James Surowiecki's "Better all the Time" in the 10 November New Yorker explains how in the past 30 years athletic performances have improved markedly because the measurement of performance has improved markedly. The ability to measure performance has, in turn, made it possible for serious athletes to train better--to perfect small skills, to eat correctly, sleep deeply, train wisely, and thus to improve. This improvement has been driven by three things--(1) better technology, (2) the realization that athletic skills are malleable, not fixed, and (3) the emergence of coaches who know how to employ (1) and (2).
Surowiecki then turns to other parts of society that have shown similar improvement--chess, for example, where the the number of grandmasters has exploded, or manufacturing, where "lemons, for the most part, have become a thing of the past."
Finally, Surowiecki argues that struggling sectors of society could be improved by following the tenets of the performance revolution. Not surprisingly, he focuses on education. Surprisingly, he turns his attention to teacher training. He argues that "if American teachers--unlike athletes or manufacturing workings--haven't gotten much better over the past three decades, its largely because their training has, either."
This attention to teacher training surprises me for two reasons. First, Surowiecki accepts the currently vogue-ish claim that "teacher training in the United States has usually been an afterthought." This is simply not true, as anyone who has been involved with a school of education or a school district could tell you.
Second, though, he misses the clear analogy in his article. Teachers are not athletes, teachers are coaches. And as with their peers in athletics, teachers' ability to improve the performance of their charges depends on better technology and a system where the malleability of skill is assumed.
Teachers (high school or college level) have neither of these things. A coach who wishes to improve the performance of her team has access to film, statistical analyses, and the ability to require athletes to repeat their work again and again until it is perfect. Coaches also have motivated charges who love the thing they are being asked to do. Teachers have only the bluntest assessment tools--occasional tests, quizzes, papers, and presentations--and none of the time or equipment necessary to build a powerful window onto student learning.
Imagine, for example, that I want to help students be outstanding historians. I need a way to record what they do when the research, what they think when they write, and how they respond to corrections. I have none of these tools. Instead I have a classroom whose technology is entirely focused on either the teacher (the projector, for example) or the student (computers, for example). I have no meaningful way to replay the activities of students, pointing out their strengths and flaws as they assemble their learning. Instead, I generally pass judgement on a nearly complete product.
If there is a silver lining in this situation, it is that small schools are better equipped than large ones to provide this sort of data coupled with the ability to put it to use. The revolution in coaching relies on a small coach to athlete ratio, one-on-one mentoring, and the opportunity for athletes to put changes into practice. All three of these things are more available in classes with 10 students than 100, and for faculty whose job it is to advance learning, not research.
The question for small schools, then, is how we put in the hands of our teachers the tools they need to mimic the coaches of our elite athletes.
Thursday, November 20, 2014
Tuesday, November 4, 2014
Distinctiveness, truth-telling, and small schools
Colleges and universities small and large are told or claim to be distinctive. Distinctiveness seems to be a pathway to flourishing, and so to become distinctive is to fine a way to flourish in the future.
The advice makes sense--one way to flourish is to stand out--even as it is almost impossible to follow. Think of the problem as a question: Which colleges are most distinctive? There is almost no way to answer. One is tempted to say "Harvard" or "Yale" but those schools aren't particularly distinctive. Their programs overlap significantly, the demographics of their students are similar, they occupy a similar spot in the higher education universe. They are not distinctive, they are prestigious.
Or think about the nation's best-known schools. This time of year more people know about Florida State, Alabama, Auburn, and the University of Oregon than know about who is running for the Senate from their state. But FSU, Alabama, Auburn, and Oregon aren't distinctive, they are famous.
Or think about schools that really are unusual--Marlboro College, Deep Springs, College of the Atlantic--are three that can really make that claim. But all three of these schools are tiny, and survive on a razor's edge, where a drop of 10-15 students makes a massive difference in the well-being of the institution. These schools are distinctive, but their distinctiveness hasn't guaranteed their flourishing.
Or think of the claims of distinctiveness that most non-prestigious, non-famous schools make. We talk about small class sizes, relationships, the opportunity to make a difference, the chance for students to grow. But these aren't distinctive traits--they are local traits, made different only inasmuch as our school is the only one in the region (remember, most students attend college within 100 miles of their homes) that offers such things.
We would perhaps be wise, then, to wonder if we can or ought to be distinctive. No college where I have ever worked can claim to be distinctive--as measured by prestige, or fame, or the rarity of our programs, we fall short in spite of our claims (one school where I worked called itself a "unique environment for learning" true only in that no school is exactly the same as any other).
What we can do is try to describe ourselves truthfully, and make it possible for students, faculty, and staff to tell their stories truthfully, publicly, and regularly. Doing so allows us to do two things: first, to make sure that the truths of our institution cohere, or put another way, to listen closely enough to know if there is commonality among us, a commitment to the same goals and a common measurement of their outcomes. Second, to allow people who hear about us to connect with us as people who work at an institution, not as an institution that happens to employ people.
Let me say a bit more about this last statement. It is true that with the exception of schools that are famous or prestigious, few students choose colleges by choosing institutions. Instead they choose pieces of the institution ("I want to play on the soccer team, I want to major in microbiology.") or they choose the people of the institution. The pieces of small institutions are only attractive inasmuch as they are connected with authentic people who tell the truth about them. Or put in practical terms, if you major in biology at Barton College it is because of your connection to the real people who teach and study biology at Barton, not because of the abstract distinctiveness of the program.
The advice makes sense--one way to flourish is to stand out--even as it is almost impossible to follow. Think of the problem as a question: Which colleges are most distinctive? There is almost no way to answer. One is tempted to say "Harvard" or "Yale" but those schools aren't particularly distinctive. Their programs overlap significantly, the demographics of their students are similar, they occupy a similar spot in the higher education universe. They are not distinctive, they are prestigious.
Or think about the nation's best-known schools. This time of year more people know about Florida State, Alabama, Auburn, and the University of Oregon than know about who is running for the Senate from their state. But FSU, Alabama, Auburn, and Oregon aren't distinctive, they are famous.
Or think about schools that really are unusual--Marlboro College, Deep Springs, College of the Atlantic--are three that can really make that claim. But all three of these schools are tiny, and survive on a razor's edge, where a drop of 10-15 students makes a massive difference in the well-being of the institution. These schools are distinctive, but their distinctiveness hasn't guaranteed their flourishing.
Or think of the claims of distinctiveness that most non-prestigious, non-famous schools make. We talk about small class sizes, relationships, the opportunity to make a difference, the chance for students to grow. But these aren't distinctive traits--they are local traits, made different only inasmuch as our school is the only one in the region (remember, most students attend college within 100 miles of their homes) that offers such things.
We would perhaps be wise, then, to wonder if we can or ought to be distinctive. No college where I have ever worked can claim to be distinctive--as measured by prestige, or fame, or the rarity of our programs, we fall short in spite of our claims (one school where I worked called itself a "unique environment for learning" true only in that no school is exactly the same as any other).
What we can do is try to describe ourselves truthfully, and make it possible for students, faculty, and staff to tell their stories truthfully, publicly, and regularly. Doing so allows us to do two things: first, to make sure that the truths of our institution cohere, or put another way, to listen closely enough to know if there is commonality among us, a commitment to the same goals and a common measurement of their outcomes. Second, to allow people who hear about us to connect with us as people who work at an institution, not as an institution that happens to employ people.
Let me say a bit more about this last statement. It is true that with the exception of schools that are famous or prestigious, few students choose colleges by choosing institutions. Instead they choose pieces of the institution ("I want to play on the soccer team, I want to major in microbiology.") or they choose the people of the institution. The pieces of small institutions are only attractive inasmuch as they are connected with authentic people who tell the truth about them. Or put in practical terms, if you major in biology at Barton College it is because of your connection to the real people who teach and study biology at Barton, not because of the abstract distinctiveness of the program.
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