16
Affect and Effect in Cognitive Approaches to Instruction
The chapters in this volume represent the bold strides that cognitive science has made in the past 20 years. Since the appearance of the last Carnegie Symposium on cognition and instruction (Klahr, 1976), researchers have become more nuanced in conceptualizing the educational process. In particular, three developments represented in this volume come to mind.
DEVELOPMENTS IN CONCEPTUALIZING THE EDUCATIONAL PROCESS
The Reciprocity of Contexts
Until recently, it was common for researchers to talk about developing a training technique in a laboratory setting and “applying” it in the classroom. The vertical relationship between laboratory and applied setting was taken for granted (cf. Brown, 1992). Against this backdrop, the chapters in this volume represent a sea change. We have come to understand how educational problems, located in the context of the laboratory, turn into different problems once transported into a classroom of 35 children, nested in a particular school, district, and state context. The point is not simply that the real-world conditions of the classroom add complexity to models of intellectual growth. Rather, educational settings themselves restructure intellectual problems, changing their cognitive and social dimensions and giving rise to new problems and variations on the problems originally set (cf. Cole & Means, 1981; Cole & Traupman, 1981). It is now generally recognized that the vertical relationship between laboratory and classroom is more beneficially conceptualized as a reciprocal loop in which both contexts—the lab, which permits us to “freeze the frame” of cognition in ways we can never do in the classroom; and the classroom, which reconstitutes cognition by restoring its intrinsically human and social dimensions—mutually inform and correct one another. These points are hardly new (Cole & Means, 1981; Scribner, 1997), but the chapters in this volume suggest that attention to context is no longer a radical idea.
From Statistically Significant to Educationally Significant Change
Some years ago, Elliot Eisner (1984) chastised psychologists when he reported that the average amount of time spent on educational interventions in the typical research report was less than 50 minutes. Eisner bemoaned the practice among psychologists to pursue statistically significant results that, given their brevity, left nary a trace on the lives of children and teachers. In contrast to such studies, those represented here take seriously the time it takes to effect lasting educational change. In their various dimensions and stages, these investigations respect the complexity of educational change by situating themselves in schools for the long haul.
Domain Specificity of Knowledge
For the most part, these chapters call attention to the fact that different domains in the school curriculum present different cognitive demands. No longer are the disciplines perceived as shells that encase domain-general processes—shells to be discarded once their inner psychological core was reached. Rather, there is an awareness that mathematics, biology, history, physics, and the other subjects of the school curriculum are distinctive ways of thinking and talking (McCloskey, 1985; Nelson, Megill, & McCloskey, 1988; Schwab, 1978). Understanding domains as cultural and linguistic practices, each with rules of argument and means of persuasion, expands the horizon of the psychologist interested in cognition and instruction. Compared to first generation cognitive studies, that pressed knowledge into declarative and procedural straightjackets and sought to strip away context, the investigations here place issues of epistemology and rhetoric at the center of cognitive inquiry. The result is a richer and more textured cognitive science.
COGNITION AND COMMUNITY
These developments, and the considerable achievements of 30 years of cognitive science in education (cf. Bransford, Brown, & Cocking, 1999), led us to initiate a research project in which we sought to create a teacher community informed by the principles of cognitive science. In January 1995, with a grant from the James S. McDonnell Foundation program “Cognitive Studies in Educational Practice,” we located ourselves in the midst of an urban high school. We brought together teachers from two different departments to create curricular materials that would focus students on the epistemological and discursive principles of history and literature. We planned to build our teacher community around the reading of texts, seeking to import the social form of the book club from the comfort of the living room to the confines of the urban high school. Grant monies, along with enthusiastic support from the local school district, allowed us to do what few projects have ever been done: We were able to buy teachers' time on a biweekly basis, permitting them to leave the classroom for an entire day (while the grant provided substitutes) to come together to read history and fiction, to discuss disciplinary principles, and to deliberate over curriculum design. After-school meetings were held in the intervening weeks between our all-day project meetings (see Grossman, Wineburg, & Woolworth, 2000; Thomas, Wineburg, Grossman, Myhre, & Woolworth, 1998; Wineburg & Grossman, 1998; 2000a; 2000b). The design of our project explicitly attended to the three developments in the cognitive sciences noted earlier: (1) The context of our innovation was the multifaceted context of its application—the urban high school; (2) we recognized that the kind of change we sought required a major time commitment and figured this into our design; and (3) we took seriously the domain specificity of the high school curriculum by tailoring our program to the entailments and cultures of the humanities, specifically those of history and literature.
Our plans were grand. We would compare our own readings of texts to the think alouds of high school students as they formulated interpretations of literature and history; we would enable teachers to observe in each other's classrooms, where they would engage students in clinical interviews about disciplinary knowledge; we would videotape teachers as they tested parts of the curriculum, and then show the tapes during our group meetings where, as a community, we could engage in the process of design, revision, and reformulation of instruction. Informed by the writings of Ann Brown (1992), Allan Collins (1992), Barbara Rogoff (1994; Rogoff, Baker-Sennett, Lacasa, & Goldsmith, 1995) and others, we argued that instead of locating our work on a bucolic college campus (the typical site of professional development in the humanities), we should create this community amidst the meandering hallways, aluminum-sided trailers, and classrooms without telephones of the urban high school. In summary, we had time, we had resources, we had district and building buy-in, and we had willing teachers who saw the project as a gift. We were ready to hit the ground running.
After one of our early all-day meetings, Dave, an experienced English teacher, called to tell us that he was dropping out. He had spent the morning in a small-group activity working with colleagues and complained that he didn't “have the stomach” to read texts with people who did not share his deep knowledge of literature or his commitment to intellectual inquiry. One of the most dedicated teachers in the school, Dave had trouble making the connection between the 17-year-old students about whom he cared so deeply and the new teachers in their mid-20s and early 30s who recently joined his faculty. More than a personal choice or an act of individual pique, Dave's reaction should be viewed in the context of a profession known for a “culture of privacy” (Little, 1990; Lortie, 1975), with no significant tradition or appreciation of adult-to-adult mentoring. Dave's response to his colleagues reflected longstanding norms of profession—to retreat to the bastion of the classroom, to close the door, and to focus attention on students.
By the fifth group meeting, we began to notice that Heather, an articulate English teacher relatively new to teaching, had grown quiet. In contrast to our early meetings, when Heather was a lively contributor, she now said little. In a one-on-one interview at the end of the first year, Heather explained that she became aware of the costs of talking about books and “making mistakes” in front of her department chair, the person who would decide her fate by assigning her to teach freshmen or seniors, regular or honors students. Heather's contributions to discussions now passed through a filter in which she weighed risks and benefits in a complex personal, vocational, and social calculus.
By the end of the first year, Lee, a history teacher, and Barb, an English teacher, had settled into a predictable routine of tête-à-tête disputes on issues of interpretation (cf. Hamel, 2000; Wineburg & Grossman, 2000b). At issue were questions at the intersection of history and fiction: What is the role of the reader vis-à-vis the text? How stable is the text and what is the “truth” of an interpretation? How do we judge competing interpretations and arrive at criteria for assaying intellectual claims? In these discussions, we heard echoes of the heady epistemological issues that have characterized discussions in the humanities since the linguistic turn. Yet, the teachers in our project seemed to hear something different. To them, these exchanges were emblematic of personality conflicts played out in public view. For many of the teachers, aspects of epistemology were eclipsed by issues of gender, identity, and forms of power exacted through discourse.
Among our 22 participants, Grace immediately stood out. Unlike her liberal colleagues, who espoused progressive educational and social ideals, Grace was conservative in her beliefs and, at least in the early phases of the project, willing to share them. But as the project progressed, Grace began to sense an hostile atmosphere when she expressed ideas that ran afoul of the prevailing ideological current. All diversity is tolerated in this group, she once remarked, on the condition that it is the “right diversity.” The books we read and the issues we broached, from the topic of gang rape in Nathan McCall's (1994) Makes Me Wanna Holler to notions of Eleanor Roosevelt's alleged homosexuality in Doris Kearns Goodwin's (1994) No Ordinary Time; to issues of silencing the other in Stephan Ambrose's (1996) Undaunted Courage to questions of “justified murder” in Bharati Mukherjee's (1989) Jasmine, touched on questions at the heart of the humanities: What does it mean to be human, in all of its darkest and most sublime dimensions? But on more than one occasion, when Grace spoke her truth, eyes rolled and muttering began. As the year progressed, our group meetings became a place for Grace to mask her real self—not reveal it.
Were the teachers in our project bad people? Were they less generous and more callous than the rest of us, unrepresentative of other adults who might gather at other schools? We believe the opposite is true. If other projects did not experience similar obstacles on the way to creating community, we bet that they either began with self-selected volunteers or met only for a limited time.
Indeed, many teacher development projects are configured to prevent issues of self and professional identity from entering into the workplace and thus end up tinkering at the margins of teacher change (Miller & Lord, 1993). The typical profile of the teacher who seeks professional development in the humanities (the “National Endowment for the Humanities [NEH] Institute junkie”) is often the person who needs it least, a self-starter already motivated to learn, to read, and to stretch beyond his or her present understanding. But what about teachers who would never choose to travel to a college campus in the summer to attend an NEH institute? Because our project offered compensation for participation, and because of the convenience of locating ourselves in the workplace, we attracted teachers who would not otherwise have participated in such a project. Furthermore, because we intervened at the department level rather than at the individual level, our allies were the two department chairs, strategic lynchpins typically overlooked in discussions of high school reform (Grossman, 1996). In several instances, department chairs “strongly recommended” that individual members participate in this project, creating a subgroup we referred to as impressed volunteers (Grossman, Wineburg, & Woolworth, in press), teachers who technically volunteered but only because their department chairs strongly pressed them to do so. Our final group of 22 teachers, drawn from English and history, with representatives from ESL and special education, was a mix of eager and reluctant learners, fence-sitters, and those who came under gentle duress. In this sense, our group better reflected the overall make-up of teachers in the school than would the participants at a special summer program or brief workshop.
The work of community building was transacted on a public stage, and our community members were “worse than perfect strangers.” Strangers may not have a strong basis on which to build community but at least they are not burdened by history. In some cases, teachers in our project had been working side by side for decades, but had never before seen each other teach. Instead, they brought to the table years of hearsay from legions of 14- and 15-year-old informants. These impressions created a charged atmosphere that highlighted the disjuncture between participants' performed identities and their perceived identity by the group (cf. Goffman, 1959). The social framework that our 22 participants enacted as they and we came together constrained and enabled, setting our parameters and changing them as we went along. Collectively, we resembled the proverbial Gertzian spider caught in webs of interaction that we had woven and that we ourselves would have to undo if we were to create community.
Affect was the common thread in the issues that marked our project in the first 1½ years; feelings of tension, anger, fear, exposure, denial, face saving, positioning, ego protecting, and embarrassment. Although we hoped to create a “cognitively based model for teaching,” we quickly realized that we were in a social mine field—think alouds and task analyses would have to wait. Our most pressing concerns as project facilitators, researchers, and members of the group had to do with creating and sustaining a safe place for adult learning in the day-to-day grind of the urban school. The challenges of creating such a space constituted a daunting and draining intellectual task. We put down our cognitive psychology books and turned to other literatures not because cognitive psychology was wrong, but because it had little to say about attending to the affective side of cognitive change.
As researchers, we were not as naive as the earlier description suggests. We sensed from the outset that the social issues of adults coming together to read texts in the workplace might present new challenges. But in our theoretical models, as well as in the primary literatures in which we located our work, these issues occupied the shadowy margins, constituting the background or precursor to the important cognitive work to be achieved. Indeed, in the sociocultural context in which we competed for grant monies, it is unlikely that we would have received funding had we showcased the social aspects of our work and downplayed the cognitive ones. To be sure, there was a recognition that teachers had to be motivated to do this work, and had to find a way to work together, but these issues were often viewed as items to be checked off before the real work could proceed.
All affect is not negative. Emotions in our project spanned the range from despair to elation. Positive affect, in fact, was the glue that held the project together, that ultimately made the struggle worthwhile. The joy of learning in a group, the élan that develops among people who work hard together, is also a missing element from the literature on cognition. Current formulations of distributed cognition ignore issues of desire, fondness, affection, and respect—feelings that ultimately determine our willingness to learn from and with others. The emotional context underlying social forms of learning must be addressed as we move from highly individualistic models of cognition to models of cognition as a social enterprise. Groups can possess tremendous social and intellectual capital, but if the individuals in them are not ready to relinquish prior grudges and start over, the rich cognitive resources of the group will go untapped.
Although we provided examples of charged and tense manifestations of affect, our project could not have progressed had we not also experienced moments of goodwill and esprit de corps. And so, Dave, who left the project, returned out of respect for a colleague's report that good things were in the making. With his deep background in literature, Dave had little to learn about subject matter. But the group offered Dave a chance to craft a professional identity that took seriously his own responsibility for the learning of new department members. Grace also left the project for a while. She, too, rejoined at her colleagues' urging, ultimately forging close relationships with people whose political views she strongly opposed.
If the last 5 years have taught us anything, it is that we cannot treat issues of social context, workplace and vocational norms, interpersonal histories and issues of identity as someone else's theoretical problem. These issues are not prerequisites before we turn to the “real” work of school change. If we want to create a cognitive science that has relevance outside of the laboratory, we must, in a Lewinian spirit, make the social world our lab. In the social world—in schools, universities, hospitals, prisons, accounting firms, or anywhere where people work together on a daily basis—individuals bring to the table histories of beliefs, grudges, fears, insecurities, and the need for approval. Working through these issues—indeed, creating the structures for group cognition that deal with these issues systematically—must be at the forefront of our collective research agenda. Otherwise, we will continue to experience success in changing isolated parts of the school day—one section of the science or math curriculum—but we will not, in any fundamental way, alter the cognitive, social, or moral landscape of the workplace.
REVISITING ASSUMPTIONS
As we reviewed the other chapters in this volume, several themes echoed between the lines. In the spirit of bringing underlying assumptions to the surface for scrutiny and examination, we note four themes that weave themselves through some of these chapters.
Kids are Smart but Teachers are Dumb
One of the major achievements of cognitive science has been to show the varied and nuanced dimensions of children's thought. School children, it turns out, can reason in sophisticated ways about various species of finches, unconfound thorny scientific variables, model the slopes of lines, and engage in all kinds of intellectual processes that overzealous misinterpretors of Piaget claimed they could not. But something happens as these bright and gifted children grow up, enter adulthood, and choose to become teachers. It would seem from some of these chapters that a stumbling block to creating exciting educational settings is the limited capacity of the adults at the helm. How can it be, we wondered, that children are so capable of sophisticated thought but, as adults, they seem incapable of continued growth and change?
The Domain-Specificity of School Learning Only Goes So Far
Many of these chapters reflect a deep sensitivity to the problems of disciplinary knowledge, and as such, represent a marked advance over the first generation of “knowledge-lean” problems on which early models of learning were based (cf. Glaser, 1984). But, as psychologists, we, too, are conditioned by history and tradition. Our search for the nomothetic finds its way into our language when we move from a discussion of, say, the teaching of high school chemistry or physics to a discussion of what “the teacher” needs to know. A deep abyss separates the teaching of physics from the teaching of English literature, and one should not serve as the model for the other. Although our research has become more attuned to the particularities of content, our generalizations all too often remain deaf to issues of grade level and subject matter. Despite our attention to disciplinary context, we still seem fidgety and uneasy with its attendant constraints.
A similar process is evident in the appeal to task analysis as a primary tool—indeed the prerequisite—to understanding the cognitive processes of school learning. As originally conceptualized by Gagné (1965) and others, task analysis is a useful analytic strategy that can be productively exploited. But, like any generic technique, task analysis has limitations, especially when it isolates tasks from the larger disciplinary calculus that gives them meaning. For example, concentrating on the processes needed to decode the words and interconnections of historical documents in an interpretive task, apart from how the disciplinary community convinces itself and others of the truth of its claims, misses the point (cf. Fish, 1980; Hexter, 1971; Scholes, 1989; Wineburg, 1998; 1999). In this sense, the ultimate meaning of a task inheres not in its concrete material dimensions (the specific documents used or even the psychological processes needed to understand them), but in the norms, practices, conventions, and ways of arguing that characterize communities of practice.
The School Day in North America is Composed of Two Subjects; Science and Mathematics
Judging by the contributions to this volume, an uninformed reader might conclude that children go to school to learn two subjects; math and science. But the truth is that school children learn much more—by the fourth or fifth grade, they encounter literature, history, geography, and in many places art, music, and drama. In this sense, the image of cognition and instruction presented in this volume is more an artifact of funding patterns among cognitive researchers (as well as researchers' proclivity to study scientific and mathematical topics) than a representative portrait of the cognitive challenges faced by children and teachers during the school day.
Educational Improvement Will Come About by Working on Each Part of the Curriculum as a Separate Entity and Then by Adding the Parts Together
The complexity of the school day and the multiple subjects in it means that, as a research community, we must engage in a division of labor, with some of us studying math, others history, others science, and so on. Although rarely articulated in our journals and conferences, the presumption behind this division of labor is that all of the separate pieces will come together so that the teaching and learning of all subjects will be enhanced. But rarely, if ever, do we engage in any formal analysis of how these subjects do and do not interrelate.
Our interventions are typically focused on one part of the school day, and we often have little sense of the effect of our new science or math curriculum on the teaching and learning of social studies or English. So, for example, consider the situation fifth graders face as they move from science to history during portions of the same school day. In both subjects, students hear words like “evidence, “cause,” and “argument.” Beneath this linguistic similarity rests profound conceptual and epistemological differences. At the same time, it is fair to say that there is a closer relationship between “evidence” in science and history than between science and literature (cf. Haskell, 1998; Ozick, 1999; Wood, 1982).
What, then, are the points of departure and what are the points of overlap? Such questions are rarely marked for students; rarely are they topics of classroom debate. Work on interdisciplinary curriculum in K through 12 settings tends to be interdisciplinary in name alone, more often appealing to common sense notions than pulling together powerful techniques and ways of thinking from the disciplines (Gardner & Boix-Mansilla, 1994; Wineburg & Grossman, 2000a). In most cases, students are left on their own to make connections from one subject to the next. What ends up happening is that those least able to bring conceptual order to the school day—young children—end up shouldering the burden of having to do so (Wineburg, Stevens, Herrenkohl, & Bell, 1999).
At present, our various research specialties—science researchers, math researchers, literacy researchers, and so forth—reflect the structure of the academy rather than the structure of the school day. Classroom teachers who recognize the problem of fragmentation must either strive to connect subjects on their own or let the pieces fall where they may. As a field, we lack an understanding of the intellectual connections among school subjects. Pursuing this understanding would elect a different path from the one that led psychologists to claim that there was no basis for the different school subjects, except as “divisions of time devoted to these subjects during a school day” (Gagné, 1976, p. 30). Instead, this new path would seek to articulate the connections and differences among the intellectual traditions known as disciplines. Such a comparative psychology of school subjects would come to see the different parts of the school day not as historical accidents but as valuable resources that, properly understood, could lead to the enhanced learning of all subjects (Wineburg et al., 1999).
CONCLUSION
Cognitive researchers will need to tackle these limitations if the field is to continue to progress. As our discussion of affect indicates, cognitive researchers will need to navigate beyond the mind and into the emotional worlds of individuals and groups. Knowing that individual children are capable of mastering complex mathematical or literary ideas is one step; understanding classrooms, as social units composed of leaders and slackers, the motivated and the disaffected, must be the next.
Cognitive researchers will need to learn to see teachers as resources, not solely as obstacles, for children's learning. If the next decade can provide models of teacher learning that are as nuanced and respectful as the portraits drawn of children's learning, we will have made enormous progress. Such models must account for the differences, as well as the similarities, between adults' and children's learning, and must address the deep issues of professional identity that are evoked in teacher development. What would it mean to proclaim, as we do now for children, that all teachers can learn? What would need to change in the landscapes of teacher education, schools, and professional development to provide meaningful opportunities for teachers' ongoing growth? What does it really mean to learn from and in practice and how could we design environments that support such learning (cf. Ball & Cohen, 1999)?
Finally, cognitive researchers will need to find ways to study the curricular mélange experienced by students. The current respect for the domain specificity of knowledge is a virtue, but any virtue carried to excess can become a blind spot. In our efforts to unravel the weave of the curriculum into distinct topics that can be studied in depth, we may have lost sight of the tapestry that children encounter. The next generation of researchers will need to look at cognitive resonance across the curriculum. Do children see the study of Emperor Penguins as different from the study of empires? How do the habits of mind and argument developed during math class resonate in arguments over historical or literary interpretation? Such questions also pose serious challenges to the preparation of elementary teachers. How can teachers develop the deep, disciplined understanding of subject matters that would enable them to nurture children's cognitive growth across the full curriculum?
The agenda we have outlined would require that cognitive researchers stretch beyond the current boundaries and definitions of the field. It would also require that they work in more interdisciplinary partnerships with colleagues in social psychology, sociology, and the disciplines themselves. But if cognitive research is to effect deep educational change—change that will endure beyond the limited scope of our interventions—we see no other way.
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