I want to thank “Izzy” again for his comments to the last post in this series. I recommend to those of you who are following this series that you read that comment thread between Izzy and me to help understand in more depth some of what I will be discussing throughout the remainder of this series [http://www.bigjollypolitics.com/2012/08/27/texas-education-iv-a-case-study-in-the-failure-of-a-method-based-curriculum/]. In fact, if you haven’t been following these posts about education, you can catch up with us here:
- Texas Education: Revisiting our Foundation
- Texas Education II: Knowledge needed to be “an effective American Citizen in a global economy”
- Texas Education III: National Policy is not the Answer to the Problem in our Classrooms
- Texas Education IV: A Case Study in the Failure of a Method-Based Curriculum
Now, let’s dig into the foundation of the curriculum issue by discussing what I mean by a “knowledge-based” curriculum, and by discussing it in terms of the new mission I have proposed for “diffusing knowledge” in accordance with the Texas Constitution.
In this post, I am going to cite again to E.D. Hirsch, Jr.’s recent book, The Making of Americans: Democracy and Our Schools. I am not citing to him so extensively because I think he is the only source, or even the best source for information related to “knowledge-based” education. However, he has summarized so much of the research in cognitive science (“the study of how the mind processes information to obtain and use knowledge”) applied to effective education, and he has written more on this subject over such a long period of time, that his analysis is extremely helpful for our discussion.
What a generation of research since A Nation of Risk first appeared shows is that “high-order” skills (what many call “critical thinking” skills) can not be taught independently—that is, you can’t just teach students “how to think.” For students to learn how to think, research in cognitive science tells us they have to be taught “content and vocabulary knowledge” through “a coherent, rational and sequential approach.” This approach builds and expands a student’s “working memory” of knowledge over years, and that working memory allows students to develop, and adults to use, such knowledge quickly to critically analyze and solve increasingly complex problems related to such knowledge (e.g., the more knowledge you effectively obtain about history, the broader and deeper your working memory will become of such knowledge, and that working memory will facilitate faster and more effective critical thinking using the historical, cause-and-effect method of analysis).
The broader the knowledge base developed across academic disciplines, the more likely it is that students will be able to critically think and problem solve within more than one academic discipline. In essence, Hirsch, and others in his field, tell us that “Content is Skill, Skill Content.”
In Appendix 2 to The Making of Americans: Democracy and Our Schools, Hirsch presents five basic propositions derived from cognitive-science research that underlie “knowledge-based” education:
- The character of an academic skill is constrained by the narrow limitations of working memory.
- Academic skills have two components: procedures and contents.
- Procedural skills, such as turning letters into sounds, must initially be learned as content along with other content necessary to high-order skills.
- An advance in skill, whether in procedure or content, entails advance speed processing.
- A higher-order academic skill such as reading comprehension requires prior knowledge of domain-specific content; the higher-order for that domain does not readily transfer to other content domains.
In the remainder of this post, I want to focus primarily on three central concepts that Hirsch presents in these propositions—“working memory,” the components of procedure and content, and “advance speed processing”—and the most critical body of foundational knowledge upon which all further knowledge-based education relies: language.
In fact, we can restate my original re-formulation of the mission of Texas public schools this way:
Any knowledge-based curriculum designed to provide all students with “the incremental foundation of truths, facts, and principles they will need as adults to function as effective American citizens in a global economy, together with the experiences and tools to use such knowledge effectively and wisely;” must be built on a strong foundation of language skills designed to expand working memory and create advance speed processing.
The term “working memory” describes that short-term memory we use to analyze situations and solve problems. Apparently, this form of memory that allows us to manipulate data and make calculations and decision is very fleeting—normally just a few seconds. Overcoming this limitation requires practice and repetition, followed by the gradual introduction of new data and then practice and repetition with the new data—and so on; so that over time we create a large and expansive working memory that allows us to react to new data and new situations quickly.
One easy example that Hirsch discusses is that we are not born knowing what “World War II” means. It takes time to learn not just the word “world,” but also the content of that word as used in many contexts. And the same goes for the word “war,” and the Roman Numeral “II”. Moreover, it takes practice and repetition to understand that when used together, these words convey a concept that is specific and important, and that at once conveys temporal, historical, political, and cultural meanings that are critical for understanding so much that has been and is still being written every day about our society in newspapers and in books—all of which most of us immediately recognize. But we didn’t recognize that term, let alone process its significance, the first time we read those words together.
The practice and repetition needed to build working memory comes from multiple sources. The three words “world,” “war,” and “two,” may be introduced in an early vocabulary lesson; Roman Numerals may be introduced in a math or English class; the term “World War II” may be introduced in a history lesson, and then re-enforced in sentences studied for grammar and punctuation during an English class in which different contexts for the use and understanding of the term are introduced. All of these interconnected sources during formal school instruction are needed to build “working memory.”
But so are sources from outside of school. For instance, think what it might be like if you never grew up in a home where you heard the term “World War II” from a family member who served during the war, from a book discussing the war, from one of those old movies or documentaries on TV, or from just listening to general conversation among the adults in your life—you would not have been exposed to all the different contexts in which that term is used and, therefore, would not have as complete an understanding of the meaning of that term as other students in your class. These life experiences build working memory, too, and if they are missing from a child’s experience, it can be difficult for them to make up the cumulative loss during a school day or year.
It is the lack of cross-disciplinary immersion in the vocabulary needed to build working memory, coupled with the lack of out-of-school exposure to such vocabulary, that impedes the ability of so many of the diverse students in our public schools from learning and understanding enough of the content of their education to develop “critical thinking” skills.
Compounding this problem is the failure in too many of our classrooms to recognize that the development of academic skill requires learning both procedure and content. This especially is true of the language skills needed to build working memory. As Peggy Tyre recently reported in The Writing Revolution published in the October, 2012 issue of The Atlantic, so many students are failing to reach their potential across so many disciplines because they have not been given the basic tools with which to convey complex thoughts. Those innovative schools, like the New Dorp High School on Staten Island and The Winward School in White Plains, New York, which are daring to “go back to the future” by teaching grammar, conjunctions, and composition to their students throughout the curriculum, are seeing test scores exploding in every discipline, from science to history to language arts.
And the whole reason we build this working memory is to develop “advance speed processing.” The term “advance speed processing” as Hirsch uses it, describes the necessary skill that a person needs to use working memory to analyze increasingly complex situations, and solve increasingly complex problems. Returning to our earlier example, as you learn and practice with the concept of “World War II” through years of repetition, you can understand a myriad of related concepts and contexts, such as the adjective “post-war” that is so critical to understanding so much of what is written and said about modern economics, politics, diplomacy, art and literature. It is this speed of processing our working memory that allows us to think critically in any given field, or across disciplines.
The Texas classrooms of the 21st Century must be the incubators of working memory by diffusing procedural and content knowledge incrementally, and then through practice across every class and discipline. And they must start this work by returning to the basics of teaching an ever-increasing vocabulary in the context of every discipline from the story problems in math, to the sentence diagrams in English, to the essays in history, because language is not just another academic discipline to learn—it is the fundamental body of knowledge to learn for all other knowledge to be processed and used effectively.
This all may sound easy, but in today’s public schools none of this will be easy, because too many of the children who walk into those schools lack exposure to the out-of-school experiences that support and foster the development of vocabulary and working memory. In turn, that lack of exposure puts a tremendous burden on the teachers to instill and re-enforce this knowledge during the few hours each day that they have with these children. And, then, too many of our teachers have not been trained, or been given the proper curriculum with which to provide these skills to their students. So, any meaningful change will not happen overnight, but it must start now.
Luckily, there are several sources of ideas for new curricula that focus on teaching the knowledge needed to build working memory and “advance speed processing” among our children, which they will need in order to grow-up to be effective citizens. In my next post, we’ll canvass some of these proposed curricula before we move on to discuss the changes needed in our classrooms and school facilities.
Ed, Good stuff. Looking forward to your ideas for new curricula.
“All living things are made from cells,” I said to the class, then picked up an ostrich egg. “This is the largest cell in the world. Here, pass this around.” I handed the ostrich egg shell to Missy on the front row. “Write this down young scientists, I said and pushed a button on the remote. The three steps of the cell theory appeared on the screen. I walked over and flipped off the light switch. Most students began writing in their notebooks. Others were examining the ostrich shell. I paused in the darkened room. “What a great room,” I said to myself, looking out the window, over the heads of the students from the other side of the classroom. Students began copying the three steps of the cell theory into their notebooks. I waited until just the right moment, then, said, “It’s story time.” I went into my old man character. “Grandpa’s gonna learn ya,” I said, and did my arms like an old man. Several students chuckled. I noticed that Jonathan had his ear buds in his ears, so he hadn’t heard a word I said. He just kept on drawing. I pushed a button on the remote and Robert Hooke’s famous drawing of plant cells appeared on the screen. “A long time ago, young scientists, there was this guy called Robert Hooke. And Hooke used an early microscope to look at tiny things. And there was another guy called van Leeuwenhoek. I paused. “Read this, young scientists.”
Do we have to write it down,” Carolina asked?
“No, just listen.” I pushed play on the remote, and showed the class a picture of Van Leeuwenhoek looking through an ancient microscope.
“He was a microscope maker,” I said to the class. “We are all going to look through microscopes next week young scientists. Young scientists, there are two types of cells. Turn around, DaQuan. DaQuan turned around and looked at me. There are cells that have a nucleus, and there are cells that do not have a nucleus. Eukaryotic cells have a nucleus and prokaryotic cells do not have a nucleus.” I looked at the national geographic poster on the back wall, and said, “Put this in your working memory. Euks have nukes, pro, no.” The class did not respond. It was as if they were only using their brainstems. They seemed to be alive, but not sentient. “Euks have nukes,” I said flatly, “pro, no. It’s a little corny, but I made it up myself. Say it with me young scientists,” I said.
Euks have nukes, pro, no,” we said together.
“Eukes hab nukes, pwo no. Sarah said, looking at me. Sarah had a speech impediment.
Suddenly, Ms Peterson, the Science Department Chairperson, stuck her head in the room. “Fire drill at 1:45, Mister Smith,” she said looking at me. Ms. Peterson had an eye disorder which caused one eye to move independently from the other. One eye moved and looked at Carolina and the other one stayed looking at me. “Hello, Carolina,” she said.
“Hello Ms. Peterson,” Carolina said to Ms. Peterson.
“Thank you, Mister Smith,” she said, and left.
“Thank you,” I said. Ms. Love’ was standing at the back of the room, smiling. She and shook her head slightly.
“Look up here young scientists,” I said holding a black dry erase marker. “These, are fruit fly cells.” I drew a triangle and a pyramid of seven circles on the dry erase board at the front of the room. I labeled the pyramid with three circles, mitosis. I labeled the pyramid with seven circles, meiosis. Then I put the number eight in the two top circles and turned around to face the class. “How many chromosomes do fruit flies have?”
“Eight,” Shaneequa said.
“Right,” I said.
“Young Scientists,” I said. “There are trillions cells in each of your bodies.” The class was quiet. “And each cell in your body has forty six chromosomes.” I paused, then, said, “Except for the sex cells.” I had their attention now. “Have you ever heard the term, sex cells,” I asked, then waited.
“Shaneequa, a ho, she sell sex,” DaQuan said. The class erupted with laughter.
“Shet cho mouth nigga,” she said.
“DaQuan, don’t say that, that’s stupid,” I said. The class became animated.
“Yeah, DaQuan stoopid,” Shaneequah said. The class was still chuckling, hoping for real drama between Shaneequa and DaQuan.
“I didn’t say DaQuan is stupid, I said THAT’S stupid,” I said. “And Shaneequah, don’t use that word.”
Whut word,” she asked coyly, half hoping I would say the n-word word.
“You know what word,” I said, then quickly said, “The sex cells have half the number of chromosomes as the body cells. How many chromosomes are in every cell in our bodies except for the sex cells?”
“Forty six,” Missy said, and shook back her hair.
“Right,” I said, “that’s called the diploid number. Mitosis produces diploid cells. Put that in your working memory too.”
Meester esmeeth, whut ees a workin’ mamory,” Antonio asked?
“A working memory is the system which actively holds multiple pieces of transitory information in the mind when needed for verbal and nonverbal tasks such as reasoning and comprehension, and to make them available for further information processing.” I paused.
“Are you kidin’ me?” Antonio asked.
I turned back to the dry erase board. “And how many chromosomes does a fruit fly have?” I asked the class.
“Eight,” they said together.
“And when body cells divide, the daughter cells have the same number of cells as the parent cells.” I paused. “How many chromosomes do the fruit fly daughter cells have?”
“Blake,” I said. Blake was not paying attention.
“Huh,” he said turning his head.
“How many chromosomes does each daughter cell have?”
“Uh, forty six,” he said. A few students chuckled.
“Not, humans, fruit flies,” I said, and pointed the dry erase marker at the circle with the number eight written inside it.
“Eight,” several students said to Blake.
“Eight,” he said smiling, acting surprised.
“Right,” I said. I then drew the number eight in each of the bottom two circles of mitosis.
“Mitosis,” I said flatly to the class, “is a one step process. Mitosis produces diploid cells.” I drew the number eight inside the bottom two circles of mitosis, then paused and looked at the class. “The diploid number for fruit is eight,” I said. “Meiosis is different than mitosis.” Just like in mitosis, parent cells are diploid. But,” I said, “and this is a big but…” A few students chuckled. “Meiosis is a two step process. The parent cells divide twice. The resulting four cells are haploid. They have half the number of chromosomes as a diploid cell.” I wrote the number four inside the bottom four circles of the meiosis circle pyramid. I repeated myself. “Haploid cells have half the number of chromosomes as diploid cells. These four cells,” I pointed to the bottom four circles of the meiosis pyramid, with the number four written inside, “are sex cells,” I said. “How many chromosomes do sex cells have,” I asked the class?
“Four,” several students said. And what is the haploid number in humans?”
“Twenny thwee, Eric said. Eric also had a speech impediment
“Right,” I said loudly.
Can you name two types of sex cells?” I asked the class.
“Sperm and egg,” Brittany said sheepishly.
“Very good,” I said.
Several class members snickered.
“Are sperm and egg haploid or diploid?” I asked the class, having just told them the answer.
“Diploid, haploid, diploid, haploid,” several student guessed out loud.
“Sperm and egg are haploid,” I said. “Each one has half the number of chromosomes of a diploid cell.” I paused and took a couple of steps toward the class. “Young scientists,” I said, “have your parents or guardians had THAT talk with you?” The class became quiet. “You know which talk, right? Well, it’s time for THAT talk.” I paused, then, held out my left hand. “It takes uh momma,” I held out my right hand “and uh daddy,” I clapped my hands, “to make uh baby.” The class laughed. “Half the chromosomes come from the momma, and half the chromosomes come from the daddy.” The students chuckled and chortled.
DaQuan fell out of his desk onto the floor, buckled with laughter.
“Meeyustah Smit, you crazy,” Shaneequah said.