Unstable ground

It is, on one hand, a small thing in an otherwise farsighted interview response, but it did give me pause upon an initial reading. The utterance of concern:

Pre-constructed models like courses are useful for fields where information is somewhat stable. History, for example, hasn’t changed significantly (other than our interpretation of it). The heroes of ancient Greece, the development of philosophy, and the development of the scientific process are all fairly stable. If we can put borders around information-which is exactly what we are doing when we create a course-without oversimplifying it or reducing its accuracy, then we can teach it as a course. If, on the other hand, we are dealing with information that is complex, requires multiple perspectives, or is changing rapidly, then a course model is not desirable. 

I’ve been ruminating on the implications of the above paragraph, and so thought I’d  “think out loud” on two levels—one, just for the record, about my understanding of history, and the other about courses as a delivery mechanism.

About history: OK, so we all have our mental models of disciplines. In my case, I gravitate toward seeing math as something cut-and-dried and “stable.” But then I remember my mathematician college roommate, talking about symmetry, infinity, and the face of God… suggesting that my math education has, um, somehow missed the mark. And so I rather think that George Siemen’s admittedly qualified statement of history as “stable” was an off-the-cuff example, not a reflection of his true understanding of history.  Ultimately, I’d suspect that there is no seriously deep learning that ideally fits a course structure—rather, courses are a way of, or result in, de-complexifying any topic for the sake of delivery and coverage, and are a persistent product of the limited learning and communication options of earlier times.

Stable might be safe, but it's often less engaging.

In any case, from my view, the interpretation of history is not a parenthetical activity. It is the PRIMARY activity of historical understanding. Indeed, by putting borders around segments of history, it becomes oversimplified, and its accuracy is reduced. History is, by its very nature “complex” and “requires multiple perspectives.”

And I worry that the idea that learning in relation to history can easily be kept within some type of bounds implies, to a degree, that the importance of history is its factual content. Generations of captive history students, face-down and drooling on their desks, indicate that approaches of this nature are not only unfortunately limited, but also a fatal blow to any intrinsic interest in examining historical/cultural change.

Jerome Bruner (1996) notes that “’true history,’ without regard to the perspective from which it was written [one aspect of interpretation], is a bit a mischievous joke and at worst a bid for political hegemony.” These perspectives, I would suggest, are anything but stable, although they are generally packaged as such. Clay Burell has tackled this issue on his blog consistently, most recently advocating a critique of history textbooks  as a learning activity, one that implicitly strikes at the boundaries of the course concept.

In these examples, George and Clay generally focus on the interfaces of learner, history and historical thinking within the setting or framework of an institution, classroom or course (although I know their thinking goes beyond this in general). I appreciate the existing and perhaps ongoing need for thoughtful approaches to these structures. I just am not inclined to live within them, and these are not necessarily where I would ideally situate the development of historical and interpretive skills and understandings. (Nor would I situate them in “inquiry” or “problem based learning,” which seem to be first line alternatives, but that’s another post.)

And yet I could see where certain subject matter is best served in the form of courses or classes…  So here’s a second set of thoughts, with a twist.

When selecting among the growing options for choosing learning paths, learners have different responses and approaches.  (And I do recognize that not all learners have these choices, or are able to take advantage of them when offered, for multiple reasons, many of them reflecting the numerous inequities in our society.)

The understanding of these paths derives from some admittedly limited ethnographic/fieldwork observations, but here they are, a rudimentary classification of opt-in approaches, in all their small-pond glory:

• Many learners will assume or be guided the understanding that learning can only take place under formal structures, and they will utilize or demand these, eschewing all other options.
• Others will choose to explore less structured options, with the idea that these are somehow “less work,” or an “easy out,” but will still adhere to or view formal courses as “real learning.”
• Some will conceive of ways to convert all learning requirements (understanding that there is currently persistent standardization in all accredited learning) to some form of project, even if they aren’t topics of primary interest. 
• And fourth segment of learners will embrace non-structured options as their primary learning path, but will use formal courses/classes as a way of “meeting standards” or distribution credits that are somehow not addressed or encompassed in the self-directed work that reflects their main interests. This is view is the opposite of the second group, as the “cut-and-dried” nature of defined courses is viewed here as the “easier” option.

Interestingly, The Digital Nomad addressed this idea of the student—or teacher—selecting the depth of learning as I was writing this post.

As teachers I think it is one of our main goals to help students to encounter a lasting and impressive learning experience. But is it always necessary in every subject with every topic to achieve that? Don’t we as teachers demand too much of our pupils if we make them learn intensively and deeply everything? Or is it sometimes also ok for us as teachers if some content is just discussed on the surface, just to get it done, before dedicating more time and energy to thoroughly treating topics that we regard as more promising?

And how about the students? Is it ok for them to actively decide for the strategic approach and do some work just to get a good grade?

My current observation is that, given the choice, this is indeed how some students will approach requirements, strategically creating space for other interests. (And while this may be a given at the higher education level, my observations are based on younger learners.)

It is this latter group that might be of most interest to those discussing the concept of courses. The choices of this group suggest that a course regarding history—or any other topic– as bounded content may indeed have a home in learning. However, I would suggest that the selection of bounded and discipline-based courses or traditional classrooms (which I realize I am throwing willy-nilly into the same pot), will be driven or developed not as a factor of the inherent nature of a given discipline, but as a function of their utility for the learner.

Otherwise self-directed learners who are obligated to meet top-down “coverage” requirements for the sake of accreditation will gravitate toward the boundaried approach to topics in which they are less interested. Structures that tell the learner “this is what you do, this is what you should know and how you should apply it, and this is how it is measured” turn out to be the quick and dirty answer to “you must do X even though you’re not interested, because we say so.”

This isn’t to say that this learning can’t spark interest, or is “bad.” It just seems to become the fallback option, with some interesting implications.

In some cases, I’d suggest that this approach facilitates learners who are focused on their “10,000 hours” of practice toward expertise in other areas. I’d also suggest this raises questions about the role of  face-to-face, blended, or online learning supported by current subject-matter teachers.

Strategically working toward expertise.

Learners differ, and these options, based on learner demand, will probably exist in various configurations and systems well into the future.

But I have observed that learners with growing experience in personalized, self-structured, socially engaging and connective learning are finding that the human/hierarchical demands of structured and required courses (step-by-step processes pegged to teacher-defined dates, required interaction with unengaged peers in the name of “working in teams,” validation of learning through the small world of in-class assessments, etc.) seem, in a word I’ve heard, “silly.”

And so in approaching requirements of lesser interest (or, on the other hand, approaching interests for which no mentors are available), I see learners turning to… self-paced, computer-delivered instruction. (Disruptive innovation comes true.)

This is not to say that there is no room for expert guidance, or peers. It simply means that such learners’ expectations for these individuals are that they will be engaged, cooperative co-conspirators, mentors, etc. in the service of mutual and individual goals… not teachers covering content. Those who aren’t willing to play, to engage with the learner’s processes and agendas… are being replaced with a machine.

In the current vernacular: I’m just sayin.’  And I’m just seein.’

So, to come full circle: Yes, perhaps history can be offered as a course under the guidance of an instructor, with relatively “stable” content. But I wouldn’t expect it to be the refuge of those most interested in history, or those seeking the best grasp of the discipline.  Those learners are out in the field with experts and like-minded peers. And as Siemens recently noted: 

The classroom is a model that communicates what is known; the lab, in contrast, is a model that explores what is not yet known. Learning in complex environments (or where existing knowledge is applied in new contexts) requires the educational enterprise to adopt exploratory approaches.

So maybe courses are for when the student wants to, or has to, know… what is known. But this doesn’t mean it’s going to be a course in a classroom… or with a teacher.

Learning around the corners

We learned last week that the Four Corners Monument  isn’t quite at the four corners of the southwestern states of Arizona, Utah, Colorado and New Mexico. (The site is also known as marking the convergence of six governments, including the Navajo Nation and the Ute Mountain Ute Tribe.)  The early surveyors, using some pretty basic technology very well, were close in determining this geographic intersection… but still off by several cigars.

This doesn’t mean that the Four Corners don’t exist– they’re just …a bit elsewhere. But if I were one of the thousands who had made the journey and posed for the traditional limbs-in-four-corners picture, would I feel put out? Perhaps a bit duped? Or would I appreciate the symbolic importance of the monument in spite of its geographic falsity? Perhaps I’d see those six misplaced football field lengths as simply close enough, and wouldn’t give it but a passing thought. It’s a perspective thing. A choice of attitude thing. Maybe even a personality thing.

But still, I’ve had fun playing with some metaphors here. What happens when you invest time and money in getting to a goal, directed by really big signs and certified by “authorities” … and then find it was really off the mark? If it didn’t really get you to where they said you’d go? Let’s say… following a college degree path supposedly leading to a “career”?  Would you feel duped at the end of the road, or would you appreciate the idea that you are “close enough?”

Close enough? (Dry Fork of Coyote Gulch, Utah)

I’ve also speculated about how this change in geographic understanding relates, metaphorically or otherwise, to changes in our understanding of learning. A lot of us see that learning has been mis/dislocated, that the measurements and locations of learning are “off.” So what about the statement that “the monument controls?” 

“Once [the geographic location is] adopted by the states, which it has been, the numerical errors are irrelevant. It becomes the legal definition.”

Sounds a bit like “that’s the way it’s always been.” Or , “We’ve set the standards to measurements from these [antique] instruments, and other factors are irrelevant.”

For the record, I’m not advocating a multi-million dollar monument-ectomy. It’s not necessary. I suspect that if the “right place” isn’t really “right,” there’s going to be a a certain mass of tourists who will set off to find it themselves, GPS devices in hand. Maybe they’re already there: Technologically enabled and independent adventurers, hiking through the desert scrub, ready to take those Four Corners pictures in the unmarked sand, instead of docilely accepting that the traditional, well-worn walk from the parking lot to the smooth, granite slab of the monument marker gets them “close enough.”

Who knows what other interesting things they’ll find out there.

Live bodies

In which it is quiet on the blog, but I speak in public. 

In early February I had the opportunity to talk to and with a few K-12 teachers about the potential of open education resources and personal learning environments. It was a sizable conference, with an attendance of about ten for my particular session, and about six other sessions running at the same time. 

The focus of the session was to describe the changing landscape and culture in which ples and oers operate and my experiences in this “new land” — a bit of a tour, rather than outright advocacy, although I make no secret of my support for individualized and connective learning.

In a long-past life in museum ed, I coordinated lots of learning workshops, with a focus on getting to the “hands-on” part. In this case, I figured on half a session of “intro info,” and half for play. That said, my first intro draft consisted of a four-page outline and 62 slides, which took me 2 ½ hours to talk through… and I could have said more. (Be afraid, be very afraid.) Once I got that out of my system, I whittled it down to 12 slides and about a half-hour’s worth of description… with the thought that session participants could then engage with each other and a wiki I had drafted, and I could step aside.

Um… a good plan that went a bit awry due to low tech saturation. All in all, it was a cultural reminder that while I’ve embraced back channel chat, will take notes on the computer and won’t hesitate to look up references mentioned by the speaker while a presentation is still in progress, bringing a laptop  to a workshop session is still pretty odd behavior at the K-12 instructional level (even with universal wifi at the conference). But good questions were asked, I hope I provided coherent answers, and an angry mob did not follow me home (nor did anyone’s head explode, which my teacher friend John felt could happen), so who could ask for anything more?

Poor man. Felled by "ologies."

And the session was, for me, a bit of a “final project” for the world of CCK08: could I communicate, in everyday language (avoiding terms like epistemology and ontology, because ologies are known narcotics) basic connectivist concepts in relation to OERS and PLES? I think I was successful at this. (Thanks to Wendy Drexler for her Networked Student video, which didn’t even exist at the time I wrote the conference proposal and thus subsequently made my presentation much easier, and Mike Bogle for his word cloud depicting the CCK08 self-organizing network of communication tools.)

So, I’ve had my out-on-the-fringes say in a face-to-face public. Not surprisingly, the world has continued in its usual orbit and I received no indication that I should hold my breath while hoping that anyone in a traditional education institution will throw off his or her sweater vest and run naked through the daisies into decentralized learning nirvana. But for anyone interested, the  “OERs and PLEs” snapshot/starter wiki (one of the billions, I imagine, consigned to the Graveyard of Fallow Wikis) and embedded presentation slides are available.

Keep your clothes on.

A semiotic interlude

Once upon a time, I went off to Austria as an exchange student. Having limited travel experience, it seemed a pretty big leap. Many years later, it’s clear to me that the Austrian and Minnesoto-American cultures are, in broad and relative strokes, much more similar than they are different. But as an inveterate researcher of culture and cultural change, I also am aware of how the “small things” communicate big messages.

One of the things that startled me most at the time was the mid-sized Bundesgymnasium’s lack of a library. My high school, built during a period of relatively progressive educational vision and funding, had a “media center” at its heart. This contained shelves and shelves of books and magazines, along with a small TV studio, and enough A-V opportunities to warrant the “media” designation. Students would meet in the media center for projects, and it was, in the conceptualization of David D. Thornberg, one of the school’s “watering holes,” where random and casual social encounters were possible.

It’s true that the Bundesgymnasium, set in an alpine valley, had better scenery, which in my mind certainly compensated for its libraryless-ness for a while. But that’s not where the contrasts ended. The first day of classes found me scrambling as I learned that when a teacher entered the room, all the students rose to their feet. The memory is particularly vivid in relation to the history and geography class, my favorite subjects prior to that time. The teacher entered, waited for the rising and rustling to stop, and gazed slowly through the room, checking for attentiveness and transgressions such as stray objects on the desks. Once satisfied, he spread his arms, granting permission to sit. He instructed students to take out their notebooks, pens and rulers (woe unto anyone who had already done this before commanded),  and then he opened his own notebook. It, like the students’, was handwritten– the chapter and verse of that year’s curriculum.

Monday through Thursday, he would dictate to the students, right down to the punctuation, Roman numeral outlining, and underlined words.

On Friday, students would recite, on command and from memory, passages from their written notes. Some recitations, in inadvertent Victor Borge fashion, included the punctuation.

No wonder there wasn’t a library. In this world, teachers were the ultimate, unquestioned information authority. The very existence of a library would suggest otherwise.

I have been assured that not all classrooms in Austria, or even in that school, operated like this at that time. And indeed, I also remember a literature teacher who was at least moderately interested in conversation. (Although she also continually scolded students for their ill-structured essays without communicating what good structure would be.)

The Kirche up the hill.

 

But the symbolism of the standing, the dictation, “the” notebook, and the recitation is hard to miss. These things said a lot about authority, about concepts of knowledge and learning and choice… about worldviews. Indeed, the classroom rituals were not all that different from those conducted in the Kirche up the hill.

Several years later, I returned Austria, this time to Vienna, on a cooperative program that placed English language speakers in academic high schools as teaching assistants. During an orientation tour, my guide burbled enthusiastically about the newest addition to the school – a real innovation. Funding had been secured; parents and teachers were thrilled. It was… a library. We strode briskly down the hall, a door visible on the far end.

“Do the students use the library on their breaks, or go as a class?” I asked, clear that things were probably still a far cry from the casual “media center.” My guide looked at me strangely, pulling a set of keys from her pocket.

“Of course we don’t let students in here, but if you need something, you can see me,” she said, unlocking and opening the heavy wooden door.

Behind the door was a walk-in closet, filled with shelves, only some of which were occupied… with multiple copies of textbooks.

The great new addition to the school was considered an innovation largely because it meant that teachers no longer had to dictate punctuation.

I’ve had cause to think about these experiences and understandings as I read frequently about the push for interactive white boards (and learning management systems) for classrooms and schools. Lots of public funding dollars are being spent on these. They are also being touted as important and innovative technology – surely parents and the public would want these in our schools!

But, like the library-but-not, I have to muse about the symbolism behind these tokens of digital progress. I can’t help but wonder how many current technology initiatives are promoting tools that make the traditional conceptualizations of knowledge more entrenched and the rituals of the learning process more efficient… or perhaps even enshrining them. Interactive white boards, while they can be used as a central interface to connect to the bigger world, are designed for a world where classrooms as the primary site of learning. They remain a “sage on the stage” tool, one in which central efforts around worksheets and demonstrations can revolve. They might be fun and flashy for kids, and yes, I’ve seen them in action and I can see where it can all depend on the individual implementation, but let’s be clear: they are largely for the teachers’ convenience. (And that clicker thing? Spookily Skinnerian.)

Do teachers need all the help they can get? Sure. It doesn’t help to demonize those things that bring short-term relief to people and systems under pressure, whether they’re better desks, exercise balls, or technology aids.

Mobile learning via GPS

 

 

However, what happens when we contrast these popular “innovations” with the symbolism and tacit messages of technology dollars spent on mobile and individual learning devices such as netbooks or OLPC-type machines? These de-centralized technologies communicate very different messages– about options and locations for learning, about learners’ power to make choices… and about a learner’s responsibilities in relation to learning processes.

In the best of worlds, technology choices, as well as learning choices, would not be either/or. And true, it’s possible to overbearingly dictate the use of de-centralized technology. And, finally, there is also a danger of being overly reductive with this type of analysis; learning is a complex system.

And so I would simply note that a society’s choice of tools, coupled with their implementation, could be understood as saying a great deal about its traditions, as well as its hopes and its vision – its worldview. An innovation in one context is interpreted differently in another. Nothing new here, but it seems like a good thing to remember now and then.

Terms of engagement

I’ve been doing more listening, and seeing some familiar patterns. Here are some related comments from the last few weeks (rephrased for speaker privacy):

Kids just want to know what’s on the test.

Students don’t want to think critically; they just want the answers.

When I give kids a chance to choose their projects, a lot of them cop out.

Even my “A” students need me to tell them what to do.

I just can’t seem to get them motivated.

(Similar concerns were expressed in a Ustream conversation with Will Richardson and Howard Rheingold last week.)

Does anyone else suspect that these comments aren’t really all about the students? To me, these concerns say much more about the adults in their lives. Who are we trying to kid, anyway? Students are walking, talking agenda detectors. They know that the assignments and the lessons and the educational structures aren’t really about their personally significant needs, interests or dreams. They’re about what adults (teachers, parents, school boards, politicians) want them to do, at adult convenience, and in an adult timeframe. No one asked them about any of it. Is it any wonder that motivation and engagement are conspicuously absent?

Motivation and engagement through inquiry?

Genuine options or pre-determined paths?

The magic pill for student motivation and engagement right now seems to be inquiry-based learning processes. But I will confess that the more exposure I get to some inquiry-based learning designs, the more skeptical I become. While intended to be student-centered and responsive, what is really the result of  ”starting with the end in mind” and pre-defined “essential questions?” Do we really think that students aren’t aware that in much of this learning there’s a Great Oz behind the curtain, jury-rigging events and processes so that their “discoveries” meet adult expectations and goals? Is it really that different than a top-down curriculum?

Contrarian that I am at the moment, I often find something ironic about wanting kids to think deeply and critically, but then telling them – requiring them – to think deeply about specific things defined by someone else. (Maybe this relates to the postmodern idea that worldviews/understandings based earlier on overarching narratives or themes are becoming fragmented.) Can we blame students if they don’t want to wander down the garden path of  “discovery” if they know they still have to go through the teacher’s gate?  If the learning isn’t a process of honest choices with honest results, it seems pretty easy to breed distrust and apathy.  (How about one pre-teen’s reaction to a teacher’s inquiry-related Socratic questioning: “Does he really think I’m going to learn something if he pretends he’s dumb?”) 

In mucking about in literature about motivation and inquiry, I recently stumbled across the idea that researchers recognize that learning and assessments deemed “authentic” actually have varying definitions, and that this concept may require closer investigation. (Schaffer and Resnick, 1999). I also encountered an observation by R. Keith Sawyer (”Schools of the Future” in Sawyer, 2006) that studies of authentic/inquiry learning are based on math and science education, and they have not yet been proven to apply to other processes or disciplines. This has been an important piece of information for me, since, as a cultural and historical field researcher and as an independent learner, I am aware of mismatches between my processes and those suggested by inquiry learning designs.

Are we engaged?

True, I don’t think many students articulate – or can articulate – a sense of being steered or mismatched. Instead, whether in inquiry-based environments or more traditional settings, many students are disengaged and apparently unmotivated … and looking for the most direct route to fulfilling adult expectations so they can go off and do the things they find important. I’d say the attitude is the message. Yeah, maybe some students really do have an “attitude problem.” And yeah, maybe some of these “important” things seem superficial and a waste of brainpower. (From the student perspective, the same claims about superficiality and a waste of brainpower can be said about a lot of required education.) But unless and until we understand personal contexts and are willing to engage respectfully and individually with learners, talking with them instead of planning for them, I think that we, as adults, need to be more cautious about shame and blame when it comes to motivation and engagement.

After all, by refusing to engage and learn or by being dismissive (sound familiar?), the adult world has often abdicated its facilitative/educational role as young (and not so young) people adopt(ed) the major game changers of social media and technology. What we may see as great leeway and an impressive range of learning choices looks a lot like the same old, same old to a lot of learners. We’ve got at least a generation of social media latchkey kids who, having figured out how to unlock their Pandora’s boxes and make their own tech-based sandwiches, certainly aren’t going to relinquish the keys…or let us take away or ration the very tasty peanut butter.

Sure, students who have good relationships with their teachers and are interested in pleasing them can do well in most learning situations. Many students accept the tacit social contract of  the educational process. And acknowledging the role and value of situational interest  in “structuring inquiry” seems a good meeting ground between developing students’ respect for adult requests and the adult desire to instill certain concepts and values. These experiences can indeed be motivating and engaging for students. I get it, it’s often the best current option, there’s the ocean of research and practice by great minds to back it up, etc. No need for hate mail.

I do, however, see a potential difference for motivation and engagement between some inquiry processes as they are packaged and parsed for the relatively static, contained, standards-based and batched processes of the American classroom, and the complex, messy, and personalized inquiry processes that are possible in an individualized and connective environment.

Motivation and engagement through personalized learning?

Personalized learning, individualized learning, self-directed learning,  personal learning environments, and motivation and engagement have somehow become conflated concepts in my mind as I attempt to understand the options for and potential of new learning opportunities. These will require further sorting out, and I’ve been hung up here for days. But I’ll make a huge, intuitive, and unsubstantiated leap for the sake of the rest of this discussion, and say that I believe that personalization and self-directed learning (enabled by connectivist practices in personal learning environments) are potential keys to student motivation and engagement.

Unfortunately, the transitional period for this vision looks like a pretty rough ride. Lack of engagement and motivation is a vicious cycle. And the isolated opportunities that genuinely support motivation and engagement through personalized learning right now are often a case of “too little, too late.”  So it’s also true that even when given the opportunities to pursue personal interests, students often want to be told what to do. And while supporting personal learning, unless everyone is on – and committed to – the same page, there’s room for, shall we say, weaseling by all players.

The development of personal motivation requires lots of breathing room

On the student side, if you’ve never had the chance to know yourself and understand your interests and motivations, you don’t know where to start. (A phrase like “engage me or enrage me” doesn’t help, since it suggests that it’s the teacher’s  job to ensure engagement, rather than a intrinsic issue.) In such cases, begging someone tell you what to do is easier than figuring it out yourself. On the teacher side, providing more direction keeps things streamlined, and there are usually just too many kids to persist otherwise. On the parent side… my kid is confused and isn’t doing anything and clearly, my son, you should have textbook, what can your teacher be thinking? (Another observation: where adults aren’t aligned and communicating, some kids are especially good at manipulating these dynamics.)

Interestingly, a report about a school in Minnesota with personalized learning notes that even students who have spent several years in the program will opt for their senior year in a traditional setting, rather than tackle a time-consuming capstone project. This phenomenon raises a lot of ethnographic-type curiosity in me; the dearth of detail here frees me to speculate based on my own observations of other personal learning. (I can’t speak for what happens in this school.) I have some general suspicions, and they come back to adults again.

If you are a student who is going to invest 300 hours in a final project, you are likely to have a lot of needs that can’t be met in a school setting, even a progressive one. The support and encouragement of trusted and trustworthy adults in terms of time, conversation, space, transportation and maybe even financing are factors in personalized project work. It has been my experience that there’s often no clear understanding of how these things are going to be accessible. Everyone does what they can, sure, but it takes a village, and social systems are not currently responsive to this. Beyond school walls, the popular community understanding is that “kids belong in school,” and that any possible learning needs will be met there. A new world of connective learning and individualized projects, whether in a physical environment or a more abstract “personal learning environment,” requires currently unfamiliar kinds of commitments and understandings from potential student supporters, whether “teacher” or “facilitator,” online “mentor,” or the larger community  -  including parents. Some students have this support, but many don’t. (Thus the specter of “personal learning inequality” is raised…) And so while small individualized projects seem “doable,” personal learning on a larger scale is often intimidating for learners… maybe even for learners of all ages.

I’m aware of the apparent contradiction here: am I saying, as above, that adults should back off, or, as suggested here, be more involved? I guess I’d call for a different kind of involvement, one that reflects a new understanding of how learning can be defined and supported for individual students, and a focus on shared nurture, rather than external goals and outcomes. A tall order, indeed.

Additionally, as a parent, I’d say it’s especially important to recognize in a transitional educational period that kids can’t do it all. They can’t regularly fulfill a slate of others’ “rigorous” and deadline-laden expectations, while at the same time understanding, shaping, and meeting their own, intrinsically-motivated learning needs. There just aren’t enough hours in the day. And self-learning, in both senses of the word, takes time. A report on the Visible  Knowledge Project  notes:

In fact, a key outcome of linking difficulty with a robust definition of expertise (and expert processes) is to call into question traditional notions of rigor, to privilege time and space for activity that initially looks decidedly non-expert.

Will personalized learning (or perhaps “personalized inquiry”) solve motivation and engagement problems across the board? Of course not. The consequences of poverty, physical and mental health issues and personal, family, and community dysfunctions are all ongoing issues in any vision of learning. And personalized learning takes practice and yes, the support of experts, albeit in sizes, shapes and colors rarely seen.

Additionally, in order for this kind of learning to be truly successful, we have to be willing to put a lot of assumptions and “musts” and personal ideologies (including the concept that we “allow” students to do things) on the bargaining table.  If motivation and engagement are what we want from and for our kids, we are going to have to be open to lots of role changes and a whole lot more personalized discussion and negotiation – among mentors/educators, parents, community members, and especially  students… the younger (and sooner) the better.

Uninspected baggage

The last time I traveled, the Transportation Security Administration managed to inspect every single bag from every single person in the family… at least according to the little cards they left behind inside the suitcases. Were they bored, or were we a suspicious lot? We’ll never know.

What's in your luggage?

The thought of strangers rummaging through all those undergarments is a bit disquieting. But I have been wondering if such scrutiny, as uneasy as it might make us, might be useful in other venues.

For example, I’m still unpacking the implications of George Siemens’ question “does education need to change?” My answer was yes, but– surprise!!– not everyone agrees on how, if at all. Here are a few things I’ve heard from other adults in the last month or so:

 

“I can’t imagine ‘going to school’ in my jammies.” (In response a description of the connectivism course. Yes, there were air quotes.)

“It’s not healthy for kids to learn too much from computers.”

“Our [professional education] group has to meet in person [as opposed to using online communications], or we can’t sense each other’s electrical emanations.”

I know, I know: this raises questions about where and with whom I hang out. Actually, these were three separate and rather casual encounters, so it’s probably not fair to hold the speakers to these comments in perpetuity. But as a quick view off the top, they stuck with me, because they serve as a good reminder that while we share some demographics or geography, shared thoughts on education are not as easy to find.

Of the people above, two are female, one male. Each was born on a different continent. Two are currently employed in professional positions, one is currently a stay-at-home parent. All have lived or traveled extensively abroad. All are what I would consider current-events savvy. Two are politically “liberal,” one “conservative.” They all know how to use “the Google.” All have master’s degrees. (One has two).

All have kids under the age of 12.

And, taken in isolation, their comments suggest that ideas related to educational change have some pretty big hurdles.

In unpacking these statements, it strikes me how difficult it is to counter them with data or facts or logic or examples. They reside in an affective zone that is not quite neo-Ludditism, but something…else. And while these parents would certainly argue that their concern is for their children’s futures, the statements seem to be rooted in their individual presents.

Change advocates sometimes see present and even future-oriented resistance to educational change as people just “not getting it.” But I do wonder if it’s helpful to ask why people aren’t “getting it.” What allows people to stare changing circumstances in the face and choose to continue on in a linear trajectory? And, conversely, what causes people to see radical change in what others view as an unaffected or mildly transitional situation? (Is it brain wiring?)

There is a lot of uninspected baggage when it comes to change. Jamais Cascio recently wrote about the concept of legacy futures, old beliefs about what will happen in the future that obstruct our ability to construct new visions. (The classic example: How many of us are still waiting for our jet packs?)

… We get legacy futures in business from old strategies and plans, legacy futures in politics from old budgets and forecasts, and legacy futures in environmentalism from earlier bits of analysis. Legacy futures are rarely still useful, but have so thoroughly colonized our minds that even new scenarios and futures models may end up making explicit or implicit references to them… we have to figure out how to deal with the leftover visions of the future that still colonize our minds.

I’d say that education is not immune to this phenomenon. I hear a pre-industrial, knowledge scarcity “legacy future” in the demands for standardized content. I hear a Sputnik-Cold War “legacy future” in the pervasive statements that students will have to “compete” globally. I might even hear a Puritan “legacy future” in the insistence on “rigor.”

In thinking about how to address or bridge different understandings about change, I have been intrigued by ethnographic and action research processes that are intended to develop community-based understandings of how people view their futures and why. In particular, Sohail Inayatullah’s causal layered analysis explores beliefs about and expectations for the future on four levels: litany, social system and structure, worldview, and myth and metaphor. All of these layers, as suggested by the situations outlined above, seem to be part of educational viewpoints.

Some baggage weighs less...

 

One intention of such layered explorations is to create conversations with multiple perspectives within a community or communities. Another is to create futures scenarios. These descriptions of what could happen in the future, based on a deep view of spoken and (previously) unspoken understandings, open opportunities for making (hopefully wise and insightful) choices in the present.

My knowledge of causal layered analysis is rudimentary. Additionally, reports from this rather marginalized field suggest that the space, time, and tolerance for such explorations are limited or non-existent. For the non-futurist, it may seem that such explorations are nothing but blind conjecture, or that the speed at which the future arrives makes such explorations impossible — or moot. And there is a certain truth to the idea that educational changes are coming, no matter what, thus suggesting that the best advice for those who are not interested in understanding and exploring them is indeed to “hunker down, keep doing what you’re doing, and take early retirement.”

But since a lot of folks can’t afford to retire for a while (or ever), it might not hurt to respectfully examine the luggage of assumptions we’re all toting around.

Fig leaves and openness

Somehow, what I thought was a draft of this post got caught up in the WordPress revamp and hit the public tag feed, although it’s listed on my site as “unpublished.” Undoubtedly this is user error on my part, but it forces my hand a bit. So I’ve change the tag to “published,” and will take the hits for some unfinished thinking.

As a card-carrying, left-of-center individual, it seems both reasonable and desirable to embrace the doctrines of openness and sharing that are so widely appreciated in the world of technology and education. And yet my recent experience with the open, open, open course Connectivism and Connective Knowledge  left me with some surprising reservations. Not about the concept, but about the recognition of cultural or generational differences in how this is perceived, and what this might mean for learning.

One feature of the CCK08 experience was relatively limited participation numbers in the open (public and archived) CCK08 forums and discussions when compared to those who registered interest. Why? Only the research will tell, and folks are really busy. But I have one other observation.

One of my least favorite parenthood activities is sitting through a kids’ recital where it’s obvious that some of the musicians haven’t practiced, and that some don’t even want to be there. (And these are not necessarily one and the same.) I know there’s a school of thought that says this is a character-building experience, but there are days when I find it disrespectful of both the child… and the audience. Given a choice beyond obligation and politeness, some from both groups surely would not be there. And I’m quite sure that this situation does not foster inspired musicians. Does this relate to CCK08?

Dave Cormier, an instructor for the Emerging Technologies course at the University of Manitoba, recently posted on that course’s operations:

Why, you might ask, are we doing this course in a closed fashion? Well, I also happen to think that forcing people to work in the open without a clear sense of the implication of that action is also unfair. If people choose to blog and refer us to that work by using the course tag, and, maybe, referring to it in the blog posts… then that’s great. If they choose, for any number of reasons, that they prefer to keep all their work to themselves, that is also their choice. I don’t think its a good choice, i think that work shared is more valuable and more likely to come back to you better than when you started… I think that the best knowledge is created in an interaction… a ‘public PLE’ but that is not for me to decide for someone else.

This seems to be a pretty significant idea as we work through the complexity of digital learning and communication. The emphasis on sharing and openness is indeed a huge opportunity for learning and even humanity as whole. 

But there seems to be a bit of a culture gap that we need to keep in mind– perhaps it is that of the digital immigrants, or Gen X (which has been identified as a possible digital transition group, and to which I admit being a  member), or simply a cross-section of digital newbies, for reasons of poverty or access, or even choice.

Some backyard practice is important

Because while it seems like openness and sharing from one side of the digital divide, I’m hearing that it can feel an awful lot like forced public performance on the other.

Recognizing this, I wonder if, as “open” courses become more common, they need to offer (or continue to offer) a middle ground, an opportunity to practice skills and master new material and ideas – a learning double whammy– without the (if only imagined) potential for vast public scrutiny and the threat of digital foreverness, as Emerging Tech does. True, not everyone understands or cares about this. But there are some potential participants who may have some adaptive wisdom and an interest in bridging the cultural gap, and who need a leg up. Some of them might even be current teachers, many of whom have a strong tradition of being focused on having the “right” answer in public. 

Perhaps there is at least an interim need to understand that various levels of openness might not be comfortable for every learner — and the brain research clearly shows that folks don’t learn well with a sense of fear or anxiety. If life-long learning is the goal, then just telling digital immigrant learners to “toughen up” isn’t really the kind of anxiety-reducing nurture that supports that learning. And it seems counterproductive if the goal is to bring digital immigrants into the fold so they can grasp the vast implications of digital education for the “natives.”

And maybe some of this applies to digital natives as well. As a parent, I need to balance trust with the recognition that kids don’t always have the knowledge or maturity to be making legacy-oriented decisions on their own. (And speaking digitally, sometimes other adults in their lives don’t, either; they simply haven’t had time to “catch up” enough to offer good advice or understand the contexts.) That’s why the ecology of learning at our house says that if you’re going to perform, you practice. Some of it is actually practice in improvisation, which might seem oxymoronic, but is not. And this goes for music, digital engagement, and a number of other situations. 

Yes, there needs to be a feedback cycle for learning. But different learners have different comfort levels about exposure during this cycle. Yes, at some point, serious musicians have to perform without a net. And yes, sooner rather than later may help to develop the skills of resilience; coping with and overcoming a bad showing is part of learning.

But I have a niggling worry that in some cases, openness and required sharing might be inadvertently counterproductive. Many digital learners, depending on their skills or exposure, can adjust, ignore, or make end runs around this, but those who are new may perceive their position as having to choose between playing on unfriendly turf, or not playing at all. Maybe it’s not a bad idea to offer a choice of fig leaves… there’s a historic precedent, I hear. And maybe more awareness of and options for selective levels of privacy would help eliminate what is often perceived as the scourge of anonymity.

On the other hand, “closed” courses are easily found, so maybe these are the training ground for more exposed levels of open learning. 

Ironically, this understanding/perception was probably not something I would have developed without the open, open, openness of CCK08. And that very openness is what made the course a testing ground for the theory it explored. So this is not intended as retroactive criticism; instead, it’s a thought for the future. 

Digital openness meets psychological and cultural habits and understandings; now there’s some complexity for you.

CCK08: Wait– done already?

In which I have been told several times in the past few days to “step away from the computer, and no one gets hurt…”

Yoohoo! Step away from the computer!

What with the last days of the formal Connectivism and Connective Knowledge (CCK08) course activity falling on a long U.S. holiday weekend, I’m feeling rather scattered and pulled among local and distant networks and groups, and suspect I am not doing any of them complete justice. And unlike many courses, CCK08 is concluding, based on my level of participation, with many loose ends, rather than with any culminating event or sense of closure. This, however, makes sense given the emergent nature of connectivism and connectivist discussions.

Among the things I would not want to leave undone is offering a sincere “thank you” to George Siemens and Stephen Downes for imagining and instigating this course. I hope you guys (that’s a formal collective honorific in Minnesotian) also had fun somewhere between all the challenges, as I did. I rather suspect this was a historic event, and it was a privilege to be part of it.

Thanks, too, to fellow participants in the CCK08 journey. I’ve greatly appreciated the new sights, sounds and thoughtful voices of this online adventure.

I have reached this juncture with at least two important “take-aways.”

The first is my perception of the level of patience and courage it takes to watch the (pick your adjective) masses give a carefully considered and perhaps personally significant (no matter what the previous level of sharing and collaboration) concept a good airing… or trampling, as the case may be. Yes, using the theory to explore the theory leads to its improvement, but it still seems to me that this would require some deep breathing. Don’t mean to presume, mind you. Maybe it’s all in a connectivist day’s work… but it still made an impression.

Secondly, the other educational modeling and content offered in the course has had immediate and ongoing implications on a local level not necessarily visible to the online CCK08 community. Social network analysis met user experience strategies in a casual conversation. Authority and validity became a highly relevant dinner table topic for younger learners. Some interactions cooled as implications and personal interpretations of connective knowledge became more specific; other connections were forged. And both leading up to and throughout this course, there has been the delicate dance of facilitating and advocating personal and local learning with a growing understanding of connectivism and related concepts, while trying respectfully to avoid (at least occasionally) the toes of those with different understandings and responsibilities.

Some of the loose ends relate to reflections on my own learning. There are parts of the theoretical basis for connectivism that I have not yet fully grasped. Additionally, concerns I raised in an early post about connectivist learning, technology access, inclusion and some forms of cultural knowledge remain. At the same time, I understand why these might be viewed as issues of oranges and apples, in that connectivist theory was never intended to address some of these things.

Some things are simply beyond connectivist theory.

I do now understand why technology is not necessarily viewed as a linchpin of connectivist theory. Connective learning done well means the technology is essentially invisible, much like good physical and mental health and personal safety invisibly support learning. But my concern remains that, for those who don’t have these things, they become major stumbling blocks. I might summarize my altered perception as: For those who enjoy physical access to technology, and who have or can develop the skills of utilizing communicative technology, technology is a virtually transparent enabler of connective knowledge. But for those who don’t or can’t, technology –or its absence –  ironically becomes highly significant. That said, future developments may ameliorate and change the fundamental conditions in which such disparities are found.

Like connectivism, the complex essence of a Thanksgiving weekend Fishhouse Parade is irreducible.

I would also note that my learning altered my earlier perception that connectivism is “reductively sleek.” I now understand the practice of connectivism as an irreducibly complex process. I would also note that connectivism doesn’t have to be perfect, or perfectly understood, in order to foster significant ecologies for learning and growth around these concepts. However, I continue to wonder if the degree to which connectivism is emphasized or promoted or desired as a social process (in spite of the recognition of less-explored conceptual and neural facets and the concept of networked autonomy) may make it less intuitive or supportive for some learners.

Certainly, my interest in education and connectivist ideas has not waned during the past weeks, but I would admit to suffering from a bit of mental fatigue on these fronts. Thus, other loose ends include the many posts by fellow participants that deserve comment, and George Siemens’ recent questions about the growth of online learning and what new learning might look like. These are things I’d like to think more about… but maybe not this week.

Thanks to all who have contributed to CCK08’s unique learning environment. It’s been an extraordinary opportunity, and I hope it will be the first of many such learning models.

CCK08: Paths less taken

In which the best I can do is try to “be the change…“ 

Do schools and education need to change?

Yes, at least for some.

Why?

1. Because some learners are unhappy/ worried/ stressed/ frustrated/ bored/ ill-served.

2. Because learners are easily and commonly convinced that these conditions are trivial/normal/good for them.

What obstacles are in the way of change?

Upright and locked positions. The ease of the status quo. Fear of loss. Fear of loneliness. Lack of confidence in self and others. Unexamined cultural or personal assumptions about “well roundedness.” Presumptions about the superiority of academic knowledge. Vicious circles. Fondness for the devil one knows. Adulation of the past. A “survival of the fittest” view of the world. Hierarchical mindsets. A linear conception of learning and life.  A “tragedy of the commons” approach to knowledge. The belief that quantities are limited while supplies last.

How do we create educational change? 

Prioritize learners’ happiness. Examine their futures. Act on new perceptions. Trust learners’ choices and self-knowledge. Be adventurous. Be available. Fold, spindle, and mutilate. Find like-minded travelers. Accept their different journeys and destinations. Balance idealism and realism. Show commitment. Ignore some stuff. Experiment. Facilitate resiliency. Cut everyone some slack. Draw the line at dysfunction. Listen carefully. Speak up when necessary. Accept uncertainty. Understand ambiguity. Live with imperfection. Compromise wisely. Know that terms and conditions are subject to change without notice. Breathe deeply.  Model hard work and happiness and learning.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

CCK08: Skyped

And in other news..

I think I first used Skype in 2003 or 2004. We called the other half of the family (thanks to the dispersal of technology genes on two sides of the ocean) for Christmas and wound up talking to at least eight family members. Our pork roast baked to leather, and our elfin, eager gift-openers became more than a bit disgruntled. But the conversation and technology worked, in an echo-y, satellite-delayed way. It was new and fun (and free), and we confirmed that another year of live candles on the tree had passed without involvement of the Feuerwehr.

The problem with being an early adopter, though, was that, barring total strangers, there really wasn’t anyone else to talk to.  (Skyping total strangers, while done at the time, never really got the thumbs up here…) So while we could hold fascinating conversations about the weather with the technologically-minded brother, the rest of the family wasn’t quite as ready to make the leap.

We worked for a while with inefficient redundancy, calling people on the phone to ask them to hang up their phone and turn on their computers so that we could talk to them.  It may have saved a few dollars, but it also got old fast. I asked other folks I needed to contact if they used Skype, but never did find anyone where “skyping” became a natural, casual and easy contact method. Eventually, Skype got bumped from the applications folder, and life went on with email and the six-cents-a-minute phone card.

So it was pretty entertaining to re-enter the Skype world with Lisa, Kristina, Andreas and Eduardo during an impromptu Friday CCK08 un-session… in a sincere but comedy-of-errors kind of way. In an effort to get everyone in on the same conversation, Ustream video and audio went to multi-moderator option went to text chat went to Skype, which I downloaded on the fly. My head cold was so bad I couldn’t hear myself talk. A quick dash around the house confirmed that the elves had absconded with our headsets for their foreign language practice. Thus, everyone’s conversation got cycled back through my computer’s built-in mike. And the VERY LOUD FAN in my aged Mac Powerbook G4 began gasping for air the middle of things, drowning out everyone’s audio. Like Kristina, I, too, felt like I was hindering the conversation more than helping it.

But still, there is something “connective” about mild, technologically-induced hardship. (And it was way warmer in my office than out on one of those high ropes challenge courses.) Maybe it was just me, but it kind of felt like kids in a hayloft with a bedsheet/parachute. Could it be done?  Would there be blood? (And can I have your iPhone if you don’t make it?)

I suspect that few participants, like Andreas, had already perfected their parachute jumps, but they were very patient with scaffolding the rest of us in. Education was well served. And this little venture also served, from an education perspective, to reinforce my bias that improvisational and playful learning is engaging. No one staged this ahead of time, no one engineered the obstacles, no one defined specific expectations for the outcome, and the outcomes, not necessarily quantifiable in terms of discussion points covered or conclusions reached, were still somehow satisfying and potentially useful to participants … at the very least in the form of cautionary tales about the impulsive use of connective technologies.

 The fate of future CCK08 connections via Skype? Who knows? I’m more of a Twitterer, I think.  (Yes, indeed — insert your own joke here.) But I’m planning to leave Skype in my dock for a while again. If nothing else, Christmas is coming soon.