As the above photos suggest, “programmed learning” (or “programmed instruction”) made a huge splash in media during the 1950s and 1960s.* It was an innovation that grabbed policymakers and tech-driven school reformers. Yet by the 1970s, it had largely disappeared from the rhetoric of school reformers. Then in the 1990s with the installation of computer labs and widespread student access to these devices, policymakers and tech-enthused school reformers resurrected “programmed learning.” With increased availability of desktop and laptop computers in schools, much drill-and-practice software used in schools leaned heavily on programmed learning techniques. Often called “computer-assisted instruction,” programmed learning became front-and-center. Although programmed learning goes by different names, the theories that drove it decades earlier remain alive and well in the software that many schools and individual teachers use for lessons. Here, then, is a curricular and instructional innovation that has zig-zagged through schools for over 70 years.
What was (and is) “programmed learning?”
Programmed learning materials are usually pieces of software aimed at instructing students to digest certain content and skills. In many instances, prior to using the software, students are given a pre-test to determine how much they already know about, say, the American Revolution; after completing the pre-test, students work their way through the programmed learning software on the same topic. Drawn from textbooks or other source adapted to computers, the learning program presents new content and skills in a logical, step-by-step sequence. The learning program is broken down into slivers of knowledge or steps. After users complete each step, they are given questions to test their comprehension. After entering answers, students are then immediately given the correct answer on the screen. This means that students know swiftly how they fared on questions and whether they have learned the prescribed material.
Here is an example of a page in a linear programmed instruction book aimed at teaching English grammar (Joseph Blumenthal (New York: Harcourt Brace & World, 1962).
Driven by psychological theories of positive reinforcement, that is, a focus on rewarding students for doing a classroom task well (e.g., gold star on homework; letting students who aced an exam skip a homework assignment) and following classroom rules for behavior (e.g., scheduling a classroom party for a month), programmed learning rewarded students immediately by revealing correct answers to questions. Teacher-made versions of programmed learning have become ubiquitous in elementary and secondary classroom worksheets that teachers use weekly in all academic subjects.
Teachers use worksheets for drill-and-practice in knowledge that students have covered. Students complete these worksheets during the lesson or as homework. Many teachers create their own worksheets while just as many buy commercially produced ones that fit the content and skills they are teaching. Most worksheets, however, lack the immediate feedback to students that programmed learning promised. If worksheets are done in class, teachers or small groups of students can determine whether answers were correct or not during the lesson. But more often than not, students’ worksheet answers have to wait until the teacher sees those answers or when teachers have students see the correct answers as part of the lesson. That separation in time between students answering questions and finding out which answers were incorrect undermines the immediate feedback promised in the theory and practice of programmed learning.
Here is an example of a math worksheet for a primary grade classroom;
Here is a worksheet for high school biology lesson on the brain:
By the 1970s and 1980s, programmed learning had become part of the kit bag of techniques that teachers could use in other highly hyped school reforms aimed at individualizing (or “personalizing”) instruction. For example, within the hype surrounding “competency based education” (CBE) and “computer-assisted instruction” (CAI) rested the guided drill and practice worksheets that earlier generations of teachers had students complete. Thus, with worksheets, teachers adapted a version of programmed learning that students filled in by hand or tapping away on computer keyboards.
And that is what happened to programmed learning.
*In 1928, psychologist Sidney Pressey created the first teaching machine using programmed learning. The dream of “teaching machines” has morphed into computer-assisted instruction.
In 2006, hardly anyone had ever heard the phrase “flipped classrooms.” By 2019, the phrase was frequently used by policymakers, administrators, and teachers (see Ngram viewer).
Of course, thoughtful teachers past and present have done versions of “flipped classrooms” before it became the reform du jour. Many teachers have regularly assigned work for students to do at home thus allowing extended and in-depth discussions during precious classtime. Nothing new here. Rediscovering what was once an innovation occurs again and again.
Where “flipped classrooms” become more difficult to implement are in those schools where many teachers see this innovation as piling on more work for them in reading and grading student homework and preparing for deeper class discussions of a topic. Moreover, there are schools with large numbers of students who have never experienced “flipped classrooms,” come from homes where doing homework is a hill to climb, care little for academic subjects, and simply want school to go away. Teachers in such urban, suburban, and rural schools will have a harder time putting the technique into practice.
So for those experienced and newbie teachers, unfamiliar with the history of instructional innovations, “flipped classrooms” may be an idea that they applaud. But it still is a fad. Faddish innovations soar in rhetoric but like a shooting star disappear. Yes, it is accurate that some fads get quickly converted into policy recommendations (e.g., “whole language,” “time on task,” “sustained silent reading,””writing across the curriculum’) that most superintendents, some principals, and a scattering of teachers put into practice as pilot projects and then spread to the rest of the district (as long as funding is provided).
Of course, not only schools but other institutions such as corporations, hospitals, police and fire departments are vulnerable to fads that pop up for a few years and then quietly fade away. Americans prize change. Innovation after innovation feeds the hungers Americans have for the new, the different. New car models entice buyers every year. Women’s dresses get longer and then shorter. Atkins low-carb to paleo diets promise to keep Americans slim. In short, change is in the DNA of Americans. And schools mirror this appetite for faddish innovations that get adopted repeatedly and then, poof, disappear.
Time will tell whether “flipped classrooms” in individual schools or a district becomes another “sustained silent reading” shooting star that lights up the sky for a few seconds and fades away.
I like puzzling questions. Answers to such questions often go beyond yes/no or true/false. Moreover, answers often contain the seeds of further queries that complicate previous answers. Such is the case with the following question that has trailed me through my years as a high school history teacher, district superintendent, and university researcher:
Why has the act of teaching in public schools (including charters) that serve wealthy, middle-class and poor children looked so familiar to past generations of journalists, researchers, parents and grandparents who observe classrooms?
Surely, things have changed in classrooms. Desktops and laptops are prevalent in schools; teachers use the Internet for videos in lessons; students give PowerPoint presentations; teachers take immediate polls of student answers to multiple choice questions with clickers; teachers use new textbooks, some of which are online.
Yet amid those classroom changes, there is a certain familiarity to past and present generations in how teachers unfold lessons, direct students to varied activities, ask query students that characterizes the common back-and-forth exchanges between teacher and students. How to explain that familiar continuity in teaching?
One way to explain this familiarity is the organizational concept of “dynamic conservatism.” This concept embraces both continuity and change in classrooms and schools. Institutions often change in order to remain the same. Families, hospitals, companies, courts, city and state bureaucracies, and the military frequently respond to major reforms by adopting those parts of changes that will sustain stability in their organizations. And so do teachers in their classrooms.[i]
Consider that more and more teachers provide carts with devices in their classrooms or urge students to bring their laptops to class to do Internet searches, take notes, and work in teams to make PowerPoint presentations to class. These teachers have made changes in how they teach while maintaining classroom discipline and managing the flow of activities in lessons. They “hugged the middle” between traditional and non-traditional ways of teaching.
Many academics joined with federal, state, and district policymakers who have seldom taught in K-12 schools remain dead-set on redesigning both school and classroom practices. Institutional stability is dysfunctional, they argue. They want transformation, not a few cosmetic changes. Such academics and policymakers see schools as complicated organizations that need a good dose of castor-oil rationality where both incentives and fear, not habits from a bygone era, drive employees to do the right thing in schools and classrooms. [ii]
When reform-minded policymakers intent on improving schools see classrooms as complicated rather than complex systems, hurdles multiply quickly to frustrate converting reforms into practice. Too many decision-makers lack understanding of “dynamic conservatism” in complex organizations such as classrooms; they choose to ignore it because they see these systems as ineffective and in need of re-engineering.
Recall previous efforts to jolt schools and classrooms sufficiently to substantially alter teaching and learning when academic cheerleaders and policymakers have mistakenly grafted practices borrowed from business organizations onto schools (e.g., zero-based budgeting in the 1970s; “management by objectives” and “restructuring schools” in the 1980s; pay-for-performance in the 1990s and loosening credential requirements for teachers since). They have ignored how teachers have habitually altered their classroom practices in order to maintain stability
Analyzing the idea of “dynamic conservatism” at work in complex systems leads to a deeper understanding of why teaching over the past century has been a mix of old and new, mirroring both constancy and change. Change occurs all the time in schools and classrooms but not at the scope, pace, and schedule reform-driven policymakers and academics embrace. Stability in how schools work and how teachers teach are imperatives also. In failing to understand “dynamic conservatism,” federal, state, and district decision-makers who distribute funds and make rules governing schools too often repeat mistakes that earlier well-intentioned reformers made in seeking to alter daily teaching practices. Conflicts inevitably arise in schools and classrooms when policymakers fail to understand “dynamic conservatism” as a mainstay of public schools.
[i] Donald Schon, Beyond the Stable State: Public and Private Learning in a Changing Society (New York: Norton, 1973). See Larry Cuban, Hugging the Middle: How Teachers Teach in an Era of Testing and Accountability (New York: Teachers College Press, 2009).
[ii] John Chubb and Terry Moe, Politics, Markets, and America’s Schools (Washington, D.C.: Brookings Institution, 1990). Frederick Hess, Spinning Wheels: The Politics of Urban School Reform (Washington, D.C.: Brookings Institution, 1999).
Anyone reading the literature published by contemporary, upbeat school reformers cannot avoid such phrases as “teacher leaders,” “change agents,” and “dynamic entrepreneurs.” One is bombarded with happy visions of peppy, smart, young teacher leaders replacing tired, ineffective, older staff. Eager change agents swapping places with uninspired principals; and charismatic CEOs succeeding hapless superintendents.
This upbeat rhetoric that idealistic and energetic young teachers and principals receive is that the system, its leaders and bureaucracy, is the enemy, the source of all problems. Individual teachers and principals have to be tough enough to fight in behalf of their students.
This macho message–underscored by a war-like vocabulary of trenches and guerrilla tactics with district bureaucrats—while engaging to read too often diverts reformers’ attention from analyzing commonplace school structures, such as the age-graded school and how it has shaped public attitudes towards education, school culture and classroom practice for nearly two centuries.
The age-graded school is the unquestioned mainstay of school organization in 2022. Nearly all taxpayers and voters have entered kindergarten at age 5, studied Egyptian mummies in 5th or 6th grade, took algebra in the 8th or 9th grade and then left 12th grade with a diploma. If any school reform–in the sense of making fundamental changes in organization, curriculum, and instruction–can be considered a success it is the age-graded school.
What the age-graded school does is allocate children and youth by their ages to “grades.” It sends teachers into separate classrooms and prescribes a curriculum carved up into 36-week chunks for each grade. Teachers and students cover each chunk so that all children will move uniformly through the year-long schedule to be annually promoted to the next grade. This way of organizing schools has been a gold star success.
Consider one standard of success: longevity. The first age-graded structure of eight classrooms appeared in Quincy (MA) in the late 1840s. In various combinations of grades (e.g., K-5, 6-8, 9-12, 6-12) this way of organizing tax-supported public schools has been around ever since.
Or consider another standard: effectiveness. The age-graded school has processed efficiently millions of students for nearly two centuries, sorted achievers from non-achievers, and now graduates over 80 percent of those entering high school.
Or consider the adaptability of the structure. The age-graded organization exists in Europe, Asia, Africa, Latin America, and North America covering rural, urban, and suburban schools.
The age-graded school has had its critics (see here and here). In the late-19th century, some educators saw the age-graded organization as crippling the intellectual and psychological growth of individual children who learn at different rates thereby causing dropouts from elementary and secondary schools as students of different ages piled up in lower grades because they failed to keep up with their peers. As John Dewey put it in 1902, “the manner in which the machinery of instruction bears upon the child … really controls the whole system.”
The development of twice yearly promotions and ability groups smoothed out some of the inherent problems of age-graded schools. But not the overall structure that required teachers to cover the content and skills specific to a 3rd or 6th grade class and that every student had to learn by the end of the school year or be retained for another year. These regularities became the “grammar of schooling” and persisted decade after decade.
For some critics, the organization isolates and insulates teachers from one another, perpetuates teacher-centered pedagogy, and prevents a large fraction of students from achieving academically at their own individual pace. Moreover, over decades many students have dropped out. Yet this structure remains the sea in which teachers, students, principals, and parents swim. Few contemporary reformers, however, have questioned this one-size-fits-all organization.
Why have most school reformers and educational entrepreneurs been reluctant to examine an organization that influences daily behavior of over 3 million adults and well over 50 million children? One reason is dominant social beliefs of parents and educators about what a “real” school is.
A “real” school is one where children learn to read in 1st grade, receive periodic report cards, and get promoted to the next grade. These prevailing beliefs have politically narrowed reform options in transforming schools. For example, even when a charter school applicant proposes a new school the chances of receiving official approval and parental acceptance increase if it is a familiar age-graded one, not one where most teachers team teach and groups of multi-age children (ages 5-8, 9-11) learn together. Sure, occasional reformers created non-graded schools, the School of One, and particular community schools but they are outliers.
External pressures also constrict reformers’ maneuverability in trying other organizational forms. State mandated curriculum standards, college entrance requirements, and state and federal mandates rules such as testing 3rd to 8th grade students in reading and math are all married to this omnipresent, durable structure.
The unintended (and ironic) consequence of frequent and earnest calls for radical change in preparation of school leaders, school governance, curriculum, and instruction through non-traditional teachers and administrators, charter schools, nifty reading and math programs, iPads for kindergartners, and other reforms unintentionally preserve the enduring age-graded school thereby freezing classroom patterns that so many reformers sought to alter.
At the minimum, serious reformers must grasp the links between past reforms and current innovations or else their dreams of altering the age-graded school, an innovation that had persevered for nearly two centuries, will, in a word, fail.
The pandemic is over even though the virus continues to make Americans ill. During those pandemic months, most schools closed for varying periods of time. Covid-19 delivered a shock to the American school system of 13,000-plus districts, nearly 100,000 schools, over three million teachers, and more than 50 million students. Unlike localized earthquakes and other natural disasters, Covid-19 shut down most U. S. schools. But by early 2021, those shuttered schools had reopened.
Other than wearing masks, using disinfectants, practicing social distancing and other measures, schooling and teaching as we know it, returned to a new normal. Timebound by the pandemic, nonetheless, the practice of schooling and teaching was, and remains to this day, timeless.
Consider post-pandemic photos of classrooms in 2022.
“Aldine ISD teacher Danny Siegel or “Mr. Siegel” is one of the district’s newest middle school language arts teachers (June 2022)”. Credit: KHOU 11
“Students during Venecia Proctor’s 4th grade language arts class at SCAPA, the School for the Creative and Performing Arts, on Lafayette Parkway in Lexington, Ky., Monday, Oct. 17, 2022. Brian Simms email@example.com”
Social Studies Classroom at Enterprise High School (Enterprise, Alabama)–photo taken by Nick Brooks
These photos surely reveal the practice of masking–a timebound fact–but beyond that, the teacher is at the front of the classroom talking to the entire class while elementary, middle, and high school students listen, take notes, and respond to teacher questions. This way of teaching is, in a word, timeless (see herehere, and here).
What do I mean by “timeless?” Consider that teacher talk historically has exceeded student talk by percentages of 85 to 15 and 75 to 25. In fact, researchers who have studied English as Second Language teachers even recommend that the ratio of teacher-talk to student-talk should be 70% to 30%.
Of course, there are more classroom practices in teachers repertoires beyond talking about content and skills. Most teachers draw from a kit bag of methods such as arranging small group work, having students converse in pairs, assigning students to do independent research, putting students into situations where they role play different historical and fictional characters, setting up classroom debates on an issue, administering quizzes and tests, giving students books to read and report to the rest of the class, and, of course, checking overnight homework. Teachers do a lot more to get students to learn beyond lecturing.
Even with these varied activities that teachers have at their fingertips, the timeless pattern is that teachers talk far more than students. One should expect that, of course, since the teacher possesses content knowledge and skills that students lack. That is why she is hired to teach the young. So teacher talk dominating lessons is timeless.
For those boosters of student-centered teaching, however, this timeless fact is a challenge. Advocates for more student talk during lessons want teachers to talk less and students talk more (see here and here) They seek to alter this timeless fact; they want student talk to be at least equal to teacher talk.
But in 2022, while teachers may be more aware of the volume and distribution of talk in their classrooms during lessons, altering this timeless fact is a Gibraltar-like task.
Here is this month’s cartoons about families, teachers, and students as they encounter the rituals of report cards, homework, scanning school grades, the aftermath of Covid-19, and enduring state tests. Enjoy!
In the history of education, waves of curricular reform have swept across U.S. public schools. In nearly all instances, these waves occurred because of larger political, economic, and social issues facing the nation. One of those reform waves occurred between the late-1950s and early-1970s called “The New Math.” The trigger for the New Math (and companion tidal surges for a “New Biology” and “New Social Studies”) was the Soviet Union’s launching of the satellite called “Sputnik” in 1957.
In the then “Cold War” between the U.S. and the Soviet Union, “Sputnik” announced to U.S. policymakers that somehow Russian scientists and mathematicians were far ahead of American ones and something had to be done with K-12 and higher education curriculum and instruction to catch up. As had happened often in American schools, every national problem has as part of its solution, changing what happens in classrooms. So a “space race” ensued. Schools became a second front in the “Cold War” between the U.S. and the Soviet Union.
And that is the background for the introduction of the New Math in U.S. public schools beginning in the late-1950s and extending into the mid-1970s. As these curricular changes settled into the schools, teachers, parents, and students became key actors in the implementation of the “New Math.”
What Was the New Math?
Instead of memorizing rules and constant number drills as traditionally was done in elementary and secondary school math instruction, one writer described the reform this way:
[M]athematicians and educators at universities in New York, Indiana, Massachusetts, Minnesota, and Maryland, t… took aim at the mindless rigidity of traditional mathematics. They argued that math could be exciting if it showed children the whys of problem solving rather than just the hows. Memorization and rote were wrong. Discovery, deduction, and limited drill were the best routes to arithmetical mastery.
In practice, this meant learning how different number systems worked, that the number 9 in the decimal, or base ten, system would be the number 100 in base three. It meant learning about the set, a grouping of things: a beach as a “set” of grains of sand, for example. It meant learning the difference between a number like 7 and its representation the numeral, which could be expressed many different ways—21 minus 14, 7 times 1, VII. It meant learning to draw rulerlike number lines and divide them into sections to discover fractional multiplication. It meant learning about frames—boxlike symbols used as substitutes for the x, y, z ’s of algebra. It meant learning a new language with terms like open sentence, complementation , and truth set . It meant, in essence, learning to discover the hidden patterns in mathematics before knowing what they were called and reasoning out solutions before knowing rules—all at an earlier age than had ever been attempted before.
Unfortunately, both teachers and parents were unfamiliar with these new concepts and details of the “new math” thus creating difficulties in how much of it was actually taught, much less, learned.
Consider Peanuts and Lucy cartoons:
How Many Teachers Taught the New Math?
It is hard to say. I examined many articles and books to answer the question. What I did discover is that there was no initial plan or program to train secondary and elementary school teachers to teach the “New Math.” Keep in mind, that nearly all teachers of math, especially in elementary schools, had minimal or no training in teaching math other than having taken a few courses in college. Teachers, then, were largely unprepared for the new texts and reform rhetoric surrounding the “New Math.”
One study done in the late-1970s of U.S. schools looked at schools that had embraced the “New Math.” The researchers concluded:
Despite the”new math” thrust, and although it is evident that the number and variety of mathematics courses offered in secondary schools has increased since 1955, there appears to be little change in mathematics instruction in grades K-12.
Few efforts were made to educate elementary or secondary teachers concerning the new changes in content and methodology with the result that the single textbook is still the primary source of mathematics curricula with most teachers using no instructional materials except the texbook and chalkboard.
In 1974, a New York Times’s article reported that: “…an estimated 85 percent of elementary and secondary schools in the United States teach the “New Math.” But that estimate doesn’t answer my question about how many teachers taught the “New Math” since an elementary school of 25 teachers might have two dozen teachers conducting “New Math” lessons or a quarter of the staff or only one delivering such lessons. And in secondary schools where there were math departments, one, five, or none of the teachers may have embraced the innovation.
Because of the lack of classroom data, answering the question with any confidence is beyond my grasp.
What Did a “New Math” Lesson Look Like in Elementary and Secondary Schools?
A few photos and YouTube videos may help answer the question:
Consider that new texts became available:
There are two YouTube videos about changes in the math curricula in high school and elementary school. They include vignettes of what occurred in classroom lessons. The videos can be found at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lvEcFJANVQo
Overall, “New Math” instruction, given the limits of the data, remained teacher-centered and textbook-driven, often involving student work on a chalkboard. The “New Math”seldom triggered changes in the teacher’s familiar repertoire of techniques in delivering content and skills. Lecturing and using textbook problems to introduce new concepts and frequent drills and quizzes solidified what was learned.
The Aftermath of the New Math
Yes, like previous curricular reforms that rushed across America’s thousands of districts, the “New Math” had disappeared by the late-1960s. Subsequent curricular reform movements such as “Back to Basics”in the 1970s, the quest for rigorous standards following A Nation at Risk report in 1983, and the subsequent adoption of Common Core standards led to new curricula in both math and other academic subjects.
But a residue of the “New Math” remained in classrooms. Some teachers in some schools in some districts continued to use “new math” textbooks. As more and more of fervent “New Math” teachers retired, the curriculum reform, weakly imbedded in America’s classrooms to begin with, disappeared. In 1989 and later in 2000, the National Council of Teachers of Mathematics (NCTM) published curricular and instructional standards aligned with the movement to toughen academic standards and guide different levels of math instruction. Since 2010, the Common Core standards contain guidance for math curricula and instruction.
Nary a mention of the “New Math” appeared in these documents. Like many school reforms, it had become a footnote, an asterisk in the history of math curricula.
Tax-supported public schools have been havens of non-partisan activity. Whether one is a Democrat or Republican is immaterial when it comes to public schools. After all, the point of schooling is to make the young into good citizens who will do what’s best for the community, regardless of which political party they join.
But that’s not what occurred in Williamson County, Tennessee. Here is TheNew York Times‘ account of events from this past spring:
“What happens when a child sounds out the word ‘lesbian’ and turns to their teacher and asks, ‘What is a lesbian?’”
Trisha Lucente, the mom of a local kindergartner, has come before the Williamson County school board to voice her distress over the district’s continued use of Epic, a digital library app containing more than 40,000 children’s books and videos. Ms. Lucente and like-minded parents have complained about several titles that they consider inappropriate. Anything touching on race, gender or sexuality can set off alarms in conservative circles here. (A book on sea horses came under fire recently. The fact that male sea horses get pregnant was seen as promoting the idea of gender fluidity.)
In response, the school system temporarily shut down access to the library to conduct a review — prompting an outcry from supporters of the app — then reinstated it while allowing parents to opt out their kids.*
Williamson County School Board’s struggle over the library app underscores the point that public schools are political entities that can get sucked into divisive conflict. In this instance, a recent change in state law allowed candidates for the County school board to announce their political party affiliation. Given the recent history of curricular battles across the country, what occurred in Williamson was predictable. Board policy-making became a cradle of conflict.
But that’s not the way 151 school boards in Tennessee and 13,000-plus across the U.S. are supposed to do business. They are supposed to be non-partisan and apolitical.
Negativity toward Politics in Public Schools
I have worked with school board members, teachers, principals, district administrators, and superintendents for decades. I found that their responses to the idea that schools (and schooling) are fundamentally political largely negative. Although teachers and principals winced when I raised this point and gave highly specific examples of school boards acting politically (e.g., Kanawa County, West Virginia) they remained unpersuaded.
Superintendents, however, did see that a substantial portion of their work was political, that is, building coalitions to support policies recommended to the school board, negotiating with groups inside and outside the district to reach a satisfactory compromise to a dilemma, seeking out new resources for implementing policies, and figuring out how best to deal with obstreperous board members. Superintendents acknowledged that they are, indeed, political actors. Nonetheless, their words and body language revealed that many school chiefs disliked the inherent politics of the job.
Why is this? My guess is that the idea of politics quickly morphs into what most educators and most Americans associate with partisan politics (i.e., Republicans and Democrats). And, for the most part, that has been taboo. Consequently, most school board members across the 13,000-plus districts do not identify their party affiliation. Such party politics is rare.
Here is the punch line: What most educators ignore is that the non-partisan politics happen all the time within schools and districts. By non-partisan school politics, I mean the back-and-forth debates over school board policies and actions taken that govern what content and skills are taught in classrooms, schools, and districts.
A second guess for the negativity is that U.S. schools’ prior experience with partisan politics was disastrous. Between the 1870s and early 1900s, political parties saw schools as just another agency to reward loyal party members with jobs and contracts. The Progressive movement in the late-1890s through the 1920s introduced civil service reforms where applicants for jobs had to take tests, show credentials and experience to be hired as government employees. States and districts adopted these rules and over decades removed schools from partisan politics and patronage.
Those are my guesses as to why educators too often get sniffy over attaching the word “political” to what they do in schools.
It is foolish, however, to deny that schools are political institutions established to reach desired community goals including how to live and act in a democracy. Consider that taxing property owners and levying sales taxes on everyone regardless of whether they have children or not means that schools matter a great deal to the community. School boards, administrators and teachers are agents hired to achieve community-inspired goals. Moreover, compelling parents to send their children to school between the ages of 6-17 underscores how important schools are to the survival and growth of the community, state, and nation.
When one looks carefully at those goals public schools have for children and youth, however, it is easy to see not only what community values are embedded in each and every goal but also how potential partisan and parental conflicts over school curricula arise.
No surprise then that Trisha Lucente, the mother of a Williamson County kindergartner, complained at a meeting of the School Board about a digital library app available to students and their parents that included books dealing with race, gender, ethnicity, and sexuality that she found both inappropriate and immoral.
*A much longer and fuller account of the conflict that has occurred in Williamson County since May 2021 involved a school program called “Wit and Wisdom.” The description can be found in Paige Williams, “Class Warfare,” The New Yorker, November 7, 2022
I came to Stanford University in 1981 to teach in the Graduate School of Education and do research into the history of school reform. After being at Stanford for five years, a new dean asked me to serve as his Associate Dean. Being superintendent for seven years prior to coming to Stanford and tasting the privileged life of a full professor I had no inclination to return to being a university administrator whose influence on tenured colleagues, was, at best sorely limited and at worst, non-existent. The Dean wanted me bad enough that he and I negotiated a higher salary–I would be working twelve months rather than nine (it is, after all, a private institution where everything is negotiated). I would only serve two years. I could teach at least one or two courses each year I served and I would get a sabbatical quarter after completing the second year. OK, I said.
What did I do?
I had to insure that all of my colleagues taught at least four courses over three quarters–some did not and I had to badger them to do so. I handled students’ dissatisfaction with particular professors’ poor teaching or their being habitually inattentive to students’ work. I followed up on doctoral students’ complaints about unavailability of their advisers, and I represented the Dean on occasions he could not attend campus meetings or social events. So with the help of an skillful administrative secretary, the first year went smoothly.
The second year I had an idea. University professors seldom get observed as they teach except by their students. As a superintendent I had observed over a thousand teachers in my district over seven years. Even prior to that I was a supervisor of intern history teachers. Observe and discuss observations with teachers, I could do.
I sent out a personal letter (this was before email became standard communication) to each of my 36 colleagues asking them if they wanted me to observe one of their classes and meet afterwards to discuss what I had seen. I made clear that I would make no judgment on their class but describe to them what I saw and have a conversation around what they had intended to happen in the lesson, what they thought had occurred, and what I had observed. Nothing would be written down (except for my notes which I shared with each faculty member). It would be a conversation. I did ask them to supply me with the readings that students were assigned for the session I observed and what the professor wanted to accomplish during the hour or 90-minute session.
Of the 36 who received the letter, 35 agreed (the 36th came to me in the middle of the year and asked me to observe his class). None of them–yes, that is correct–none had ever been observed before by anyone in the Graduate School of Education for purposes of having a conversation about their teaching. Two had been observed by me and a former Associate Dean because of student complaints; I had discussed those complaints with the professor and then observed lectures and discussions they had conducted. Both of them invited me to their classes when I wrote my subsequent letter. So for each quarter of the school year, I visited two to four professors a week. Each scheduled a follow-up conversation with me that we held in their office.
I did observe 36 colleagues. For me, it was a fine learning experience. I got to read articles in subject matter I knew a smattering (e.g., economics of education, adolescent psychological development, standardized test development). I heard colleagues lecture, saw them discuss readings from their syllabi, and, for me, I picked up new knowledge and ways of teaching graduate students I had not tried in my courses.
As for my colleagues, a common response during the conversations we had following the observations was gratitude for an experience they had not had as a professor. Simply talking about the mechanics of a lecture or discussion, what they thought had worked and had not, the surprises that popped up during the lesson–all of that was a new experience for nearly all of the faculty. A few asked me to return again and we negotiated return visits. Overall, I felt–and seemingly most of my colleagues felt similarly–that the experience was worthwhile because I and they wanted to talk about the ins-and-outs of teaching and had lacked opportunities to do so in their career as professors.
Those conversations over the year got me thinking more deeply about why universities like Stanford preach the importance of teaching–the rhetoric is omnipresent–yet had not created and institutionalized ways for faculty to share with colleagues the how and what of their teaching. Many universities have established centers for the improvement of teaching where professors and graduate students receive help. These are, of course, voluntary. And, yes, most universities have annual teaching awards and programs to help professors improve their teaching, including Stanford University. .
As Associate Dean in 1986-1987, I sat in on faculty lectures and seminars for months. That experience led me on an intellectual journey plumbing a question that nagged at me as I observed and conversed with colleagues: how come universities say teaching is important yet all of the structures and actual (not symbolic) rewards of promotion, tenure, and salary go to professors who produce articles and books in peer-reviewed journals?
I tried answering that question in a historical study of teaching and research at Stanford in two departments–history and the School of Medicine. In researching and writing How Scholars Trumped Teachers: Change without Reform in University Curriculum, Teaching, and Research, 1890-1990 (1999), I figured out why and how universities like Stanford have structures and incentives that insure teaching will be subordinate to professors’ primary tasks of researching and publishing.
This article appeared in The Atlantic, October, 2016. The title is: “The Gendered Past of Typing Education: A Quirky QWERTY History.”Hayley Glatter is a former editorial fellow at The Atlantic.
The man who taught me to type was at least 100 years old at the time of my instruction. He wore thick, purple sunglasses that completely hid his eyes at all times. His long, white beard rippled as he traveled in a pink convertible through both time and space. This man was also, of course, animated.
Like the characters in Oregon Trail, Freddy the Fish, and other popular games of the early aughts, the time-traveling typing guru of Type to Learn was an inescapable fixture of my elementary-school computer classes. I attribute my ability to touch type—to use a keyboard without actually watching my fingers move—almost entirely to this computer game, which is a far cry from the typing courses high-school students took in previous decades and the typewriters they used.
Over time, typing education has evolved in tandem with both the progression of computer technology and the decreasing age at which students are exposed to that technology. Today, that age may be reaching its lowest limit, as standardized tests and metrics emphasize the need for exceedingly young learners to successfully navigate a computer.
These histories, Darren Wershler, the author of The Iron Whim: A Fragmented History of Typewriting, said, are inseparable from the history of writing itself. Thanks to the increasing ubiquity of the laptop, it is today more common for people to write by themselves, with just the companionship of their computer’s glare. But in the early-to-mid 19th century, writers—who were usually men—would dictate their thoughts to a secretary—who was also typically male, Wershler said. When the typewriter was introduced in the second half of the century, that relationship began to change.
Suddenly, women were operating typewriters and recording men’s dictation, irreversibly altering workplace gender dynamics. Empowered by a nation in the throes of rapid industrialization and armed with typing lessons from local YMCAs and YWCAs, these women, Wershler said, were key to filling the business world’s increasing demand for speed. “The reason that you need typewriters in the workplace is for more accurate record keeping, faster record keeping,” he said. “You can’t have rows of guys with green cellophane visors sitting on stools, filling in ledgers by hand—that just doesn’t work any more. You need typewriters, you need carbon paper, you need filing systems, and you need efficient ways of moving information around once it’s been typed and standardized.”
And women were there to fill that role. Early Remington typewriters were marketed specifically to women; Wershler said the devices were modeled to look similar to the sewing machines of the era and were occasionally decorated with flowers. And so, the Peggy Olsons of the mid-20th century remained the keepers of the keyboard.
A number of people who came of age in the 1970s and 1980s learned to type in a high-school classroom. Many of these classes were “drawn along sexist lines,” said Norman Worthington, one of the creators of Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing, a commercially successful computer program that combines games and lessons to teach touch typing. “If you were a woman possibly waiting for a role in the business world, you would often find yourself in the secretarial electives, learning how to type, and the boys would be out playing football.”
“Up to that point, computers were in glass houses with the computer priests that ran them.”
Some schools offered separate courses for business and personal typing, and there was a market for how-to books that provided aspiring typists with direction. After conversations with a number of people who learned to type around this time, though, it would seem that these relatively piecemeal approaches left aspiring typists with a lackluster education and a propensity to avoid touch typing. Instead, some Baby Boomers and Gen X-ers favor the hunt-and-peck method, which utilizes just two fingers and is vastly less efficient.
But then, in 1981, IBM launched its personal computer and completely shifted typing education. As the use of PCs accelerated through the last quarter of the century, so too did the inherent need to know how to use a keyboard. “What was happening was everybody—women, men, kids—was starting to get excited and interested in microcomputers,” Worthington said. “Up to that point, computers were in glass houses with the computer priests that ran them … But now, all of a sudden, you wanted to interact with this machine, and the primary method for interacting was a keyboard.”
The growth of the personal computer increased the utility of knowing how to type, and this growth coincided with the burgeoning era of computer and video games. As giants like Atari cashed in on programs like Pong, and aspiring business professionals acknowledged the need to know how to operate a keyboard, the gamification of learning to type flowed naturally.
Enter: Mavis Beacon.
Launched in 1987, Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing is a computer program that skyrocketed to popularity at the tail end of the 20th century. What set the program apart was its titular character, Mavis, an anthropomorphized feature that Worthington said provided users with the experience of “interacting with the distillation of an expert living in your computer.” Worthington, who designed the educational engine of the program, said the game’s core teaching function was initially based on the concept of bursts—if someone can learn to quickly type common words (such as a-r-e and t-h-e), then they will be able to accelerate their overall average typing pace.
However, another key insight Worthington said helped ingratiate the Mavis Beacon software into the typing curriculum was that the product was more engaging than its competitors. Through product tests, Worthington and his team discovered that a key metric for predicting success in learning to type is simply time spent practicing. So if users were happier while spending time with the program, they were also more likely to succeed in learning the skill.
People who used Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing spanned all ages and genders; Worthington said the product was designed so older users would find the content amusing and younger users would remain engaged through the games built into the program. No longer was typing simply marketed as “women’s work.” Today, who learns to type is less a question of gender as it is one of age. The average age at which typing is taught seems to be decreasing, as many elementary and middle schools have computer courses for young learners.
At Birch Grove Primary School in Tolland, Connecticut, Lori D’Andrea is a computer-technology teacher who sees each kindergartener, first-grader, and second-grader once a week for 40 minutes. Though much of her curriculum revolves around increasing the students’ familiarity with computers, she does provide them with information on free typing programs they can practice with while they are at home. D’Andrea said she approaches typing education with such young learners in a relaxed way; she’s not particularly focused on the speed at which a 6-year-old can type.
“Let’s face it, computers aren’t going away.”
“They’re so young here—they’re 5, 6, 7, and 8,” D’Andrea said. “Typing when you’re that young? I think back to what I was doing when I was that young, and I have an old typewriter in the room, and they’re like, ‘What’s that?’ They have no idea.”
Part of the reason D’Andrea takes a more relaxed approach to teaching students to type is because her young students face physical barriers to typing that older kids simply do not. The pinky strength and dexterity required to reach certain keys is not something many 7-year-olds can muster. The distance from the semicolon key to the backslash is longer than a regular-sized paper clip on many keyboards—a space that is insurmountable for a child’s small hands. On top of that, D’Andrea pointed out that there are high-level processing skills required to operate a keyboard, and many first graders are not ready for them. For example, some of her students expressed confusion following the realization that although the letters on a keyboard are all uppercase, pushing the button results in a lowercase digit on-screen.
And yet, despite the physical and developmental impediments to teaching such young students to type, D’Andrea said certain testing metrics implore her to build up her students’ familiarity with the keyboard. The Common Core Standards state that, in third grade, students should be able to “use technology to produce and publish writing (using keyboarding skills).” On top of that, D’Andrea said her students take various tests on the computer that require some mouse and keyboard skills to complete. As standardized testing continues to go digital, D’Andrea said she wants to make sure the young students in her classes are equipped to succeed: “I tell the kids, ‘This is your practice to get used to taking tests on the computer.’ Because, let’s face it, computers aren’t going away. They’re going to have to take computerized tests … from now until they’re in high school.”
And so it would seem that the gendered past of typing education has broadly fallen away as the skill has become a prerequisite—even for the very young—to succeed. But D’Andrea’s point about the physical barriers for children learning to type is a good one, and as articleafterarticle decries the screen addiction plaguing society, one is left to wonder whether there is a limit to how low the age at which young people learn to type will fall. Add that to the notion that though there are free teaching programs available online, not every student has access to a computer at home. And as schools slug through funding issues and huge disparities in technological quality, it is clear that successfully learning to type is far from equitable. Though Gen-Z is supposedly populated with technology natives, learning to operate a keyboard requires more than just the push of a button.