In defence of the Secret Teacher

(This is a slightly extended version of a post that was originally published on staffrm.io on 23rd August 2015)

Last week, I considered writing a blog post suggesting that there might actually be too much unsolicited generic advice for new teachers out there on Twitter, blogs, etc. My reasoning being that most new teachers will get their advice from mentors and peers in schools, and most of that advice is school-specific. They might also read a book or two on teaching, and they will probably seek out specific advice when they need it.

I decided that such a blog post was probably uncharitable to write: despite my concerns that such a gamut of advice might be overwhelming, as well as the often conflicting nature of different people’s advice, I think there probably isn’t too much harm in it.

And then the Secret Teacher wrote an article about having a really difficult NQT year. And what was the response from edu-Twitter, the realm of support and advice? Well it was largely one of condemnation: questioning whether the experience/writer was real; questioning whether the experience was representative; suspicion of anonymity; and upset that it didn’t represent balance.

The lack of support, advice or sympathy was rather conspicuous to me, especially coming from a profession that prides itself on such things.

I thought back to my concerns over the gamut of advice and it made me wonder why people write blogs and tweets of unsolicited advice when, at the moment someone is reaching out for support, they turn their back and question that person’s experience. Do we just write advice on our own terms, to make us feel good about ourselves? Okay, I’m probably being uncharitable again.

One of the reactions to Secret Teacher really astounds me – the one that says that “it isn’t representative of MY better experience”. Firstly, the Secret Teacher doesn’t claim to be representative. It is ONE column in ONE newspaper that gives an anonymous voice to someone who wants to share an experience without fear of reprisal, someone who wants to reach out. There are actually lots of affirming stories of teaching all over the web. Staffrm is full of great experiences for a start.

So imagine that one’s first response to Secret Teacher is that their experience needs to be counteracted with a different story, YOUR affirming story of teaching. It’s great that you want to share your wonderful experience. I’d say do it. But to do it AS A RESPONSE to the Secret Teacher, someone who this week was an NQT desperately struggling to stay in the job? Wow. That’s rubbing it in a bit, isn’t it? That’s riding roughshod over someone else’s experience and saying, “Great story, bro. Mine’s better.” By writing a #postapositive story as a response to the Secret Teacher – someone desperate for advice and support – you aren’t actually being positive at all. It’s a negative act.

I still think there is too much unsolicited advice out there. But someone here is soliciting advice. Why not give some? Why not #postapositive piece of advice to the Secret Teacher?

I’ve since been contacted by many people who have had similar experiences to this week’s Secret Teacher – they struggled through their NQT year with very little support. They empathise with exactly what the Secret Teacher was going through. But they made it, because they reached out and people gave them support.

So, here’s a question for you: what if that NQT story from this week wasn’t actually a negative story? What if it was just the beginning of a really great, affirming story of teaching? A story of a teacher who was really struggling, so they reached out to the teaching community and that community responded with support and advice that helped that teacher go on to a great career?

In condemning the Secret Teacher as part of a call to hear more ‘positive stories’ in teaching, you may actually be missing an opportunity to create those stories yourself.

JT Airlines – We’re a Great Way to Fall

Today is the day that successful people will tell you that they failed their A-levels and that, in spite of this, they have still become successful people.

Stories like this are great. They remind us that we don’t need to try hard for success. In fact, I think sooner or later we’ll probably realise that we don’t need A-levels or GCSEs at all and we can all just go boldly into the world and be hugely successful without education. Every single one of us.

So, on this day of A-level results, why don’t you celebrate whatever your results are. Because, pass or fail, you’ll probably be successful – and famous – anyway. And what’s the best way to celebrate? A holiday of course.

Yes, I know that they are expensive, but I’ve got an idea to make them cheaper: we cut out the landing. Not only will this save fuel and time, it will also save money on all the airport fees. Also, without landings we can just drop you off at your final destination, so you won’t need to transfer from the airport. Yes, with JT Airlines you can fly really cheaply because we’ll just throw you out of the plane directly above your hotel.

I know what you are thinking: “won’t the extra cost of parachutes just make up the expense anyway?” The answer is: NO – we won’t be using parachutes.

Oh, you think that might be dangerous? I beg to differ. Vesna Vulović would too.

You see, Vesna was a flight attendant for JAT Yugoslav Airlines. And on January 26th 1972, she was on flight 367 which tragically exploded over the village of Srbská Kamenice, in (the former) Czechoslovakia. A terrible tragedy indeed, but not entirely so for Vesna. She survived the reported fall of 33,333 ft (10,160 metres). Without a parachute.

But Vesna isn’t the only person to survive a great fall from an aircraft. Former Soviet Airforce lieutenant  Ivan Chisov survived a 23,000 ft fall; during World War II, American airman Alan Magee fell 22,000 ft from his B-17 Flying Fortress and survived, whilst RAF gunner Nicholas Alkemade just suffered a sprained leg from his 18,000 ft fall; and German biologist Juliane Koepcke survived a 10,000 ft fall from a commercial airliner.

So you can see – lots of people have successfully survived falls from 10,000 ft and above. So there’s really nothing to worry about.

My new airline will take away a lot of the expense from holidays to destinations near and far with this innovative approach. Now I just need to get the advertising right. I’m thinking maybe a picture of Vesna Vulović with the quote:

“If you’re worried about falling from a plane, be cheered by the fact that I fell 33,000 ft. And I’m currently sitting in a villa in St Tropez.”

Wait… what do you mean that’s terrible advice?

Conspicuous work: do we compound the workload issue ourselves?

Scene: Due to him locking his keys inside it, George Costanza’s car has been sat in the parking lot at his workplace for a number of days now. He has been working his regular hours, but commuting via other means. He has just returned from a meeting with his boss Mr, Wilhelm, who, in turn, reports to the owner George Steinbrenner. Costanza has come to Jerry’s apartment with good news about a possible promotion…
Costanza: Assistant to the general manager! Do you know what that means? He could be asking my advice on trades. Trades, Jerry! I’m a heart beat away!
Jerry: That’s a hell of an organisation they are running up there. I can’t understand why they haven’t won a pennant in 15 years.
Costanza: And it is all because of that car. See, Steinbrenner is like the first guy in at the crack of dawn. He sees my car, he figures I’m the first guy in. Then the last person to leave is Wilhelm. He sees my car, he figures I’m burning the midnight oil! Between the two of them, they think I’m working an 18-hour day!
Jerry: Locking your keys in the car is the best career move you ever made.
Seinfeld – ‘The Caddy’

Over 100 years ago, at the turn of the 20th century, sociologist and economist Thorstein Veblen coined the term ‘conspicuous consumption’ to describe the way that the upper classes purchased luxury goods as a means of publicly displaying their wealth. In his book, Theory of the Leisure Class, he criticised such showing off: not only did he think it wasted resources, but he also noted that the lower classes then sought to emulate the upper classes with similar unnecessary conspicuous consumption.

It’s a plausible theory: that to confer status, people might act a certain way only to be seen doing so. As such, it has some common ground with the modern phenomenon of virtue signalling.

Seeing quite a few people posting pictures of displays on Twitter during this first week of the holidays, I wondered (out loud, on Twitter) if ‘conspicuous work’ had ever been forwarded as a concept.

A quick search showed a study from the Netherlands from this year which took that very term as it’s title. ‘Conspicuous Work’ looked at male workers over a period of 17 years and drew the following conclusions:

  • The workers imitated their peers working hours – the longer their peers worked, the longer they did
  • The workers derived status from matching their peers working hours
  • This ‘peer working time’ negatively affected their happiness

They further summarised that “These findings are consistent with a ‘conspicuous work’ model, in which individuals derive status from working time.”

It seems that conspicuous work really is a viable notion. Jonathan Simons (of Policy Exchange) shared this anecdote:

I wonder if posting pictures of displays we’ve just made or of the marking we’re doing during the holidays fits with the conspicuous work model? Is a picture of a display actually a teacher’s version of the jacket on the back of the chair, or the car left late in the car park? Well, the honest answer is that I’m not sure that it is as conscious as those examples.

But whether there is intention in this conspicuous work or not, the important issue is whether or not this creates a culture in which peers see this conspicuous work and then imitate it. Do we, like the Dutch workers, derive status – consciously or not – from matching (or even superseding) our peers working hours? Or is it that we see others working and we feel we need to match it in order to maintain parity?

Of course, I’m not standing in judgement over people sharing pictures of displays in the holidays. Posting photos on social media is a very useful way to share ideas. And we are so busy that this downtime is often the only time we get to festoon our shabby staple-flecked walls with colourful new compositions. I’m certain that I too have shared work – although obviously not as beautiful – during the holidays. Heck, even this blog post is about work, so I’m hardly setting an example here.

But I wonder if what we are doing here is creating a normative message about being a teacher? By tweeting pictures of work we are completing during the holidays, we are saying this is okay; this is what we do; this is acceptable behaviour; moreover, this is… expected behaviour? I’ve written before about how the messages we send out create behavioural norms and how this can be either damaging or useful when talking to pupils. Are we creating a message about how working in your holidays is normative behaviour for teachers? And if so, are we compounding the workload issue ourselves?

I’d be interested in responses to this. Social media is brilliant for sharing ideas and, as we spend our working hours actually teaching, most of the sharing has to happen outside of those hours. So I find it hard to argue against such sharing. I wonder if there is an answer to this or is it simply a paradox we have to put up with?

Are these the best English subject textbooks you’ve ever seen?

Textbooks have been in the news this past academic year. We’ve been told by Nick Gibb to shed our “anti-textbook ethos”, whilst U.S. education advisor Richard Culatta has said that British schools should scrap textbooks because they “are outdated, they are in a format that it’s not adaptable, and for students learning in other languages, they can’t press the word and get a definition.”

I’m more inclined to side with Gibb than Culatta on this one. It’s not my intention in this post to reason why, so I’ll point you in the direction of Tim Oates’ paper ‘Why textbooks count’, as well as David James‘ excellent response to Richard Culatta.

Saving those arguments for another blog, this post is merely an attempt to share with you one of a set of excellent English language and literature textbooks that I have come across this year (all done with a deferential nod to Bodil Isaksen, whose excellent blog on Singaporean Maths textbooks I aim to imitate here).

I have been looking for good English textbooks for a while and earlier this year I came across this set published by Mcdougall Littel (click ‘High School/Language Arts’ > ‘International’ if the link takes you to the homepage):

booksThere are 13 books according to the website linked above, and they concentrate on either English language or literature. They are incredibly comprehensive books. The ‘Language Network‘ book (targeted at Grade 10 pupils in the U.S.) in the left of the picture is 704 pages long and covers the following areas over 32 chapters:

boookNot only that, it also includes 100 pages of exercises, model writing, etc.1111

The content of the language books is excellent, however it isn’t these that I wish to write about today. Rather it is the mammoth literature textbooks that I want to share.

The Language of Literature: British Literature‘ is an incredible piece of work. It is 1,470 pages long for a start! But I think that the quality matches the quantity. However, rather than listening to me eulogise, I’m going to show you its contents, and let you tell me what you think. Here’s the cover:Screen Shot 2015-07-26 at 16.28.53

The book is a chronological presentation of British literature from 495AD to the present day, giving between 250-300 pages to each of the seven periods it covers:Screen Shot 2015-07-26 at 16.07.14

Each period covers various authors and gives a range of texts (poems, short stories or extracts from novels) from each. Here are the contents of the first two units, on The Anglo-Saxon and Medieval Periods and The English Renaissance:Screen Shot 2015-07-26 at 16.07.21Screen Shot 2015-07-26 at 16.07.25Screen Shot 2015-07-26 at 16.07.28There are also other features in the book, including language features on vocabulary building and sentence construction:Screen Shot 2015-07-26 at 16.08.16

Every unit begins with a timeline of the period, as well as a few pages on the historical background, which includes how language developed as well as the literary history:Screen Shot 2015-07-26 at 16.11.02Screen Shot 2015-07-26 at 16.11.05Screen Shot 2015-07-26 at 16.11.08

With each text, there is a bit of background as well as suggestions to focus pupils’ reading. There’s support with notes on the language throughout and, post-reading, there are questions for comprehension and critical thinking, and a variety of tasks for extension, vocabulary, exploration and writing responses:Screen Shot 2015-07-26 at 16.12.10 Screen Shot 2015-07-26 at 16.12.36 Screen Shot 2015-07-26 at 16.12.45 Screen Shot 2015-07-26 at 16.13.00

Some of the sections are incredibly in depth. The 9-page author study on William Shakespeare brings is followed by a focus on Macbeth which is over 100 pages in length, and is mostly made up of scenes from the play with supporting materials:Screen Shot 2015-07-26 at 16.14.05

The final 100-or-so pages focuses on support for English language, with sections on reading, writing, communication, grammar, as well as a glossary of literary terms and a vocabulary builder (presumably the use of Spanish here is due large number of Spanish speakers in some U.S. states):Screen Shot 2015-07-26 at 16.07.57Screen Shot 2015-07-26 at 16.24.48Screen Shot 2015-07-26 at 16.25.55Screen Shot 2015-07-26 at 16.26.42Screen Shot 2015-07-26 at 16.27.01Screen Shot 2015-07-26 at 16.27.51Screen Shot 2015-07-26 at 16.28.13As you can see, at nearly 1500 pages this book is incredibly comprehensive. It covers the history of British literature largely through texts, and the editors have selected those texts judiciously. The fact that the book is so heavy on content – poems, short stories and extracts from longer pieces – is a real winner for me.

At some point, I’ll blog about some of the other titles in the range – which are all equally as comprehensive – but I’d be interested as to what other English teachers make of this book.

They can be picked up from auction sites or Amazon Marketplace for fairly reasonable prices. Most of these I got for less than £10 plus P+P – some I managed to get for just a few quid including postage. I wouldn’t advise spending too much over the odds for them – be wary of shipping costs from the States.

If anyone has used these or manages to get hold of one, I’d be interested to know what you think? Or even your impressions based on the tiny peak I have shared here?

Edit: a quick Google search can turn up PDF versions of some of these books. Here’s the one literature one I’ve just discussed.

The Final Comedown: Nothing prepares me for the end of term

I’ve looted and I’ve begged
On the tubes of the Bec and Broadway
I’ve been run over by cars
And to prove it here’s the scars
On my wrists
I’ve been cut
I’ve been stitched
I’ve been buggered, bewitched and abandoned

But nothing in Heaven or Earth
Prepared me for this
The Final Comedown

It’s a victory worth sharing
We should celebrate I think
With the bloodiest of Marys
But I’m too ****ed to drink.

Okay, so Carter U.S.M. were hardly poets, but I’ve found a bit of solace in these words lolloping around my brain today.

But why do I need solace? Yesterday was the end of term and today is the first day of the holidays. As the longest period of respite stretches itself out lazily in front of me, surely this is the feast day for teachers; a carnival of recreation; edu-Saturnalia?

So why am I not frolicking in Bacchanalian debauchery right now? Why am I not gambolling on a sawdust-covered table, spilling wine from my brass goblet?

Because I’m in a funk. I’m in the funk I’m always in at this point of the year. I’m not sure if it is something that affects everyone. But if it does, then there is so much excited build-up to the end of term that nobody really talks about it. It doesn’t matter how hard the year has been, or how ready I am for the break, nothing in Heaven or Earth prepares me for this: The Final Comedown.

Don’t get me wrong. I need a break. I couldn’t cope without it. This has been a particularly tough year and so the summer holiday is more needed than ever. It’s just that the sudden loss of purpose is like the moment when Wile E. Coyote runs out of ground and goes plummeting into the canyon: it’s a shock. And it’s one that leaves me with a numb and hollow feeling for a couple of days.

Is it the suddenness of it? Is it the fact that teaching over-occupies me for most of the year and thus nothing can really ever replace it or fill the void of its purpose? The summer break isn’t so much a blank canvas, rather it’s a palimpsest of term time. It takes a short while to scrape off what is already on the page before you can fill it with something new.

And it is just a short while too. I know from experience that the comedown passes after a day or two. And at that point, I couldn’t be happier to be on a break. But in these early days, it’s like being in limbo.

This funk can be harder if you have the added sorrow of saying goodbye to colleagues who are dear to you and who are off to pastures new. This year I have said goodbye to friends who I have grown very fond of and who are crossing the globe in search of new horizons. We’ve all experienced this kind of loss and know that it creates an even greater vacuum to try and fill.

But I’m really not complaining about having five and a half weeks off school. It is absolutely necessary and will mean that I can teach with renewed vigour in September. And it honestly does feel like an achievement to get to the end of another academic year. It really is a victory worth sharing. We certainly should celebrate, I think, with the bloodiest of Marys. But – right now, just for a couple of days – I’m too ****ed to drink.

The Knowledge

“So, you’re wanting to be a London cabbie, then? Hope you’re prepared to put in all the hard work it takes to do the job? All the study?” asked the slightly gruff, porcine man.

“Er, yes. I’ve just got the Blue Book, and I’ve started trying to learn the roads and runs and that…” replied the enthusiastic young man.

“The what? Oh, yeh, you won’t be needing that. The Blue Book, I mean. We don’t really use that anymore for studying to be a cabbie.”

“You don’t… I mean, I don’t need the Blue Book? But it’s got all the runs and routes in it? The ones I… I mean, I thought the Blue Book was the main source of, you know… The Knowledge.”

The gruff man snorted. “‘The Knowledge’? Yeh, we don’t call it that anymore.”

The young man knotted his brow. “Huh? What do you mean? Why don’t you…?”

“Yeh, we don’t call it The Knowledge anymore. I mean knowledge is important, of course. But the people at Transport for London realised that it was more important to have higher order skills. They decided that we need cabbies who can analyse the routes, evaluate them and create new runs. No good just knowing the runs. Here, it’s all based on this.” The gruff man pointed to a poster on his wall:

bloom

“See?” he continued. “These things are much more important than the knowledge itself, so we focus on those instead.”

“Oh, right.” said the young man, perplexed. ” So how would I go about learning the… erm…”

“We now call it The Skills. As I say, The Knowledge isn’t really a thing anymore.”

“Right. So… how would I go about learning, The, er, Skills? I mean, I suppose I still need to learn the routes and runs first, right? I’d have to know that stuff first, wouldn’t I?”

“Hey, I’m not saying knowledge isn’t important. We all know it’s the foundation on which the higher order skills are built. We’re not that stupid.”

“Okay. I was a little worried then that I wouldn’t get the chance to do  The Knowledge…”

“We don’t call it that…”

“Yeh, of course. I mean, I was worried I wouldn’t get to learn all the routes and runs. My old man was a cabbie and he prided himself on learning The Kno… on knowing his way around London. I’d like to follow in his footsteps. So how do I go about learning the runs? What sort of time frame are we talking about?”

“I tell you what: you take your Blue Book out into the lobby and sit and read it for a bit. When you’ve got an idea of some of the runs, we’ll get you started on The Skills; the higher order stuff. I’m going for a coffee and a fag. Shall we say half an hour?”

“Half an hour?” The young man’s mouth hung open for a few seconds, before he snapped it shut and composed himself. “Doesn’t it take years to really know this stuff? I thought you said knowledge is the foundation…”

“Oh, it is. It is. We’d be stupid if we said it wasn’t. But it’s also really important to make sure that you are able to do the higher order stuff too. You go and get some of your knowledge and then when I’m back, we’ll sort out your tickets for your trip to Mumbai. I take it you are available to fly this week?”

“Yes, I’m… wait… what? Fly…? Mumbai…? This week…?”

“Yeh. Mumbai’s the best place, usually. But if you’d rather do Shanghai, we can…”

“Why would I need to go to Mumbai?” The young man was utterly perplexed. “I want to be a cabbie in London. I want to… I want to…”

“You need to do a placement overseas in order to learn The Skills. You’ll basically need to apply your knowledge to the streets of Mumbai. You’ll go there and learn how to evaluate and analyse and to be creative. Then you can come back to London and apply those skills so you can drive around better. Honestly, you’ll like Mumbai. Or Shanghai. Whichever you choose. I mean, if either of those are really a problem for you, I suppose we could send you to New York…”

“I don’t have a problem with those places… I mean, I do have a problem with them in that they aren’t London! It’s not the places themselves. I just want to be cabbie in London so I need to learn about London streets! Why would I…?”

“The Skills, son. You’ll need to learn The Skills. As I said before, you’ll need to learn how to create new routes. You’ll need to learn how to evaluate which route to take in rush hour or where to divert if there’s been an accident. You’ll need to analyse traffic reports in order to ensure you have all the details. Those things are really important. Higher order, innit?”

“But won’t it be better if I just learn The Knowledge…”

“We don’t use that…” the gruff man insisted.

“If I just learned… The Knowledge,” the young man darted a forceful look at his interlocutor as he mouthed the words, “I could just apply that knowledge to what I needed to do. The Knowledge would ensure that I’d know what routes to take at certain times. The Knowledge would mean that analysis and evaluation and creation would be more-or-less automatic: I’d be able to make quick decisions of analysis and evaluation and change my route using the knowledge I’d have of the runs. I’d be able to create new runs without really thinking too hard. Why do I need to learn these skills in a different place and then try and apply those skills to the place where I actually need to use them? It doesn’t make sense. I understand that creativity and evaluation and analysis are important to a cabbie, but these are things that just spring forth from a sound understanding of The Knowledge. I don’t need to learn creativity as a discrete skill. It’s nonsense.” The young man sunk back into his seat.

“Right. I see.” The gruff man looked thoughtful, but not entirely dejected. Then he smiled, and spoke again. “You have a problem with the Bloom’s taxonomy approach to cabbie training? I understand that. It’s not the way you like to learn things. You don’t think you need to learn creativity. That’s okay.”

The young man looked on, breathless. The gruff man continued. “There is another approach to cabbie training we could use. You’ll like this one.”

He pointed to another poster, this time on the adjoining wall.

“Now, at the moment, you are at the SOLO Prestructural stage. But what if we got you thinking about driving a cab in an Extended Abstract way….”

Activities: the devil will find work for idle hands to do

Some years ago, when I was still held firmly within the gravitational pull of my initial teacher training, I wrote a blog about praxis.

Not praxis as seen through the work of Paulo Freire. Rather, I came to praxis through the words of Anthony H. Wilson. That’s Tony Wilson to you and I: former TV presenter and record label impresario. As co-founder of the legendary Factory Records in Manchester, Wilson nurtured pioneering bands such as Joy Division, New Order, and Happy Mondays; he also gave the world the fabled Haçienda nightclub –  the spiritual home of rave culture in the late 80s and early 90s. Oh, and he lost lots of money doing all of these things. Whenever he is asked about the reasoning behind these creative pursuits, he always referred to praxis. Here’s what the had to say about it:

So praxis for Wilson was post-rationalisation: he did things that he wanted to, and then he decided on the reasons for doing them afterwards.

In my rookie blogpost on the subject, I advocated this form of praxis to underpin classroom teaching. I was foolish. I thought that getting children to do activities in the classroom and then finding out what was learned afterwards was actually a reasonable idea. But then so did many other people: the post was rather well received.

The reason it was well received is because it followed a creed that was certainly dominant at the time of my training, and is still prevalent now: it prioritised the ‘how’ before the ‘what’. In essence, this is the approach of putting the designing of an activity before the most important thing: deciding what it is that we actually want children to learn.

Some time after I wrote about praxis, I read (and rather enjoyed) Phil Beadle’s book ‘Dancing About Architecture’. Like Tony Wilson, Beadle advocated this post-rationalisation:

“What fascinates me here is the infinity of potential in having the outcome completely led by process. If we take Gardner’s intelligences as being a guiding structure and run them back to front, the lesson outcome would be a thought: a thought about speech about an image of a piece of music, which is written about numbers that have been obtained by a literary text.”

Whilst this resonated with me at the time, I find myself opposed to it as an idea now. However, Beadle’s prophecy was fulfilled this week when David Didau tweeted an image of a grid that used Gardner’s multiple intelligences and Bloom’s taxonomy to suggest lesson activities:

Like praxis, this grid prioritises the undertaking of activities over why they are doing them. There seem to be no discernible objectives behind these tasks: what specifically is it that the teacher wants pupils to learn?

I have a similar issue with ‘takeaway homework’ menus. Both the Bloom’s/MI grid and takeaway homeworks seem to suffer under the same premise: pupils can choose what they want to do and that will differ in both activity and outcome for each pupil. And that is where I see problems: if pupils can undertake just one task from a choice of, say, 9 tasks, how valuable and purposeful are those tasks if pupils don’t have to do 8 of them? If the tasks have different learning outcomes, are teachers saying that 8 of those outcomes are unnecessary? Because if they are saying 8 of them are unnecessary, it means that all 9 of them are. This criticism may seem harsh, but such approaches have an underlying, unspoken principle: it doesn’t matter what the pupil does as long as they are doing something.

This is the cult of activity: an unconscious belief that occupying pupils with something is the most important part of lesson or homework planning, over and above deciding what it is that we want pupils to learn.

I say that it is an unconscious belief, because it really is for the majority of us. Most of us that have been in its thrall were indoctrinated by teacher training or by observation cultures that prioritise activities as the first concern.

Of course, whilst it’s true that faith in the cult of activity has been unconscious for most of us, some were knowingly performing and promoting its rituals. And those people should be utterly ashamed of themselves. Who are these contemptible, immoral people? I’ll tell you: they were the sort of people who were writing blogposts advocating praxis as an approach to teaching, that’s who. I hope they are suitably embarrassed.

What if everything David Didau thinks about education is right?

David Didau‘s new book, ‘What if everything you knew about education was wrong?’, is potentially a difficult read.

It’s not difficult because of convoluted jargon or purple prose. In fact, one of Didau’s great skills is in his ability to present complex ideas in an accessible and enjoyable way.

It’s not difficult because it’s uninteresting or monotonous (many education books take a straightforward theory or premise and overextend it so it meets the 100,000 word count). In fact, Didau’s book is utterly compelling from start to finish; there isn’t a superfluous word in it.

Didau’s book is potentially difficult because it confronts the reader – which we’ll assume to be largely teachers – with a series of challenges to some of the longest held and strongest held beliefs in education. As the author points out in his book, having our beliefs challenged is at best troublesome and at worst an act of heresy.

Yet this potential difficulty is soothed away by the author. Whilst knowingly presenting the reader with the eddying experience of cognitive dissonance, Didau holds our hand and explains that he is just as susceptible as us mere mortals.

Whereas some tomes in the recent rise of edu-mythbusting have been difficult to swallow for many and have often been divisive, Didau’s charming and avuncular style mean that this book will perhaps reconcile the divide where other books in the tradition have maybe struggled.

Indeed, his self-deprecation and affability means that we nod along when he presents us with potentially abrasive truths such as this one: “If your beliefs won’t bear up under close critical evaluation then maybe, just maybe, you believe something silly.”

And it is truth that is at the heart of this book. One gets the sense that this book has been a personal quest for the author. A quest in which he has had to challenge his own assumptions and beliefs. Didau could quite easily present this book as an assertive reportage of his findings, but thanks to his convivial approach, it feels like we are on that quest with him.

This quest sees him taking on the full scope of current edu-discourse, and the journey through cognitive science that takes us through the central part of the book is absolute gold. Along the way he confronts the gamut of topics,  from sacred cows such as group work (“A class of 30 individuals working in silence on a controlled assessment is still a group”) to recent fads like SOLO taxonomy (“Suffice it to say that I quietly took down my SOLO displays, put away the hexagons and went back to teaching pupils how to get better at reading and writing”), and this might cause some readers to turn on our hero. But it is the incredible depth and breadth of the author’s own reading that gives us faith in the pursuit. Didau has clearly done his homework. What is more, he’s done ours for us as well, the blooming swot. He’s even deferred to other experts to contribute extensively on topics such as data and educational psychology.

Where Didau has littered his book with references, I realise this review is found wanting. Normally when reviewing a book, I’d make references to the highlights and point out the parts that I found troubling. Yet what I found troubling about this book is that on every page is a highlight. I made notes and marked pages as I read it, thinking about what I’d like to share with colleagues. It was a pointless task: I could only conclude that I want to share it all (although ‘Chapter 21: Why observing lessons doesn’t work’ in particular will definitely be finding its way to senior colleagues). In short, I urge people: read it.

This book could change hearts and minds. It should change hearts and minds. It may be ironic then – in the Morissette sense of the word – that a reason some minds might remain unchanged will be due to one of the biases that Didau identifies early on in the book – the backfire effect. I hope that the author has done enough to pierce this common yet pernicious barrier. As he warns us:

“Despite what we may think, most of our beliefs are founded on faith not logic. We have faith in what we believe because it’s what we believe. To have our most deeply held convictions attacked is intolerable and it forces us into a corner. You cannot sway someone’s faith with evidence and we rarely win arguments with logic.”

The reason this book ultimately succeeds, though, is because David never actually asserts that he is right. What he does is present very convincing – and often indisputable – reasons why we might be wrong. It leaves the reader thinking: but what if everything David Didau thinks about education is right? And that can only be a good thing.

The impression that I get: Sir Ken at #EducationFest

Okay, I wasn’t there. It was a Friday so I was, you know, teaching lessons and that. Therefore, what follows is just an impression I have from Sir Ken Robinson’s speech at The Sunday Times Festival of Education 2015. The impression I get is from comments on Twitter. Comments such as these:

https://twitter.com/reading_woman/status/611919718241406976

https://twitter.com/reading_woman/status/611922675339014145

So what is the impression I get from Sir Ken’s speech? Well, it’s that he is charming and clever and has the crowd in the palm of his hands. But it’s also that he seems to avoid committing to saying anything concrete, anything substantial. I’m not sure that he confronts any scrutiny or challenge to his ideas. The impression that I get is basically this:

Oh, and apparently he also said this:

Oops. Naughty me.

But he’s right. This is an ad hominem. And I’m happy to be corrected on my impression. Please comment and put me right.

Knowledge is obsolete! Unburden yourself here…

I have been following the tweets from Northern Rocks with interest. As always with education conferences, there are some really smart ideas tossed out and hashtagged for posterity. But every now and again one of these edu-summits spews out a thought that is a real game changer.

I think this may be that very thought:

Yep: Knowledge is becoming obsolete. It’s over. It’s done for. It’ll soon be pushing up the daisies. This is brilliant news.

Think of everything we could do without knowledge cluttering up our brains? Actually… don’t think of everything we could do! The beauty of knowledge obsolescence is that you don’t have to think at all.

So what should we do with all this knowledge we’ve already accumulated? If knowledge is truly becoming obsolete, we could unburden ourselves of the knowledge we have already acquired and free our brains up for other, more important stuff.

I’m sold on this. It’s the way forward. So I have a proposition. A proposition for others, like me, who believe that knowledge is obsolete. We can just look up stuff we need now, so we don’t need to really know anything. Let’s put our money where our mouths are. Let’s show everyone exactly how obsolete knowledge is. This is it. This is what I propose we do:

Let’s have our minds wiped. Let’s do it. Let’s get rid of everything we know. Let’s unburden ourselves of all of the knowledge that we have amassed over our lives. Let’s do this so that we can move forward in a world where we can live freely and achieve great things without the heavy burden of dusty old knowledge littering up our noggins.

If, like me, you truly believe that knowledge is becoming obsolete, this is a sign of our commitment to that belief.

Who’s in? I’ll fire up the neuralyzers…

I'm just a teacher, standing in front of a class, asking them to be quiet and listen.

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