 Bandura, A., 95 Bang, M. et al., 20 Barker, Roger, 158 Beginning beliefs of preservice teachers, 24, 28–29, 37–40, 68–69, 112, 149, 151–152 challenges to or disruption of, 6, 17, 37–38, 55, 56 classroom roles, 118

good teaching, 68–69 notions of science, 44, 87, 91–92, 140 Behavior environment, 158 Bergson, Henri, 6, 146–150, 153, 157 influence on Piaget, 147–149 intuition of duration, 146–148 intuitive method, 146–147, 150 Bettez, S. C., 21 Biesta, G., 19, 21 Biruni, M., 122 Boom, J., 18 Bovet, Magali, 3, 65–66, 180 Brown et al., 42 Bruner, J., 161 Burbules, N., 19, 21 Burgess, D., 67 Carini, P., 2 Cavicchi, E., 27n1, 130, 132, 159 Cellarius, A., 133 CEPress.org, 84n1, 164n5 Chang, A., 54 Chapman, M., 147, 163 Claro, M., 62 Clinical method/interviewing, 3–4, 12, 162, 164. See also Learning research and theory; Genevan extended clinical interviewing, 12. See also Critical Exploration in the Classroom interest, role in, 10 Cochran-Smith, M., 19 Cognitive construction, 66 cognitive adventuring, 39 Cognitive revolution, 162–163 Cohen, D., 39, 41, 47, 52

189

190 Index Cole, M., 42 Coleman, James, 165 Collaboration, 73 Common Core State Standards, 166, 166n7, 166n8 Community center, 44–45 Conley, M., 16 Copernicus, 132n2 Creativity, 36, 60, 62, 63, 65–67, 73, 109, 170n5 knowledge construction and, 63, 72, 147–149 Critical consciousness, 56–57, 116, 127 as emergent, 126–127 Critical exploration, 12 Critical Exploration in the Classroom (CEC). See also Learning research and theory; Materials biology and, 82–88 civil rights and, 30, 97 collaboration and, 21–22, 36, 69–70, 77, 87–88, 131–133, 140, 145, 149, 158–159 complexity and, 95, 108–109, 155–156 confusion and, 3, 31, 72, 85–86, 89–90, 116, 118–119, 137, 142, 144, 152–158, 167 curiosity and, 13, 26, 35, 71, 77–78, 95, 108–109, 131, 154 deep learning and, 32–34, 37, 51, 55, 142, 159, 168 density and, 30–31, 76–79, 127 environmental education and, 24–27 equity and, 1, 5, 17, 19–21, 39–43, 85 explained, 1–4, 34–36, 43, 47, 66–67, 116–117, 148–149, 156 freedom and, 26, 33–38, 128 Freire’s critical pedagogy and, 98–99, 116–117 frustration and, 31–32, 88, 90, 92, 114, 119, 127, 151, 158, 168 government and, 30, 82 interest and, 2, 4, 11–13, 22, 25–26, 29, 32, 35–37, 43–47, 49–51, 53, 55–56, 70–72, 74–75,

78–81, 83, 88, 96, 100, 123, 154, 158 joy and, 1–2, 42, 87, 153 mathematics and, 52, 111–128 mirrors and, 68–70, 117, 154 moon study and, 32–33, 32n3, 76, 101, 132–134, 140, 164n5 mystery and, 11, 26, 30–38 physics and, 129–144, 150–151 poetry and, 28–30, 75–76 resistance and, 85–93, 118–120, 128 respect and, 71, 95, 133 safety and, 144, 158 scaffolding and, 88 social studies and, 95–110 student agency and, 21, 33–38 theoretically grounded pedagogy as, 58–66 uncertainty and, 33, 39, 46–47, 56–57, 116–117, 132–133, 137, 142, 143, 152, 167–168 use of teacher authority in, 3–4, 43, 107, 109, 118–120, 128, 144–145 wonder and, 56–57, 75, 81, 108– 109, 131, 138, 143 Critical thinking, 56, 62–63, 113–116 Croft, J., 103 Crouch, T., 132n2, 140 Culturally Relevant/Sustaining Pedagogies (CRP/CSP), 17, 21, 35–36, 36n4, 42, 54–57 Cuomo, S., 118 Curriculum, 10, 19, 26, 34–38, 55–56, 59–60, 72–73, 79–84, 92–93, 99–106, 107–108, 112–117 as emergent, 131–133, 144 Daiute, C., 43 Darling–Hammond, L., 64 da Vinci, L., 132n2, 133 Decolonizing teacher education, 42n2, 56 Deep learning, 17–19, 58, 62–64, 83–84 21st-century skills and, 61–63 Committee on Defining Deeper Learning, 62–63

Index 191 Darling-Hammond & Oakes on, 64 Hewlett Foundation and, 62 Deficit understandings, 39, 42 being White and holding, 20, 39–40 dismantling, 39–42, 48–49, 52 role of conception of science in, 44 Delaney, M., 30, 43–44 Delpit, L., 1, 20, 40, 42n2, 48–49, 55 Democratic education, 1, 17, 19, 21–23, 30, 61, 163, 166–168 democracy of ideas, 21, 95 distinctively democratic practices, 7, 22 Developmental epistemology, 146n1 Developmental psychology, 64, 66 developmental research, 34 Dewey, John, 5, 19, 21, 58–61, 64–65, 72–73, 110, 167 continuity of learning, 36 freedom, conception of, 36 learning as psychological and sociological, 60 project-based education, 59–60 Dilemmas of practice, 55 Dintersmith, Ted, 61, 63 DiSchino, M., 20 Dominguez, M., 56 Dover, A. et al., 16 Dowling, P., 117, 118 Duckworth, Eleanor, 1, 3, 21, 31, 32n3, 34, 41n1, 43, 58, 118, 132, 132n2, 142, 156, 159, 166n7 education, 10 intellectual lineage of, 9–13, 146, 148–149, 162–164 Edgerton, Harold, 130 Education Development Center, 163 Educational environment, 66 Educational process, 60, 61 Engel, B. 160 Eisner, E., 106 Elementary Science Study (ESS), 10–11, 163–164, 164n5 Elementary and Secondary Education Act, 166 Environmental education, 24–27

Equity, 1, 5, 15, 17–21, 39–43, 53–57, 57n5, 58, 63–64, 83–84, 85, 160, 165 Evans, R., 102 Experience, 2, 60 achieving critical consciousness and, 120 learning and, 11, 36, 38, 46, 48, 51, 59–60, 75–76, 83, 87, 130–133, 141, 159 sense-making and, 3, 10, 19, 35, 40, 51, 55, 57, 67, 86–87, 98, 115, 118 sociocultural, 57 in teacher education, 1, 2, 5–7, 12, 15–16, 21–23, 28, 30–33, 39, 41–43, 45, 53, 55–57, 58, 65, 71, 77, 95–96, 108 Feynman, R., 27, 27n1 Fine, S., 63 Fischer, K., 18 Flatow, I., 132n2 Fourth industrial revolution, 61–62 Frankenstein, M., 114, 115, 118, 125 Freire, Paulo, v, 6, 98–99, 116–117 Freudenthal, H., 115 Galileo, G., 130, 131, 132n2, 133, 144 Gallagher, J., 162n2 Gardner, Howard, 162 Garner, G., 16 Garrison, J., 1 Gay, Geneva, 5, 17, 20, 36, 39–40, 42, 54–55 Genetic epistemology, 146n1 Ginsburg, Herbert, 162 Glenn, J., 132n2 Goldstein, J., 163 Gonzalez, N., 20, 42 Gordon, P., 126 Grayson, K., 54 Greene, Maxine, 1, 5, 19, 21, 39, 41, 41n1, 45, 48, 49, 51, 53–54, 56–57, 167 Gresham, G., 116 Gruber, H., 148 Gutierrez, K., 18, 42

192 Index Gutmann, A., 21 Hammer, David, 143 Harouni, H., 112, 114, 116, 117, 118, 123, 125 Haroutunian-Gordon, S., 19, 21 Hartsock, N., 101 Hawkins, D., 94, 110, 132n2, 140, 144, 159, 163, 164n5 Hergé, 132n2 Herrenkohl, L., 16 Heymann, H., 114, 115 Hickam, H., 132n2 Higher-order thinking, 63 Hill, C., 101 Hilton, M., 62–63 Himley, M., 2 History, teaching of, 70 Holland, D., 42 hooks, bell, v, 94 Hooper, P., 2, 20 Howard, G., 40 Hughes-McDonnell, F., 67, 68 Hytten, K., 21 Identity, 16, 19, 95, 102 Illich, I., 94 Imagination, 1, 5, 15, 39–41, 48–49, 51, 53–54, 56, 59, 149 Inhelder, Bärbel, 3, 10, 12–13, 65–66, 116, 161, 162, 163 Instrumental rationality, 94 Interaction(s), 18, 38, 41–42, 57, 60, 113, 159, 166 between learners and materials, 43, 65–65, 74–76, 82–84 between learners and teachers, 71, 127–128 between learners, teachers, and materials, 30, 94, 113, 159 within classrooms, 4, 7 Issacs, S., 160, 160n1 Jackson, L., 114, 118 James, W., 101, 110 Johnson, J., 132n2 Johnson, Lyndon, 166 Johnson, S. et al., 95

Kamii, C., 2, 3, 124, 163, 163n4 Kepler, J., 132n2 Killian, J., 130 Knowledge construction/creation, 3–4, 10, 17, 21–22, 33, 77 collaborative, 36, 118, 145 distinctively democratic, 22–23, 167 role of intuition, 148–149, 156 situated, 42 studying student, 52–56 Kohl, H., 118 Kolb, David, 37n5 Kozol, J., 165 Kuhn, D., 19 Ladson-Billings, Gloria, 5, 20, 36, 41, 42, 42n2, 56 Lagemann, E., 18, 162 Lampert, M., 19 Lave, J., 95, 114, 117, 118 Learning affect, role in, 42 conflict, role in, 10 creating categories and, 83, 98–100, 102, 104, 108 cultural aspects, 19–21, 35–36, 42 desire and, 168 imagination, role in, 45, 48–51 interest, role of, 10–11, 109 language/words and, 10–11, 28–29, 34, 38, 74–76, 154, 168 orienting toward student, 47 personal aspects, 10, 19–21, 33–34, 42, 55 self-directed, 11, 35, 59, 63, 88–89, 142 student strengths and resources, role in, 2, 20, 39, 42, 57, 149, 160 Learning environment, 55, 64–65, 72 Learning research and theory behaviorist, 18, 162 in classrooms, 2, 7, 11–13, 16, 18–21, 45, 58, 65, 113, 116, 162–164 cognitivist, 18, 162 critical exploration, 12 Genevan, 3, 5, 13, 58, 64–67, 161–164

Index 193 interaction and, 41, 42, 60 interactionist, 18, 38, 41 sociocultural, 18, 42 systems-oriented, 18 Learning Science Institute, 62 learning studies, 66 Learning and Teaching, the course, x, 11–13, 132, 164 Legitimate peripheral participation, 95 Lesson planning, 26, 74–83, 99–109 Listening in learning, 83, 159 in research, 10, 18, 87–91, 148, 164 to resistance, 87–91 in teaching, 1, 16, 18, 19, 26, 31, 37–38, 50, 55, 71, 92, 94–95, 107, 155, 166, 168 Levy, F., 61, 62 López, F., 52 Lortie, D., 14, 16 Loughran, J., 58, 64 Lundin, S., 114 Lytle, C., 19 Magau, N., 32n3 Marshall, J. et al., 165 Martin, A., 160 Materials, 1, 6, 11–13, 26, 30, 34–35, 39, 43, 45, 55, 59–60, 68–72, 74–84, 85–88, 94–95, 164–164 agency and, 21–22, 35, 39, 72, 101 beauty and, 11, 75 complexity and, 39 as educative medium, 59, 72, 159 emotional power of, 30, 75 equity and, 1, 35, 85, 158 experimenting with, 70–71, 134–140, 149–151 interacting with, 35, 75–76 knowledge construction and, 3–4, 34, 59–60, 102 lesson-design based on, 79–83, 116–118 as proving ground, 3–4, 22, 34, 150 scaffolding and, 88, 149–150 selecting and using, 46–51, 60, 74–84, 96–99, 105–106, 131, 133–134, 158

surprise and, 11, 75, 81, 154 wonder and, 75, 81, 133–134 Mathematics, 45, 69, 71, 85–93, 111–128, 155–157 Mayer, S., 3, 12, 19, 22, 148, 160, 160n1 Framing/Developing/Evaluating heuristic (FDE), 21–22, 22n2 Mayer, S. et al., 3n1 McKinney, A., 3 Mehan, H., 22n2 Mehta, J., 54, 63 Meier, D., 160 Mertl, V., 16 Miller, K., 40 Miller, R., 62 Misunderstandings (student), 52 MIT Aeroastro, 131 MIT Full Steam Ahead, 140 Moll, L., 20, 42 Morrison, P., 132n2 Murnane, 61, 62 Narrative values analysis, 43 NASA, 132n2 A Nation at Risk, 165–166 National Academies of Sciences, Engineering, and Medicine, 42 National Commission on Excellence in Education, 165 National Council for the Social Studies, framework, 166n7 National Council of Social Studies, 98, 102 National Council of Teachers of English, 166n7 National Council of Teachers of Mathematics, 166n7 National Research Council, 62 National Science Teachers Association, 166n7 Newton, I., 132n2, 133, 141 No Child Left Behind (NCLB), 166, 166n6 Noddings, N., 21 Noyes, A., 114, 115 Oakes, J., 64

194 Index Observation apprenticeship of, 14, 16 observing learners, 17, 25, 37, 41, 51, 60, 66, 69, 72, 106–107, 148 observing materials/the world, 2, 4, 21, 24–27, 32, 34–36, 85–86, 129–131 Ogonowski, M., 20 Organisation for Economic Co– operation and Development, 62 Papert, Seymour, 163n4 Paris, D., 17, 20, 36, 42n2 Partelow, L., 95 Pedagogical purposes, 112–116, 133, 166–168 Pedagogy of teacher education centrality of, 14–16, 64, 159, 164, 167 commitments regarding, 17–23 democratic, 21, 58–61 interactionist, 2, 57, 66 questions regarding, 11 theoretically grounded, 58–61 Pellegrino, J., 62–63 Piaget, J., 3, 10, 12–13, 51, 51n4, 64–66, 110, 116, 160–164 conservation, 46–47 intellectual lineage of, 146–149 North American misunderstandings, 148, 162–163 North American reception, 162 Piagetian conceptual framework, 18, 51 teaching as a profession, on, 65 Plato, 111–114 Poetry, 12, 29, 54, 75, 144 Progressive education, 58–61, 63, 64–65, 160 Pseudonyms, 5n2, 28, 41 Qādīzādah, M., 133 Questions, 89 researcher, 10 student, 70, 86, 90–91, 118–126 teacher, 47–48, 70–71, 154, 155

Raph, J., 162, 162n3 Rauchwerk, S., 149, 159 Recorde, R., 120–121 Red Bull Stratos, 132n2 Reflection, 1, 15, 23, 30, 33, 43, 47, 48, 52, 53, 55, 59, 80, 96, 98, 107, 117, 131, 132, 134, 140, 144, 146, 149, 152, 154, 157, 159, 167 preservice teachers’ reflections, 42–43, 47–48, 50–53, 68–69, 70–72, 90, 111–112, 120, 126–127, 153–154, 157–158 teacher educators’ reflections, 37–38, 56–57, 83–84, 89, 92–93, 107–110, 127–128 Reid, D., 162n2 Researching practice, 28, 40–41, 43–44, 45, 67–68, 89, 91–93 in PK–12 classrooms, 16, 19, 65 stance, 67 Rogoff, B., 18, 42 Roosevelt, D., 1 Rosebery, A., 20 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 160 Saint-Exupéry, A., 132n2 Salazar, M., 42n2 Savage, Mike, 84 Schneier, L., 9, 31n2, 97, 132, 159, 164n5 Schön, D., 15–16, 18 technical rationality vs. reflection-inaction, 15 Schwebel, M., 162, 162n3 Science, 6, 10, 11, 14, 28, 30, 44, 45, 67, 73, 77, 100, 102, 127, 129–145, 150, 151, 163, 166 Science and Technology for Children, 31n2 Scripted curriculum, 14, 92 Seifert, K., 51n4 Seigfried, C., 21 Sellitto, Nicola, 149 Sense-making, 17, 66, 160 cultural aspects, 19–21 personal aspects, 10, 19–21, 34–35 Senta, A., 43–44 Shiflett, R., 40

Index 195 Shorr, W., 94, 96 Shulman, L., 18 Sinclair, Hermine, 3, 65–66, 180 Singh, S., 57n5 Situated cognition, 42 Smith, D., 118, 121 Social justice, 58, 64 Social studies, 6, 24, 28, 30, 45, 53, 94–110, 166 Solórzano, D., 20 Sputnik, 5, 162–163, 165 Subject vs. object of learning, positioning student as, 1, 7, 15, 20–21, 43 Sutton, R., 51n4 Swetz, F., 118, 121 Tai, B., 36n4 Teacher education, ix, 1, 2, 5, 6, 7, 9, 15, 16, 27, 39, 56, 57, 58, 64, 65–67, 72, 109, 111, 115, 117, 131, 132, 146, 149, 158, 159, 160, 164, 167–168 assignments, 79–81, 99–107 course design, 11–12, 27–32, 37–38, 41–45, 56–57, 67–69, 74–81, 85–87, 92–93, 95–109, 111– 112, 116–118, 120, 130–134 course readings, 46, 54, 111, 118, 121, 133–134 courses, 2, 15, 16, 27–28, 32, 37, 38, 40–44, 67–69, 115–120 Teacher identity, 14–16 Teacher preparation, 9, 57, 66–67 Teachers as researchers, 7, 13, 19, 20 CEC as a teaching-learning research stance and practice, 2–4 teaching-learning research stance and practices, 2, 18–21, 66, 168 Teaching imagination, role in, 39, 43–45

teaching-learning dynamic, 52 as telling, 55, 64, 68 transmission view of, 14, 68–69, 71 Testing PK–12, 9, 13, 14, 165–166 teacher education, 13, 15–16 Transformation, 38, 64, 143–144 schools as places for, 59 Uncertainty, 46–48, 103, 117, 131, 133, 142–144, 154, 167–168 Valencia, R., 20, 42, 42n2 Vidal, F., 147 Vitruvius Pollio, M., 132n2 Vocational education, 60–61 Vonèche, J., 148 Vossoughi, S. et al., 21, 56, 57n5 Vygotsky, L., 160–161 Vygotskian conceptual framework, 18, 161 Warm demander, 44, 48–49 Warren, B., 20 Weber, M., 94 Wenger, E., 95 Wilford, J., 132n2 Witherington, D. C., 18 Wonderful ideas, 5, 47, 92, 162n3 Workplace preparation, 61, 62 World Economic Forum, 61, 62 Wozniak, R., 18 Wright brothers, 131, 132n2, 140, 144 Yang, Y., 32n3 Zacharias, Jerrold, 163 Zeichner, K., 15 teacher as technician vs. teacher as professional, 15 Zone of proximal development, 161