[review] Why Don't Students Like School?

Modern psychology has generated an explosion of knowledge about how the human mind works -- how memory is stored, how one's minds constantly processes information extra-consciously, and how differences in brain function help to define differences in our personalities. Much of this new knowledge raises provocative questions, not least of which investigate human nature itself.

Yet, the question remains: "How will we use this knowledge?" Other scientific fields, such as chemistry and genetics, have increased food supply and developed medical miracles. What about psychology and neuroscience? Shouldn't these disciplines impart the same kind of social benefits from their studies?

Daniel T. Willingham would tend do think so. In his work, Why Don't Students Like School?, Willingham poses nine questions teachers often ask -- summed up in the question that is simultaneously his title -- and answers each, utilizing his background cognitive psychology citing empirical studies, and suggesting ways for teachers to improve their practice accordingly. His principles are clearly articulated, effectively substantiated, and pedagogically revolutionary. Below are a few exceedingly brief summaries of select principles from Why?

So, why don't students like school? Willingham suggests, for one, that school requires students to do something our brains are not designed to be good at or to enjoy: critical thinking. When the human intellect encounters a task that requires mental exertion beyond the status quo, it is critical that the task be challenging enough to hold the mind's interest, yet not so difficult that it leads to an inevitable, intellectual surrender.

Unfortunately, traditional schoolwork rarely keeps the minds of students sustained in the state of "flow," resulting in boredom and displeasure. The challenge, for the teacher, is to design lessons and exercises that will maximize interest and attention by balancing challenge with predictable success. When this balance is struck, the mind finds pleasure in focusing for long periods of time, and will eventually acquire the intellectual ability to think critically about a particular topic.

Critical thinking, though, is a frequently misunderstood and misconstrued term according to Willingham. He notes that students cannot apply generic "critical thinking skills" to material which they do not have the basic tools -- the requisite background knowledge -- to understand. The same can also be said of learning to read: attempting to employ "reading strategies" -- like searching for the main idea in a passage -- will be futile if you don't know enough facts to fill in what the author has left unsaid.

It should be said that Mr. Willingham, a psychology professor at the University of Virginia, is not in favor of merely making learning "fun" or "creative." He advocates teaching old-fashioned content as the best path to improving a student's reading comprehension and critical thinking. Such a view makes Mr. Willingham something of an iconoclast, since contemporary educational theory is often ruled by concepts like "multiple intelligences" and "learning styles."

The trendy notion that each person has a unique learning style comes under an especially withering assault. "How should I adjust my teaching for different types of learners?" asks Mr. Willingham's hypothetical teacher. The disillusioning reply: "No one has found consistent evidence supporting a theory describing such a difference...children are more alike than different in terms of how they think and learn."

It turns out that while education gurus were promoting the uplifting vision of all students being equal in ability but unique in "style," researchers were testing the theory behind it. In one experiment, they presented vocabulary words to students classified as "auditory learners" and

"visual learners." Half the words came in sound form, half in print. According to the learning-styles theory, the auditory learners should remember the words presented in sound better than the words presented in print, and vice-versa for the visual learners.

But this is not what happened: Each type of learner did just as well with each type of presentation. Why? Because what is being taught in most of the curriculum -- at all levels of schooling -- is information about meaning, and meaning is independent of form. "Specious," for instance, means "seemingly logical, but actually fallacious" whether you hear it, see it or feel it out in Braille. Mr. Willingham makes a convincing case that the distinction between visual, auditory and kinesthetic learners (who supposedly learn best when body movement is involved) is a specious one. At some point, no amount of dancing will help you learn more algebra.

Throughout the work, Willingham challenges other common educational theories, from fixed intelligence to static cognition. He endorses the development of reading comprehension, but by the means of developing the necessary background knowledge. Willingham also endorses answering tough intellectual inquiries, but encourages teachers to "spend sufficient time developing the question." In general, Willingham is not out to overturn modern pedagogy, but perhaps realign its means to achieve (nearly) the same ends.

One might be tempted to criticize Why Don't Students Like School? in one respect. The text is peppered with attention-grabbing pictures, such as when Mr. Willingham cleverly describes an episode of the TV medical drama "House" to illustrate how experts think differently from novices. In this case, he uses an episode to illustrate how experts don't necessarily "have" more knowledge, but they do process the most relevant information at a higher rate. One might see the partner photograph -- nearly a full page -- to be wasted space.

Of course, it takes only a slight nuanced analysis to realize that these tactics are Willingham at his best. Here, he employs a diversified and unorthodox communication style constructed around the data from his cognitive studies and engages the reader holistically. One can only hope that Willingham's readers, educators or otherwise, will be able to do the same.

[JSD]

on birthdays

"There is a good reason they call these ceremonies 'commencement exercises'.

Graduation is not the end; it's the beginning."

-Orrin Hatch
______________

Though I was pleased to receive my final transcript in the mail recently, I remain deeply convinced that my decorated parchment cannot account for long nights of study, meals with respected professors, or residence life shennanigans of the past four years.

Perhaps I should have negotiated a better deal?

Having reflected on graduation for some time now, I have come to realize that, in one sense, commencement signifies far more than the receipt of a diploma. Indeed, tossing one's tassel signals not the conferring of academic credentials: it's an abrupt ending to an all-encompassing, exasperatingly brief existence, where new alumni relinquish their once-daily connections to collegiate neighbors, employers, church community, and full-time vocation. After four years of developing my niche in the Cedarville University community, I feel as if I have managed to leave just in time.

And I have a diploma, an absurd hat, and a few tassels to show for it.

Though my graduation experience felt distant and platonic, for many the event of commencement is deeply exhilarating. But make no mistake: graduation imparts about as much personal development and maturation as a child's birthday party.

My youngest brother's birthday was a few weeks back. He is a fairly simple homo-sapien, with a few distinct interests and likes. His birthday highlights amounted to putt-putt Goofy Golf, Sonic drive thru (for the roller-skating servers, of course) and a few Dairy Queen deserts courtesy of a calendar-savvy Sunday School teacher's timely gift card. The word "rut" means nothing to him; we've shared the same peanut butter-covered Eggos the last five mornings, and his birthday breakfast was no different.

Unique qualities aside, my brother's birthday had next to no tangible effect on my brother's development. No doubt, my brother has developed progressively since his last birthday. He's since learned to wash the dishes, earn a GameCube high score, swim enthusiastically, sing a bit, and even do his chores from time to time.

But none of those benchmarks, frivolous or otherwise, came about as a direct result from a birthday event. The blowing of candles, height measuring, gift unwrapping -- these added an enjoyable chapter to his narrative; they did not rush in a complex character change.

No, my brothers personal accomplishments arose not from birthday events, but from the practice of his daily activities, the sorts of things that make him into who he is today.

I suppose the same can be said for graduation.

The diploma which students are conferred does not likewise confer a developmental growth spurt equivalent to the ceremonial hype. There's really no impartation of growth at the moment of diploma conferral; the college life's greatest rewards come in the form of caring professors, rigorous classwork, challenging church communities, and patient friends.

There is no doubt that commencement signified a tremendous achievement for each student that navigated his or her way across the stage. It's function, however, is a call to both reflect on and appreciate the past in pursuit of the future.

Kind of like a birthday.

[JSD]