As someone who has moved quite a bit, both nationally and internationally, I have a complicated relationship with the idea of place. I have called many places home, from Dublin to Norwich, from Germany to New Zealand. For me, home has been rooted in people (and occasionally cats), rather than a physical location. Also caught up in this mix is not having a clear sense of whakapapa – not knowing exactly who my ancestors were, nor from whence they came.
I may have been born in Hamilton and spent a great deal of my life there, but I don’t feel especially connected to it. The location was a result of my father’s job at the time, rather than being there for any ancestral reasons. In many respects I feel a greater affinity for Ireland. We lived in Dublin from when I was 20 months to when I was five years old. I started school there. I had an Irish accent. My understanding is that my great-grandfather was a school teacher in Cork for a time. But I would feel fraudulent if I laid any claim to being Irish.
So attending a seminar and workshop on ‘place-based education’ presents an interesting dilemma for me. Intellectually, and from a social justice lens, I fully embrace the concept that a school’s curriculum should be embedded and intertwined with the geographical area as this supports all learners, including our Māori learners, in their quest for personal identity and belonging.
I’ve written previously about growing in my understanding of whenua, that Māori identity is more than genealogy, more than knowing one’s corporal ancestors, but also outlining kinship to the land. But if you don’t have a connection to particular landmarks, or, as is perhaps the case for me, to multiple landmarks, how are you supposed to really embrace the journey of place-based education?
Luckily Rosalie, Te Mako and Patariki offered me some real food for thought on this very question. Rosalie quoted Wally Penetito: begin where your feet are. Perhaps I don’t need to wrestle with my whakapapa just yet. What are the stories of the places about me? Why is the street I live on now named what it is? How did this suburb come to be? Who was here before the colonial settlers arrived? What stories did these people tell of these hills, these trees, these streams?
Because the power of a story is that it is never finished. There’s another version, a further chapter, a prequel, a sequel, a digression, a tangent. Stories spread in every direction and across dimensions. As Rosalie said, again quoting Penetito: you begin where your feet are, but you don’t stop there; you move outwards.
Slightly belated, this post is related to Pink Shirt Day, which was on May 17, 2019.
I was super-excited to start high school. I was going to learn French and walk with my books tucked under my left arm. It would be the epitome of sophistication.
My parents decided that I would attend an Anglican girls’ school. Even though none of my friends were going, I don’t recall being upset about it. As long as I could take French, and carry my books, I was happy.
Prior to high school, I had no idea that clothing had brands, or that some school bags were cooler than others, or that there were the ‘right’ bits of uniform to wear, or the ‘right’ way to wear bits of uniform. So maybe I stuck out from day one. Whatever it was, I never gelled in that place. I never made friends, I never found my tribe, I never got accepted into a group.
In fact, in ways only girls know how to be cruel, I was actively rejected. The group I would sometimes eat lunch with, would disappear off the face of the earth. My desk contents would be messed up. I would be the butt of the in-jokes.
But this post isn’t really about that. (Although, lengthy side note: I am incredibly grateful to have had these experiences in the early 1990s when there were no cellphones nor social media. Other than one night of obscene phone calls, when I left the school gate at 3:25pm, at least the bullying was done.)
Nor is it about the girls who chose these behaviours and who thought it was perfectly fine to treat another person in this way.
It’s about the crowd. Those faceless, nameless others in the class who knew full well what was going on. And did nothing. Absolutely nothing. These days, when I think about my high school experiences at all, this is what makes me mad. So when I see the message of this year’s Pink Shirt Day: ‘Kōrero Mai, Kōrero Atu’, for me these people are the target audience.
I sometimes think that when we consider our responses to bullying we focus on the individuals concerned: the ‘victim’, the ‘bully’. I would prefer to see a focus on the culture that allows and condones the bullying behaviours in the first place. What makes me wild is not the lack of empathy for others, but the apathy of the crowd.
We say that actions speak louder than words. This is highly debatable in all kinds of contexts. But I think that it is true to say that sometimes what you don’t do speaks as loudly as what you do choose to do.
As a facilitator, and as a PhD student of education, I spend quite a lot of time thinking about teacher professional learning and development. Wearing the first hat, I think about the content a principal or leader has asked me to convey, and I think about how best to do that – in particular what activities teachers could do to get them grappling with the content at hand themselves. Wearing the second hat, I think about conferences for teacher PLD, including how conferences are designed, and whether this matches with what we know about effective PLD and with what teachers are actually asked to do in their classrooms.
What I haven’t ever thought about, until now, is the ideas about how teachers learn that underpin my thinking, and the thinking of others who design and support teacher PLD. This is known as ‘teacher learning’, and research suggests that how leaders (facilitators, principals, administrators, etc.) believe teachers learn directly influences their leadership practices, their interpretation of policy, their allocation of resources, and their design of PLD for teachers (Coburn, 2005; Nelson, 1998; Spillane, 2000).
For example, Coburn (2005), examines the practices of two US principals who design, resource, and support teacher PLD in reading in light of reformed policy. One principal sees knowledge construction as the transfer of knowledge as ‘stuff’ from the head of an expert to the head of a teacher. Therefore she prioritises accessing external experts and expert materials and bringing these into her school for her teachers to learn from. Teachers are also given time, and are encouraged to try out the materials and techniques in their classrooms. The other principal sees knowledge construction as a social and collaborative activity: less about knowledge transference, and more about teachers thinking about their practice and what might need to shift. This leads to prioritising building professional learning communities and networks: making sure teachers have time to learn with and from one another.
This leads me to consider my own practices. What do I prioritise when designing professional learning experiences for teachers? I actively seek to talk from the front as little as possible. I prioritise activities that encourage and support teachers to explore ideas and reflect on what they currently know, and what they might need to find out next. I guess, to put a bit of a fancy label on it, I see teacher learning as being both individual and socially constructed (Borko, 2004).
And it makes me wonder. What do other facilitators, teachers, principals, policy makers, etc. base their PLD design on? What does their PLD programme suggest about how they understand teachers to learn?
Borko, H. (2004). Professional development and teacher learning: Mapping the terrain. Educational Researcher, 33(8), 3-15.
Coburn, C. E. (2005). Shaping teacher sensemaking: School leaders and the enactment of reading policy. Educational Policy, 19(3), 476-509. Retrieved from doi:10.1177/0895904805276143
Nelson, B. S. (1998). Lenses on learning: Administrators’ views on reform and the professional development of teachers. Journal of Mathematics Teacher Education, 1(2), 191-215.
Spillane, J. P. (2000). District leaders’ perceptions of teacher learning. CPRE Occasional Paper Series.
Shirky argues that a profession is a specialist position: one that requires specialist knowledge beyond that required of a regular ‘job’. A professional is a product of scarcity, coming to the fore where there is abundance; many customers, few specialists. Think of a librarian; many books (yes, I know they do way more than books, but go with me) – few librarians. Many businesses; few accountants.
Further, a professional has to have specialised training, gain certification, and this grants them membership into a particular body or organisation of similarly trained and certified professional peers. This professional body sets the norms, accepted practice, code of conduct: determines what being a professional in that profession actually looks like in practice. In this way, Shirky says, a professional cares at least as much about what their practice looks like to other professionals in their field as they do their customers.
By way of illustrative example, and building on earlier chapters in his book, Shirky analyses the rise of blogging (cue some irony) and what this means for the profession of journalism. With a blogging platform, anyone and everyone can be a ‘journalist’, reporting and editoralising on the news.
So if anyone can be a journalist, what does this mean for the profession of journalism? Shirky raises many interesting points, not the least of which is about the journalist’s ‘right’ to protect their sources. But one I’m particularly struck by is that when anyone can report the news, it challenges what counts as ‘news’. An event that the mainstream media, those certified, card-carrying members of the professional body of journalists, may, in their professional judgement, deem unworthy of publication can be deemed highly important and newsworthy to a blogger. Gather enough steam online, and the originally un-newsworthy event may even eventually be picked up by the mainstream media. Is this the rise of the amateur, or a time of mass professionalism?
All this leads me to think about the profession of teaching.
Thanks to technology, just like blogging and journalism, anyone can be a teacher. Wikipedia, YouTube, Khan Academy, TED talks, and any number of community websites, fora and noticeboards which help online members… these are means by which people learn, mostly in an open-source, crowdsourced kind of way.
As Shirky says:
“A profession becomes, for its members, a way of understanding their world …. Sometimes, though, the professional outlook can become a disadvantage, preventing the very people who have the most at stake – the professionals themselves – from understanding major changes to the structure of their profession” (p. 58).
So, what does being a professional teacher mean to you? What might we be missing when we see our profession through our professional glasses?
I invite you to share your thoughts in the comments.
So, I’ve been a bit quiet the past few weeks, but I have an awesome excuse: I’m travelling in Scandinavia! We flew into Copenhagen, hung out there for a bit, then joined a group bus tour through Denmark, Sweden and Norway, and now we’re staying in an apartment in Oslo for a week. Stunning weather, varied landscapes, Vikings… it’s fabulous.
And while we were on the organised group tour, it struck me: travelling in this way is very much like a attending a conference – at least most of the ones I have been to for the purposes of teacher professional learning and development. What do I mean by that? Well, in case you’ve never been ‘on tour’, let me give you a snapshot of what it’s like.
Before going away, you will have poured over various websites and glossy brochures in order to choose the trip you want. Does it hit all the highlights? Will you get to stay in nice hotels? What excursions are included? Then, while you are away, you have a highly informed Tour Director who organises everything for you. What time to get your bags packed and ready for collection. What time to have breakfast. What time to be on the bus for departure. When the ‘comfort’ stops will be. When and where lunch will be. The history of your present location. Suggestions of things to do with your unscheduled time. It’s quite the experience.
You’ll have the absolute reassurance that you will have seen the key spots in the neighbourhood. You’ll learn something of the country, its people, and its culture. You’ll have someone to help you if you have problems. You’ll have a whole busload of people to chat with. It’s organised, safe, and reliable. And enjoyable: you get to see a lot from up high in those reclining bus seats.
I think there are a lot of comparisons to be made with traditional conferences. You’ll spend time thinking about whether you really want to attend the event. Are the themes of interest and relevance to you? Who else do you know is going? What break-out sessions are on offer? Who are the keynote speakers? And once you’ve registered, the conference timetable is set. Follow the instructions and advice of the conference MC to make the most of the experience. You have the reassurance of knowing you’ve heard from experts in your field, the fun of socialising and networking with peers, and the enjoyment of learning something new.
But perhaps the key comparison that has struck me is that of agency. Bus touring and conventional conferences offer the illusion of agency. Choosing between optional excursions and deciding what to do with your limited ‘free time’ on a bus tour that is otherwise highly scheduled gives the illusion that you are an independent traveller. Similarly, choosing between breakouts and workshops at a conference gives the illusion that you are an independent learner.
It is undoubtedly harder to be independent in both contexts. It requires effort, motivation, curiosity, and, perhaps above all, time. Time to do your research, to really commit to navigating your travelling… or your learning. So what’s the pay off in going off the beaten track? Satisfaction. Pride. Confidence. And the skills to continue journeying.
There’s nothing wrong with the easy route. It’s a great place to get an introduction. But we must not stop there to admire the (carefully pre-selected) view. We must then find our own paths into the unknown.
Why am I rambling about conferences? Because that’s the topic of my PhD. Learn a little more here.
This post was first published on CORE Education’s blog. Click here to see the original.
Schools cannot simply rely on their positive culture and respectful relationships to promote wellbeing but need to provide opportunities for students to make decisions about their wellbeing and to be active in leading their learning,Education Review Office, 2016, p. 18.
The wellbeing of young people is increasingly an area for focus for schools both here in Aotearoa New Zealand, as well as overseas. In the past we have possibly relied too heavily on an implicit approach to the wellbeing of our staff, students, and school community: that teachers and students have a good rapport; that leaders have an ‘open door’ policy whereby any issue can be raised at any time; that the school environment has a positive feeling. While these are indeed all strengths schools can build upon, this isn’t an approach to wellbeing in and of itself. If we see wellbeing as important, then it must be reflected in all areas and aspects of a school. Wellbeing requires an explicit approach, as the Education Review Office (ERO) calls for in the quote above.
Firstly, what is wellbeing? When I asked participants this very question at a recent CORE Breakfast, this is what people said:
A synonym I like to use is flourishing (as did one or two others!). That our young people are nurtured to do more than exist; they thrive. They have the right to be who they are without having to leave any aspect of their identity (such as their ethnicity, culture, gender, sexual orientation) at the school gate.
This is all very laudable, but how do schools go about explicitly planning for our young people to flourish and thrive?
Taking a youth development perspective in wellbeing work;
Seeing young people as active agents in their lives.
Whole-school really means whole-school: that wellbeing goals are reflected in school policy, curriculum, the physical environment, pastoral care practices, in the staffroom, in the boardroom, and in the classroom. That we monitor the wellbeing of all students and staff, and that we iteratively design and evaluate wellbeing strategies and initiatives.
Taking a youth development perspective requires moving beyond our previous practices of focusing on responding to specific issues as they present themselves (bullying, teen pregnancy, smoking, for example) to promoting wellbeing. It also means that students are actively involved in developing and leading wellbeing programmes. This goes hand-in-hand with treating young people as agents in their lives. Young people are experts in their own lives: they have knowledge that deserves respect and offers learning opportunities for adults.
Last year I had the privilege of being selected for the Lifehack Flourishing Fellowship. Lifehack was a systems-level intervention in youth mental health and wellbeing in Aotearoa New Zealand. One of the amazing resources I was introduced to was the ‘Mapping and Mobilising Conditions for Youth Wellbeing and Hauora’. This is a tool primarily designed for youth work teams and organisations to “identify and strengthen their practices and ways of working across areas that are known to promote youth wellbeing, hauora and positive and youth development.” As soon as I saw it, I got excited. I could see its potential to be used in schools as a reflection tool. I tested it with a group of teachers, and we had a think about both its format and its language. Based on their feedback and thoughts, I had a play to create this version for use in schools and Kāhui Ako: Pathways towards student wellbeing.
In it, I pose three key questions:
Agency and Engagement: How are young people involved?
Cohesion and Collaboration: How do we learn and work together to nurture wellbeing systemically?
Environment and Community: Do our environments show that young people are valued and important?
Much of the literature about youth wellbeing places emphasis on what in education we call ‘agency’. That young people are involved in the planning, leading, and implementation of wellbeing programmes and initiatives. We should work towards the consistent involvement of diverse groups of young people, including initiatives and programmes they co-design and lead.
As a prompt to consider where you might be at in your school with regards to agency and engagement, you may like to consider student leadership.
Who are the student leaders in your school?
How are they selected?
What role(s) do they fulfil? How much agency do these leaders have?
Who is not represented in student leadership roles?
And perhaps more broadly:
To what extent are young people involved in the design of programmes / initiatives and in decision-making generally?
Are there are a variety of opportunities for young people to participate and be involved in meaningful ways?
To grow the capacity of a school to support youth wellbeing, it is important to be a learning community. The principle of ako is crucial here: how do we learn with and from one another, how do we share this learning, how do we curate this learning? The challenge in this space is to have a commitment to innovation and collaboration, and iterative ways of working and learning both internally and externally. To have knowledge shared openly, and learning that is reciprocal, and that young people are active agents in creating and sharing knowledge. Collectively, we build a broad and deep knowledge base that is curated.
As a prompt to consider where you might be at in your school with regards to cohesion and collaboration, you may like to consider learning as inquiry.
Who decides what is taught and how?
To what extent is learning through inquiry a basis for learning in classrooms; as professional learning and development; as building capacity for leadership?
How do we share the learning from our inquiries with one another?
And perhaps more broadly:
To what extent are individuals, groups, teams and / or departments operating in silos or in isolation?
How do individuals and teams draw on and contribute to data and a shared knowledge base?
The third aspect to consider is that of environment and community. This is intentionally broad, encompassing all aspects of the environment: the physical, cultural, social and emotional environments of the school. It is important that the input and value of young people is reflected in places, spaces and governance structures.
As a prompt to consider where you might be at in your school with regards to environment and community, you may like to consider what’s on display on the school and classroom walls.
Do we display learning in progress, or finished products?
Who decides what is displayed?
Who decides where material is displayed?
How often is material for display changed?
What isn’t displayed on walls?
And perhaps more broadly:
Do young people feel welcome and included in our spaces and community places?
Does the design and management of amenities and spaces specifically incorporate young people’s needs?
These are big issues for schools to grapple with. However, starting by asking young people what is happening for them in their lives, and in your school; auditing wellbeing programmes, initiatives and data; and then considering the strengths the school has to build upon are useful beginning steps. The key theme is that of agency: Nothing about us without us. This is a wero all schools should wrestle with.
“How’s the PhD going?” is a common question I’m being asked since enrolling at university last month.
“Oh, dipping my toes in,” is the vague, non-committal response I usually give.
Where do you start a such a huge piece of work? Luckily I know a few people who have completed, just submitted, or are about to submit a PhD, so I polled them. I was given some great advice:
‘Write first, read second,’ was one I really liked. I usually do a lot of reading. I try and read as much as possible, as broadly and as deeply as possible. But I can see the pitfalls of this starting with this approach. Once you’re on this track, how do you know when to stop? When do you start to lose track of your own ideas, and have them hijacked by the ideas of others? The more you read, sometimes the more you get lost. In a fictional context, I like this. When I’m trying to contribute some original knowledge to the world (yikes, #nopressure) I can see this as rapidly becoming an extension of imposter syndrome: losing sight of the gaps, and seeing only what’s been done. Who am I to think I might have a different perspective or contribution to offer?
‘Write a research question. See if you can answer it. If you can, write another research question,’ was another I really liked. So much so, that after the person gifted me with this advice, I went home and had a questionstorming session. I generated nearly 50 research questions. For me, I found this really useful. It was a concrete and discrete task to complete. I could do it over a short space of time (I’m only studying part-time) and feel as though I had achieved something. In a way, it’s similar to the ‘write first’ idea: start with your own thoughts and ideas first. Ground yourself in your interests and branch out from there.
I’ve also inadvertently stumbled into my own useful practices. One I’m determined to keep up is my ‘What have I done today’ journal. I have a document I write in at the end of every study day where I summarise what I’ve done, and jot down any questions or key thoughts I’ve had. Not only does this help to give me a sense of accomplishment, it’s also super useful when I put down my research on a Thursday and don’t really pick it up again until the following Wednesday.
To complement this practice, I also ‘park on a hill’ – another piece of advice from a recent PhD student – I write a post-it note to myself with some tasks I will start with the next study day. This way, I begin the day with a sense of what I’m going to do, even if I change my mind later on in response to something I’ve read or written or thought.
I’m also grateful for the other work I have done in supporting others’ research, such as the CORE Education eFellows, and the work I have done in my own thinking and research. This has prepared me well for the familiar (but still uncomfortable) feeling of not knowing what I’m doing, where I’m going, or what I should be doing. I recognise that you have to trust your brain to throw up an idea, or bring several ideas together at unexpected times. For me, this is often when I’m cleaning the bathroom. Or, as it was the other week, at the ungodly hour of 5am.
I’ve come to realise that it’s a cliche because it’s true: a mighty project like a PhD is a marathon, not a sprint. I don’t have to know yet the scope and shape of the thing. At the moment, having some useful practices about how to think and work is enough. So I don’t think it’s that I’m dipping my toes in. They’re not yet wet. But I have managed to take my sock off.
It’s become a bit of a ‘thing’ this word for the year business. Instead of setting New Year’s Resolutions (although I do have one of those this year: cook one vegetarian meal a week) I choose a word – more accurately a verb – for the year. In theory, this helps me to align goals and strategies and helps me to focus on what’s important. Some years this is more successful than others (see here for 2017’s word), but regardless, I think it’s an optimistic and positive way to start a new year.
I’m anticipating 2018 being a big year for me. Firstly, it’s the year in which I return to study. On Monday I enrolled at Victoria, University of Wellington, and tomorrow I have induction meetings. It’s official, I’m a PhD candidate. It was such a buzz to briefly walk through campus. And I can’t wait to hit the library! #nerdlyf.
Secondly, it’s a year in which the nature of my work is changing. For the past two years I’ve worked almost exclusively with the Connected Learning Advisory – which is an awesome free service for New Zealand schools and kura to access unbiased, independent advice and support around embedding digital technologies for learning. But I’ve gone part time to give me some space for study, and I’m also increasingly working directly with schools as part of Ministry of Education-funded professional learning and development. This means rapidly developing a whole suite of negotiation and work management skills, as well as upskilling in the areas schools want support with.
Thirdly, it’s a year in which we have some significant travel planned. We’re going to take a tour through Scandinavia, a river cruise from Amsterdam to Budapest, and hang out with some very dear friends of mine in Germany.
How to synthesise all these various components? By appreciating them as unique, valuable and life-expanding experiences.
But ‘experience’ is not just about the big things. For me it’s also about the small things. I’m a prolific reader, but generally it’s novels I inhale. So, I’m seeking to have new reading experiences by reading more non-fiction. So far I’ve read a couple of history books and beside me right now is a memoir.
And ‘experience’ is also about me knowing myself. I am not about to become a hiker, an athlete or outdoorswoman. Generally speaking, I just do not appreciate these kinds of experiences. Physical challenges are not my jam. Intellectual ones are. I like to be cognitively challenged. “Where’s the learning in this for me?” is my focusing question to help me tune into the experience I’m, well, experiencing.
This post captures much of the application I have just made to start my PhD in 2018 (yikes!). It is not intended as a criticism of any particular conferences or unconferences I have attended. uLearn17 last week was a blast! For me, it is about whāia te mātauranga hei oranga mō tatou: seek after learning for the sake of your wellbeing.
In April, I was sitting in the crowd at a popular teachers’ conference in Wellington when I realised I was bored. I had spent the day moving from one location to the next merely to listen to someone talk at me from the front of the room. My bottom was numb, I was totally disengaged from the professional learning on offer, and I just wanted to go home. It struck me: in a time when teachers are being asked to “do” school differently (Bolstad et al., 2012), isn’t it time that professional learning and development for teachers looked differently to match?
From this experience, I have begun to wonder about a particular aspect of teachers’ professional development: the conference. It seems to me to be an under-researched and unquestioned mainstay of professional learning.
But what is a conference? It is just one aspect of a broad spectrum of professional learning and development opportunities and experiences. At its heart, a conference is a bringing together of people with similar interests in a fairly formal setting to engage in discussion. So what makes a conference different to a workshop, symposium or seminar? Coming to an appropriate definition will be one of the challenges of this research. For this current purpose, I see a conference as an extended professional learning and development opportunity. One that is both an activity as well as a process by which knowledge is exchanged.
Being part of a learning profession, it is fair and reasonable to require teachers to engage with professional development and research. It is enshrined in the Code of Professional Responsibility and Standards for the Teaching Profession (Education Council, 2017). Teachers must “engage in professional learning and adaptively apply this learning in practice” and “be informed by research and innovations related to: content disciplines; pedagogy…and wider education matters” (p.18).
Thus the conference as an activity continues to be a popular means of accessing and obtaining knowledge as part of a teacher’s professional learning and development, even though research suggests that it has little impact on student outcomes (Timperley et al., 2007). Indeed, there are a huge range of conferences teachers might choose to attend from the formal, such as subject association conferences; vendor-sponsored conferences, for example CORE Education’s uLearn; union conferences, for example by the Post-Primary Teachers’ Association (PPTA); professional networks’ conferences, for example, Secondary Principals’ Association of New Zealand (SPANZ); through to the informal, such as the unconference-style educamps.
As a means of accessing and acquiring knowledge, a conference can be seen as a learning process. Through this lens, a conference could be said to be about the transfer of knowledge. How then, does the model of the conference sit in this Knowledge Age whereby knowledge is increasingly seen less as a noun and more of a verb: something to do something with; a building block not unlike a humble Lego brick (Bolstad, 2011). These questions open up the possibility of exploring the epistemological and ontological aspects of a conference.
While there have been some calls to take different approaches to teacher professional learning and development, such as those made from Bolstad (2011), and Bull and Gilbert (2012), these appear to have had little impact on conferences. This isn’t to say there haven’t been some attempts made, such as the 2016 edchatNZ conference, on whose organising committee I sat. There, we organised teachers into ‘tribes’, with a trained mentor as ‘tribe leader’. While attendees still selected a few breakout workshops to participate in, they spent a significant portion of time as a tribe, working collectively to create an initiative that could potentially evolve beyond the two days of the conference.
Indeed, there are many competing constituent parts to a conference to be considered: the organising committee and its assumptions and agendas; the delegates or participants with their expectations and individual needs to be met; the speakers and presenters with their key messages and unconscious biases. There are considerable sources of tension and friction to explore. In fact, when I start to think about all of the aspects of a conference as both an activity and as a process, I wonder if a conference might meet the definition of a complex system (Johnson, 2007, and Holland, 2014).
Therefore, I am wondering about drawing on complexity theory as an overall approach to this research. I have been struck by the practices recommended by Jennifer Garvey Berger and Keith Johnston in their book Simple Habits for Complex Times (2015): asking different questions, taking multiple perspectives, seeing systems. I have a hunch that this approach may be fruitful in seeking to understand what happens at conferences and why these things happen.
Within this framework, it could be useful to explore the history of the conference: what was a conference originally intended to be? Are there traditions modern conferences draw from, whether consciously or unconsciously? Given the context of conferences as a part of teacher professional learning and development, it may be pertinent to review principles of andragogy, as well as what the literature suggests constitutes effective professional learning, such as those offered in Garet et al. (2001), Desimone et al. (2002), Timperley et al. (2007), and Timperley and Alton-Lee (2008).
It would be interesting to interview attendees from a range of conferences: the teachers and leaders, conference organisers, as well as others present at a conference, such as those on the trade stands. What stories do they have to tell? What insights might they offer into the conference experience? What patterns emerge? It could also be worthwhile to consider why some teachers choose not to attend conferences.
In asking these questions, I am wondering about how conferences operate as a system, not unlike a biological ecosystem such as a rainforest, as well as the position of conferences within the wider education system. Conferences are one aspect of teacher professional learning and development, and thus can be subject to political forces and whims. How do these influence conference organisers and their choice of themes, keynote speakers, communication and marketing strategies?
It seems that there are many questions to be asked of conferences. It will be challenging to consider their constituent parts, and to attempt to see the conference as a whole. Why are conferences popular? If research suggests they have limited impact, why does the model persist? What might be learned from other professions’ conferences, such as those for doctors? Perhaps the key questions to be explored are the seemingly simple ones: what is happening at conferences? Why are those things happening? How might conferences be improved?
These wonderings lead me to my overarching question: How might conference participation support teachers in shifting their practice?
Bolstad, R. (2011). Principles for a future-oriented education system. New Zealand Annual Review of Education, 2011-2012(21), 77-95.
Bolstad, R., Gilbert, J., McDowall, S., Bull, A. Boyd, S., & Hipkins, R. (2012). Supporting future-oriented learning and teaching – a New Zealand perspective. Wellington, New Zealand: Ministry of Education.
Bull, A. & Gilbert, J. (2012). Swimming out of our depths: Leading learning in 21st century schools. Wellington, New Zealand: NZCER.
Desimone, L. M., Porter, A. C., Garet, M. S., Yoon, K. S., & Birman B. F. (2002). Effects of Professional Development on Teachers’ Instruction: Results from a Three-year Longitudinal Study. Educational Evaluation and Policy Analysis, 24(2), 81-112.
Education Council. (2017). Our Code, Our Standards: Code of Professional Responsibility and Standards for the Teaching Profession. Wellington, New Zealand: Author.
Garet, M. S., Porter, A. C., Desimone, L., Birman, B. F., & Yoon, K. S. (2001). What makes Professional Development Effective? Results from a National Sample of Teachers. American Education Research Journal, 38(4), 915-945.
Garvey Berger, J. & Johnston, K. (2015). Simple Habits for Complex Times: Powerful Practices for Leaders. California, United States: Stanford University Press.
Holland, J. H. (2014). Complexity: A Very Short Introduction. Oxford, England: Oxford University Press.
Johnson, N. (2007). Simply Complexity: A clear guide to complexity theory. London, England: Oneworld.
Timperley, H., Wilson, A., Barrar, H., Fung, I. (2007). Teacher Professional Learning and Development: Best evidence synthesis iteration. Wellington, New Zealand: Ministry of Education.
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In this blogpost I seek to bring together my key learnings from participating in Lifehack’s Flourishing Fellowship 2017. I’d like to acknowledge my employers’ support (CORE Education) in attending this programme.
I’m not really sure why I applied to go on the Flourishing Fellowship. I saw it advertised on Twitter and actually thought it would be more relevant to a friend of mine, so I sent her the link. But it kept coming across my radar, so I sent myself the details and let it hang out in my inbox for a while. When the idea wouldn’t go away, I decided to apply even though I had no idea what it really was, nor how it might fit with me. I don’t have anything to do with youth wellbeing. But they mentioned design thinking, which is my jam. And learning about Te Ao Māori, which is something I’m seeking to grow in. So, why not?
I had a grand chat during my interview, and promptly got off the video call to realise that not once had I even mentioned ‘wellbeing’ which seemed to be the main thrust of the Fellowship. Ooops. Interviewing 101 fail. Somehow or other though, I got picked. So, three residential hui later, what have I learned?
Obviously I learned a heck of a lot more about what ‘wellbeing’ is. I would totally confess to having had a very one dimensional understanding of what this is: health. Okay, mental health and physical health, but health nonetheless. You can call it hauora if you like, but it’s solely in the realms of the Heath and PE Curriculum. Right? Even being exposed to the Five Ways to Wellbeing and Te Whare Tapa Whā didn’t especially shift my thinking.
What is wellbeing? I came to realise that the clue was in the name of the Fellowship: flourishing. Thriving. For me, the key question of the three hui is this:
What conditions do we need to grow for young people to thrive?
And now I could see myself in this mahi.
An area of particular interest for me now is systems thinking, and it hinges on that word conditions. What are all the things that need to be in place: environmental, physical, cultural, societal (etc.) for young people in thrive, and in my context, thrive in schools?
This question has taken me to two places – and they are intertwined. The first is a question of how do we know what our system is doing?
In the second hui Penny Hagen introduced us to a prototype of a framework which looks at mapping and mobilising conditions for youth wellbeing. The key questions are:
How are young people involved?
How do we learn and work together to offer best responses?
Do our environments show young people are valued and important?
I got very excited by the possibilities of this tool. For me, in the context of education, it is asking about the conditions for learner-centredness. For agency. And these must be crucial for youth wellbeing.
The second place the overarching question of the conditions we need to grow in order for young people to thrive is the knotty question of what we tend to call in schools “student voice”. What do young people tell us about their experiences of school and education? How do we ask them? What do we do in response to what they say?
One of my fellow Fellows offered this phrase: ‘Nothing about us without us’, which reminds me very strongly of the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child, Article 12: ‘Children have the right to have a say in matters that affect them’. And yet, do we really do this in schools? One of my colleagues pointed me to this article by Rachel Bolstad of NZCER: “From ‘student voice’ to ‘youth-adult partnership” in Set, 2011(1), pp. 31-33. In this article, she argues for a shift away from “student voice” towards “youth-adult partnership” which has the potential to be more transformative: to actively “[enlist] young people to help shift the ways schooling is done” (p. 31). For me, one way to do this is to move from designing for to designing with, which I’ve mentioned before here and here. I could go really big here and mention important things like equity and power-sharing, but I think you catch my drift.
And I can’t help but wonder if the New Zealand Curriculum (2007) doesn’t call for us to do this anyway. The same colleague who brought the Bolstad article to my attention has also left me pondering this: the vision of the NZC is a statement of wellbeing. So how might we create the conditions in which young people thrive and become confident, connected, actively involved, lifelong learners?