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The Pursuit of Curriculum

Schooling and the Public Interest

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IAPINFORMATION AGEP U B L I S H I N G

Greenwich, Connecticut • www.infoagepub.com


Schooling and the Public Interest

by

William A. Reid

Edited and with an Introductionand Postscript by

J. Wesley Null

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Copyright © 2006 Information Age Publishing Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in aretrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, microfilming, recording or otherwise, without written permissionfrom the publisher.

Printed in the United States of America

This second edition of


was published with permission from Greenwood Publishing.

The editorial labors of Claudiu Cimpern, doctoral candidate at Baylor University were essential to the completion of this book. Thank you, Claudiu.

Cover design assistant: Ted Filkins, doctoral candidate at Baylor University.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Reid, William Arbuckle. The pursuit of curriculum : schooling and the public interest / by WilliamA. Reid ; edited and with an introduction and postscript by J. WesleyNull. p. cm. -- (Research in curriculum and instruction) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 1-59311-507-5 (pbk.) -- ISBN 1-59311-508-3 (hardcover) 1. Education--Curricula. 2. Education--Curricula--Philosophy. I. Null,J. Wesley, 1973- II. Title. III. Series. LB1570.R374 2006 375'.001--dc22

2006007220

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To the memory ofJoseph J. Schwab

Teacher

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Research in Curriculum and Instruction

O.L. Davis, Jr.,

The University of Texas at Austin

Series Editor

Measuring History: Cases of State-Level Testing Across the United States

(in press)Edited by S.G. Grant

The Pursuit of Curriculum: Schooling and the Public Interest

(2006)By William A. ReidEdited and with an Introduction and Postscript by J. Wesley Null

Wise Social Studies Teaching in an Age of High-Stakes Testing: Essays on Classroom Practices and Possibilities

(2005)Edited by Elizabeth Anne Yeager and O.L. Davis Jr.

Deep Change: Cases and Commentary on Schools and Programs of Successful Reform in High Stakes States

(2005)Edited by Gerald Ponder and David B. Strahan

Explorations in Curriculum History Research

(2005)Edited by Lynn M. Burlbaw and Sherry L. Field

Exposing a Culture of Neglect: Herschel T. Manuel and MexicanAmerican Schooling

(2005)By Matthew D. Davis

Narrative Inquiries of School Reform: Storied Lives, Storied Landscapes, Storied Metaphors

(2003)By Cheryl J. Craig

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vii

CONTENTS

Foreword

O.L. Davis, Jr. ix

Introduction: Teaching Deliberation: Curriculum Workersas Public Educators

J. Wesley Null xiii

Preface

xxiii

PART I

Perspectives on the Curriculum 1

1. How We Think About Curriculum

3

2. The Institutional Character of Curriculum

19

3. Ways of Understanding: Great Ideas or Eclectic Arts?

33

4. Curriculum Perspectives and Philosophies of Schooling

47

PART II

A Deliberative Perspective 63

5. The Case for a Deliberative Perspective

65

6. The Commonplace of the Teacher

79

7. The Commonplace of the Student

93

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viii CONTENTS

8. The Commonplace of Subject Matter

105

9. The Commonplace of the Milieus

121

10. The Commonplace of Curriculum Making

133

Epilogue: Schooling and the Public Interest

147

Postscript: Rediscovering the Public Interest

J. Wesley Null 157

Bibliography

167

Author Index

173

Subject Index

175

About the Authors

179

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ix


, pages ix–xiiCopyright © 2006 by Information Age PublishingAll rights of reproduction in any form reserved.

FOREWORD

Reading this new edition of Professor William A. Reid’s

The Pursuit of Cur-riculum

became a delightful, fresh engagement with a dear friend. My copyof the original edition, underlined with penciled comments in the marginsof many pages, has been missing from my office library for much too long atime. Whatever the explanation of its absence, this superb book and I arenow reunited.

Unavailable for some time now, the initial edition of Reid’s book addedsignificantly to the literature on the school curriculum. It neither catalogueddifferent curriculum conceptions in extended detail nor did it abruptly dis-miss them. On the other hand, it offered fresh analyses and proposals as wellas gracefully crafted arguments for a curriculum vision that emphasized thearts of the practical and deliberative perspectives. Obviously needed forsome time has been another edition of Reid’s important book.

J. Wesley Null recognized this need and pursued it through severalstages to published book. He proposed to Reid some ideas for this new edi-tion of


as well as his thoughts about an introduc-tion which he would write. With Reid’s agreement, Null followed up ondetails of the project with his usual initiative, enthusiasm, and attention todetail. Null corresponded with Reid about points in the initial edition thatmight be changed in order that they reflect both Reid’s changed thinkingsince the book’s original publication and ones that could be altered, how-ever slightly, such that the new edition of this book might display increasedrelevance to the American educational situation. Without qualification,Null’s leadership and timely work made possible this new volume. As edito-rial revisions took form, Null began his writing of his substantial introduc-tory essay and postscript.

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x FOREWORD

In that essay, Null focuses initial attention on the ideas of Joseph J.Schwab and of Aristotle, rather unexpectedly, I suspect, to the minds ofsome readers. Those surprised individuals reasonably have come to expecta book’s introduction to focus exclusively on the nature of that book andits author. Of course, Null’s essay follows that general convention. Toemphasize the importance of Schwab and Aristotle is to acknowledge therich intellectual foundations that support Reid’s positions. For example,Null clearly asserts that Aristotle’s distinction between “practical” and “the-oretic” is parallel to the one made by Schwab and, later, by Reid. Further,Null claims, properly I believe, that Reid’s conception of curriculum, delib-eration, and several other matters can be understood only partially or per-haps not at all without the certain awareness of influential contributions tohis ideas by both Aristotle and Schwab. Null’s introductory essay will assistmany readers to make meaningful associations with Reid’s ideas as well asto interpret with increased understanding the positions that Reid developsin his book.

I enthusiastically accepted this revised edition of Reid’s

The Pursuit ofCurriculum

with Null’s introduction and postscript into Information AgePublishing’s series on research in curriculum and instruction. Previousbooks in this series have made important contributions to the field. Thisnew book, however, is the first volume in this series to feature a work ofmajor philosophical importance.

Especially, I believe that


makes its return toeducational visibility at an especially fortuitous time. Its publication per-haps could not come at a better moment. The reason seems to be obvious.

The current curriculum landscape in the United States, as well as in theUnited Kingdom and perhaps other countries, reveals signs of serious rup-tures. This situation derives in significant measure from the conditions andconsequences of the hurried implementation of curriculum mandatesauthorized in recent years. Simply, state and federal politicians who hadcampaigned on platforms that called for an end to “big government”anomalously legislated their will for increased central planning of schoolcurricula. They promised citizens that the necessary new curriculum stan-dards, the creation of a flurry of tests keyed to those standards, and the reg-ular if not frequent testing of students would be worth the cost through“heightened productivity” of teachers and schools. In the U. S., these pro-cedures, according to this political logic, would assure that no child wouldbe left behind. But more, these new requirements, they asserted, wouldend the claimed incompetence of American teachers and intellectuallybankrupt public schools. The new requirements, every bit as importantly,would enable America to compete effectively with (economically con-quer?) the rest of the world’s nations. After a decade or more, these kindsof political promises are showing their age as mainly empty slogans. Never-

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Foreword xi

theless, the institutions erected on these promises still exist and, signifi-cantly, still possess impressive power. Even so, numbers of parents, othercitizens, commentators, and a few legislators have begun to express con-cern. Why aren’t the promises working out? Why, after all the increasedexpenses, are some children not achieving the standards? Have schoolsreally failed? Or do even the smallest of the legislated mandates representa bridge much too far? What can Americans, not just America’s educators,now do about the education of their children and youth?

Amidst the mounting disquietude can be heard pleas of governmentalofficials for citizens to stay the course. The mandated standards, now notquite so new, will be strengthened, the centralizing advocates vow. Tests canbe constructed to be more rigorous. Teachers and even schools whose stu-dents fail to reach acceptable levels can and will be penalized. These andnotebooks of other possible actions, say the politicians and their true-believing supporters, will fulfill the once certain expectations.

Sober analyses of the facts of the many cases plus just modest reflection,on the other hand, yield strikingly different conclusions. Military com-mand-and-control procedures just do not work within the vastness, com-plexity, as well as the particularities of the American educationalenterprise. Politicians, apparently, just don’t get it.

In such times as these, Bill Reid’s book offers renewed hope. Too oftenin short supply, hope is like a lighted candle in a darkened room. Thisbook, importantly, refers to maps, not charts. Reid knows what geogra-phers know. Every map displays a compass rose of directions; charts do not.Like too few other observers and analysts of American education, Reidrefuses to specify “ends” even as he insists on “ends in view.” His book espe-cially reminds us of our robust heritage as citizens of a democracy stillunfinished. Democracy, like curriculum, always is a pursuit, not a settledachievement, not a destination.

These aspects of text and meaning are significant to any serious under-standing of Reid’s book. So are other characteristics. Central among themare the ideas of the practical and of deliberation. These ideas are not“terms,” certainly not words in search of meaning. Rather, they are fruitfulconcepts, meanings encased in words, to be sure, but never to be confusedonly as words or as a set of terms.

We err if we think of “the practical” as “practice” and “deliberation” as“discussion.” Such renderings of mind are mischievous and, more, mislead-ing. Deliberation, as Reid explicates the concept, yields a decision to act,whether or not the deliberation is completed within a minute or in weeks orwhether or not the deliberation considers a proposal for a picnic or for theuse of authentic documents in the teaching of history. Discussion, on theother hand, may only yield a conclusion and, as such, it stops short of a deci-sion to act.

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xii FOREWORD

Another dimension of Reid’s book must be acknowledged. Its text is notobtuse. However, it should be read carefully and considered and pon-dered. It should not be skimmed in haste as if to get the gist of it during aninterval between meetings. This difference might be likened to an expres-sion I once used with my grandchildren, “Tonight, we are dining, not eat-ing.” Thoughtful reading, like dining, requires time, attention to subtlediscriminations, awareness of the contributions of others, wonder, andmore. Certainly, wonder.

Inasmuch as Reid admits that his critiques and proposals relate impor-tantly to the work of the late Joseph J. Schwab, some contemporary curricu-lum theorists may want to ask, “Does Reid improve on Schwab?” Somereaders will be reminded, in fact, of a similar question posed several yearsago by Philip Jackson, “Does Schwab improve on (Ralph) Tyler?” The issueof improvement fails to excite my interest. Such questions seem to elevatethe value and prominence of one (the earlier) scholar and all but to dis-miss the work of the other (the latter) scholar. I know that the Reid-Schwabrelationship is richly important. I also know that Reid has continued tobuild upon and away from Schwab’s work. I believe that he has expanded,appropriately and meaningfully, a number of Schwab’s ideas. Improved onSchwab? Schwab is Schwab and Reid is Reid. Especially, Bill Reid hasinvited many others, including me, to use Schwab’s and his and others’concepts as we think into the area of our vast ignorance that lies beyondthe boundaries of our present knowledge. In this invitation, he honors ourwonderment, our search, our quest, our pursuit.

Welcome to


. —O. L. Davis, Jr.

Catherine Mae Parker CentennialProfessor of Curriculum and Instruction

The University of Texas at Austin

FW—xii

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xiii


, pages xiii–xxiCopyright © 2006 by Information Age PublishingAll rights of reproduction in any form reserved.

TEACHING DELIBERATION

Curriculum Workers as Public Educators

J. Wesley Null

I remember the afternoon that I first encountered the work of JosephSchwab. It was the summer of 1999, and I was a graduate student at TheUniversity of Texas at Austin, taking a course in curriculum theory from mymentor, O. L. Davis, Jr. Our class was meeting on the fourth floor of theGeorge I. Sanchez Education building, and I recall looking out the expan-sive, ten foot windows before class to watch the construction of a new Texasstate history museum. We had read many books and articles during thecourse of our time together that semester, but nothing we had read pre-pared me for what Joseph Schwab was about to do. At the beginning ofclass, Professor Davis distributed an essay to all of us. He had assigned doz-ens of articles to us before, and this class day, more or less, was just like allof the others. This new essay from the

School Review

, however, had a titlethat somehow caught my attention. The article was called “The Practical: ALanguage for Curriculum” (Schwab, 1969). The title was subtle, unassum-ing, and a bit peculiar, but it seemed to pack a punch that did not require afancy headline.

I began to read the first paragraph as the other students in the roomshuffled papers, scooted their chairs, arranged tables, and otherwise beganto prepare for class. As I read Schwab’s writing that afternoon, somethingsuddenly seemed different. I cannot explain it, but I had this strange con-

INTRODUCTION

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xiv J. W. NULL

nection to Joseph Schwab. He seemed to be touching upon somethingdeep, something that mattered in a profound, even ancient sort of way. Iremember reading a few sentences of his essay, stopping, and then lookingup to think. Then, I remember reading a few more sentences, stoppingagain, and then looking up to think some more. I could not stop readingwhat struck me as some of the most engaging prose that I had ever read. Ido not recall saying much, if anything, during class that day, but I do knowfor certain that I did a great deal of thinking. In fact, I thought all after-noon, all evening, and long into the night. On that hot, muggy, otherwiseordinary afternoon in Austin, I can say—without concern for exaggera-tion—that Joseph Schwab made the distinction that changed my life.

The distinction that he made was between what he called the “practical”and the “theoretic.” He tells us at the beginning of that essay that practicalquestions differ from theoretic questions not only in the subject-matter withwhich they deal, but also in the ends toward which they are directed. Thisperhaps does not sound like mind-shattering stuff to some readers, but, tosomeone like me, the path that Schwab was leading me down was logicalwhile at the same time moral and philosophical. This integration of moraland intellectual inquiry was a philosophical combination that I knew hadgreat promise. I had to know more. At the time, I did not know enough torecognize the implications of what Schwab was doing, but I did, however,know enough to keep reading. I am thankful that I knew at least that much.

Schwab goes on to tell us that theoretic questions deal with “states ofmind,” whereas practical questions deal with “states of affairs.” By this hemeans that answers to theoretic questions only impact our minds; they helpus to understand the nature of things, but, by themselves, theoretic explana-tions do not tell us what we ought to do in a particular social situation. Weneed something else for that. What he says we need is practicality. In contrastto theoretic questions, practical questions must and should help us to arriveat

judgments

that we believe will influence a particular state of affairs in theway we think this state of affairs ought to go. Instead of the development ofunderstanding, the purpose of practical inquiry is to arrive at a

decision

aboutwhat we should do at a particular time and within a particular context. Theo-retic questions end in understanding, Schwab tells us, but practical questionsend in decision-making—even if the decision is to do nothing. Curriculum,he then tells us, belongs in the realm of the practical. It is a practical science,not a theoretical one. Wait a minute, I thought, that sounds important. So Iread the essay again and thought some more. Curriculum and everythingthat flows from it, at least to me, will never be the same.

This distinction between Schwab’s “theoretic” and “practical” may notsound revolutionary to some readers, but I guess my fascination with phi-losophy from an early age made me a prime student for Schwab’s teaching.His distinction between these two modes of inquiry opened up a new fron-

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Teaching Deliberation xv

tier. I continue to explore this new frontier every day. Schwab laid out anentirely new way of thinking for me, one that has implications not only forcurriculum, but also for closely related fields such political science, ethics,and even theology, which I regard as a practical discipline as well.

The best way to describe the nature of my thinking before reading ThePractical is to say that my mind seemed to be divided into two rivers that wereflowing parallel to one another, but that remained firmly separated by highbanks of earth and rock. When I began to read what Schwab meant by theword practical, however, it was like the two rivers in my mind suddenlyturned, crashed violently into one another, and began to tumble toward anew reservoir and an entirely new conception of knowledge. At thatmoment, I began, for the first time, to engage consciously in the practice ofdeliberation. Of course, I had deliberated and made many decisions prior tothat day, but my understanding of the subject-matter and the method ofdeliberation took a step back—way back—that afternoon. I began to connectwith the ancient roots that are the well-spring of good deliberation.

I knew nothing about Schwab (1910–1988) when I first read his work. Ihave since learned that the philosophy he brought to bear on curriculumhas its roots in the University of Chicago. He was at first a student and thenlater a faculty member at Chicago for more than fifty years. He was influ-enced considerably during these years by Richard McKeon, a professor ofphilosophy who made the study of Aristotle his life’s work. Schwab alsoworked closely with Robert Maynard Hutchins, who was president of theUniversity of Chicago from 1929 to 1945 (Ashmore, 1989; Garver & Bucha-nan, 2000). McKeon, however, was more influential on Schwab thanHutchins. A direct line can be drawn between McKeon’s work on Aristotleand Schwab’s writings on curriculum.

As a faculty member at Chicago, Schwab was a professor of natural sci-ences and a professor of education. He was instrumental in the develop-ment of an undergraduate core curriculum for all students at the university.Research was in some respects interesting to Schwab, but he largely aban-doned a career in research in order to devote his life to teaching and to thedevelopment of interdisciplinary core curriculum at the undergraduatelevel. Schwab spent his life engaged in questions about the nature of sci-ence, the purpose of liberal curriculum, and the integration of the disci-plinary specialties into a coherent philosophy of curriculum. Schwab viewedcurriculum as a unifying activity that served to connect the various theoreticdisciplines to the practical world of schooling and social life.

Despite his academic background, Schwab does not list a single refer-ence in the entire Practical 1 essay. When I first read it, however, I knewthat he was drawing upon a rich tradition of moral and philosophicalthought. I had to know more about this tradition. Since that summerwhen I first read Schwab, I have traced his thinking—with the wise guid-

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ance of Bill Reid—to the ancient texts that form the foundation forSchwab’s work. There are many of these texts, and I make no claim tohave read them all. I have, however, read some of them, and I have cometo the conclusion that Aristotle’s

Ethics

is one of the most importantbooks—if not

the most important book—

for Schwab scholars to read if theyare to understand what Schwab is doing with The Practical 1—as well aswith the rest of his scholarship.

A closer look at Aristotle is instructive. At the beginning of Book II ofthe

Ethics,

Aristotle makes the same distinction that Schwab makes betweenthe theoretic and the practical. Aristotle, however, uses the terms moraland intellectual instead of practical and theoretic, but the effect is thesame. The purpose in making this distinction to Aristotle is not to say thatmoral matters should be separated from intellectual matters in our dailylives; his purpose is quite the opposite. This distinction brings unity andwholeness, not fracture and fragmentation. Aristotle distinguishes betweenmoral and intellectual virtue so that these two types of excellence can becultivated in their unique ways. Intellectual virtues, Aristotle tells us, arelearned from instructors who, for example, give us lectures on Roman his-tory, who ask us questions in physics class, or who challenge us with a newtheory about what caused the Civil War. Moral virtues, on the other hand,must be practiced if they are to be cultivated. Aristotle tells us that themoral virtue of courage, for example, only can be developed if a person

chooses

to do moral acts over and over again until that virtue is firmly estab-lished as part of one’s character. Moral virtues are developed throughdoing, and intellectual virtues are learned from instructors.

These first lessons that I learned from Joseph Schwab have influencedmy thinking, writing, and teaching ever since. Too much, of course, can bemade of what Schwab has to say at the beginning of his Practical 1 essay.With his practical vs. theoretic distinction, he was not establishing somekind of absolute rule that never should be questioned. Rather, he was mak-ing a foundational point that serves as a tool for opening discussion aboutcurriculum.

Schwab challenges us to reestablish morality and ethics as central toAmerican curriculum. His conception of the practical was anything but thetechnical rationality that dominated professional education in 1969, andthat remains immensely powerful today. The philosophy of practicality thatSchwab challenges us to embrace takes into account all of the branches ofknowledge that have their roots in ancient Greek philosophy—includingthe work of the sophists, Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle. Readers of Schwabalso should recognize the connection between Schwab’s idea of the practi-cal and the conception of “practical wisdom,” or

phronesis,

that Aristotle dis-cusses at length in his

Ethics.

Aristotle defines practical wisdom asdeliberation that takes into account the ultimate good for man, a defini-

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Teaching Deliberation xvii

tion that is strikingly similar to Schwab’s idea of the Practical (Ostwald,1999; Smith, 2001). In Aristotle’s words:

[W]e may conclude that practical wisdom is neither a pure science nor anart. It is not a pure science, because matters of action admit of being otherthan they are, and it is not an applied science or art, because action and pro-duction are generically different. What remains, then, is that it is a truthfulcharacteristic of acting rationally in matters good and bad for man. For pro-duction has an end other than itself, but action does not: good action is itselfan end. (Ostwald, 1999, p. 153)

Practical wisdom is the most crucial of the virtues in Aristotle’s moralphilosophy. The practically wise person must make use of both the moraland the intellectual virtues while he or she seeks to make wise, politicallyinformed judgments. These judgments, moreover, always take place withincomplex social situations. They also must keep the aim of human happi-ness in mind as the goal that the moral actor seeks to attain. Happiness forindividuals—and especially for communities—is, to Aristotle, the end thatwe all seek to attain, and the cultivation of moral and intellectual virtues isthe means to accomplish this end.

With these roots in mind, Schwab began to build his new vision for thefield of curriculum. The argument that Bill Reid makes in

The Pursuit of Cur-riculum

only can be understood if we take this rich heritage of deliberativethinking into account. Aristotle’s ethics shaped Schwab’s philosophy, andhence it shapes Reid’s as well. Both Schwab and Reid anchor the deliberativetradition in a philosophical legacy that, I predict, will long outlast much con-temporary scholarship surrounding curriculum and curriculum theorizing.

The Pursuit of Curriculum,

of course, is not a book on Joseph Schwab. Atthe same time, however, the curriculum philosophy that Reid lays out in thistext must be understood within the framework that Schwab developed. Themerits of Reid’s book are numerous, but I have chosen to focus on threemain aspects of the work that I think have particular relevance to contem-porary curriculum. I will focus on 1) the relationship of the deliberative tra-dition to the four social philosophies that Reid presents in chapter one, 2)the idea of the “common good” and how the deliberative tradition is supe-rior to the others in this regard, and 3) the connection of the Schwab-Reiddeliberative tradition to the American ideal of liberal education for all. I willexplore these last two points most directly in the postscript.

CURRICULUM AS SOCIAL PHILOSOPHY

One of the most valuable aspects of

The Pursuit

is found in the map that Reiddraws of the curriculum field (see chapter one). Readers can study Reid’s dis-

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xviii J. W. NULL

cussion of this matter for themselves, but perhaps a brief, fresh interpretationwill help to lay the groundwork for studying Reid’s work. First of all, Reid’schoice of language is fair to all sides of this discussion. He, of course, identi-fies most directly with the deliberative tradition, but he makes no effort tochoose labels that denigrate other perspectives. This is one of the strongestassets of his writing. As far as I know, Schwab never outlined the various phi-losophies within the curriculum field as Reid has done in

The Pursuit

; conse-quently, this contribution is something new that curriculum workers shouldread carefully. Reid’s four social philosophies—the systematic, the existential-ist, the radical, and the deliberative—help us to organize our thinking on cur-riculum. They also help us to act based upon solid foundations. Despitedecades of criticism against it, the systematic perspective continues to holdsway over public opinion. Criticisms of systematic philosophies of curriculumhave been marginalized from mainstream American politics; as a result, thesecriticisms have had little impact on the general public’s view of curriculum,which remains centered on the production of efficient systems. The system-atic philosophy connects logically to the concern for economic power andwork force training that is powerful in both the U.S. and in England. The sys-tematic perspective also relies upon Enlightenment traditions of empiricalscience, efficiency, and a purely materialistic conception of human nature.

I tend not to be as charitable as Reid when it comes to those perspec-tives with which I disagree. Consequently, I am not hesitant to say that thesystematic perspective has done and continues to do great harm to thecause of liberal education in this country (and elsewhere). Systematic cur-riculum thinkers such as John Franklin Bobbitt and W. W. Charters left outconcerns for moral education, they ignored the humanities and foreignlanguages, and they rejected anything that has to do with the spiritualdimension of human nature. The good news is that the Enlightenmentphilosophies upon which Bobbitt and Charters based their views have seenconsiderable decline in the past 40 years or so. Platitudes about unendingProgress toward some kind of “scientifically” produced Utopia are quitedifficult to defend in our day. All issues that we face as citizens in the early21st century are ethical in nature. We face global warming, business scan-dals, human cloning, end of life questions, terrorism, nuclear prolifera-tion, a rapidly globalizing economy, the depletion of energy sources, thedecline of our inner cities, and many other challenges that cannot be metsuccessfully unless those who address them are guided by a coherent moralphilosophy. The systematic perspective has little to say about moral philos-ophy, and this is a serious handicap for this tradition moving forward. Effi-ciency and economy of course remain central to the challenges that weface, but more and more people are coming to realize that efficiency andeffectiveness are means, not ends (Null, 2004). When this realization ismade, a brand new world opens up for the deliberative tradition.

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Teaching Deliberation xix

The existentialist perspective that Reid explores in-depth also meritscomment. This is the viewpoint that other writers have labeled with termslike Progressive, Romantic, Child-centered, Developmentalist, or, in recentyears, “Constructivist.” The major point here is that these curriculumthinkers place the emphasis on the individual person who is doing thelearning. Much psychology—beginning in the 1890s with G. Stanley Halland other “functionalist” psychologists—has adhered to this viewpoint formore than 100 years. The value of this perspective is found in the emphasisthat existentialist thinkers place on children, their needs and interests, andthe need to connect curriculum to young people who inevitably come toschool with various backgrounds. On the other hand, the liabilities of theexistentialist philosophy are numerous. When existentialists advocate“meeting the needs and interests of children,” they simultaneously de-emphasize other essential ingredients in curriculum—for example subject-matter and the role of teachers as powerful figures in the classroom.

The third major social philosophy of curriculum that Reid discusses iswhat he calls the radical perspective. This philosophy also has its meritsand demerits. For example, radical thinkers draw our attention to the chal-lenges facing particular communities that have been neglected due toyears of discrimination. Adherents to the radical perspective seek to chal-lenge university faculty and the public in general to raise their conscious-ness regarding historic problems like racism and segregation. These are, ofcourse, noble and significant goals, but the radical perspective has limita-tions that Reid explores in-depth. For example, radical thinkers make asharp distinction between theory and practice, just as systematic thinkersdo. In practice, teachers are demoted to the role of implementing theplans of radical theorists, a viewpoint that is strikingly at odds with the rhet-oric about democracy that is used by radical thinkers. This reduction ofteachers to implementers of other people’s expertise is a similarity that theradical tradition shares with the systematic. Radical curriculum philoso-phers, moreover, do not focus on the difficult task of translating their theo-ries into the messy, practical world of particular students in particularinstitutions. This bedrock disconnect between the theoretic world and thepractical world makes the radical perspective untenable in practice. Con-necting the theoretic world with the arena of practical decision-making,however, is the task at which the deliberative tradition finds great success.

FROM SUBJECT-MATTER TO GROWTH TO DELIBERATION

When he wrote his first Practical paper in 1969, Schwab was working tounite the divergent social philosophies that surrounded him. After manyyears of criticism, the fields of curriculum and education were at a cross-

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xx J. W. NULL

roads. There was no consensus about the direction that curriculum shouldgo. Out of this milieu came the deliberative tradition that Reid offers inthis book. Instead of placing system or the child or radical dogma at thecenter of curriculum philosophy, the deliberative tradition places

delibera-tion

at its core. This is a crucial development for the curriculum field ingeneral and for democratic education in particular.

I see this shift as every bit as radical as the transformation that took placein the late 1890s when curriculum moved from being centered on subject-matter to being centered on growth. John Dewey was the major figure here.In his 1900 book,

The School and Society,

Dewey writes of a revolutionary shiftthat was taking place at the time, a shift that moved the center of gravity incurriculum theory from

subject-matter

to

the child

(Dewey, 1900/1990, p. 34).Dewey compares this shift to the Copernican revolution that made the sunrather than the earth the center of our solar system. This was a shockingcomparison that garnered nationwide attention when Dewey made it (Null,2003). After redirecting attention to the child as opposed to subject-matter,Dewey then seized upon

growth

as the aim or purpose of democratic educa-tion. In

Democracy and Education,

he states directly that curriculum can haveno end or purpose beyond “growth” (Dewey, 1916, p. 59). I think this was agrand mistake by Dewey, one that led to much imbalance in American cur-riculum during the 20th century (Ravitch, 2000). We have been workingever since to mediate between the child and the curriculum without goingtoo far in one direction or the other. Schwab no doubt recognized this prob-lem. He developed a sound philosophy that helps us to rectify this pendulumswing. He replaces Dewey’s

growth

with the practice of

deliberation

. He trades abiological metaphor for a philosophical one. He connects curriculum to thepractical art of deliberation. This deliberative philosophy has a rich legacythat has been around for at least 2500 years. It was developed at-length byAristotle, whose extended discussion of deliberation is worth consideringcarefully at this point. Translated by Martin Ostwald, Aristotle wrote:

There is a difference between investigating and deliberating: to deliberate isto investigate a particular kind of object … Now, scientific knowledge it is cer-tainly not: people do not investigate matters they already know. But gooddeliberation is a kind of deliberation, and when a person deliberates he isengaged in investigating and calculating (things not yet decided). Nor yet isit shrewd guessing. For shrewd guessing involves no reasoning and proceedsquickly, whereas deliberation takes a long time. As the saying goes, the actionwhich follows deliberation should be quick, but deliberation itself should beslow … Nor again is excellence in deliberation any form of opinion at all. Butsince a person who deliberates badly makes mistakes, while he who deliber-ates well deliberates correctly, it clearly follows that excellence in delibera-tion is some kind of correctness.… Good deliberation in the unqualifiedsense of course brings success in relation to what is, in an unqualified sense,

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Teaching Deliberation xxi

the end (i.e., in relation to the good life). Excellence in deliberation asdirected toward some particular end, however, brings success in the attain-ment of some particular end. Thus we may conclude that, since it is a mark ofmen of practical wisdom to have deliberated well, excellence in deliberationwill be correctness in assessing what is conducive to the end, concerningwhich practical wisdom gives a true conviction. (Ostwald, 1999, pp. 161–163)

Schwab recognizes that deliberation is a solid foundation upon which tobuild curriculum. The switch he made from

growth

to

deliberation

is not aminor change. In the early 1980s, Reid picked up where Schwab left off.With Schwab’s identification of the five commonplaces of curriculum—teachers, learners, subject-matter, milieus, and curriculum-making—hegives us hope that the pendulum swing between one commonplace oranother can at last be controlled with deliberation (Schwab, 1978d, pp.365–383). Only the deliberative tradition—not one of the other three thatReid describes in chapter one—can balance the five commonplaces, all ofwhich are essential to good curriculum. This tradition also is the only phi-losophy that does justice to the idea of the common good.

INTRO—xxi

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xxiii


, page xxiiiCopyright © 2006 by Information Age PublishingAll rights of reproduction in any form reserved.

PREFACE

Words that set out as descriptions of fairly specific things or events oftenbecome universally applicable. Today, practically any situation involvingsome kind of learning is liable to be referred to as an instance of curricu-lum. In this book, I want to return the word to a more limited meaning: Ishall be talking about the curriculum of schooling—the program or pro-grams offered to students who enter elementary school aged five or six,and leave high school somewhere between the ages of 16 and 19. What isthe curriculum? What should students be learning? Who should decidewhat it is good to be learning? How are such decisions to be made? My con-cern is not so much to give specific answers to questions of this sort as todiscuss what kinds of considerations should lie behind the answers that arereached. Insofar as I offer conclusions, they are personal ones. But, as partof the exercise of presenting my own viewpoint, which forms the secondpart of this book, I provide, in the first part, a general guide to ways inwhich such questions are approached.

The personal perspective which I describe has developed through con-versations with others, some mainly or entirely through the written word,some mainly through the spoken word. My “pursuit of curriculum” over thelast 35 years has been stimulated, shaped, and enlivened by predecessors,colleagues, and students from many countries. In this respect, I acknowl-edge special debts to O. L. Davis, Jr., Bjorg Gundem, Maurice Holt, GailMcCutcheon, John Meyer, Wesley Null, Joseph Schwab, Janek Wankowski,and Ian Westbury.

—William A. ReidSt. Chloe Green, Gloucestershire

January, 2006

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1

The Pursuit of Curriculum: Schooling and the Public Interest, pages 1–2Copyright © 2006 by Information Age PublishingAll rights of reproduction in any form reserved.

Part I

PERSPECTIVES ON THE CURRICULUM

Most of us can remember a key phrase or utterance which, at some point,helped us to chrystallize a half-formed thought. For me, one such occasionoccurred during a reading of James March’s (1972) paper “Model bias insocial action,” where he wrote:

Justice is an ideal rather than a state of existence: we do not achieve it: wepursue it. (p. 414)

The metaphor of “pursuit” seemed, in a number of ways, to be a compel-ling analogy for my own engagement with the curriculum of schoolingwhich had begun in the late 1950’s. I could not believe that, by taking anyamount of thought, it would be possible to devise techniques or proce-dures for delivering an “ideal” curriculum: and this, it must be remem-bered, was at a time when speakers at curriculum conferences, who hadimbibed too much philosophical theory, or overindulged in planning byobjectives, frequently announced the discovery of just such a holy grail. Onthe other hand, neither was I comfortable with the notion that, in the end,the making and teaching of curriculum was simply an exercise in pragma-tism—what I will later be referring to as operationalism: just figuring out“what works”. But the idea of pursuit seemed to encompass both ends ofthe problem. To pursue is to be active, to engage with the world, to face itsobstacles and opportunities, to recognize those occasions when pragma-tism is called for, or when ideals must not be sacrificed in its name. Pursuitalways has to be inventive. It takes us into new territory. The solution that

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2 PART I: Perspectives on the Curriculum

worked last time may not be effective this time round. But, and it is animportant but, pursuit has to have an end in view, and it is the desirabilityof the end in view that determines the quality of the actions we take in itsname. We know that in the world we inhabit, justice cannot be a state ofaffairs; but, without the guidance of ideals of justice, no courts, investiga-tions, or legal enactments will serve the good of society. Similarly, we arenever going to realize perfect curricula, but schools, teaching, assessments,and mandates will only serve the good of society insofar as they are guidedby curricular ideals.

My main aim, then, is to persuade my readers to look upon curriculumas a pursuit; both to see how that analogy can help us to understand thenature of curriculum problems and discover ways of solving them, and torecognize that this pursuit is something that they themselves could andshould be engaged in. Some will take it up as professionals—teachers,planners, researchers—but many, I hope, will have other backgrounds andwill engage with curriculum questions as concerned citizens. As currentnational and state reports and initiatives remind us, curriculum, just likejustice, is a possession of society as a whole. If its pursuit is to be successful,it has to be the work of the many, not the few.

The pursuit of curriculum is taken up by people of many different pref-erences and dispositions. The profusion of claims about what curriculumis, and how we should think about it, can be confusing to anyone who lis-tens to political debate, or goes to the academic literature for enlighten-ment. On the other hand, examination of these claims can help us draw upa map of how curriculum is, in fact, thought about. This is the task Iembark on in the first part of this book. The positions we adopt on curricu-lum questions are expressions of the social philosophies we hold. How,then, can social philosophies be categorized? What differentiates them?What implications do they have for the kinds of social action in which weshould be engaging?

Only as we begin to perceive some map of curriculum thinking can weactively choose what stance we ourselves would like to adopt, or trace outthe implications of the attitudes or values that we have already formed.Only as we learn to appreciate the strengths and weaknesses of other possi-ble positions can we judge the relative strengths and weaknesses of the onethat we support.PT01—2


3


HOW WE THINK ABOUT CURRICULUM

In the first part of this book my aim is to draw a map of how people thinkabout the curriculum of schooling and, in the course of that, to considerthe strengths and weaknesses of the various positions they occupy. I shallalso discuss the nature of the two major dimensions of the map and relatethem to philosophies of schooling.

Maps can serve a variety of functions. They can help those who are newto an area to understand its nature and to locate themselves within it. Ihope that for beginners in the field of curriculum, my map will serve thispurpose. Maps can also help those who already have an interest in an areato understand it better by enabling them to check out features and rela-tionships of features that their own exploration has suggested. I hope thatmy map will serve that purpose too.

Map making involves selection. We have to make choices about whichaspects of the landscape we consider to be important. By doing that, weshape the way in which we and others look at it. At some point, it may bebetter to throw the map away and try to take an unprejudiced look atwhat surrounds us. But as long as we use the map to help us think, andresist the temptation to use it as a substitute for thinking, it can be a use-ful companion.

CHAPTER 1


4 The Pursuit of Curriculum

WHY CURRICULUM?

Why do we need a map of curriculum? Why not make do with maps oflearning, teaching, schooling, or education? A straightforward answer isthat people talk about, write about, legislate for, teach courses on, and takecredits in curriculum. In other words, it is a subject. But that only pushes thequestion back a stage further. Why is it a subject?

Subjects, which include such things as chemistry, law, and photography,are reflections of social practices. People do chemistry, and in the courseof doing it they organize themselves to produce and share knowledgeabout the activity and also to protect it and extend its scope. Chemistry, asa subject, presents some selection of facts and ideas about the practiceand about the institutions that support it. Since it is generally acceptedthat the practice of chemistry is important within the total range ofhuman activities, many people study it as a subject because they want toknow about it, need to know about it, or have to demonstrate some com-petence in it. Curriculum has become a subject in this sense. We study itand think about it because it reflects a significant social practice that isassociated with learning, teaching, schools, and education, but that has adistinctive character of its own.

Our starting point, therefore, is the idea of curriculum as practice. Atonce, we can think of various concrete ways in which we might be involvedin the practice of curriculum. We might, for example, undertake curricu-lum planning, in the understanding that this is not the same as planninglearning, teaching, or education. Our curriculum would not be a very goodone if it did not result in some learning, but the achievement of learningdepends on more than suggesting that something should be taught; itdepends also on how the teaching is done, where, to whom, and underwhat circumstances. Probably we would also think that our curriculum wasdeficient if it could not claim to be contributing towards education—I usethe word “probably” because we could think of curricula that might bedesigned without concern for education: for example, it is not uncommonto meet with claims that the main object of the school curriculum shouldbe to equip students with the skills that are needed in employment, thusavoiding questions of what is or is not educative. At this stage, I am not con-cerned with the validity of such proposals. My point is that curriculum aspractice has fuzzy edges. Some would prefer to keep it tidy—even to sepa-rate it from teaching (we have all heard of the “teacher-proof curriculum,”though it is less talked about now than it was 20 years ago). On the otherhand, some might think that a curriculum that was not intended to be“educative” was not a curriculum at all and should be separately catego-rized, perhaps as a “program of training.” But the thought that curriculumhas fuzzy edges should not worry us. It is in the nature of practices that they


How We Think About Curriculum 5

depend on, overlap, or interact with other practices. Chemistry too hasfuzzy edges, where it depends on mathematics, overlaps with physics andbiology, and/or encounters other kinds of related practices, such as busi-ness or politics. At this point, we might just be content to say that the prac-tices of curriculum are inevitably intertwined with other practices, but thatthey have a unique character centering on particular understandings ofthe nature and place of formal learning in a society. Exactly what thatnature is, and what that place is, are questions open to a variety of interpre-tations, and it is our immediate business to examine what those interpreta-tions might be. Such interpretations, whether articulated or not, are alwaysof consequence. A curriculum plan, for example, is inevitably a reflectionof some stance on what curriculum is and what it should be doing.

Plans are like maps. They too involve selection. We can make them veryprecise, or quite schematic. We can treat the material they deal with in aneven-handed way, or we can choose to lay particular stress on some aspectsof it. However, curriculum material can be treated in a much more arbi-trary fashion than the material of maps. Generally speaking, maps don’tignore major features such as mountains and rivers—though anyone whohas tried to use the kind of city maps dispensed in hotel lobbies knows thatthis cannot be guaranteed. But the material that is dealt with in curriculumplans is even more open to treatment that emphasizes some features at theexpense of others. We need to be aware that the practice of curriculumentails a good deal of personal and collective judgment about what to payattention to and how to treat it. The plans we make, like the maps we make,embody a world view that we already espouse, or that we come to espouseas we make our plan.

A second aspect of curriculum as practice that we need to think about isthe extent to which its nature is culture-dependent. To understand why thisdependency exists, we have to appreciate the necessary relationship that allpractices have with the institutions which support them. To return to ourearlier example, the existence of chemistry as a practice is closely boundup with institutions such as laboratories, university departments, learnedsocieties, academic journals, and so on. It is hard to think of chemistrywithout thinking about such institutions, and how we think about it inevita-bly reflects our first- or second-hand experience of these institutions. Forexample, chemistry as part of a school curriculum is commonly thought ofas “not the real subject” if it does not involve experience in laboratories.Curriculum is also the product of an association between practice and insti-tution, and the institutions that support it are immensely variable. Anyonewho has direct experience with a country such as France, knows that theFrench curriculum has a very concrete meaning, because the institutionsthat support it have a very definite and well-controlled character. Stories ofFrench ministers of education who knew exactly what every child through-



out the country (or, in some versions, the empire) was doing in class at anyparticular moment can be treated as legend. But the legend points to animportant truth: for over 200 years, institutions have existed with the politi-cal and administrative capacity to specify in great detail what is learned inschools. In the United States, on the other hand, the institutional framesthrough which curriculum is specified are much more varied and muchmore open to negotiation, compromise, and tradeoff. “A rough and readybargain between what some people are prepared to teach, and others tolearn” (Reisman, 1958) is a definition of curriculum that is not surprisingwhen penned by an American, but would be astonishing if it came fromthe hand of someone of French nationality. This is another kind of fuzzi-ness that could easily lead us to an incorrect belief that we are not dealingwith a well-defined practice. A comparison with government helps put theproblem into perspective. Institutions of government too can be highlycentralized or, as in the case of the United States, built around a system ofchecks and balances deliberately designed to avoid overwhelming concen-trations of power. Nevertheless, “government” or “politics” are clearlyfocused subjects, since their practice assumes an identity that is to a degreeindependent of the specific institutions that support it. In the same way,curriculum, despite its varied institutional manifestations, has categoricalstatus as a subject of study and research because it reflects a key activity ofmodern societies, which is institutionalized everywhere in some form, eventhough the form may not be simple to describe.

Underneath our confusion about what curriculum is (because it is entan-gled with learning, teaching, schooling, and education), and underneathour confusion about where it is to be found (because sources of curricularauthority may not be readily identifiable), lies an important and distinctivesocial activity; an activity that needs to be understood not only by thosewhose professions are associated with it, but also by the public at large, sincethe nature of curriculum as practice, and of the institutions that support it,are important expressions of the cultures within which we live.

HOW DO WE TALK ABOUT CURRICULUM?

In order to draw a map, we need to be able to define territory in terms oftwo major axes: north/south and east/west are the ones with which we aremost familiar. What axes could be used to map the ways in which peoplethink about curriculum? Once again, we are faced with the kind of ques-tion that can only be answered through a process of selection. There aremany dimensions that might be considered, and saying which ones areimportant involves making value judgments. As a preliminary step in arriv-ing at a set of directions for which some importance can be claimed, let us



consider some statements that have been made about curriculum. Thesestatements have been taken from written sources and express the views ofpeople who think of themselves as “curriculum theorists.” The benefit ofthis is that we are dealing with a homogeneous group of authors, whoseworks are readily accessible, so that readers can judge for themselveswhether the remarks I have quoted are representative of their thinking.Collections of statements from other sources, such as political speeches orofficial reports, could be analyzed with similar results.

1. A curriculum is not activities but plans, or a blueprint, for activities (Pratt, 1980, p. 4).

2. At its most scientific, curriculum design is an applied science; like medicine and engineering, it draws on theory from the pure sci-ences, but itself develops not theory but operating principles to guide decision making in practical situations (Pratt, 1980, p. 9).

3. If curriculum serves any purposes, they are to guide instruction and to furnish criteria for evaluation. Curriculum, therefore, must be a statement of intention, not a report of occurrences or results (Johnson, 1969, p. 115).

4. A major task of … curriculum theorizing … is the regaining of the Self (Mitrano, 1979, p. 214).

5. Curriculum is brought to bear, not on ideal or abstract representa-tions, but on the real thing, on the concrete case, in all its complete-ness and with all its differences from all other concrete cases (Schwab, 1978c, p. 309).

6. [Curriculum] has been one of those places where we have told our-selves who we are (Rudolph, 1977, p. 1).

7. Curriculum scholarship, sociological understanding, and the study of political and economic ideologies … merge into a unified per-spective that enables us to delve into the place of schools in the cul-tural, as well as economic, reproduction of class relations in advanced industrial society (Apple, 1979, p. 15).

8. Questions regarding the nature of one’s inner experience point to that level of existence known as the lebenswelt. Let us study this leb-enswelt, the experience of the educational journey. It is the study of curriculum reconceived, that is, currere (Pinar, 1975b, p. 399).

These quotations exhibit a great deal of variety in what they suggestabout the ways of conceiving curriculum that guide their authors. Oneaspect of this variety is the spread of attitudes that we observe towards cur-riculum as institution. Statements such as “Curriculum is an appliedscience …” show acceptance of the institutionalized nature of the activity.



Curriculum is seen as being “like medicine and engineering,” a sociallyembedded idea defined by well-known structures within which practitio-ners work. The institutional aspect of curriculum also emerges, though in arather different way, in the comment that it “has been one of those placeswhere we have told ourselves who we are.” Here the stress is less on theorganizational aspects of institutions—the precise arrangements thatframe the character of work that is done in the name of curriculum—andmore on the institution as an embodiment of an enduring idea shaping theconsciousness of the community that holds and supports it. One mightcompare this with the way in which Americans think and write about thelaw. For some, the institution of the Supreme Court defines technicalaspects of how the law is transacted, while for others it symbolizes the pro-gressive redefinition of the ideals of the Constitution seen as abstract deter-minants of the way in which citizens understand their relationship to thestate. On the other hand, those who interpret curriculum as somethingessentially significant to the individual—who see it as concerning “theSelf”—are, at best, not interested in talking in institutional terms, whilethose who worry about curriculum as a major source of the “reproductionof class relations” consider its institutional aspects to be oppressive. A mid-way view is represented by the comment that “curriculum is brought tobear, not on ideal or abstract representations, but on the real thing.” Herethe existence of curriculum as an institutionalized form is acknowledged,but it is moderated by appreciation of the “real” world that practice has toact upon, and that needs to be set against the tendency of institutions tobehave as though generalized ideas and procedures were all that mattered.

Another way of differentiating between the positions represented in thequotations is to ask whether their authors adopt a particular great idea thatthey use in order to discuss or work with curriculum. An example of such agreat idea would be “curriculum is not activities but plans or a blueprintfor activities.” This statement immediately sets firm parameters limiting thekinds of things that can be thought and done in the name of curriculum.On the other hand, it also signals a very positive belief in the efficacy ofplanning, which is projected not as a problematic activity, but as one that iswell understood and for which definite procedures exist. In other words,many possible considerations, and associated problems and opportunities,are set aside through adoption of the idea that the effective pursuit of cur-riculum activities is a matter of learning and applying a specifiable tech-nique or set of techniques. Not that this will necessarily be astraightforward matter: the application of technique may involve wide-ranging knowledge of procedures, appreciations of different contextswithin which they can be employed, and exercise of expert judgment onquestions of which procedures are suited to which contexts. But the pro-cesses involved will be rather like those invoked when answers have to be



found to mathematical problems. Imagination is needed to classify them,but once they are cast as belonging to a particular category, their solutionswill emerge from the routine application of established algorithms.

We encounter a different kind of limitation on the range of ideas to beapplied to curriculum problems in the reference to “a unified perspectivethat enables us to delve into the place of schools in the cultural as well aseconomic reproduction of class relations.” Here again, the approach tocurriculum is framed by the adoption of a key idea, or constellation ofideas, which exists independently of the subject matter of curriculum, butin this case the immediate issue is interpretation rather than action. Just asa sociologist or historian might interpret events through the lens of func-tionalism or dialectical materialism, so the subject matter of curriculumcan be approached with a definite theory in mind that focuses on particu-lar objects of interest or styles of explanation. In this instance, the theory isa Marxist or Neo-Marxist one, which centers on concepts such as hege-mony, alienation, and reproduction. If we ask how this kind of specificfocus on curriculum is different from the specificity of the engineeringapproach, we can look to our first dimension, which measures attitudetowards curriculum as institution. Planners in a technical tradition are gen-erally accepting of existing institutional structures and want to work withinthem in order to accomplish curriculum tasks. Adherents of critical philos-ophies want to remove or reform them. In both cases, however, ability towork within the perspective depends firstly on accepting the a priori philos-ophy on which it is based, and secondly on mastery of the expert tech-niques of action or analysis that it uses. Indeed, great ideas centered ontechnique and those founded on social and cultural analysis are not neces-sarily in conflict. Recent writing on curriculum has shown many instancesof what has come to be known as “the radicalism of the right,” whichstrongly affirms the necessity of retaining and strengthening existing insti-tutions and at the same time endorses the application of formal proce-dures for specifying and implementing curricula. However, this alliance isnot entirely a comfortable one. Those whose main formative notion relatesto the efficacy of the planning process tend to be guided by the opportuni-ties for sophistication in procedure that the academic study of planningraises. On the other hand, those who are driven by ideas stemming from aconservative view of social priorities favor simple forms of intervention,through content-based specifications for curriculum and elementary formsof achievement testing. Thus, adherence or opposition to institutions doesnot provide a firm basis for distinguishing between forms of leading ideas:more fundamental is the question of whether the primary focus of the ideais on handling problems in a disciplined way, or on abstract analyses of thenature of society and social relations.



What of those who do not base their action or their analysis on suchclear-cut ideas? The first thing to say is that the line between those holdingvery specific, a priori views and those whose position is more eclectic is noteasily drawn and must be a matter of dispute. We could say that talk of“operating principles to guide decision making in practical situations”sounds a good deal more flexible and open to revision than “curriculum …must be a statement of intention,” although both formulations might beseen as representing “technical” approaches to curriculum. As we movebeyond technicality, we encounter even greater flexibility. If we believe that“curriculum is brought to bear … on the concrete case, in all its complete-ness and with all its differences from all other concrete cases,” then we mustalso believe that no one all-encompassing idea will provide us with themeans of answering our practical and theoretic problems. The concretecase is first of all thought of in terms of “completeness,” and no theory ortechnology can respond to the complete range of features a case mightexhibit. Secondly, it is thought of in terms of “its differences from all otherconcrete cases,” which suggests that any tool intended to deal with cases ingeneral is inadequate for handling the unique features of one particularcase. Therefore, on both these counts, the concrete case itself must deter-mine what ideas and techniques are appropriate to it. Moreover, since thecircumstances of a case are unique to a particular moment, and not perma-nently fixed, judgments about appropriate ideas and techniques must beopen to revision. A similar conclusion is suggested by claims that the studyof curriculum must be the study of the “lebenswelt, the experience of theeducational journey.” Here, the problem is also the uniqueness of the case,but this time understood as relating to an individual person, rather than tosome objective set of circumstances. Individuality is lost as soon as personalactions and desires are held to be explicable in terms of a general theory oridea. If curriculum is held to be an individual possession, then we need tofocus on its dynamic aspects, an exercise that will take us so far from theidea of curriculum as object that we are conscious of entering into a newarea with new terminology: currere, as a verb, stresses process, and thisinvolves the emergence of new states that require new ideas to describethem. Subscription to an overriding theory would limit our ability to aspireto or describe new states, or reconstruct old ones to accommodate newknowledge. Focus on concrete cases or unique individuals implies a willing-ness to let current circumstance suggest what ideas or techniques may beuseful or necessary; none can a priori be elevated to a privileged status.

But focus on the case and focus on the individual are not the same, and,again, what helps us to understand the difference is consideration of howthese positions treat the institutional aspect of curriculum. We read, in thefirst instance, that “curriculum is brought to bear on the concrete case.” Inother words, the institutionalized curriculum precedes the case—there is,



for example, a demand from some politically or organizationally legiti-mated body that a certain level of literacy be achieved at a certain gradelevel, together with some criteria by which that achievement is to beassessed. We then meet the concrete case: particular administrators in par-ticular schools, and particular teachers in particular classrooms, who facethe question of how that curricular “intention” is to be translated into spe-cific activities with specific children. The generality of the intention is con-fronted with the uniqueness of the case. Curriculum is seen as having twofaces, one abstract and institutional, one concrete and practical. Both areheld to be important and both are seen as affecting the problem and there-fore deciding what ideas and techniques should be brought into play. Thenotion of currere, by contrast, places its emphasis squarely on the individualas defining the concrete, practical circumstances to which curriculumthinking must respond. Curriculum as institution is, in a way, a given of thesituation, but it is a kind of accident, merely providing part of the framingwithin which essentially personal solutions are sought to the question ofhow to secure individually satisfying curricular experiences.

Here, then, we have suggestions for two dimensions that are relativelyindependent of one another and might enable us to map the ways in whichwe think about curriculum: first, what we feel about curriculum as institu-tion, and second, whether we believe that curriculum is best understoodwithin the perspective of a dominating idea. How we feel about the institu-tional aspects of curriculum need not determine our attitude towards theadoption of some overriding idea, theory, or technique for handling cur-riculum problems and tasks. We can be an eclectic supporter of curriculumas institution, or we can support it on the basis of an all-embracing idea; wecan eclectically ignore curriculum as institution or reject it on a priori theo-retical grounds. As with all maps, a middle ground is left for those who pre-fer not to commit themselves to extreme positions. Using the axes of“commitment to/rejection of/institutions” and “subscription to/rejectionof/great ideas” we can usefully describe and differentiate many accounts ofhow curriculum questions should be thought about and how the tasks ofcurriculum should be. A map based on these axes has parallels elsewhere;for example, in the results of researches into areas related to curriculum,such as teaching and politics, which have yielded dimensions with labelssuch as conservative, progressive, tough-minded, and tender-minded (see Reid &Holley, 1974). Conservative attitudes tend to be accepting of existing insti-tutions and of the conventions that they embody, but this can be con-nected with tender-mindedness, that is, concern for the individual, or theindividual case, or allied to tough-mindedness, that is, a determination thatindividual cases shall be subordinate to general principles. We can imag-ine, for example, that one teacher might fully accept the intention of astate curriculum to realize some relationship between grade level and skills



of literacy, but see this as having different implications for different chil-dren according to their unique circumstances, while another teachermight regard the officially endorsed objectives as having an importancethat overrides individual circumstance. Progressive attitudes oppose thetraditions of established institutions, but again this can result either in ten-der-minded actions that favor piecemeal evolution or tough-mindedactions directed to the achievement of revolutionary change, howeverpainful that process may turn out to be. Progressiveness is an index of howfar institutions are seen as necessary and, on the whole, beneficial; tender-and tough-mindedness of how far actions based on such beliefs should bedirected by a priori determinations, or how far guided by circumstances aswell as by the demands of pre-established positions.

In later chapters, I will return to the question of the underlying dimen-sions of the map in order to study them in more depth. At this point, I wantto examine some well-documented ways in which we think about curricu-lum. Maps reveal places where settlement takes place. For whatever reasonsof climate or terrain, some places are more comfortable and natural tooccupy than others. A map of curriculum thinking shows a similar phe-nomenon. The perspectives that people adopt are not randomly scatteredover the coordinates to which it is drawn. While they are all individual, theytend to cluster around points of stability at which combinations of beliefsand values have some logical harmony, or at which there is a community ofinterest with centers of power or authority. I shall define and discuss fourmajor points of stability.

SYSTEMATIZERS: CURRICULUM AS PLAN

Systematizers are, in a way, archetypal thinkers about and workers in curric-ulum. They adopt, consciously or otherwise, a rather pure definition ofwhat curriculum is, which stays close to the idea of “plans or a blueprint foractivities,” and treats it as something that is legitimately and unproblemati-cally institutionalized. They appear on the map where the coordinates ofsubscription to a clear, a priori leading idea and support for curriculum asinstitution meet. To a much greater extent than those who adopt otherpositions, they are concerned about defining curriculum, that is, placinglimits on what might be understood as belonging within their sphere ofactivity. An important part of the exercise of definition is to establishboundaries between curriculum and other related interests, especiallybetween curriculum and instruction. The paper from which quotation (3)on page 7 was taken has as its title “The translation of curriculum intoinstruction,” and the sentence before the one quoted reads, “In a previouspaper an effort was made to find a useful definition of curriculum, clarify



the source of curriculum, and outline very generally its relation to instruc-tion” (Johnson, 1969, p. 115).

Attitudes to curriculum express themselves in language, and language isessentially metaphoric. Here the metaphor is an engineering one. In engi-neering, we want to design and maintain a whole system. But in order to dothat, we need to know where the system begins and ends, and perhapswhere and how it has to be coupled to other systems. And the means of get-ting the whole thing to work is understanding the parts. If we get the partsright, the system will run efficiently and do its job. Breakdowns will bebreakdowns of parts. Generally, we assume that the overall design is good,because we took pains over that in the first place, or we inherited a designthat seemed to be working well. “Going back to the drawing board” issomething we don’t really want to do unless we are forced into it. Keepingthe system running means monitoring the performance of the parts. Weneed evaluative feedback on how well they are functioning. The hope isthat good results can be assured by maintenance and that fine-tuning canbe performed based on such evaluations.

The kinds of metaphors with which we surround social institutions—government, the law, curriculum—define their relationships with the restof society. The engineering metaphor suggests that the smooth running ofthe machine may be problematic, but the machine itself is not. It also sug-gests that the problematic part of the curriculum requires the services ofexperts—people who understand the design and operation of quite com-plex machines.

This style of approach to curriculum has its strengths. Insofar as themachine metaphor offers a way of thinking about some aspects of organiza-tion, it is useful. Curriculum is about designing learning within institu-tional contexts, which means that practicalities of organization involvinglarge numbers of people and agencies have to be thought about. Well-meaning efforts to humanize curriculum have been known to degenerateinto chaos and confusion. Definitional thinking also has its points. It leadsus to such ideas as objectives and criteria of evaluation, which have a usefulnessin thinking about forms of curriculum and why one might be preferred toanother.

On the other hand, there are weaknesses of a systematic approach thatstem from its mismatch with the realities of schools and classrooms. Theseare not easily decomposable into parts, and the notion that if we get thebits right, the whole will take care of itself can be seen as simplistic. Evengetting the bits right is not as straightforward as it sounds. Evaluative dataon human activities are less easy to specify and obtain than data on techni-cal systems. Often they are presented in ways that obscure rather than illu-minate problems. Working within narrow definitions of curriculum canserve to insulate us from messages of malfunction.



RADICALS: CURRICULUM AS CULTURAL REPRODUCTION1

Radicals stand at the opposite end from systematizers on the dimension ofattitude to institutions. They start from an assumption of fundamental mal-function. All institutions as currently constituted, including curriculum,are part of the apparatus that stabilizes the social order and oppresses themajority of the population. But this critique stems from an a priori diagno-sis of the ills of society and, therefore, in its adoption of a leading idea,shares common ground with a systematic perspective on curriculum. Onceagain, large assumptions are made that reduce the work of curriculum tothe explication of details—in this case, how the curriculum is able to estab-lish and maintain its hegemonic role in society. Curriculum content,grouping procedures, teaching methods, processes of certification, text-book publishing, and so on, can all be scrutinized to show what part theyplay in this process.

Scope for disagreement does, however, exist. For example, some writerssupport a conspiracy theory and contend that manipulation of curriculumin the interests of a ruling elite is conscious and deliberate, while othersprefer to think of the process of reproduction as something that tran-scends individuals, who are powerless to modify its effects. There is dis-agreement about how much free will can be attributed to participants inthe system. Some think that social evolution operates in a deterministicway, while others allow that ways of bringing about purposeful transforma-tions are available. (“Achieving critical consciousness” is a phrase oftenused to describe the nature of such initiatives.) But this does not impor-tantly alter the underlying method associated with the radical position,which starts from a social theory whose main lines are already worked out,and then looks for its exemplification in curricular events and practices.We do not expect to find radical analyses of, say, evaluation procedures,which conclude that they can be better understood in ways other thanthose suggested by a theory of cultural reproduction.

The strength of a theory lies in its ability to disregard other possibilities.Those who approach curriculum from a position of theoretical commit-ment have the advantage of being able to claim attention for issues of fun-damental importance that might otherwise have been disregarded. Radicalwriters on curriculum have been responsible more than any others forpointing out the gaps in systematic positions, especially their almost totalneglect of questions of what the machine is for, in favor of a preoccupation

1. I began to use the word radical to describe those who worked with the idea ofcurriculum as a cultural reproduction when it had a fairly settled meaning. Ihave stuck with it, in spite of the confusions of modern times, when we hear of“radicals of the right.”



with making it work. Radical theory is also useful because it is in its natureto demand data on the activities of schools and students that go beyond thecollection of administrative information. It is more interested in the socialeffects of plans than in plans themselves, and therefore offers a productivecounterbalance to thinking that operates within a narrow definition of cur-riculum and tends not to stray far from the perspective of designers actingon behalf of established authorities.

A disadvantage of the strong a priori theoretical position is that thereare a great many things that fall outside its field of vision, and a greatmany possibilities it fails to discuss. This problem does not only affect theradical perspective. Skinnerian psychology, for example, affords anequally deficient view of curriculum. Within its limited range of conve-nience it provides important insights, but its inherent limitations meanthat any attempt to derive from it a general perspective on curriculum willfail in the face of the variety and particularity of curricular phenomena. Afurther disadvantage of strong theoretical positions, as we have alreadynoted, is that they invariably put strict limits on the number of those whocan claim expertise and be seen as qualified to take action or make pro-nouncements. While a systematic perspective confines understanding ofcurriculum to technical experts, a radical perspective restricts it to thosewho support and understand a particular kind of doctrine. It is an addeddisadvantage that the doctrine is one that is generally unwilling to talk in aconstructive way about curricular practices, or curriculum as institution,since it assumes that the institution and the practices associated with it areoppressive, and simply a means of reproducing the stratifications of capi-talist culture.

EXISTENTIALISTS:CURRICULUM AS PERSONAL EXPERIENCE

Existentialists share with radicals a hostility to curriculum as institution.What separates them is the question of where they stand on the dimensionof commitment to a leading idea. Whereas radicals center their critique ona specific theory, existentialists simply assume an antipathy between indi-viduals and institutions, and are then more interested in thinking aboutwhat this means for the individual than in elaborating macroexplanationsof the mechanisms through which institutions act oppressively. They preferto talk about what might be achieved now, in the context of existing struc-tures, rather than about what might be possible in some distant futurewhen, after the slow emergence of universal critical consciousness, institu-tions have been transformed. They are practical, and practicality demandsthe use of whatever lies to hand in order to deal with immediate wants and



desires. Thus, we find them writing and thinking about psychoanalysis,biography, theology, gender studies: in short, anything that deals with thehuman condition and suggests ways of bringing about improvement. Whileradicals and systematizers both focus on curriculum as an external phe-nomenon, existentialists are interested in it as an internal one.

This position can be seen as a counterbalance to the ones I have so fardiscussed, which have shown no great interest in individuals, preferring totalk about systems and macrostructures and treating people as objects ofplans or sources of data for social theory. The existential position providesa base for consideration of the weaknesses of all-embracing approaches tocurriculum: in the end, curriculum is not just an institution, whetherbenign or oppressive, but a cluster of activities that is experienced in dif-ferent ways by different individuals. What is rational and orderly to one isarbitrary and haphazard to another, what is oppressive to one is liberatingto another, for everyone who thinks that curriculum is a place where “wetell ourselves who we are,” there is another who finds it a source of mystifi-cation. Existentialists urge that we listen to the separate voices of thosewho are engaged in or by the institution of curriculum. This requires thatwe be ready to see the problems and opportunities of curriculum in manydifferent lights, that we be open to curricular experience in the same waythat we should open ourselves to experience in all the other ways thatindividuality demands. A further implication is that the idea of the expertmust be abandoned. If the curriculum that matters is the curriculum thatwe personally experience, then everyone is his or her own expert, indeedthe only true expert.

The limitation of this viewpoint is obvious. It is happy to relegate tolesser significance the social reality of curriculum as institution. This leavesit without a core around which a coherent set of ideas about curriculumcan be gathered, and therefore it lacks any basis for action apart from theindividual interest. This is not a judgment that should be made if the sub-ject matter is to be described as currere, since that defines it as an individualinterest, for which individuals provide their own coherence. But attentionto the idea of curriculum demands that we give it its historical and culturaldue as a significant institution that is definitive of shared practice.

DELIBERATORS: CURRICULUM AS PRACTICAL ART

Within a deliberative perspective, curriculum is seen not as plan, culturalreproduction, or personal experience (though it contains elements of allof these), but as a practical art: the art of discovering curriculum problems,deliberating about them, and inventing solutions to them. Deliberatorsshare with systematizers a recognition of the claims of curriculum as insti-



tution, and with existentialists an acceptance of the need for considering arange of practical and theoretic approaches depending on what the subjectmatter demands, but they share no common grounds with radicals oneither dimension of the curriculum map. Their position centers on themeeting point of the institutionalized plan and its practical realization,where “curriculum is brought to bear … on the concrete case, in all itscompleteness and with all its differences from all other concrete cases.”Interest in the concrete case moderates claims about the centrality of issuesof planning and control, and the focus on difference and the uniquenessof cases leads to dependence on the eclectic arts in preference to theoreticprinciples. There is no concern to provide precise definitions of curricu-lum, but recognition of its institutional aspects provides a criterionwhereby judgments can be made about what belongs with curriculum andwhat does not, or about when claims for theory and for the priority of per-sonal interests go beyond what is reasonable. It is focus on the concretecase that leads to emphasis on deliberation—the bringing together of diversesources of knowledge in discussion—as the method of practical problemsolving. Only in this way can practical knowledge of cases be allied to gen-eral, theoretic propositions in order to yield a guide to action.

In some respects, this view can be seen as offering both the advantagesand disadvantages of compromise. It sets limits to the claims of the institu-tion without trying to deny or abolish them. It admits competing and some-times contradictory explanations while trying to avoid relativism. This wouldundoubtedly be seen by radicals as some kind of ad hoc pragmatism; on theother hand, it could equally be seen by systematizers as yielding too much tolocal and individual interests. Adherents of the position, however, wouldclaim that it offers a social philosophy that is both more principled and moreintellectually defensible than that advocated or implied by either radicals orsystematizers. As well, they would claim to have a positive answer to the ques-tion of where expertise is to be found when curriculum work is to be done: itlies with all those who have either a theoretical interest in the general case,or a practical interest in the concrete case. The perspective is not technicallyor doctrinally circumscribed, and therefore is prepared to listen to whatother people have to say. This, obviously, is a precondition of deliberation.Deliberation cannot take place under conditions where those with influenceknow in advance what kind of a decision it must deliver, because it must fiteither with institutional requirements or with espoused theory.

Even the appearance of compromise, however, can be seen as a weak-ness in the deliberative position, both for the possibility it opens up for cri-tiques to be mounted from a variety of directions, and for theopportunities it raises for those with differing views to adopt the forms ofdeliberation without adopting its spirit. Thus, it is not uncommon to find



that a “deliberative” stance is claimed by writers or decision makers whoseorientation is thoroughly systematic.

CURRICULUM THINKING AS SOCIAL PHILOSOPHY

The positions on the map of curriculum thinking can be seen as embodi-ments of social philosophies. That is to say, the ways in which people thinkabout curriculum issues, or the ways in which they take action to resolvethem, reflect their acceptance of a fundamental position on the nature ofsocial questions and of social action. Central to the characterization ofsuch positions, I have suggested, are two questions: should we treat thenature of existing social institutions as determinative of the social philoso-phy we adopt and of the actions which stem from it? And should we thinkor act according to predetermined theories and principles? These ques-tions mark out the two major axes of the map of curriculum that I am draw-ing. In the course of the next two chapters, I will examine thesedimensions and trace in more detail their connection to the four perspec-tives on curriculum that I have described.CH01—18


19


THE INSTITUTIONAL CHARACTER OF CURRICULUM

The first dimension of the curriculum map relates to attitude towards cur-riculum as institution. As we have seen, some writers take a positive view ofits institutional aspects, while others disregard them, or subject them to arigorous, oppositional critique. The notion of institution is complex, how-ever, and the various views that we encounter stem from different under-standings of its meaning. From one standpoint, institutions are ideas.Government, for example, can be studied and discussed as an idea apartfrom the specific structures or activities associated with it in a particularculture. From another standpoint, institutions can be thought of in veryconcrete ways, in terms of the particular forms of organization that theyassume—in the case of government, ministries, agencies, assemblies, andso on. What is common in both situations is that whether an institution isthought of as idea or as organization, it is seen as having a public character.It represents or acts on behalf of a public interest, which transcends theprivate interests of individuals.

In the case of curriculum, perception of this public character may bemore or less widespread according to the actual structures that supportcurriculum activity within a given culture. In most European countries,curriculum is readily experienced by administrators, educators, students,and the public generally as being national, centralized, and legally sanc-tioned. For many years, the Swedish curriculum, in general outline if notspecific detail, has been embodied in an act of the national parliament,

CHAPTER 2



and teachers have fulfilled the role of civil servants with responsibility forseeing that the terms of the act are carried out. In the United States, on theother hand, broad frameworks for the curriculum are decided at the statelevel, and school districts, schools, and individual teachers shape it inaccordance with local requirements. It is not surprising, therefore, that theinstitutional nature of curriculum is much more readily accepted as a fun-damental premise of research and writing in Sweden than in the UnitedStates, where curriculum discourse frequently ignores or rejects issuesrelated to consideration of its public character.

CURRICULUM AS INSTITUTION

In Chapter 1, I described an institution as “a socially embedded ideadefined by well-known structures.” We now need to build upon this mini-mal definition. First of all, institutions have a character that relates to thesignificance they have for the whole of a society. Baseball, the law, curricu-lum, all qualify as institutions because they are socially pervasive. Even if wedon’t want to be involved with them, it is hard to avoid them, or to beunaware of their manifestations without escaping to a wilderness—and notonly are we aware of their existence, we are also aware of intense debatessurrounding them. Secondly, this pervasiveness has a national character.Near panic occurred a few years ago at the prospect of an all-CanadianWorld Series. Would they still sing “The Star Spangled Banner”? Andalthough the Japanese curriculum is looked on with some envy, it is doubt-ful whether the logically consequent proposal that the U.S. curriculumshould be organized and run by the Japanese would be greeted with enthu-siasm, any more than the prospect of Japanese ownership of the SeattleMariners was an occasion for rejoicing. Thirdly, institutions involve activity.The word institution has a rather inert quality, suggesting something that issimply there. But both the idea and the substance of an institution are crit-ically related to the activities of which it is the sum. These activities areengaged in by players of various associated roles—in the case of curriculumby legislators, planners, administrators, teachers, students, and so on.Fourthly, the continued existence of institutions is assured by forms andstructures within which role players pursue their activities. These formsand structures are constituted partly by habits and traditions and partly byorganizations and formal arrangements, which are often contained withinspecially designed buildings. Characteristically, these buildings are on areadily recognizable plan. The institutionalized activities of baseball andcurriculum are marked as much by the familiarity of the settings withinwhich they take place as by the patterns of behavior that they follow.


The Institutional Character of Curriculum 21

Thus far, however, my description of an institution has been limited tosome of its objective aspects. How do we understand the function of institu-tions? What do they contribute to the fabric of society, or to the lives ofindividuals or groups within it? At one level, they can be seen as providinga service. Society, as a collectivity, requires the provision of activities overand above those that can be realized by its individual members. Withinsuch a perspective, institutions are seen primarily as organizations—a wordthat stresses physical aspects of their personnel and their buildings. We askquestions about whether they are needed, how much they cost, how theycan be made more efficient, how the services they provide can be improvedor made more accessible, and so on. This is a view of the institution thatsees it virtually as a domestic matter writ large. Curriculum questions areregarded as extensions, on a larger scale, of the kinds of questions wemight ask about learning within the household—which is more educa-tional, a visit to the Smithsonian or a visit to Disney World? Should weinvest in an encyclopedia or a subscription to Scientific American? What is afair rate for a piano teacher? It becomes a public issue in that the homecannot certify achievement or provide equipment for a chemistry labora-tory and we therefore have to dedicate tax monies to state and school dis-trict budgets.

Some would already part company with my argument at this point. Thecall for certification, or for expensive curricular equipment, could be rep-resented as a sell-out to societal pressures that interfere with individualfreedom and impose demands on children in a totally unjustified way. Oth-ers, however, would see this kind of interpretation of the public interest as fartoo limited and wish to extend it to embrace a civic interest, that is, an inter-est that was not limited to a notion of what has to be supplied, in a qua-sicommercial sense, at the societal level, but widened to include the ideathat there is a civic realm that is qualitatively different from, and perhaps insome ways greater than, the individual or domestic realm. Underpinningthis idea is the ancient notion of a citizenship that goes beyond routineactivities of listening to political or economic arguments, forming opin-ions, and voting. Citizenship is seen rather as participation in a form ofexistence that is different from that experienced either in the home or theworkplace, which draws on different kinds of skills and knowledge,demands different kinds of relationships with other people, and fosters dif-ferent kinds of virtues and rewards. The private life is incomplete; a totalhuman existence requires access to the civic realm. When we ask of whatthis civic realm consists, the answer is that it consists of spaces and activitiesthat are institutionalized—of public buildings, law courts, theaters, andschools, of trials, plays, and curricula—that are there not simply to provideservices for private consumption, that is, to serve as means to an end, but tobe an end in themselves, to constitute an arena within which the civic life



can be lived. Such an understanding of the nature of institutions leads toan entirely different view of how we should relate to them. In the firstplace, it suggests that if we reject them, we are rejecting important oppor-tunities for realizing our human potential, and that of other people—quitea different stance from the one that regards institutions as an obstacle topersonal development. In the second place, it is no longer possible tojudge the effectiveness of institutions simply in terms of measurable inputsand outputs. How can we measure, in any straightforward way, the extentto which an institution does or does not make a positive contribution tothe health and maintenance of the civic realm? We can no more make sim-ple judgments on such a matter that we can calculate the success of a homeor a family in terms of measurable costs and benefits.

The implications for attitudes towards the curriculum are obvious. Wecan be accepting of the idea that curriculum is a social institution, and thatthis must influence the way we think about it, but, at the same time, limitour view of curriculum to the idea that it is a public service. This might bethe basis for some kind of systematic approach to curricular activities, whichsees them as a means to an end—the provision of services that people needand that they cannot provide for themselves—leading to an emphasis onworking within established structures, asking questions about choice,about efficiency, about the monitoring of achievement, and so on. On theother hand, we can go further and see curriculum as one of those civic are-nas where “we have told ourselves who we are.” As we think about thatphrase, we see that who we are means more than something about our livesas private individuals. It is talking about our identity as citizens, either ofthe whole society or of some significant part of it—graduates of a particularschool or college, perhaps. We also see that what is at issue is somethingthat does not lend itself readily to measurement. There is no doubt that asense of who they were has played an important part in the careers of col-lege graduates, as many biographical accounts testify, but this is not a cur-ricular effect that lends itself to quantification. Those who take this widerview of curriculum as institution see the curriculum as about more thanlearning in the sense of achieving familiarity with facts and ideas. They rec-ognize that curriculum involves more than acquiring skills and compe-tence. In support of the conception of curriculum as institution, they canpoint to the historical reality that state schooling systems were set up withidentity, citizenship, and public purpose in mind. For the 19th-centuryfounders of such systems in Europe, North America, and Australasia, thecurriculum was both end and means in relation to the civic realm. As end,it taught competencies that were held to be needed, not primarily for per-sonal satisfaction, but for the well-being of society. But the teaching ofthese competencies was also overtly promoted as a means whereby civic vir-tues of industry and reliability would be spread throughout the population.



Today, those who choose to see the curriculum as having this kind ofinstitutional role would be more likely to attach to it virtues associated withdemocratic participation in the civic domain—tolerance, justice, practicalwisdom, and so on. Frequently, these are summed up under the rubric ofliberal education, which, in fact, can assume a number of guises. Liberal edu-cation is a theme to which I shall return. For now, we should note that useof this term is usually a marker of interest in, or commitment to, the ideathat curriculum should be regarded as an institution serving wider pur-poses than those of offering some kind of product to consumers of educa-tional goods. If liberal educators use the word goods, it is as plural of goodand not as a collective noun denoting merchandise.

We now have to consider what might be contrasted with the institutional-ized views of curriculum that I have outlined. There are two main possibili-ties. First of all, in rejecting or de-emphasizing the institutional view, wecould, instead, stress the private nature of curriculum activity and experi-ence. Or, using a different antithesis, we could draw attention to the need toexplore curriculum as a practice whose goals and methods are in conflictwith institutional demands. I will deal each of these possibilities in turn.

INSTITUTIONS AND PRIVATE INTERESTS

As we have noted, there is no necessary conflict between private interestsand support for public institutions such as curriculum. If we see curricu-lum as offering services necessary to our private interests, which we couldnot supply for ourselves, then we are ready to accept its institutional fea-tures in exchange for the benefits we gain. The public realm becomes anextension of the private. But if the curriculum appears to attempt muchmore than that, if it is seen as a project of inducting us into a civic realmwith demands and standards of judgment different from those we wouldaccept as private individuals, then, unless our conception of our privateinterest is a very broad one, we will inevitably see a conflict between curric-ular and personal interests. This explains the controversy that perpetuallysurrounds issues of examining and grading students in high schools andcolleges. The public interest in standards and uniformity is seen to be inconflict with the private circumstances and interests of students. But somecritics go much further than this, and see the institutionalized curriculumas a fatal barrier to personal fulfillment, or even to the furtherance of theinterests of society as a whole. A classic instance of this was Illich’s (1971)Deschooling Society, where he argued that the functions of curriculum shouldbe devolved to small groups operating outside institutions, since institu-tional interests inevitably work against the interests of society as a whole.Effectively, he was making a case for a return to something like the state of



affairs that prevailed when systems of universal education had yet to bedeveloped. Before education was established as a public enterprise, it was adomestic one. Learning took place in the household and in the kinds ofworkplaces that existed before the establishment of factories. Some kindsof early education, such as that provided in schools for the aristocracy,seem to our modern eyes to escape from this definition, and to presentcommunal features that we associate with institutions. But this can be mis-leading. We are dealing with a time when private life was a good deal lessprivate than we would think possible. The conditions of an aristocraticschool were not so different from those of households familiar to theirpupils, where living spaces were common to the upper classes and their ser-vants and privacy as we understand it virtually unknown. Calls for the“deschooling of society” are calls for much more than that. They imply areturn to forms and structures throughout society generally that belong toa forgotten past—not forgotten in the sense that we are unaware of it, butin the sense that we lack the knowledge that could recreate it. Colonial Wil-liamsburg is not a glimpse of a real past, but itself a consumable productthat can be viewed within the same perspective as the consumable curricu-lum. The private life is a modern, post-17th-century invention, just as pub-lic institutions like the curriculum are modern inventions—indeed, thedevelopment of private life has been claimed as an achievement of bour-geois culture1—and the two are probably related in some necessary way.However, they are widely perceived as, at the least, offering qualitatively dif-ferent experiences and, very probably, being in direct conflict with oneanother. It is not surprising, therefore, that we encounter curriculum writ-ing that raises individual experience to center stage. An example illustratesthe kinds of issues that emerge from this approach:

Pinar and Grumet do not consider curriculum in the ordinary terms of plan-ning, schooling, subject matter, course of study, or behavior, but in terms ofwhat happens within the individual’s primary experience. They suggestencountering one’s primary experience through a four step method. First,engage in free associative remembrance of the past. Second, meditativelyponder the future. Third, analyze past experience and future aspiration inorder to gain better intuitive and cognitive understanding. Fourth, in light ofthe first three steps, choose what to be. (Willis, 1991, p. 179)

This kind of private view of curriculum is not simply domestic, as opposedto institutional, but private in a very personal way. The most important curric-ulum question becomes the destiny of the individual as an individual, not as a

1. “One of the historic achievements of bourgeois culture has been the develop-ment of private life” (Williams, 1985, p. 37).



member of a group, institutionalized or otherwise. Far from teaching us whowe are, the curriculum serves as some kind of reference point within our per-sonal project of choosing who we will be. On the other hand, this orientationexudes self-confidence. Not only do we have the right to make such choices,we also have the ability to do so, by working hard at the method that is pro-posed. The key issue is not about what is on offer, or the manner in which it isoffered, but about the use we make of it for our own ends. The quoted pas-sage is neither positive nor negative about the institutionalized curriculum,but, rather, neglectful of it. Elsewhere, however, Pinar (1975a) describes howthe curriculum can “impoverish the fantasy life of children,” promote “loss ofself,” undermine autonomy, and atrophy the aesthetic sense (p. 360).2 It is, infact, hard to promote a self-centered account of curriculum without charac-terizing the deficiencies of the institutionalized curriculum as pervasive andendemic. In what has been described as the struggle between the “claims ofcivility and the rights of nature” (Sennett, 1974, p. 19), the four-step methodoperates as a weapon for establishing the supremacy of the rights of nature.Inevitably, this works against recognition of claims of civility. Explorations ofthe self focus on the ways in which people are different from one another interms of their total personalities, but, at the same time, such explorations alsostand in need of authentication, which can only be given by significant others.The group within which authentication can be found is, therefore, small, andits boundaries closely contested. Relations of civility, on the other hand,depend on careful delimitation of the matters on which relationships arebased, and hence to a broadening of the group within which they can be con-structed. Far from detracting from personal freedoms, such self-consciousacceptance of restraint may favor the preservation of worlds within whichfreedoms are realizable. We find phenomenology and hermeneutics invokedas the scholarly means by which issues of private curricular experience can beexplored, since these are forms of enquiry that set out to erase the bounds ofartificially structured discourse. But they should be engaged in with circum-spection. We should not forget Heidegger’s endorsement of the Führerprinzipwhich, through replacing the civil discourse of politics with the cult of person-ality, led to incivility on a grand scale.3

2. Pinar describes schooling as “dehumanizing,” and equates “the impact ofteachers on students” with “the impact of the oppressors on the oppressed.”

3. “Martin Heidegger, one of the most influential philosophers of the century,declared in his Rector’s inaugural address to Freiburg University: ‘No dogmasand ideas will any longer be the laws of your being. The Führer himself, and healone, is the present and future reality for Germany and its law’” (Bullock,1991, p. 362).



INSTITUTIONS AND PRACTICES

A rather different opposition to curriculum as institution is pointed to bythose who stress its relationship to practice. In the following discussion,institution refers mainly to the organizational forms that provide arenas forinstitutional activity, and the word practice is used in the sense suggested byMacIntyre:

By a “practice” I … mean any coherent and complex form of socially estab-lished cooperative human activity through which goods internal to that formof activity are realised in the course of trying to achieve those standards ofexcellence which are appropriate to, and partially definitive of, that form ofactivity.… Practices must not be confused with institutions. Chess, physicsand medicine are practices; chess clubs, laboratories, universities and hospi-tals are institutions. Institutions are characteristically and necessarily con-cerned with what I have called external goods. They are involved inacquiring money and other material goods; they are structured in terms ofpower and status, they distribute money, power and status as rewards.(MacIntyre, 1981, p. 181)

Practice is here defined as something more than the exercise of knowl-edge or skill. It is an activity that concerns itself with the achievement ofgoods. But they are goods that are “internal to the practice,” that is, valu-able in themselves. Teaching, for example, is properly a practice. It couldbe concerned solely with the achievement of external goods—goods thatstand outside the activity—though, in this case, we might be more com-fortable referring to it as training. But we associate teaching with educat-ing, and educating is something that has to be thought of integrally withthe practice, not as something external to it, which can be delivered in thesame way that skill or knowledge is delivered. The idea of “goods internalto the form of activity” is bound up with the notion of “standards of excel-lence.” A condition of the practice realizing its internal goods is that it bepursued according to standards that it sets for itself, and not standardsimposed from outside on the basis of some measureable output. Institu-tions, on the other hand, in their organizational manifestations, are cen-trally concerned with the acquisition and distribution of material goodsthat are only indirectly linked to the achievement of the aims of practice.This is what gives them such a bad name with those who, like Illich, seethem as enemies of virtue. Being so closely concerned with material goodsand with worldly ambitions, they are open to corruption and, all too often,succumb to corrupt influences, as the proceedings of Congressional com-mittees frequently testify. Those who criticize them from the standpoint ofthe individual interest react by wondering why we need them at all, and byasking how the goods they deliver—or are supposed to deliver—might be



secured by more private means. But those who are concerned with thewell-being of practice see the problem differently. They understand thatthe maintenance of standards of practice depends on the existence ofinstitutions:

[N]o practices can survive for any length of time unsustained by institutions.Indeed so intimate is the relationship of practices to institutions—and conse-quently of the goods external to the goods internal to the practices in ques-tion—that institutions and practices characteristically form a single causalorder in which the ideals and creativity of the practice are always vulnerableto the acquisitiveness of the institution, in which the cooperative care forcommon goods of the practice are always vulnerable to the competitivenessof the institution. (Maclntyre, 1981, p. 181)

For them, the problem is not how to do without institutions, but how tounderstand the possibilities for reconciling the character of institutionswith the character of practices. Those who see curriculum in this lightfocus their attention on the point where the institutionalized curriculum,with its universalistic objectives and demands, based on “great ideas,” inter-sects with the particularist character of the contexts within which it has tobe realized through exercise of the eclectic arts. Boundaries can be seen asthings that restrain interaction or help to foster it, depending on whetherwe think that what lies on the other side is desirable or not. If we think thatthe institutionalized curriculum can and should play a part in inductingstudents into the civic realm, then the issue is not how to maintain theclassroom as a private place against the intrusions of civil society, but howto define and manage a boundary that shows how private and public can fittogether in ways that respect both the standards of practice and the integ-rity of the institution. This boundary is not generalized and abstract, buthas to be practically managed in the interests of specific children in spe-cific classrooms. The coming together of institution and practice is also thecoming together of the general and the particular. Within this perspective,the claims of the state to grade and examine and the claims of children tobe treated as individuals present not a conflict but a dilemma, the solutionof which has to respect both sets of interests, since ultimately they are notseparable.

I have discussed three ways in which we can regard curriculum as institu-tion: as a material resource, as a civic resource, or as an obstacle to trueeducation. To these we could add a fourth, which emerged in my earlierdiscussion of subscription to the great ideas: curriculum as an institutionthat stands in need of radical reform. The important question to ask aboutthis fourth position is “how will the institution be regarded when it hasbeen reformed?” My impression is that radical reformers usually raise thepossibility of reform because they want curriculum to become a civic



resource in a transformed society. The critique seldom leads in the direc-tion of abolition and those, such as Illich, who take that path are them-selves liable to be criticized (Apple, 1977, pp. 93–121). Radical reformers,from Plato onwards, know well enough that a society left to its own devicesmay not follow the path that the philosopher-kings have chosen for it. Con-trol exercised through institutions is one way of ensuring that deviationdoes not occur. We are, therefore, not confronted with a fourth possibility,but with an extension to the second—curriculum as a civic resource. Atone extreme it can be seen as a resource that is open to activities of reinter-pretation, of consensual modification, of adjustment to changing socialcontexts—a view that would seem to be essential to any project of practi-cally resolving the dilemmas of the boundary between institution and prac-tice—or, at the other extreme, as a device for promoting a predeterminedpolicy of social control.

HOW SHOULD WE THINK ABOUT CURRICULUMAS INSTITUTION?

Ultimately, a preference for one or other of these views must be based ona value judgment, that is, by reference to an underlying philosophicalposition that informs views about the nature of human existence gener-ally. Any particular position tends to focus on some interests and issues atthe expense of others. Without the correction supplied by contrary opin-ions, we are all too prone to neglect the facets of a complex social phe-nomenon that escape the spotlight of our own attention. The systematicperspective forces us to look at issues of efficiency, value for money, andpublic accountability. An existential perspective reminds us of the need toconsider individual needs and ambitions. The radical critique points thefinger at institutional shortcomings. The appeal of the focus on practice ismore to the desire for balance in accommodating all of these more spe-cific viewpoints. But what of the inherent demands of curriculum as a sub-ject of study?

The adoption of a position in relation to curriculum, which means, ineffect, subscription to a social philosophy, must, as I have suggested, be amatter of persuasion and not of demonstration. One source of material forpersuasion is the nature of curriculum itself. To use the language of thischapter, what kind of an institution is it? Or what kind of a practice? In hisbook After Virtue (1981), MacIntyre suggests that every practice has its ownhistory, and makes the point that to fully enter into a practice requires anunderstanding, explicit or implicit, of that history. But, as we have seen,practice and institution are closely interwoven, and neither can beneglected if we want to characterize the nature of curriculum through con-



sideration of its history. How might such a study persuade us of the meritsof one position or another as we confront competing claims about whatkind of a social philosophy we should adopt?

Some writers have seized on the relationship of curriculum to currus,and on that word’s commonest meaning, and claimed that its significancecomes from the metaphor of the race. We run races over (or through) var-ious courses and, at the end, prizes are awarded. The truth is more mun-dane. The diminutive form of currus came into common usage to denotepassage of time, so that, along with phrases such as curriculum horae (thepassage of an hour), there also, and quite naturally, occurred curriculumstudiorum (the time taken up by studies). Such usage has no institutionalsignificance. This was acquired when the notion of simple passage of timein relation to learning was transformed into one that saw that time as struc-tured to contain a sequence that was capable of completion. This transfor-mation began in the European universities in the late 16th and early 17thcenturies. Before then, knowledge was offered and was acquired as andwhen opportunity occurred. There was no fixed notion of what should bestudied, by whom, at what age, in what sequence, or with what result. Thepossibility for movement towards the modern notion of curriculumdepended on a conjunction of social and technical factors. The countriesof Europe were abandoning feudalism in favor of more centralized formsof government. National cultures were challenging the dominance of clas-sical language and thought. Commerce and industry were being organizedon a grander scale. These social trends all depended on the developmentof forms of discourse and behavior that were public and literate, ratherthan private and oral.

The idea of curriculum was an outgrowth of this process and alsobecame a vehicle for it. Such a development came about through technicalinnovation in the form of printed texts, which made possible the specifica-tion of uniform course content. The conjunction of the resources of print-ing and interest in hierarchical forms of control and organization led tothe development of the textbook, which presented learning as a sequence.Simultaneously, the elaboration of systematic procedures for record keep-ing paved the way for the idea that students could “complete the curricu-lum of their studies” and receive degrees and diplomas, which wereincreasingly valued in societies where objective measures of status werebecoming important. Thus, those features of curriculum that are the mostlikely to divide theorists into opposing camps—regulation, uniformity,hierarchy—were there from the start and necessarily so, since these werethe features that gave curriculum its identity as something different fromteaching and learning, and launched it as an institutionalized practice.What was striking was what was different: predictability where there hadbeen idiosyncrasy, the idea of curriculum as a common experience, and



the need for the student to deal with public as well as private aspects oflearning. But a great deal remained unchanged, or changed only veryslowly. Aries (1973), in Centuries of Childhood, provides extensive anddetailed documentation of the inertial quality of learning in Francethrough the 17th and 18th centuries and into much of the 19th. If the ideaof curriculum as a public institution was at that point well established, itsrealization in schools retained much of the nature of the older traditions.Learning continued to be directed to heterogeneous groups of students, touse literate resources such as the textbook in a thoroughly oral manner,and to involve confrontation and antagonism (Ong, 1974).

The next important development in the character of curriculum tookplace through the 19th century. Again it resulted from a combination ofsocial evolution and technical inventiveness. The 19th century in Europeand North America was the era of the growth of nation-states that claimedfor themselves a place on the world stage. Centralization and control wenthand in hand with international rivalry and communication, made possi-ble by inventions such as the steam ship, railways, and the telegraph.Nationalism went hand in hand with the launching of new institutions andthe transformation of old ones. The 19th century saw an unparalleled bur-geoning of institutional activity: post offices, public libraries, departmentstores, government ministries, and national banks are just some of the insti-tutions that were essentially 19th century inventions. Although curriculumwas not a 19th century invention, its coupling to national education sys-tems was. The development of the nation-state crucially depended on thecreation of symbolic institutions. If we look at the annual reports of theU.S. Commissioner of Education in the late 19th century, we see that notonly was there a concern with the setting up of domestic schooling systems,but also intense interest in what was happening elsewhere in the world.The reports are filled with accounts of the organization of schooling notonly in the countries of Europe, but also in South America, the MiddleEast, and Australasia. Schooling systems were flag carriers for the develop-ing nations of the 19th century just as national airlines are for developingcountries today. The principal technical inventions that made this possiblewere classrooms and systems of grading and certification. These providedthe means by which education systems could be rationalized and madecomparable across cultures.

Once again, what was central to the evolution of curriculum at thispoint—grading, classrooms, nationalism—are issues that today cause deepcontroversy over how we should view it. Grading seems to elevate thenational interest over the individual interest; classrooms are seen as coer-cive and alienating arenas that promote failure at least as much as theydeliver success; nationalism is associated with support for governmentalattitudes to peace and the environment that seem short-sighted or even



immoral. It may be that the harnessing of curriculum to goals of nation-hood that took place over a hundred years ago was something that left seri-ous problems for curriculum as practice, yet it is part of the reality of itshistory. It seems that major institutions bear for a very long time the marksof the period of their founding. National schooling systems are no excep-tion to this rule. Their involvement with curriculum is a legacy that colorsthe way we think about it, whatever our basic value position.

But what of more recent history? We might anticipate that the latesttechnical advances in communication and control systems, together withsocial evolution in the direction of greater individual freedom of choiceand wider access to information, will lead to further change in the institu-tional nature of curriculum. We should suspect that this will indeed be thecase. The fact that governments in the United States and Great Britain canfind no better means of responding to failing confidence in schools andcurriculum than by reasserting policies articulated at the turn of the cen-tury is seen by some as a prime signal of malfunction. But this does notmean that curriculum no longer has usefulness as an institution. Indeed, ifit falls as institution, it falls as practice as well. If history urges anything, it isthat rather than denying or rejecting the institutional role of curriculum innational schooling systems, we should be looking for new ways of interpret-ing it. If we are not happy with it, it is because the work of the 19th centuryfounders was done too well. Curriculum has yet to find a truly contempo-rary role. But if we want it to find that role, we have to address the problemand not choose instead to turn inward to our own private concerns. Andour addressing of it will be that much more fundamental if we see curricu-lum as institutionalized in a truly civic sense, and not simply as a publiclyorganized means of supplying goods for private consumption. The view wetake on this will, to a large extent, be shaped by our attitude to the role thatgreat ideas should play in our thinking about the curriculum. This will bethe subject of the next chapter.CH02—31


33


WAYS OF UNDERSTANDING

Great Ideas or Eclectic Arts?

The second dimension of my map of curriculum thinking distinguishesthose who embrace great ideas from those who work in an eclectic manner.A similar conception is put forward by Isaiah Berlin (1979) in his essay“The hedgehog and the fox.” Berlin is trying to explain what is distinctiveabout Tolstoy’s writing. In the course of doing this, he proposes a way ofcategorizing not just writers, but intellectual and artistic personalities gen-erally. He warns the reader that “like all over-simple classifications of thistype, [it] becomes, if pressed, artificial” (p. 23). But, he adds, “if it is not anaid to serious criticism, neither should it be rejected as being merely super-ficial or frivolous; like all distinctions which embody any degree of truth, itoffers a point of view from which to look and compare, a starting point forgenuine investigation” (p. 23).

What is this classification that Berlin is talking about? He explains it bytaking as his text a line of the Greek poet Archilochus, which says, “The foxknows many things but the hedgehog knows one big thing.” He then dis-cusses how these words might be understood:

Scholars have differed about the correct interpretation of these dark wordswhich may mean no more than that the fox, for all his cunning, is defeatedby the hedgehog’s one defence. But, taken figuratively, the words can bemade to yield a sense in which they mark one of the deepest differences

CHAPTER 3



which divide writers and thinkers, and, it may be, human beings in general.For there exists a great chasm between those, on one side, who relate every-thing to a single central vision … a single, universal organising principle interms of which alone all that they are and say has significance—and, on theother side, those who pursue many ends often unrelated and even contradic-tory … These last lead lives, perform acts, and entertain ideas that are cen-trifugal rather than centripetal …

The first kind of intellectual and artistic personality belongs to the hedge-hogs, the second to the foxes; and without insisting on a rigid classification,we may, without too much fear of contradiction, say that … Dante belongs tothe first category, Shakespeare to the second; Plato, Lucretius, Pascal, Hegel,Dostoevsky, Nietzsche, Ibsen, Proust are, in varying degrees hedgehogs;Herodotus, Aristotle, Montaigne, Erasmus, Moliere, Goethe, Pushkin,Balzac, Joyce are foxes. (Berlin, 1979, p. 22–23)

If we pursue the analogy suggested by Archilochus’ text, we could saythat both kinds of positions represent advantageous adaptations to an envi-ronment. One way of securing a healthy and continuing existence is tolearn a trick that works most of the time. Another is to master a repertoireof behaviors that can be inventively combined according to circumstance.In the case of real hedgehogs and real foxes, we can observe that they donot have much choice in the matter. The strategies they employ are deter-mined by a history of adaptation that has endowed them with particularphysical characteristics. However, the situation which we, as human beings,encounter is rather different. First of all, we do have the opportunity tochoose a strategy. Though the choice we make will be constrained by per-sonal circumstances and historical precedent, scope for selection is alwayspotentially present. Secondly, confirmation that the chosen strategy isappropriate takes place in a complex and indirect way. It is not just a mat-ter of whether it is capable of handling an environment that is the sourceof the means of survival. For example, human beings may, on the basis ofsome chosen strategy, make decisions that affect others but not themselves.I will deal with each of these points in turn.

THE CHOICE OF AN INTELLECTUAL POSITION

Perhaps I should follow Berlin in talking of personalities rather than posi-tions. The traditions within which we commonly work encourage us to con-ceive of a realm of theory—even of theory concerned with practicalaction—that is detached from personal preferences and feelings. But howwe think about the world is always to some extent a function of characterand experience. Even within rule-bound activities, such as chess or mathe-matics, styles of thinking can reflect cautious or enterprising personalities,


Ways of Understanding 35

previous success with well-tested lines or triumphs of bold experiment.How much more will this be true of fields that are variegated, uncertain,and controversial. Those who are cautious, stable, and perhaps a littleintroverted will surely be attracted by the idea of curriculum as engineer-ing, while those who are bolder and more extravert will inevitably feelthemselves cramped and confined by such a metaphor (Wankowski &Reid, 1982). We could expect too that experience of curriculum in particu-lar kinds of contexts will be influential. The views that teachers have of cur-riculum problems will not be the same as those of administrators. However,it is also the case that the appropriateness of our choice of position shouldnot be made solely in terms of individual preference and experience. Ireturn to the idea, raised in the last chapter, that curriculum is a practicewith necessary institutional associations. As we think about what ideasmight guide us in the formation of personal perspectives, we need also toconsider how the character of curriculum stems necessarily from its histori-cal origins, and what this might mean for the choices we make.

Curriculum has been, from its inception, a literate notion. By that, Imean it was made possible by the modern—that is, 17th century—accep-tance of the idea that words can stand for real classes of objects. Such anidea is old in philosophy—it was espoused, notably, by Plato, one of Ber-lin’s archetypal hedgehogs. But its extension beyond a small group ofthinkers was long delayed. Historians point to inventions such as printingas essential to widespread comfort with the idea that words have an objec-tive reality apart from utterance on some specific occasion. The truth is nodoubt more complicated than this. However, the case of curriculum isclear enough. Essential to this idea, as we have seen, were the concepts ofsequence, completion, and certification. Without sequence, completion,and certification, we can have learning, teaching, and education, but notcurriculum. Printing was crucial in the establishment of the concept ofsequence. Without the widespread availability of printed texts, learningwas, to a considerable degree, adventitious. It depended either on directaccess to original sources—by which I mean the actual texts, or excerptsfrom texts of works of philosophy, poems, plays, manuals, and so on—orindirect access through teachers who possessed texts or had been able toconsult them. With printing came the invention of the textbook, a compen-dium of knowledge about texts, which presented it in an ordered andsequenced way. Associated with sequence was the idea of completion.Once overviews of knowledge were accessible through textbooks, itbecame possible to specify levels of attainment, since judgments could bemade about when acquaintance with a topic of study was, for some pur-pose, sufficient. Then the final piece of the idea of curriculum could beadded: a degree or diploma awarded in public recognition of the level ofknowledge or skill that had been declared to be attained. (Note that



sequence, completion, and certification are all universal notions thatrequire the intervention of institutions to establish and maintain theiruniversalism in the public domain.)

The effect of all this was to create an idea of curriculum that wasdetached from the circumstances in which any particular act of teaching orlearning took place. Today, students in many different places, constitutingmany different instances of curricular experience, can all feel that they areenrolled in “Sixth Grade Social Studies,” “Advanced Placement French,” or“Freshman Algebra.” This important social process, which has been littlestudied, has been described by Meyer (1980) as the creation of institu-tional categories. These are divisions of the world that exist in people’sminds, independently of any physical manifestations that are associatedwith them. They are not quite universal and eternal, but they tend towardsuniversality and timelessness. Curriculum has become, in modern societ-ies, an institutional category. It can be promoted, denigrated, writtenabout, or made into an election issue. Governments can preside over anational curriculum just as well as a national debt or a national health ser-vice. What these things have in common is, first of all, that whereas they aresomewhat abstract in character, their continued existence depends on cor-responding organizational categories—schools, central banks, hospitals—in a way that the existence of greater abstractions, such as education, pros-perity, or health, does not; and, secondly, that they can be seen as the pos-session of a community. A national curriculum defines sequences ofcompletable, certifiable subject matter chosen to reflect the interests andtraditions of the nation that specifies it (as Meyer [1980] points out, “a sureway to know when the US/Canadian border has been crossed is to checkout the content of the geography curriculum” [p. 31]). The overarchinginstitutional category of curriculum contains a wide range of subcategoriesreferring to content belonging to subjects or topics of significance, or tocontent belonging to subdivisions of the student population, classified byage, grade, ability, or destination: the reading curriculum, the junior highschool curriculum, the college preparatory curriculum, and so on. Associ-ated with these are categories that belong more properly to schooling thancurriculum: the elementary school teacher, the high school principal, thetwelfth grade student. All of these institutional categories, which representuniversal ideas, shape and are in turn shaped by the corresponding organi-zational categories that are their practical embodiment: what happens inclasses labeled as “twelfth grade” is influenced by what the universal institu-tional category of twelfth grade is understood to demand; conversely, thatunderstanding is itself influenced by what happens in many thousands ofindividual twelfth grade classes.

Thus, according to which side of the coin one examines, curriculum canbe seen either as a universal conception, which could be linked with think-



ing based on unity stemming from great ideas, or as a collection of organi-zational forms that can be associated with thinking based on the diversityof the eclectic arts. These kinds of associations are evident in the positionsthat those who deal with curriculum questions adopt. To subscribe to cur-riculum as plan as an organizing principle looks at first sight like anacknowledgement of its character as a system “on the ground.” In fact, it isa response to the idea that curriculum and its subcomponents are abstractuniversal categories and that it is therefore possible to plan in terms ofobjectives, contents, and evaluations that have a universal reference: whatshall be taught or learned in all twelfth grade classes within a particularjurisdiction and what significance evaluations of that teaching and learningwill everywhere have. Equally, radical perspectives, of both left and right,address themselves to curriculum as a universal institutional category inlinkage with other great ideas such as hegemony, reproduction, and alien-ation, or order, tradition, and social cohesion. These are the views of thecurricular representatives of Berlin’s hedgehogs; of thinkers, writers, andactors, who “relate everything to a single central vision” which then deter-mines the position they take up on particular issues such as testing, group-ing, literacy, the role of schools, districts, and states, vocational programs,science programs—anything relating to questions of what is taught towhom and under what circumstances.

Quite different is the orientation of the foxes whose attention is caughtby the rich complexity of actual manifestations of curriculum, and forwhom such issues are not universal debates, to be settled by meta-argu-ments based on great ideas, but matters to be appreciated within contextsof real children, in real classrooms with real teachers. As has many timesbeen pointed out, while ideas detached from contexts can be clear andcompelling, the working out of ideas within contexts is characterized byuncertainty and dilemma (Berlak & Berlak, 1981). Those whose focus is oncurriculum as an organizational endeavor find them as a matter of coursecompelled to “pursue many ends often unrelated and even contradictory.”Teachers, for example, want students to exercise initiative, but also to fol-low instructions; to apply received knowledge, but also to work things outfor themselves. There is no overriding principle that shows them how to dothis. They have to entertain many possibilities and make judgments aboutwhat kinds of tactics are likely to be effective in some very specific set of cir-cumstances (add that it is often not clear at the time, or even with hind-sight, whether the tactic was successful or not and the extreme difficulty ofteaching teachers becomes apparent). What I have described could becalled using eclectic arts: eclectic because that means choosing among awide range of ideas and procedures, and arts because there is no definiterule about how the choice should be made. But, as Berlin (1979) pointsout, eclectic arts are not just a way of dealing with the world that circum-



stance may force upon us: they are also a way of understanding the worldthat has been adopted by many outstanding thinkers and writers. Sincesupporters of the great ideas—systematizers and ideologues—seem to havehad the biggest say in recent shaping of the world of curriculum, we havebeen led to believe that intelligence consists in applying principles—pick-ing right answers to problems that are amenable to theoretic or proceduralanalysis. But most of the matters that are open to discussion, or thatdemand practical decision, do not have right answers and are not amena-ble to theoretic or procedural analysis. Therefore, the intelligence associ-ated with the eclectic arts should be accorded at least equivalent esteem,and eclecticism should be considered alongside the great ideas when wejudge how to think about curriculum.

As we consider the choices we have of ways of conceiving curriculumproblems and of initiating action to solve them, we can reflect that, withfreedom to choose, there also goes a temptation to be irresponsible inchoosing. We enjoy freedom of choice because we are not totally con-strained by the legacy of necessary adaptation to an environment. Equally,however, removal of the immediate consequences of adopting one strategyrather than another can lead to disregard of the fact that the environ-ment—the institution of curriculum in all its senses—nonetheless doeshave an historically objective character. Like generals who command theirtroops from the safety of bunkers far behind the front line—and are wellrewarded for it—curriculum leaders of various kinds, whether politicians,planners, administrators, or theoreticians, can enjoy importance andauthority while working out great strategic ideas that have little bearing onthe tactical skirmishes of those directly concerned with the realities of cur-riculum in schools and classrooms. To pursue this point further, we need tolook beyond the considerable, though far from all-encompassing, virtuesthat the great ideas and the eclectic arts both exhibit, and examine the par-ticular vices to which both are prone.

VICES OF THE GREAT IDEAS: IDEOLOGY

The power of great ideas comes from their simplicity. Whereas exponentsof the eclectic arts (Berlin’s foxes) have to be concerned with understand-ing the nature of cases before actions or explanations can be ventured on,and then, even beyond that point, have to be concerned with the extent towhich explanation may have to be qualified or action modified, exponentsof the great ideas adapt cases to fit universal conceptions. They judge thatthe benefits to explanation and action of a clear and penetrating focus willoutweigh what is lost through lack of ability to take particularity intoaccount. However, these benefits accrue only if the great ideas are used



with circumspection. Can the diverse cases with which we are concernedreally be adapted to fit within a common perspective? Are we prepared, ascircumstances change, or as evidence of mismatch or malfunction accumu-lates, to revise our opinion of the applicability of the perspective? The tra-ditional canons of science demand that we should be able to answer yes toboth of these questions. In giving that answer, we would declare ourselvesin favor of following what Popper (1963) has called a “second-order tradi-tion” (p. 126ff). A second-order tradition is a tradition of inquiry that car-ries within it an injunction that its premises and methods be open toscrutiny and to modification in circumstances where they are revealed asdeficient. With this he contrasts “first-order traditions,” which regard theirpremises and methods as complete and conclusive. Since the great ideas,by their very nature, tend towards completeness and conclusiveness, andthis is what makes them attractive to some who adopt them, there is a per-sistent likelihood that they will be treated as traditions of the first order. Inthat case they risk becoming ideologies. Ideologies are ways of thinkingthat suffer from the double disadvantage of being remote from reality andslow to change in response to evidence of deficiency. Curriculum policiesin Great Britain in recent years have been, to a considerable extent, ideo-logically driven (Reid & Holt, 1986). A succession of quite expensive initia-tives directed at promoting vocationalism, selection, testing, and centrallyprescribed curricula has, through neglect of the reality of the experienceof curriculum in classrooms, left the schooling system in worse shape thanit was before it fell into the hands of the “radical right” in the early 1980s(Holt, 1987b).

VICES OF THE ECLECTIC ARTS: OPERATIONALISM

If the pursuit of great ideas has a propensity to lapse into ideology, theeclectic arts suffer from an equally unhappy tendency to slip into opera-tionalism. Operationalism has been defined by McKeon (1952) as amethod that “applies the test of concrete action by translating ideas intoprocesses and seeking verification in discernible results” (p. 86). Like theeclectic arts, it is concerned with practical situations and with the tactics offinding solutions to the problems they pose. The difference is that theeclectic arts also incorporate an understanding of strategy. The deploy-ment, on the basis of situated judgments, of a variety of theories, princi-ples, and procedures, occurs within the compass of an overall view of whatcurriculum is and what the eclectic arts should help it to accomplish. As inBerlin’s characterization, eclecticism is not a way of avoiding fundamentalquestions of value, but an alternative way of exploring them.



Operationalism, on the other hand, deals in a piecemeal way with cur-ricular possibilities. It proceeds on a trial and error basis, making ad hocjudgments about the appropriateness of methods and content. This kindof approach pervades much of the literature that has been produced inrecent years by the action research movement (McKernan, 1991). Buildingon obfuscations of the conceptual differences between research and prac-tice (“All teaching is research”), some action researchers have defined cur-riculum improvement as a quest for “what works.” They have rejected theproject of choosing a way of understanding how thought and action arerelated in favor of an attempt to reduce everything to action, so that “thepractical” is demoted from being the philosophical counterpart of the the-oretic to being “practice” in its minimal sense of “what people do.”

The degeneration of the eclectic arts into operationalism mirrors thelapse of the great ideas into ideology. In the latter case, ideas are allowed tooccupy a position of such unreflecting importance that no attention is paidto circumstance. The institutional category of curriculum then risks losingits identity because the reality of its organizational forms is ignored. In theformer case, on the other hand, these organizational forms receive exclu-sive attention, so that the broader ideas that are needed to sustain themare lost sight of.

PUTTING IDEAS TOGETHER

It is clear from the preceding discussion that no one perspective canencompass all the complexity of institutionalized practices such as curricu-lum. Especially, we have to be suspicious of dogmatic adherence to ideology,or to forms of operationalism. These can be damaging in their effectsbecause they neglect so much that is of critical importance to the develop-ment and maintenance of policies that capitalize on the beneficial potentialof curriculum, and mitigate its capacity to operate in ways that are ineffec-tive or even harmful. Yet, as we have seen, there is little check on those who,from political offices, central administrations, or places of scholarship, urgeupon the system ways of thinking and prescriptions for action that neglectthe essential character of the institutions and practices that are the object oftheir attentions. Ideas are never without consequence, but the conse-quences are not always visited on those who profess them.

The great ideas are needed in so far as they respond to some essentialpart of the character of curriculum. I have suggested that, under one of itsaspects, curriculum must be thought about in this way. It is an institutionthat has an existence in the realm of ideas apart from, but related to, itsexistence in specific organizational arrangements. The curriculum asenacted, however, needs to be thought about in a different way. Its prob-



lems have to be solved within unique contexts, and this demands the use ofeclectic arts. The practical power of curriculum comes from the achieve-ment of consonance between its institutional and organizational forms:from the conjunction of the workings of great ideas and the eclectic arts.

How is this conjunction to be brought about? First of all, it is dependenton our willingness to maintain positions, whether on one side of the intel-lectual divide or the other, which can communicate with one another. Ide-ology and operationalism have nothing to say to one another. The firstcondition of positions being mutually intelligible is that they should beintegrally bound up with commitments to the pursuit of goods (using thatword in its moral sense), the nature of which is open to discussion and per-suasion. The purposes of curriculum and the means through which thosepurposes are achieved are no more fixed than the interpretations of justiceor the nature of the agencies through which it is dispensed are fixed. Thetraditions of thought and action that secure the purposes of curriculum orthe purposes of justice need, in MacIntyre’s (1981) phrase, to be “partiallyconstituted by an argument about the goods the pursuit of which givesthem their particular point and purpose” (p. 206). Secondly, there needsto be clarity about the character of curriculum under its various aspects.Otherwise, we can have no sure sense of when one approach or another isrequired. The choice of method for understanding and managing com-plex social phenomena can only be guided by an appreciation of the rangeand diversity of problems that they present. Understanding of both thesepoints requires that we consider, in some depth, what kinds of problemscurriculum does, in fact, present.

THE CHARACTER OF CURRICULUM PROBLEMS

The assumption of my discussion of curriculum problems is that any deci-sion to adopt great ideas, eclectic arts, or some framework of thinking thatcan allow a place for both, should be based on an appreciation of the sub-ject matter that has to be dealt with. This assumption rests on the furtherpremise that it is indeed possible to characterize problems in ways thatguide us towards appropriate theoretic and practical strategies for dealingwith them. Explicitly or implicitly, ideological and operational positionsdeny this. For the former, principles are unquestionable and problems mustbe made to fit them. For the latter, there is only “what works,” and thisrequires no deep investigation into the nature of problems. (To use a sim-ple analogy, if we find out that some minor adjustment enables us to restarta motor, there is no need to inquire into the principles of internal combus-tion engines.) But after these exclusions have been made, there must be awide spectrum of thought remaining, within which there is sympathy for the



Aristotelian view that ways of treating problems should be guided by thenature of the problems themselves. On the nature of problems there can, ofcourse, be many opinions, but acceptance of the possibility that the prob-lems we are setting out to solve could have some objective character enablesa useful and productive debate to be joined. What follows represents oneline of inquiry into the nature of our subject matter.

Problems About Curriculum as Institution

Curriculum problems are of two kinds. First of all, there are problemsconcerning the character of curriculum as an institutional category. Curric-ulum is, from one point of view, a transcendent, commonly shared ideathat can be thought of separately from its particular manifestations. Com-monly shared ideas exist because they have significance for a group, a com-munity, a country, or even some larger collection of people. Problemsabout curriculum as an institutional category are therefore problems aboutwhat public significance it has, and what public significance we would likeit to have. It was originally significant, through the granting of degrees anddiplomas, in defining who should have claims on social positions reservedfor those with scholarly credentials. The curriculum not only providedsuch credentials, it also associated those who gained them with certainkinds of experience, contexts, and companions. Examination of pre-nine-teenth-century portraits in the older universities shows many clerics, someacademics, and a few doctors, all of serious and imposing mien. Later, inthe nineteenth century, the curriculum of secondary schooling in Englandwas regarded as an instrument for incorporating the middle classes intoprofessional and administrative roles in society, while in the United Statesit became a prime means of propagating the democratic, revolutionary,and integrative character of the nation. By the end of the century, curricu-lum was widely thought of throughout the Western world as a symbol ofnationhood. These achievements of curriculum as institution were onlyloosely related to its achievements in terms of the delivery of specific kindsof knowledge. Still less were they related to its efficiency in imparting suchknowledge. These are historical realities of the development of the idea ofcurriculum, and they are part of what must be taken into account as wethink about what we might like curriculum to symbolize in the 21st cen-tury. If, following the suggestion of “America 2000” (1991), we want thecurriculum to combat drug and alcohol abuse, we have to be aware that ithas been a symbol of the identification of those who engage in such activi-ties as being outside the mainstream of worthy citizens of a democracy. Ifwe want the curriculum to foster ethnic diversity, we have to take accountof the fact that curriculum has been a symbol of cultural homogeneity. But



here is where the great ideas come into play. What use should we be mak-ing of an historic institution with power to define the character and alle-giances of those who affiliate with it? Is there a realistic match to beachieved between what it currently does and what we would like it to do?Curriculum problems, at this level, are some subset of all the many prob-lems that beset society. They are that subset, the solution of which could belinked to the career of curriculum as a symbolic idea. The power of thisidea does not operate in a fixed way, since its capacity for adaptation at anyparticular moment is limited by the legacy of history. The task of problemsolving here is to identify those problems that can be ameliorated throughassociation with the potential of curriculum as a symbolic institution, andto see how this desirable result might be achieved. One kind of error wecan make is to give over to curriculum the kinds of problems that requirespecific, technical treatment. They are much better dealt with through tar-geted programs that are organizational rather than institutional in charac-ter. Efforts to correct drug- or alcohol-related problems may well come intothis category. Another kind of error is to think of the institutional curricu-lum as being totally capacious and able to handle any problem seen to bein need of the kind of symbolism that curriculum might give it. The institu-tional curriculum is limited in what it can handle. When it is suggested thatan issue such as promotion of cultural diversity would benefit from sym-bolic association with the institutional curriculum, we first need to estab-lish that it is indeed the kind of problem that could be treated in this way.

What does this discussion suggest about the kind of thinking that isneeded when problems about curriculum as an institutional category haveto be considered? First of all, it should be said that the purposes of institu-tional categories are intrinsically moral. They exist and are fostered withthe idea that they are the means of realizing some public good that is forthe benefit of a group, community, or society. Government, law, and curric-ulum are examples of institutions with a moral basis for their existence.1

What has been done in their name in the past, even in the best of societies,may strike us as quaint, or even regrettable. This does not alter the factthat, at the time, what was done had moral and not merely practical signifi-cance. What we do today in the name of government, law, or curriculumwill no doubt strike future generations as quaint or regrettable. The differ-ent status of activities associated with institutional categories can be

1. George Will claims the same virtues for baseball. “There is also a civic interestserved by having the population at large leavened by millions of fans. They arespectators of a game that rewards, and thus elicits, a remarkable level of intelli-gence from those who compete. To be an intelligent fan is to participate insomething. It is an activity, a form of appreciating that is good for the individ-ual’s soul, and hence for society” (Will, 1990, p. 2).



marked in a number of ways. Curriculum is currently marked as differentbecause it is often the province of governments. In the past, and still tosome extent, its distinctiveness has been signaled through its associationwith churches, charities, and professions. What serves a merely technical orpractical requirement—automobile dealerships, fast food chains—requiresno such distinctive alliance with morally significant cultural forms, but theways in which we think about curriculum as institution need to have amoral basis.

Furthermore, thinking about the institutional curriculum requires clar-ity and focus. While the actual arrangements for conducting government,administering the law, or delivering curriculum may be complicated andconfused—indeed can hardly avoid some degree of complication and con-fusion—their cultural symbolism depends on the articulation of uncompli-cated purposes that societies can recognize as reflecting their identitiesand ambitions. This is where curriculum needs the active support of thosewho can “relate everything to a single central vision.”

Problems About Curriculum as Organization

The second kind of curriculum problem is, in some respects, entirelydifferent. This kind of problem has to do with the building and manage-ment of the organizational forms that will act as the embodiment of curric-ulum as institution. The relationship between organization and institutionis far from straightforward. Ideally, the realities of organization, in terms ofwisdom and efficiency of planning and administration, suitability of subjectmatter, skills of teachers, and enthusiasms of students should match theideals of the institution. But ideals are ideals and realities are realities.While the great ideas can define clear purposes, harness moral commit-ment, and energize administrative initiatives, their power to deal with theeveryday vagaries of individuals and organizations is severely limited. Thisis where those who can “pursue many ends often unrelated and even con-tradictory” are needed. Arranging for thousands of twelfth grade class-rooms to engage in activities that individually and collectively reflect somegeneralized notion of what twelfth gradedness means is not a task forminds that pursue “a single, universal, organizing principle in terms ofwhich alone all that they are and say has significance.” This is territory forthose who can adapt and improvise, appreciate the particularity of cases,and capitalize on circumstance. It is territory where only those possessed ofpatience, fortitude, resourcefulness, and diplomacy can feel at home. How-ever, those who face the curriculum problems posed by the practical cir-cumstances of organizations must also be animated by a sense ofcurriculum as institution, for the basic issue is not how to make organiza-



tions work, but how to make them work in such a way that their actualstructures and processes recognizably reflect universal ideas. This is whatelevates the eclectic arts above the level of exercises in operationalism.Inevitably there will be slippage. Schools will be imperfect embodiments ofcurriculum, just as churches are imperfect embodiments of religion, andcourts of law imperfect embodiments of justice. But they must be seen tobe pursuing the ideal, and pursuing it in a way that does not obviously fallfar short of what the ideal would demand. Otherwise, the ideal itself comesinto question, and without the ideal to support it, the work of curriculummay appear as nothing more than an attempt to hold together an ineffi-cient and rather pointless collection of places of instruction.

Consideration of the dimensions of the map of curriculum thinking hasemphasized the complexity of the territory with which it has to deal. Intheir varying ways, perspectives on the curriculum try to make sense of thisterritory, and to derive from it ideas, principles, and methods for identify-ing and solving the problems of the field. But these ideas, principles, andmethods have to be related to the processes through which societiesarrange for the work of curriculum to be carried out. The task of the nextchapter is to describe how curriculum perspectives are translated into phi-losophies of schooling.CH03—45


47


CURRICULUM PERSPECTIVES AND PHILOSOPHIES

OF SCHOOLING

In the last three chapters, I have elaborated a map of how people thinkabout the curriculum. Maps can serve as objects of study, rewarding us withspeculations, discoveries, and insights. Through them, we can learn abouta landscape at second hand, without ever having to experience the terrain,or discover its pleasures and its pains for ourselves. But maps are alsoguides to action, and, similarly, theories of curriculum should be guides toaction, whether they urge us to produce plans, embrace a practice, reforminstitutions, or choose what to be. The next part of our project, therefore,should be to consider how curriculum perspectives are translated into the-ories of social action.

A theory of social action has two essential components: an account ofhow theory and practice are related, and a theory of the nature of thething to be acted upon. Each of the four perspectives outlined in Chapter1 is associated with an account of the connection of theory with practice,which is integral to its distinctive character. Each one also holds a view ofthe nature of curriculum as a social phenomenon, which is revealed in itsbeliefs about the character of curricular effects: in other words, the answerit gives to the question “What does the curriculum do?” As curriculum pro-duces its effects through schools, these are also answers to the question

CHAPTER 4



“What do schools do?” That is, curriculum theories that are also theories ofaction imply subscription to a philosophy of schooling.

CURRICULUM PERSPECTIVES AND THERELATIONSHIP OF THEORY TO PRACTICE

Perspectives on the curriculum first of all define the objects of curriculumactivity. This choice is made largely on the basis of a conception of its insti-tutional nature. Are we dealing with a public service? Then we should drawup plans for making it efficient and effective. Are we serving a civic inter-est? Then the issues that need attention are about the management of theboundary between institution and practice. Has curriculum become insti-tutionalized in a maladaptive way? Then the object of our attention shouldbe diagnosis of the malfunctioning system and replacement of it by onethat enables curriculum activity to be carried out in a socially advantageousmanner. Is the institutionalization of curriculum merely an obstacle to therealization of the curricular interests of the individual? In that case, weneed to attend to the methods by which individuals can discover and pur-sue their personal project of choosing what to be, despite the presence ofinstitutions.

Secondly, curriculum perspectives make a choice of mental tools forinvestigating the problems that they must deal with. These will be adaptedto the particular problems that are judged to be worthy of attention.Projects of planning for public services tend to be based on a set of assump-tions about planning processes that favor technical solutions, rationallyand hierarchically applied to materials that are seen as fairly uniform innature. Diagnosis of the malfunctioning of institutions usually depends onthe adoption of a single-minded macrotheory of social evolution. Concernsabout practice, or about the welfare of the individual, on the other hand,tend to be eclectic in their use of schemes of explanation or prediction.

Now a third element needs to be added. We are equipped with tools andproblems, but we still need to understand how the one is to be brought tobear on the other. How can social theory yield social action? The answer tothis question depends on the overall perspective within which it is raised.The systematic perspective makes a clear distinction between theory andpractice, which are seen as having inherently different natures. Theory con-sists of mental constructs that are brought to bear on the real objects of theworld. Hence a bridge has to be built to connect them. This involves con-struction of a practical science, of which engineering is the archetypalinstance. Theories (for example, mathematical formulae), which exist apartfrom the materials of the world, are brought to bear upon them throughthe development of rule-based technologies. This is known as the logistic


Curriculum Perspectives and Philosophies of Schooling 49

mode of connecting theory and practice.1 Since the technologies make useof the same formal procedures that are applied in the discovery of theoreticknowledge, those who employ them must be experts in their field.

The radical perspective, on the other hand, regards the relationship oftheory to practice as dialectical: they can be conceptually distinguished, butin reality they are not separable. Theory arises out of practice, and practiceout of theory. The movement of one or the other creates an imbalance thatis restored by further movement to create a new dynamic whole. This, inturn, will eventually prove to be unstable, however. Hence the emphasis onthe power of the radical critique. Since theory and practice are intimatelyintertwined, the critique is intrinsically part of a process of dialectical socialdevelopment. It will exacerbate the inherent contradictions of curricularinstitutions, leading to the operation of compensating mechanisms that willbring about change in their character. To participate in the critiquedemands subscription to the dialectical interpretation on which it is based.This places a limit on the number of those who can pursue it.

Deliberative and existential perspectives work with conceptions of the-ory and practice based on the idea of inquiry. Here, theory and practiceare seen as having a common character in that both are directed towardsthe solution of problems, in the one case problems about improving edu-cational practice, and in the other problems about improving the self. Thefocus on problems means, firstly, that no one method is given priority. Thechoice of mental tools needed to solve the problem is dictated by itsnature, and not by an a priori decision about which tools are to be pre-ferred. Secondly, it means that, as well as requiring the use of theoreticknowledge, the solution of practical problems depends on particularknowledge of the situations in which they occur. Thus, expertise is not con-fined to initiates or those with technical skills. Problems of practice or ofpersonal development are solved through the eclectic use of inquiry tech-niques and by reference to data about unique situations.

Use of methods of inquiry that do not depend on a definite choice oftheoretical procedure for confronting problems of practice can of courseresult in the adoption of solutions that are merely expedient. In this casepersonal or practical problems are not solved through reference to theory,but through the application of an operational mode, where ad hocinstances of practice are the source of ideas that can be adopted or dis-carded on the basis of experience.

1. The terminology I have used for the modes of connecting theory and practiceis taken from R. McKeon, 1952.



CURRICULUM PERSPECTIVES AND CURRICULUM EFFECTS

Any view that we take on the character of curriculum rests on someassumption, explicit or implicit, about the nature of its effects. One dimen-sion of disagreement about curricular effects will relate to beliefs abouthow far they can be predicted and controlled. The belief that they are con-trollable, at least in some degree, is shown by widespread discussion of cur-riculum planning and evaluation. If we had no control over curriculareffects, then planning might as well be left to chance. If this seems to be anextreme and unlikely position for anyone to hold, we should remind our-selves of the prevalence of theories of the “hidden curriculum.” Some ofthese postulate that the most significant school effects are those that noone consciously plans for. Schools offer a planned curriculum consisting ofvarious kinds of approved skills and knowledge, but the really importantoutcome of this is that students learn such things as the arbitrary nature ofauthority, the irrelevance of their own opinions, and the futility of seekingsense in what they have to learn—and they do this irrespective of the spe-cific content of the curriculum. Other versions of hidden curriculum the-ory talk more optimistically about acquiring norms of universalism,cooperation, or objectivity. But the central message is the same: curricularoutcomes are, at best, probabilistically related to curriculum plans. In theother direction, if we take the position that the curriculum is a more or lessefficient means of producing effects, then planning becomes not only pos-sible but the key to the whole enterprise.

Secondly, we could differ over the question of whether the planning ofthe curriculum should be aimed at producing effects of a general or a pre-cise nature. General effects are those that can be described in only a veryapproximate way. For example, it has been claimed that “modernity” is aneffect of curriculum—meaning a disposition to think and act in ways con-sonant with the norms of a literate society, where roles and tasks are orga-nized and performed according to uniform criteria. Precise effects arethose that can be described and tested according to tight definitions—forexample, the ability to solve equations of a particular type. The contrastbetween general and precise effects is not the same as that between affec-tive and cognitive. Understanding of what algebra is and how, in a generalway, it can be used, would be an example of a general cognitive effect.

A third dimension of disagreement will be the question of whether, ifcurricula can be effectively planned, they should be planned to produceoutcomes that are for the benefit of the individual, of some sector of soci-ety, or of society as a whole. Statements that curriculum should be directedto the development of the whole person imply that the individual is themain, though not necessarily the only, beneficiary. On the other hand, wealso encounter claims that the curriculum should be designed to benefit,



in a general way, some interest deemed to be of national or universalimportance. Today, we hear frequent pleas, in Great Britain and in NorthAmerica, for curricula to be planned to maximize the availability of skillsand knowledge needed in industry and commerce. Equally, priority couldbe given to curricular outcomes thought to be usable throughout societygenerally. These might, for example, be targeted on the skills and knowl-edge required for the exercise of democratic citizenship.

Thinking about curriculum effects helps us to pin down our position onwhat curriculum does and, therefore, what kind of theory we should bringto the performance of its practical tasks. However, we frequently encounterinstances where proposals about what effects curriculum should produceare unrelated to any conception of what it does. Calls from governmentsand state boards for schools to be made more accountable, or for achieve-ment to be monitored, usually boil down to schemes for measuring what ismeasurable. But they are seldom, if ever, related to any investigation intoquestions of whether what is measurable is actually a curricular effect or, ifit is, how curriculum can be designed to produce it.

This is, however, understandable since, as we have seen, the historicalcharacter of curriculum is such that belief in its ability to produce preciseeffects seems unavoidable. It was inherent in the concept of curriculumfrom its earliest development that it was structured, that it was sequenced,and that it was complete. Curriculum partook of a Cartesian worldviewwhere a universe with specifiable structure moved through a sequence ofstates linked by cause and effect. The curriculum itself was a piece of thisuniversal machine. It presented knowledge as rational, ordered, andimpersonal. This was the achievement of the textbook which was, and stillis, in spite of modern innovations, the centerpiece of the curriculum enter-prise. The printed textbook was radically different from the manually cop-ied text. Texts were idiosyncratic, in no defined relationship to oneanother, and intensely personal. To read a text was to engage an author ina relationship of contest, partnership, or discipleship. Texts were partisan,obscure, illuminating. Also their availability was often a matter of accident.The idea of completion is hard to associate with the study of texts. With thetextbook, we enter an entirely different world. The textbook offers anauthoritative selection of knowledge and experience within a field that itdefines. Curriculum is authoritative because of its claims to rationality, andthis authority, in turn, becomes a guarantee of that rationality. Learningmight deal in texts, but curriculum transcends texts by creating subjectsand topics. Texts are then edited, summarized, or dismembered to providethe materials of which these curricular topics consist. Compilers of text-books assume a greater authority than text writers, since they alone areguardians of topics. In that role, they certify what is canonical to topics,and then sift and select according to a sequence based on chronology,



complexity, or concatenation. Completion of the sequence by a studentmarks the point at which a topic has been “mastered.” Thus, it appears thatcurriculum, by being rational and ordered as a cause, must produce ratio-nal and ordered effects. Examination of modern computerized learningprograms could yield a similar analysis.

The rational character of curriculum was further strengthened when itwas allied to national systems of education. The orderly nature of the cur-riculum was then matched to orderly, hierarchical structures of schooling.Curriculum sequence was paralleled by progressions of age-related gradesand classes, and levels of curriculum by types and stages of education. Andall of this was backed by the highest political authority. The fully articulatedcurriculum matched the forms and structures of actual organizations, suchas schools, to abstract but widely shared and understood categories consist-ing of curricular topics, roles, and statuses.2 Thus the proposition that weshould establish precise objectives for the third grade arithmetic curricu-lum, design sequenced materials based on these objectives, and devise test-ing procedures to measure the degree to which the objectives had beenachieved, seemed to be a totally real task. It simply demanded the deploy-ment of requisite skills, together with the setting up of support systems todeal with any problems encountered. These would be operating difficultiescaused by deficiencies in the realization of the plan, and not the result ofinherent flaws in the notion that such a plan is entirely feasible. Similarly, agreat deal of curriculum research makes the same kind of assumption. Themost striking example of this is that the literature is full of studies of learn-ing, while there are virtually no studies of forgetting. Yet common senseand personal experience tell us that most of the precise knowledge that thecurriculum is supposed to teach is either not learned, not properly under-stood, eventually forgotten, or immediately forgotten. The English havelaughed for years over the account given in 1066 And All That (Sellar &Yeatman, 1930) of the half-remembered bits and pieces of history that theycarry around with them. They laugh because it is true. Apart from scholarsin the subject (and they are usually expert only in one or two special areas)hardly anyone has any clear recollection of what they were supposed tolearn from the history curriculum. Politicians and the press continuallyshock us with revelations that two-thirds of 17-year-old Americans are inca-pable of placing the Civil War in the correct half-century, or that Britishstudents are unable to say who was prime minister during World War II.One-half of us thinks that this is appalling: the other half realizes that it isquite normal and predictable. The abstract common sense that knows that

2. I have elaborated the idea of curricular categories in “Strange Curricula: Ori-gins and Development of the Institutional Categories of Schooling,” Journal ofCurriculum Studies, 22 (3) 1990, pp. 203–216.



the curriculum is a cause, and that knowledge is its effect, collides withrealistic common sense that tells us that such causes and effects are relatedin a rather loose and unpredictable way.

However, we can believe that rationality is an important and necessarycharacteristic of curriculum as an institution, without also assuming thatthis rationality is fully carried through into the real world of classrooms;that is, to the place where, as I have suggested, the interface between thepublic and private roles of curriculum has to be managed. This I take to bethe position adopted by Hirsch (1988) in his well-known writings on cul-tural literacy.3 On the one hand, Hirsch supports and believes in the ideathat curriculum should order topical content in a rational way in the inter-ests of inducting children into a citizenship defined by a common culture:that education should not be content free or leave matters such as contentto chance. On the other hand, he suggests that the most important imme-diate outcome of the curriculum is not thoroughly remembered preciseknowledge, but familiarity with the names and ideas that map this commonculture. (The familiarity may be quite superficial. Hirsch infers, realisti-cally, that though we should all “know about” Das Kapital, hardly anyonehas read it.) On the basis of familiarity with names and ideas, more well-defined and apparently more fundamental curriculum goals, such as theacquisition of skill in reading, become possible. This idea can be extendedinto areas of specialist curriculum content. Subjects such as history andchemistry also have their own particular cultures and modes of discourse.Familiarity with these may be more important than an ability to reproducefacts and theories. It both speeds up the process of learning at the pointwhen information needs to be retained, and also instills confidence thatsuch learning tasks can be successfully confronted.

Hirsch has serious things to say about curriculum, and deserves atten-tion from anyone who takes curriculum seriously. In saying this, I am notexpressing support for the Hirsch industry that grew up around his work.This is just another example of a propensity to try to turn partial truths intothe whole truth as a way of answering curriculum problems.

These kinds of thoughts about the nature of curricular effects comefrom two directions. One is reflection on the practical circumstances ofschools and classrooms. Though they give the appearance, for some pur-poses, of being rational places, those who work in them know that they arenot. This kind of knowledge by itself, however, does not necessarily lead toproductive thinking about how the rational institution of the curriculumcan nevertheless take its place in classrooms without being absurd or

3. Though he is impressed by articles in Newsweek and The Wall Street Journal about“the surprising ignorance of the young,” Hirsch (1988) holds that “the infor-mation essential to literacy is rarely detailed or precise” (p. 14).



redundant. Hirsch (1988), for example, points to the deficiencies of the“shopping mall curriculum” (Powell, Farrar, & Cohen, 1985) as an attemptto cater to the idiosyncracies of schools, students, and teachers, concludingthat “it would be hard to invent a more effective recipe for cultural frag-mentation” (Hirsch, 1988, p. 21).

The other kind of thinking about curricular effects that needs to go onis thinking about what it might mean for curriculum to be a public institu-tion. Hirsch (1988) has his answer to this too: (a) human group must haveeffective communications to function effectively … effective communica-tions require shared culture, and … shared culture requires transmissionof specific information to children” (p. xvii).4 The public character of cur-riculum is matched to a conception of the public character of humanlearning. Other answers could, of course, be given. The point is that unlesswe hold some well-articulated position on the potential of curriculum as asocietal resource, notions of how to match its rational nature to the objec-tive circumstances of classrooms are merely opportunistic. This is the short-coming of an exclusive focus on practice, which tends to lead tooperationalism. Similarly, to represent curriculum as a private matter, onlyvaguely dependent on decisions about what should be taught in schools, isalso neglectful of aspects of its nature that are essential to an understand-ing of the effects it might be expected to produce. On the other hand, it isequally clear that an exclusive focus on institution is hardly more helpful.The literature of curriculum is full of accounts of disappointments result-ing from a propensity to see curriculum planning as a matter of curriculumengineering, where some account is taken of the material to which engi-neering procedures are to be applied, but the basic assumption is that themachine is properly adapted to the production of precise effects.

These are the kinds of arguments that can be mounted as a result of pay-ing attention to the intertwined history of curriculum as institution andcurriculum as practice, and relating it to questions of what effects a curric-ulum could, or should, produce. But, assuming that effects are possible,even if precision cannot be guaranteed, and that they can be specified andplanned for in some way, if not the highly rational way that has commonlybeen claimed as proper to curriculum, for whom should they be benefi-cial? To answer this question, we must make a further excursion into thenature of institutions, this time to enquire into ways in which the relationsof institutions and persons can be conceptualized.

4. Clearly, Hirsch does not equate “specific” with “precise.” Presumably, I am fol-lowing similar usage in understanding specific to mean “specifiable in somestraightforward way,” while taking precise to mean “to be precisely learned.”



INSTITUTIONS AND THE PERSON

Consideration of curriculum effects is one way of giving shape to the con-ception of education that we think should underpin curriculum activity.Another is to ask what kind of a person the curriculum is intended to pro-duce. The answer given by those who see the curriculum as an institutiondedicated to the efficient teaching of skills and knowledge is that a personwho has experienced the curriculum is different from one who has not,simply in respect of knowing and being able to do things that were notknown and doable before. If it is urged that the curriculum should alsohave affective goals, then the answer is to work within the same set of pre-suppositions, this time specifying, for example, an attitude—respect for theenvironment, perhaps—which is to be added in the way that more skills orinformation are added. The question of who benefits from this is almostirrelevant. Arguments are made about whether this or that skill or piece ofknowledge should be available as part of a curriculum, whether a curricu-lum should be for all or for some, and whether following it should be amatter of choice or not. People are bearers of skills and knowledge and thequestions that have to be decided are about what kind of a stock of skillsand knowledge should exist. Making decisions on curriculum content israther like making decisions about how many doctors, or lawyers, oraccountants we need. What kind of knowledge is needed about economics?How should it be distributed? Should everyone carry a little bit of it, orshould it be concentrated with a few people? How do we measure upknowledge about economics against knowledge about literature? If someof that can be argued for, then it is added in on the same basis.

A different view of the person would be held by those who center theirattention on curriculum as practice. Practitioners deal with whole people.The overall effect of the curriculum should be to produce a person whosecharacter reflects professional ideals or standards. The professional shieldsthe client from the propensity of the institution to homogenize, regularize,or objectify learning. As I explained elsewhere,

The grounds on which arguments (about education) can be mounted maybe categorized as, on the one hand, virtuous and appealing to situationalknowledge, or, on the other, rational and appealing to specialized knowl-edge. Virtuous grounds are grounds of principle, tradition, and authority.Rational grounds are grounds of pragmatism, modernism, and research.(Reid, 1987, p. 13)

Curriculum practice in the school depends on situational knowledge,that is, knowledge of individuals in particular contexts. This kind of knowl-edge uses language appropriate to the discussion of whole people. Curricu-lum discourse in schools seldom finds difficulty in using the language of



virtue—there is talk about what is good or bad, about excellence, persever-ance, honesty, and responsibility. What comes less easily is the language ofrationalism and efficiency. School people learn to speak it, but not alwayswith great conviction. Sometimes, however, as Hirsch points out, profes-sional concern can lean a little too far towards the individual. Programscan be drained of substance by committed educators who fail to preservedistance from the client, strive too hard to preserve students from institu-tional demands, and end up by giving them the exclusive right to deter-mine what kinds of people they will be—these are educators who approachpractice operationally, rather than in a spirit of problematic inquiry. Theshortcoming of this approach is that the students’ vision of who they mightbe is limited. It could be one of the functions of the curriculum to broadenit, so that the answer to the question of what kind of a person the curricu-lum will produce is that it will be a person who not only knows things andcan do things, but has capacities for entering into a variety of interests andactivities, some of which are as yet unknown. These capacities depend onthe experience of the curriculum as not only personal, but also institu-tional. This is the character that many professional educators intendshould be the result of curricular experience.

What kind of a curriculum could produce such a result? Debate aboutthat has traditionally centered around the concept of liberal education.While many different proposals have been and are still being made abouthow the aims of liberal education might be realized through the curricu-lum of schooling, the core of ideas on which these proposals have beenbased has remained constant.

THE IDEA OF A LIBERAL EDUCATION

The work of the liberal curriculum is centered on conceptions of what theperson who has experienced the curriculum should be like, without anynecessary focus on particular skills or knowledge—though a given pro-posal for a liberal curriculum will inevitably attach significance to somekinds of specific learning. The key conception in describing effects ischaracter. The character envisaged as resulting from a curriculum of lib-eral education is one that is at home in public as well as private arenas,that can flourish in institutional surroundings as well as in domestic ones,and that understands how the two are different, yet intimately related.What this means in practice is, of course, dependent on the nature andstate of the society in which this character is to be developed and exer-cised. Throughout its long history, the idea of liberal education has under-gone substantial change in terms of the ends to which it has been directedand the content that has been thought appropriate to those ends. Rothb-



latt (1976), for example, in his account of the history of liberal educationin England, points to the contrast between its aim in the 18th century,which was to render men and women “sociable, tolerant, and broad-minded in situations where also every encouragement was given to thepursuit of personal advantage” (p. 102), and its aim in the 19th century,which was to produce leaders

who grasped the magnitude of the problems before them and by an effort ofthe speculative imagination, based on a solid understanding of the meaningof industrialism in the context of world history, would be able to give the tur-bulent society a proper sense of its character and mission. (p. 154)

The problems of the management of public and private arenas were dif-ferent in the two epochs and demanded different kinds of education, notjust in content, but also in style. In the earlier time, the ends of liberal edu-cation were achieved through personal reading, travel, and the cultivationof sociable and learned companions. In the later period, they wereachieved through a classical curriculum tied to the universities and theleading schools.

Rothblatt’s examples raise a number of key issues about the nature ofliberal education and the liberal curriculum. First of all, since the ends ofliberal education are expressed in terms of desirable characters (and of thevirtues that define those characters), it is not possible to describe them pre-cisely. The aims of the liberal curriculum will be general in nature. Theywill be stated much more in the language of aspiration than the languageof clear objectives. Secondly, since the test of character is to be found inaction, these aims will be concerned primarily with the exercise of practicaljudgment as opposed to the possession of knowledge and skill. If educa-tional aims are related not to the acquisition of knowledge per se but toapplications of knowledge, then evidence of achievement will depend onthe ability of those who have followed the curriculum to judge when partic-ular kinds of knowledge are relevant, or irrelevant, or when they need tobe sought out, modified, or adapted in particular circumstances. Evidenceof this sort can only be found externally to the curriculum. Thirdly, charac-ter will be seen as depending not just on a curriculum—meaning orderedselections of content—but on the institutional contexts within which thecurriculum is taught. The structures of schooling, viewed as social andtechnical systems, are intrinsically part of a curriculum when it is thoughtof as a means of realizing aims expressed in terms of character. As Rothb-latt points out, there has been no fixed idea about where the liberal educa-tion should be conducted. It has been experienced in aristocratichouseholds and on the grand tour as well as in schools and colleges. But ithas always been held that place is important, not simply for the pedagogic



resources that it contains, but also as something that shapes the educa-tional experience, since it links it to the experience of other people, othermilieus, and other institutions. The single large schoolroom continued toprovide the context of learning in the great English schools of the 19thcentury, not because it was more efficient or effective than classrooms,which were elsewhere firmly established, but because the schoolroom wasseen as a microcosm of larger institutions, such as Parliament and the lawcourts, where the practical realization of the schools’ educational aimswould be tested (Reid, 1985).

Since content is only part of the resource that will be deployed in pur-suit of the ends of a liberal education, decisions about content can rest asmuch on arguments that conceive of it as means as on those that think of itas ends. If what is critical is how content is treated, then content can bechosen on the basis of what it is good to be learning without reference tofuture utility. There is a hint of this in the proposals of Hirsch to which Ihave referred. A lot of the things he wants us to know about are goods inthemselves. Familiarity with cultural icons—with Beethoven, Billy the Kid,and Bunker Hill—is intrinsically worthwhile. It also turns out that suchfamiliarity serves as means as well as end, since it provides an entry intoworlds of reward and achievement that are otherwise hard of access.

THE CIVIC INTEREST AND SPECIAL INTERESTS

The liberal curriculum has always been based on a conception of the civicinterest, and this has been seen as general, and not special. Historically, ithas had the appearance of a special interest because the liberal curriculumhas been offered to a minority of students, and these have tended tobelong to a particular class of society. This limitation has been a matter ofopportunity, and, in any case, if the liberal curriculum has been special to aclass, it has not been specialized in the sense of catering for particularcareers. In the 19th century, some of the leading English secondary schoolswere set up in response to the opening up of professions—particularly thearmy and the civil service—to competitive entry. But the character of theircurriculum remained steadfastly general.5 More modern proposals for aliberal curriculum assume that the need and the opportunity exist to makeit available without restriction: in Hutchins’ (1954) succinct phrase,“democracy requires liberal education for all” (p. 7). This is the tenor of

5. The most clear-cut case of this was Wellington College, set up to be a memorialto the Duke of Wellington and to prepare the sons of army officers for a mili-tary career. The first head allowed no compromise with the established classi-cal curriculum (See Newsome, 1961).



much thinking on the American secondary curriculum. In “A Nation atRisk” (U.S. Department of Education, 1983) we read: “our recommenda-tions are based on the beliefs that everyone can learn (and) that a solidhigh school education is within the reach of virtually all” (p. 10). Many ofthe more detailed schemes which came forward in the wake of “A Nation atRisk”—such as Adler’s (1982) Paideia Proposal—emphasize the importanceof general learning and oppose schemes of differentiation of students. Lib-eral education does not sit well with claims that some particular interestshould dominate the school curriculum. The fundamental assumption ofmost liberal educators is that foundations for learning are laid down by acore curriculum drawing on the culture of society as whole—a curriculumthat recognizes what I have called a “civic interest.” This curriculum notonly reflects the character of the public life around which the governmentand organization of the society revolve, but derives from the public realmthe materials that furnish its content. These provide a general preparationfor careers that will only later be the occasion of specialist preparation.

The notion that schools should cater for special interests is more com-fortably accommodated to a systematic conception of what the curriculumis. Claims such as those currently being made in England that schoolsshould prepare students for vocational qualifications run counter to theprinciples of general liberal education, though government ministersappear to believe that they are reconcilable. One was quoted as saying“instead of trying to broaden (the curriculum) to include everybody, weshould be concentrating on raising the status of vocational qualifications”(Eggar, 1990, p. 5). This is tenable if it is associated with the rationalistapproach to curriculum planning that was dominant in many Americanschool districts in the 1920s under the influence of theorists such as Cub-berley and Bobbitt. This has the merit of being thoroughgoing in itsattempt to link curriculum to careers and to “life skills.” If Bobbitt’s (1918)premises are accepted, his logic is impeccable:

Human life, however varied, consists in the performance of specific activities.Education that prepares for life is one that prepares definitely and ade-quately for these specific activities. However numerous and diverse they maybe for any social class, they can be discovered. This requires only that one goout into the world of affairs and discover the particulars of which these affairsconsist. These will show the abilities, attitudes, habits, appreciations andforms of knowledge that men need. These will be the objectives of the curric-ulum. They will be numerous, definite and particularized. The curriculumwill then be that series of experiences which childhood and youth must haveby way of attaining those objectives. (p. 42)

Here we have an uncompromising statement of a way of defining thepublic interest that views it as the sum of many special interests. The num-



ber of these special interests is so large that it is a practical impossibility forstudents to experience a curriculum made up of the total set of abilities,attitudes, habits, appreciations, and forms of knowledge that anyone mightneed, and therefore selection is necessary. Some interests must predomi-nate, or, alternatively, judgments have to be made about the future destina-tions of students, and curricula devised that are matched to thosepredictions. Current U.K. Government policies accept both possibilities.Vocational interests should be paramount, but should influence only thecurriculum of those not deemed suitable to follow the liberal, academiccurriculum. The same minister explained that “we must have two parallelstreams—the vocational and the academic—from half-way through the sec-ondary school so that children can concentrate on what interests them”(Eggar, 1990, p. 5). Curiously, the argument is turned around so that thejustification for allowing a special interest to determine the curriculum isexpressed in terms of the personal interest of students.

PHILOSOPHIES OF SCHOOLING ANDPERSPECTIVES ON THE CURRICULUM

In Chapter 1 we examined four basic curriculum perspectives. We can nowrelate these to the fundamental positions on the nature and purpose ofschooling that they imply. In choosing the one, we also choose the other.How we see curriculum is a function of how we see schooling. We may dis-cover that how we think about the one in some way contradicts our think-ing on the other. This often comes about because of the separation thathas occurred between institutional and organizational aspects of curricu-lum. The rational, Cartesian image of curriculum tends, for historical rea-sons, to dominate our thinking, either in a positive or a negative sense. Wego along with some version of the Bobbitt view of curriculum—that we canarrive by logical processes at the particulars of which it should consist, andthat the learning of these will be a straightforward effect of causal pro-cesses set in train by curriculum planning; or, finding this distasteful, wesupport the individual interest against the planners who want to subordi-nate us to their rational machine—what has been referred to as the “peda-gogical juggernaut”; or we support the premise that there could be arational curriculum, but think that this could only come about after a fun-damental revolution in public institutions, which we see as oppressive intheir current manifestations. All of these views are dominated, in some way,by an abstract conception of what curriculum is. Often our practical expe-rience of curriculum as part of life lived as members of educational organi-zations tells a different story. As teachers, we know that our rational plansfor the curriculum are only rather tangentially related to positive and



rewarding activity in classrooms; as students, we know that the individualmind can gain sustenance from this activity while maintaining a lively inde-pendence; as parents, we commit children to schools in spite of our con-demnation of them as instruments of capitalist oppression.

When we decide what, in our opinion, curriculum does, we should focusnot just on curriculum as institution, but also on curriculum as organiza-tion. With that as background to our thinking, do we deny legitimacy to theidea that curriculum could represent the public interest, either in the formof a service that individuals cannot supply for themselves, or as providingaccess to a civic realm that is a source of necessary experience? If so, do wedo this in the belief that individual interests are paramount (or that thepublic interest amounts to no more than the sum of individual interests),or in the belief that society, as currently constituted, embodies harmful val-ues that should not be propagated through school curricula? In the firstinstance, the question of how we view curricular effects is not of great con-sequence. The issue is about control over sources of learning. The processof self-discovery is hindered by subservience to agendas proposed by oth-ers, whatever the means by which they are proposed or planned. Even ifcurriculum could be designed to achieve precise effects, this should not bedone since the projected outcomes would represent a general interest, orspecialized interests, and not the unique interests of individuals. If schoolsare needed at all, they should be places where opportunities are offeredfor students to engage in personal learning. Moreover, since there are noexternal criteria of success for personal learning, there is little incentive todevelop an account of how theory is translated into action. Learningbecomes a personal experiment whose practice is operationally deter-mined. Ways of understanding curricular experience are equally unspecifi-able. All kinds of possibilities must be admitted.

In the second case, important curricular effects are understood to begeneral and uncontrolled, and therefore either the result of functionaloperations of the social system (the view put forward by Bourdieu and Pas-seron (1970) in La Réproduction), or, as Apple (1979) explains, controlledin ways that are not readily visible:

The individuals who first called themselves curriculists were vitally concernedwith social control for ideological reasons … These men were strongly influ-enced by the scientific management movement and by the work of social mea-surement specialists … thus they brought social control into the very heart ofthe field whose task it was to develop criteria for selecting those meaningswith which students would come into contact in our schools. (p. 47)

But whether the issue is seen as about voluntary or involuntary control ofcurricular effects, this kind of analysis demands that an overall view be takenof the nature of effects and of the means by which they are produced. In its



adherence to an overarching conception that sustains its theory of effects,the radical critique is similar to the perspective of the adherents of the sci-entific management movement who might seem to be its natural oppo-nents. It is also similar to this perspective in that understanding of theconnection between theory and practice is confined to an initiated group,in this case consisting of those who accept the ideological premises of thedialectical account of how theory and practice are interrelated.

But we might take a contrary view, and see the curriculum as somethingthat produces precise, predetermined effects in the form of acquired skillsand knowledge. Do we then also see what it does as the provider of a publicservice? In that case, we take our stand on the idea that social action can beunderstood within the terms of a concept of rational planning, and thatthe planner should work within a framework defined by social institutions.This defines a systematic approach to curriculum, which sees the theory/practice question as being about the creation of a science of human action,an activity that will be undertaken by technical experts.

Finally, while supporting the institutional view of social action, we maychoose to adopt a much broader conception of what the curriculum does.Its effects are somewhat predetermined, but not entirely predictablebecause they are dependent on context as well as content. They are notespecially precise and are to be understood more as relating to the generalcharacter of students than to their specific skill and knowledge. Curricu-lum is seen as more than a public service. It reflects a conception of a civicinterest that is itself the arena for the determination of priorities and meth-ods for social action. This requires us to believe that while on the one handcurricular effects are the result of its character as a public institution, thecreation and development of that character entails action of a more com-plex nature than can be summed up within a formal conception of plan-ning. If this is our position, then we will adopt a deliberative approach. Forus, the theory/practice question will be answered through processes ofinquiry that draw upon the widest possible representations of interest andknowledge in order to deal with the uncertain problems of how curriculumcan represent the civic interest.

This is the kind of perspective that, I believe, best responds to the curric-ulum problems that we currently face. In the second part of this book I willexplain more fully why I think that is so, and elaborate, through consider-ation of the commonplaces, a deliberative perspective on the curriculum.CH04—62


63


Part II

A DELIBERATIVE PERSPECTIVE

“You will be teaching technical drawing and light craft.” Not an ideal mes-sage for someone whose academic qualifications were in modern andmedieval languages. But I needed a job close to home, and the post of“general subjects teacher” at the local school was the only one on offer.This was England in the 1950s, and the school where I was to teach was oneof those where 11 year-olds who did not pass the entry examination to agrammar school were sent. Only rarely were language courses provided,and often there was no science teaching.

Technical drawing was not too much of a problem. My father had beena mechanical engineer and had given me some insight into that. But“Light Craft”? What could I do in those classes? After some thought, Idecided, for technical reasons, on basket work. The only problem was thatI knew nothing about it. This, however, turned out to be of great benefitin shaping my understanding of teaching and curriculum. Though it wasnot a word I would then have used, I and my students, from day one, hadto engage in deliberation.

How are we going to organize ourselves? Some decided to work on theirown, some in pairs. What are we going to make? Some decided on baskets,some on trays, some on boxes, some on ornaments. How are we going toset about it? Some questions of that sort we could talk about as a class,some in sub-groups, some on an individual basis. And always there wereexamples to look at, discoveries to be shared. The classroom was a happyplace—and also a productive one. At the end of the semester my studentsentered some of their work in the local town show and won all three prizes.


64 Part II: A Deliberative Perspective

What had seemed like an unpromising situation had turned out to be anextremely beneficial one. When I moved to a grammar school andengaged in language teaching, I understood that there was more to curric-ulum than content, instruction, and assessment. And I had also developeda curiosity about what exactly this thing called “curriculum” was.

Coincidentally, concern about such matters was emerging on a widerstage in both the UK and the U.S., and, toward the end of the ’60s, I wasable to move into government-funded curriculum research at the Univer-sity of Birmingham. There it was that I picked up a copy of School Reviewand encountered, in an article by Joseph Schwab, the word “deliberation.”

Schwab’s background was very different from mine, but, as I read his“Practical” papers, I felt an empathy with what he was saying, even if myunderstanding of it was deficient. Over the next ten years I engaged withSchwab’s thinking both in order to enhance my appreciation of it, and touse it as means of developing my own ideas. Then, in 1978, the collectionof his works edited by Westbury and Wilkof appeared, and a symposiumaround it was planned for the 1979 AERA meeting in San Francisco whichSchwab would attend. My contribution was a paper entitled “Thoughts onthe concept of liberal education in the writings of Schwab” (Reid, 1980).Only brief presentations were possible at the symposium, so, ahead of pub-lication, I sent a copy of the full, revised paper for him to comment on.Had I understood him? His reply could not have been more encouraging:“You read me, as electronic lingo has it. No quarrels.”

The “deliberation” between Schwab and myself launched by that letter wasto continue for many years (Reid, 1999b). It could have continued indefi-nitely. The ideas to which the notion of “deliberation” is a key are not finallyresolvable, because their subject matter is social processes, and social pro-cesses are always in a state of flux and development. Moreover, they areembedded in the experience of individuals and this is always unique. My con-cept of deliberation could never be the same as Schwab’s because our back-grounds were different and the priorities of our concerns were different.

Schwab’s focus was on liberal education, and on the development of prac-tice through personal discussion; mine was on wider educational aims, andon understanding curriculum as a public institution. My most importantconcern, however, was, and remains with the question of how these twinaspects of curriculum—curriculum as practice and curriculum as institu-tion—can be reconciled. This dilemma, I believe, is at the root of much ofthe concern about curriculum which has been evidenced by commissions,reports, and initiatives in both the United States and Great Britain in recentyears. And this is the thought that I pursue in my epilogue, where I attemptto trace out the implications of a deliberative perspective for our under-standing of current controversies over what should be taught in schools.PT02—64


65


THE CASE FOR A DELIBERATIVE PERSPECTIVE

In Part One, I mapped out a number of perspectives on the curriculum,suggested what might be their strengths and weaknesses, and linked themto philosophies of social action. As the field of social action is one in whichthere will never be agreement, either on theoretical premises or on practi-cal actions, I am not going to make a claim that any one perspective shouldpredominate. It is for everyone to make their own judgments on matters ofthis sort. Neither do I claim that any of the perspectives I have talked aboutexists in one pure form. Even if people incline strongly toward one per-spective rather than another, they will, consciously or otherwise, developtheir own form of it. That is why I have called this part of the book “ADeliberative Perspective” and not “The Deliberative Perspective.” We cantalk about what kinds of terrain might be home to one perspective oranother, but we cannot pinpoint them on the map with total precision andoutlaw them elsewhere. I have evolved my own views, which I think of as“deliberative” in character—certainly not systematic, radical, or existential,though there are overlaps with those positions—and which I would notexpect to be identical to those of others acknowledging the same label.There could, indeed, be points on which we were in sharp disagreement.In this respect, I see curriculum as being somewhat like politics. Peopleshare enough in common to belong to parties that they call Republican orDemocratic, or Labour and Conservative, but within those parties debategoes on about principles and issues, and about how thought might be mod-

CHAPTER 5



ified by action, or action by thought. Even insofar as they represent a con-sensus view, parties are not fixed in character. How they behave at anygiven moment is a function both of their histories and of the fortunes oftheir competitors. They may be confident or defensive, fixed in their posi-tions or open to change, clear in their plan of action or perplexed aboutwhat course to pursue.

When Pinar, in 1975, launched his manifesto for existential and radicalapproaches to curriculum under the banner of reconceptualism, his visionof the destiny of the new party was almost biblical in its depiction of theimminent victory of enlightenment over reaction: the short-sighted schoolof traditional curriculum writing, which set out to bind practitioners to thewill of administrators, had been unmasked; the newly arrived school ofconceptual empiricists, which pretended to objective investigation of cur-ricular phenomena but was secretly preoccupied with prediction and con-trol, would itself shortly be eclipsed by the reconceptualists who weresetting out to “understand the nature of educational experience” (pp.xi–xiv). Behind the rather inflated language is a serious thought: one wayin which curriculum is a bit like politics is that there are occasions whenbalances need to be redressed, when the issues that one perspective wasgood at addressing are no longer current, or when ideas drop out of fash-ion or cease to make an impact on policy and practice. There was a strongsense in the mid 1970s that the systematic approach had been overdone,not only in curriculum but in matters of public policy generally. The workof radicals and existentialists redressed the balance. They taught studentsof curriculum on the one hand to look deeper into the premises uponwhich the institutional enterprise of curriculum was operating, and on theother to address themselves to the interests of the individual who was toooften merely material for systematizing bureaucrats. But how good weretheir diagnoses of what seemed to be an all-pervasive problem? And if thediagnoses were accurate, what did they offer in the way of remedies?

The diagnoses were limited. In the case of the radicals, they were limitedby the a priori assumption that an all-purpose framework of analysis,embraced in advance of research into the facts, was correct. We have to sus-pect that social systems are a good deal more complicated than any theorythat attempts to describe or explain them. In the 1990s we were inundatedwith evidence from the collapsing economies of Marxist states that this wasso. In the case of the existentialists, on the other hand, the limitation in thediagnosis came not from any lack of eclecticism in trying out explanatorytheories, but from a total neglect of half the problem. Action to improvethe curriculum has to address not only the question of how it affects theindividual but also the question of how it is to be understood as an institu-tion. Thus the diagnoses had their limitations, but the remedies were evenmore limited. Pursuing the radical critique, or raising individual conscious-


The Case for a Deliberative Perspective 67

ness, proved (as they still do) highly attractive to practitioners of these arts,but had little impact on the system that initially provoked these initiatives.Meanwhile, untouched by what was happening in private realms, in thepublic arena the systematizers, far from weakening, bounced back to newheights of influence and ambition as they allied themselves with the neo-conservative movements of the 1980s. When politicians in North America,Great Britain, and Australasia identified education as a crisis area thatshould be at the top of their agendas, it was not to reconceptualist thinkingthat they turned to find out how education should be rescued; on the con-trary, the language of crisis deployed in nationally promoted reports, suchas “A Nation at Risk” (U.S. Department of Education, 1983), became a cuefor remedies associated with the systematizers; for returns to the basics, formore testing, for greater central control of curriculum, for modelingschools on a conception of industrial efficiency reminiscent of the tenets ofthe scientific management movement of the early 20th century. That thishas been able to happen is due to a variety of causes, but one of them hasbeen the lack, on the part of the educational community, of a counterposi-tion from which to promote alternative proposals. This may not be themost important reason for the easy ride that reactionary policies on curric-ulum have had in many countries in recent years, but it is the one to whichcurriculum theorists and practitioners should pay attention, as it is the oneover which they have some control.

The success of neoconservative political movements through the 1980sshowed the power of ideas. If there is any comfort in the story, it is that weshould not be tempted to believe that curriculum policy is something overwhich curriculum theorists and practitioners can have no influence. Butthe other part of the lesson is that, for ideas to capture public support, theyhave to reflect a public interest. Translated into curriculum terms, thismeans that proposals for what might be done should recognize andrespond to the idea that curriculum is not just a possession of individualsbut a possession of communities, and that there is a persistent issue under-lying all curriculum making about its role in sustaining a valued institution.Neoconservative policies gained strength from promoting the idea of thepublic interest as being served by institutions that were efficient and effec-tive because they were under the control of the market. In some ways, as ininstances of privatization in Great Britain, and deregulation in the UnitedStates, this was real. In others, as in some aspects of educational policy, itwas a cover for the pursuit of ideological ends; it is hard, for example, tosee the promotion of a National Curriculum in English schools, or thecampaign to introduce prayer into American schools, as initiatives thatwere driven by markets. But the central point stands: the idea of a publicinterest represented by a move to make institutions responsive to markets



was able to capture substantial support. What response could theorists andpractitioners of curriculum make to this powerful idea?

Those whose perspective was basically systematic could find scope forthe deployment of their skills in building schemes for testing and account-ability, in entering into investigations of teacher preparation, merit pay,reform of school and school district finance, and so on. In many cases,their intervention was directed against the cruder effects of market-ori-ented initiatives. In Great Britain, professional expertise in testing wasapplied to reduce the negative impact of government proposals on schoolsand classrooms. Unfortunately, this work has now been overturned andministers are dictating what form national tests, to be applied from the ageof seven onwards, will take. Nevertheless, ideas about appropriate ways oftranslating policy into practice have at least been kept alive. However, thereare limitations to what can be achieved by a perspective that offers no firmground on which to stand against ideological, neoconservative conceptionsof the public interest. The systematic perspective has a part to play in themaking of curriculum, but its own assumptions about the nature of institu-tions is very much of the same kind as that now being promoted by govern-ments around the world: that institutions are public services, whoseoutputs must be measured in terms of efficiency, and that this is achievedby arranging for their activities to be driven by market forces. This beingthe case, its argument with government is about means rather than ends. Ifthe public interest is to be identified with the molding of services to thedictates of rather simple measures of efficiency, then perhaps those outsidecurriculum have as much claim to dictate policy as those on the inside.

But if we think that institutions are so irretrievably flawed that we canonly wait upon their collapse, or that they are of so little concern com-pared to our own personal ambitions that we have no need to think abouthow they could or should contribute to a public interest, then we have noposition at all from which to engage the proponents of the new efficiencymovement. This is not just a problem for theorists. It is also the case thatpractitioners, those who teach and administer curriculum, have beenunable to argue for alternatives. Teacher beliefs have been labeled as justthat—simply beliefs, which have no credibility in the face of the rationaliza-tions of those who press for greater efficiency and accountability, or forincreased centralization and standardization of the curriculum. Radicaland existential perspectives offer the strengths of theory, scholarship, andresearch, but these turn out to be weaknesses when all they can pit againstpolicies that claim to improve efficiency and achievement are argumentsabout the hegemony of institutions or the consciousness of the individual.Who can argue against the promise of value for money, against letting mar-kets decide what kinds of schools people really want, against curricula thatopen the way to jobs and careers, on the basis of personal distaste for insti-



tutions? Even if we are not ourselves interested in value for money, or infree markets, or in the prospect of economic advancement, who are we todeny them to others? The only basis on which a counter-position can bebuilt is that we accept the institutional character of curriculum, but that weargue for a view of institutions that sees them as existing to reflect and pro-mote a civic interest rather than to organize and market a public service.This is where, in my view, there is a current need for a balance to beredressed, and this is the basis of my case for a deliberative perspective.The arts of deliberation are founded on the idea that a public interestexists, that it is important for the theory and practice of curriculum thatthis interest should be recognized, and that a major part of curriculumactivity consists in enabling that interest to be articulated and translatedinto practice.

DELIBERATIVE PERSPECTIVES AND THE PUBLIC INTEREST

How does a deliberative perspective understand and take account of thepublic interest? It comes about through its focus on inquiry as the methodby which practical problems are resolved. As a first step, we need to elabo-rate the distinction that I mentioned earlier between inquiry as applied topractical problems and inquiry as applied to theoretic problems. Delibera-tive theory recognizes two types of problem (Schwab, 1978d; Gauthier,1963). First, there are problems that arise from states of mind. That is tosay, problems about what we are conscious of not knowing. For example,why something predicted by theory fails to occur. These are theoretic prob-lems and inquiry into them will begin with a search for data of a generalnature that are then analyzed according to disciplinary principles (forexample, the principles of inquiry that belong to quantum physics). Solv-ing the puzzle means coming up with an explanation for what was discrep-ant, or not understood (why we fail to observe a particle whose existencewas predicted). Secondly, there are problems that arise from states ofaffairs, that is, human or social conditions that we believe could beimproved. These are practical problems and the route to their solution liesthrough knowledge particular to the situation for which the solution issought: knowledge of persons, places, actions, and the consequences ofactions. There is no general principle that allows us to weigh and interpretparticular knowledge of this kind. For knowledge to point us toward a solu-tion, it has to be deliberated on. That is, arguments have to be made byindividuals or by groups, to which judgment, individual or collective, isapplied. The solution that is reached in this way is not an explanation, butan action, or a plan for action. Curriculum problems are, generally speak-ing, practical problems.



(We should pause at this point to note that the distinction I have madebetween theoretic and practical problems is not itself the statement of asolution to a theoretic problem—what is the nature of inquiry?—but apractical proposal for how we should think about inquiry. Thinkingrequires the making of distinctions, and the distinction between practicaland theoretic inquiry is an important one within deliberative theorybecause of the role it can play in building practical arguments about howinquiry should be conducted. It is not, however, a way of imposing adeceptive simplicity on complexity. The aim of deliberative theory is torespect complexity. Each practical instance of problematic inquiry isunique, and not necessarily describable in terms of categories. If thispoint is not appreciated, attempts to apply the methods of inquiry beginto look very similar to the employment of analytical methods derived fromsystematic perspectives.)

What, then, is the method of inquiry that is applied in cases where theproblem to be solved seems to be of a practical character? It is delibera-tion. Deliberation is the method of the practical. The character of deliber-ation is not so much analytical as rhetorical. It is rhetorical in a number ofways. First of all, it involves discussion. Arguments about states of affairsand about action to change states of affairs are made orally, not throughwritten formulae. This is not to say that documentation does not play animportant part in deliberation, but documents do not speak for them-selves. Interpreters, exegesists, and protagonists have to speak for them,and estimations of their value have to be made through a rhetorically con-structed medium. Secondly, deliberation is rhetorical in that its object ispersuasion. Not only must those who participate directly in the delibera-tion be persuaded of the power of arguments and of the merits of propos-als, but they must also have confidence that the larger group of thoseaffected by resulting courses of action will be persuaded that justifiablechoices have been made. Thirdly, rhetorical models shape the way in whichmethod is applied to problems. Discussion has to take into account subjectmatters that need to be addressed, but since the object of discussion is toinitiate action, the extent of the subject matter to which reference can bemade is limited. Rhetorical tradition solves this problem by establishingwhat topics deliberation of any particular type should take account of.These are technically known as commonplaces. The commonplaces to whichcurriculum deliberation must attend are: teachers, students, disciplines,milieus, and curriculum making (Schwab, 1978d). That is to say, any delib-eration on matters of what should be taught and learned are seriouslyincomplete unless they refer to those who will teach the curriculum, thosewho will follow it, the sources of knowledge from which the content will beselected, the context of schooling and society within which the curriculumis to operate, and the procedures appropriate to the making and commu-



nicating of curriculum decisions. This is not to say that other mattersshould not be addressed, but that any process of deliberation on curricu-lum that does not direct its attention to these essential commonplaces isdeficient.

Simply to enumerate the commonplaces of curriculum is to say littlemore than might be said, more or less, within a variety of perspectives.What is critical is not the naming of students, teachers, disciplines, milieus,and curriculum making as important reference points for discussion, butwhat their treatment as commonplaces implies about how they are to con-tribute to deliberation. Commonplaces are not objects of study, but bearersof the knowledge that has to be entered into the process of practical prob-lem solving. Ideally, they would speak for themselves; in practice, spokes-persons sometimes have to be found for them. In either case, they act, andshould be treated as witnesses with a shared interest in the problems to beresolved, and in the quality of the process through which this resolutionwill be achieved. Students, teachers, the disciplines, school and society, cur-riculum making all bring an interest to curriculum deliberation that theresults of deliberation should satisfy.

Here we see the important connection that is to be made with the ideaof a public interest. The public interest, as part of the commonplace of themilieus, is not simply a projection of the interests of students, teachers, dis-ciplines (or subject matter), and curriculum makers (and of others whostand behind them—parents, employers, administrators, and so on). Thepublic interest is something that enters into deliberation in its own right,and which must therefore be understood as an entity standing apart fromthe interests of individuals, or groups. This is quite different from the con-ception of a public interest that sees the role of institutions as serving indi-vidual or group needs through operating as part of a free market. Wheninstitutions are not thought of as having a life of their own, when schoolsare simply organizations that can be designed for a purpose, and institu-tions are the sum of individuals wants, there is no special need to attend tothe public interest as part of the milieus of which curriculum problem solv-ing must take account. A deliberative perspective, on the contrary, raisesthe question of the existence of a civic interest that has to be argued about,and these arguments provide grounds on which a stand can be madeagainst the treatment of curriculum as something that is exclusively a pub-lic service. The strength of these arguments will lie in the fact that they arenot mounted from a position of indifference to, or rejection of, a publicinterest in what is done in the name of curriculum. Since they accept theidea of a public interest, they can question the idea that the value of aninstitution is to be established through measures of cost effectiveness; theycan question whether markets always provide the best mechanism for satis-fying individual needs; they can question whether careers are best served



by opening curriculum to the influence of commercial lobbies. Thisbecomes possible because cultivation of the idea of a civic realm provides aserious alternative to the proposition that the public interest is reducible tocomponents of special or individual interest.

There still remains a question about why the deliberative perspective isparticularly adapted to achieving this. When the commonplace of themilieus makes its contribution to deliberation, may it not speak the lan-guage of special and individual interest? Why should positions be articu-lated differently within a context defined as “practical problem solving”rather than, say, “needs analysis?” To answer this question, we have to delvemore deeply into the character of deliberation. The method of the practi-cal rejects the idea that premises can lead to conclusions (that is, decisionsabout actions) through logical processes, whether these take the form ofmathematically based cost/benefit exercises, allocation of weightings tocompeting interests, deductive forms of argument, or similar analytic pro-cedures. The nature of practical problems does not allow this. Thereforeanother basis has to be used for the processes that are to result in decisionsor actions. This basis has to have a certain character that is determined bythe rejection of the logical processes that are common to the methods ofthe theoretic, since the elimination of this possibility also eliminates anyprocedure that treats ends as separable from means. A different under-standing of method has to be entertained that sees ends and means asbeing, for some purposes, indistinguishable (again, we encounter the ideathat while we might want to use terms for purposes of thinking—ends,means: practical, theoretic—the fact of their employment does not imply atheoretic proposition about a real state). Thus the method of the practicalis not only means but also end, so that a reflexivity is brought about in theconception we have of deliberation and of the elements that contribute toits nature. The idea of a civic interest that curriculum deliberation shouldserve, and which could therefore be construed as an end, is paralleled bythe idea of a civic interest that lends character to the means of problemsolving represented by the deliberative process. Just as the civic interest isdifferent from the sum of the individual and special interests of those whomake up the civitas, so the interest of the deliberating group is differentfrom the individuals who compose it and the commonplaces they speakfor. The processes by which curriculum problems find their solutionsdepend on the creation of a focus of interest deriving from the activity of acommunity (the deliberating group), in the same way as the articulationand resolution of problems of the widest significance depend on the exist-ence of a civic interest that emerges from deliberative resources of thewhole society. For these reasons, deliberative perspectives can have animportant part to play in the formulation of ideas about how curriculumshould be understood, how interests relative to curriculum making should



be taken into account, and how curriculum policies and practices shouldbe judged.

THE PRACTICAL NATURE OF CURRICULUM PROBLEMS

In making the case for a deliberative perspective, I choose to stress theimportance of the conception of a civic interest that it entails, because Iconsider this to be the main reason why its contribution to the theory andpractice of curriculum could be significant at this particular time. Butunderlying this conception of the civic interest—and of more far-reachingsignificance—is the idea it embodies of the character of curriculum prob-lems. The fundamental argument in favor of the deliberative perspective asa resource for the theory and practice of curriculum must be that it pre-sents a view of the tasks of curriculum that is distinctive, and that opens upnew possibilities for how we think about them. This view depends on theaccount that deliberative perspectives give of the nature of the problemsthat curriculum practice must confront.

What kind of a problem is a curriculum problem? One important dis-tinction between types of problem has already been made: there are prob-lems that arise from states of mind and problems that arise from states ofaffairs. In the first case we are confronted by a puzzle about what to think,or believe. Is light to be treated as wave or corpuscle, or both? Is the rate ofinflation in an economy directly related to the money supply? In the sec-ond case, the puzzle is about what to do. Should funds be invested inresearch into the nature of light? Should we restrict the money supply inthe hope that the inflation rate will be reduced? In the first case, we solvethe problem by producing a theoretical proposition—an explanation, ahypothesis, a conjecture. In the second case, we solve the problem by pro-posing or initiating action. Now, it is clear that the two kinds of problemcannot be regarded as separate. What we believe about current theories ofthe nature of light will influence our willingness to take action in favor offurther research. What we believe about the relationship between inflationand money supply will play a part in our decisions on economic policy. Butthis does not detract from the importance of using the distinction betweenthe theoretical and the practical as a guide to the methods we should useto solve problems. If we see a problem as theoretic, then our choice of amethod for dealing with it follows from our choice of a disciplinary cate-gory to which to allocate it. Problems about the nature of light are classi-fied as problems within physics. Problems about the nature of inflation areclassified as problems within economics. This perception of problems assoluble within the theoretical resources of a discipline is both a strengthand a weakness. The strength of disciplinary methods for problem solving



lies in their potential for simplification of procedures: they provide clearcriteria for choosing data to which we should attend and they offer well-specified methods for analyzing them and for judging the significance thatshould be attached to the results of our analyses.

The first weakness of theoretic inquiry is that the validity of our resultsdepends on the appropriateness of our a priori categorization of the prob-lem to be solved. If, as some have proposed, problems in economics aretreated as though they were problems in physics, what credibility can beassigned to the results? The second weakness is that disciplinary paradigmsaccommodate data of a general nature, but not of a particular nature.What if our problem has unique aspects to it—if it is not about what usuallyhappens when money supply is restricted, but what will happen in thiscountry, at this time, and given all manner of particular circumstances?Thirdly, the result of our inquiry is an explanation, and explanations arenot guides to action. However much we may believe an explanation thatsays that reducing money supply reduces inflation, we still have to decidewhether that is what we want to bring about, or whether, even if we do,there are compelling reasons on other grounds why the idea should berejected, or why it would not be appropriate to pursue it at this moment. Ifthe problem we want to solve can be categorized within a discipline whichworks with generalized data, which does not have to attend to unique cir-cumstances, and which is concerned with knowledge and not action, thenwe are right to think of it as theoretic. To the extent that these conditionsare not fulfilled, such a categorization can lead to results that are unreli-able or positively misleading. So, as a first step in characterizing curriculumproblems, we must ask “are they theoretic, or are they practical?”

In deciding this question, we could first of all consider whether a givencurriculum question could be categorized as “an example of x,” where x isthe name of a disciplinary mode of inquiry. Curriculum itself is not a disci-plinary mode of inquiry, so we have to look elsewhere for possibilities. It israther unlikely that we would suggest that x might be physics, though eco-nomics is more plausible, and instances where x is claimed to be psychol-ogy are not uncommon. The attempt to stay with a theoretic categorizationbecomes harder when we advance to the question of unique circum-stances. Some curriculum problems are about what should be taught in astate or a country and have the appearance of being of a general nature.But, even at that level, particular circumstances of place and time comeinto account. Documents like “A Nation at Risk” justify their solutions tocurriculum problems by pointing to the present state of affairs in the coun-try, compared to that in other countries: “America’s position in the worldmay once have been reasonably secure with only a few exceptionally well-trained men and women. It is no longer” (U.S. Department of Education,1983, p. 24). But it is when we come to the question of what kind of a solu-



tion we want to a curriculum problem that its character emerges mostclearly. Curriculum problems demand action. “A Nation at Risk” demandsaction. It is action, not explanation, that improves human and social condi-tions. The results of inquiries in economics or psychology are aids to deci-sions on action that should be taken into account as we seek to arrive atjudgments on responses to perceived deficiencies in a curriculum, to aspi-rations for curriculum change, or to claims about the merits of new kindsof curricula. Curriculum problems are practical problems.

However, we can press our investigation further. Since practical prob-lems are problems about rectifying or improving states of affairs, they can-not be solved through the application of theoretic methods. But this doesnot mean that they are never amenable to some kind of prespecifiable pro-cedure. If we are faced with a machine that is not working, there is proba-bly some well-defined set of steps that we can follow for tracing the faultand putting it right. We can, therefore, think about some practical prob-lems as certain, or procedural, meaning that we can categorize them withcertainty and solve them through available procedures appropriate to thatcategorization. Thus, we could believe that although there is no theoreticmode for solving problems classified as curricular, there could still be prac-tical procedures for doing so. In fact, much work within systematic perspec-tives is devoted to devising procedures of this type. Methods of curriculumdesign that depend on the specification of objectives leading to selectionof content related to these objectives are not to be regarded as theoretic:they are examples of practical procedures to be applied to curriculumproblems. On the other hand, we are bound to encounter practical prob-lems of quite a different sort, which have no precedent, or no precedentwithin our experience, so that procedural solutions are not available. Theymay also present other features that disqualify them from categorization ascertain, or procedural: it may be difficult to determine what varieties ofknowledge should be applied to their solution; the problem may presentitself within a unique context, so that knowledge of that context is asimportant, or more important, than knowledge of some general procedureapplicable to a whole class of problems; we may have to choose betweenvarious courses of action without being able to predict whether any ofthem will be effective, or whether some will be more effective than others;all possible solutions may present disadvantages in that some interests willbe advanced by them, but others will be harmed. As more of these condi-tions apply, problems become less certain and, therefore, less procedural.There is less certainty about how the problem should be viewed, whatinformation would assist a solution, and the merits of possible solutions.We must, therefore, consider that some practical problems must bethought of as uncertain, and that while procedure might be useful in somephases of the effort to solve them (just as inquiry within a theoretic mode



might also have a contribution to make), the work of finding a solution hasto go on within a different frame of reference. This frame is supplied bythe method of deliberative inquiry.

There is still a further step to be taken. We can understand proceduralpractical problems as those about which we can ask: “What must we do?”The way to reach a solution is specifiable, in a reasonably straightforwardway, and someone can tell us what it is. In contrast, we can understanduncertain practical problems as those about which we would ask: “Whatshould we do?” However, there is another response that should be consid-ered. Our request for guidance might take the form: “What ought we todo?” Use of the word ought would imply that we see the practical problemthat confronts us not just as uncertain, but uncertain in a way that involvesquestions of moral responsibility. This final distinction points to a differ-ence between practical problems that are uncertain but can be solvedthrough deliberation about the relevance and efficacy of data, methods,and solutions; and practical problems that are not only uncertain but affectinterests that cannot be thought about solely in terms of relevance and effi-cacy. The first class of problem has been termed prudential, because themethod for solving them is the use of prudential reasoning that “may beconsidered to be that part of practical reasoning in which the reasons foracting are restricted to the wants, desires, needs and aims of the agent”(Gauthier, 1963, p. 24). The second class of problem consists of moral orethical problems, demanding moral reasoning for their resolution. If weaccept the definition proposed for prudential reasoning, then any practi-cal problem affecting the interest of persons other than a single individualin search of a solution has to be classed as moral.

We can now give a more exact answer to the question: within a delibera-tive perspective, what is the nature of a curriculum problem? It is a practi-cal problem. But is it procedural or uncertain? The main considerationthat suggests it is uncertain is that it will occur within a unique context.The closer we come to the curriculum of the classroom, the clearer thisbecomes. At the level of curriculum decisions for a state or a nation, we canperhaps behave as though we are dealing with situations of great generality,within which particulars are not of great consequence. But teachers arewell aware of the concrete circumstances surrounding curriculum deci-sions and which affect, as Schwab (1978c) has it, “this student, in thisschool, on the South Side of Columbus, with Principal Jones during themayoralty of Ed Tweed and in view of the probability of his reelection” (p.289). Furthermore, it is hard to think of any curriculum decisions that donot involve the interests of people other than the decision-maker—inter-ests of students, teachers, parents, the community. This means that theframe of reference within which all curriculum problems have to be seen isthat of the moral practical problem.



The fact that curriculum problems are to be seen as moral practicalproblems does not mean that there are not occasions when we can con-tribute to their solution by using theoretic methods, or by acting proce-durally or prudentially. What it does mean is that theoretic, or procedural,or prudential reasoning should always be under the control of morallydirected deliberation. We use these methods not because the nature ofcurriculum problems demands it, but because moral practical reasoningsuggests that, at a certain point, a particular part of the problem is besthandled in this way.

DELIBERATION AND THECOMMONPLACES OF CURRICULUM

The essence of a deliberative perspective lies in the proposition that curric-ulum problems are practical and that deliberation is the method of thepractical. I have added the further proposition that curriculum problemsare not just practical, but uncertain and moral. The case for a deliberativeperspective rests on its ability to provide for the moral conduct of curricu-lum tasks, in ways that serve the interests of constituencies acting as thecommonplaces of deliberation—students, teachers, disciplines, milieus,and curriculum making. In particular, a deliberative perspective claims tointerpret the commonplace of milieus so that the character of curriculumas an institution with public significance is preserved and enhanced. How adeliberative perspective serves the interests represented by each of thecommonplaces of curriculum deliberation forms the subject matter of thefive following chapters.CH05—77


79


THE COMMONPLACEOF THE TEACHER

Curriculum theory, practice, and policy making should always have regardto the role of the teacher. This is a proposition that would meet with wide-spread agreement, whatever the perspective of the person to whom it wasput. For those who hold a deliberative perspective, the teacher representsone of the commonplaces of which all curriculum discourse should takeaccount; for systematizers, the teacher is the prime means through whichplans are implemented; radical positions hinge on judgments aboutwhether the teacher is an unwitting collaborator in the hegemonic pres-sures that curricula bring to bear on students, or a countervailing force,capable of being an agent of consciousness raising; for existentialists,teachers can be unthinking purveyors of the dehumanizing generalities ofmass produced programs, or curriculum interpreters who can buildbridges between societal demands and the emerging psyche of the child.To throw into relief the conception of the teacher that is embodied in thenotion of the curriculum commonplaces, it will be helpful to review brieflythe character of the teacher as it appears within the other perspectives.

CHAPTER 6



A SYSTEMATIC PERSPECTIVE: TEACHERS AS IMPLEMENTERS OF CURRICULUM PLANS

For theorists who work within a systematic perspective, the teacher is ameans whereby curriculum plans are implemented in schools. We couldmake an analogy with the way in which a conductor interprets a piece ofmusic, where the students represent the players in the orchestra. The com-posers (planners) decide, more or less, what the music is to be like, and thenallow the conductor more or less freedom about how to achieve the desiredperformance. Sometimes the music is very precisely scored, for example:

A module is the simplest possible instructional unit—often a model and testor just a test. A cluster is a sequence of modules. For example, a cognitiveoperation for simple addition includes this cluster: Teacher points to +3 andasks. “Read it.” Learner reads. “Plus 3.” Teacher points to +3 and asks. “Whatdo these symbols tell you to do?” Learner responds, “Make three lines.” Theteacher then instructs the learner to make the lines. This cluster is comprisedof two modules in which the teacher says, “Read it,” and “What do these sym-bols tell you to do?” (Gamine, 1979, p. 42)

At the other extreme, the score may be more like a general outline, amelody around which improvisation can happen. Perhaps a number ofways will be suggested in which children might acquire the concept ofmass, and science teachers will be allowed to choose which ones fit bestwith their own capabilities and the interests of the children with whomthey are working. In the first case, the good teacher will be the one whofaithfully reproduces the score. In the second case, a variety of interpreta-tions will be acceptable, but, again, the test of adequate performance willlie in the achievement of the predetermined objectives. Classrooms arethought of as being efficient media for translating curriculum causes(plans) into curriculum effects (learning). (We should note the distinc-tion, which is frequently made in this perspective between curriculum andinstruction). Therefore, insofar as this translation fails to take place, itmust be due to inadequacy on the part of the teacher. For this reason, sys-tematizers tend to put more rather than less detail into their plans. If learn-ing does not take place as intended, then they do not want this to beattributed to ambiguity or lack of clarity in the specification of what was tohappen. On the other hand, teachers tend to look for ways of maximizingthe scope for interpretation, because they have less faith in the idea thatcurriculum works in a straightforward cause-and-effect manner and preferto have scope for adapting it to circumstance. Another reason why plan-ners like high levels of specification is that if plans are a cause of learning,then learning outcomes provide evidence to allow determinations about


The Commonplace of the Teacher 81

the relative merits of different plans, and random interventions on the partof teachers will obscure this process.

This view of the teacher has the merit of directing attention to the needto study instructional techniques and to ask questions about which tech-niques may be preferable to others. Its disadvantage, in terms of how cur-riculum is construed within the problematic perspective of deliberativetheory, is that it does not respond adequately to the notion that curriculumtasks involve the solution of moral practical problems. From this viewpoint,the appropriateness of technique, either absolutely or in particular situa-tions, has to be judged within a framework that takes account of what ismoral as well as what is efficient (Olson, 1992). For example, studies haveshown that certain kinds of learning take place more efficiently underregimes that involve punishment (McCord & Wakefield, 1981), but moralconsiderations rule out their use in classrooms. This is a clear-cut case;most often the kinds of judgments that have to be brought to the moralpractical problems of the classroom are more to do with what might not beright conduct within a specific situation, rather than what would be abso-lutely prohibited. This kind of judgment, which has to be applied by teach-ers, is not fostered by a view that sees them as interpreters of standardizedplans with little scope for adjusting them to particular occasions. It isimpossible to produce a general curriculum plan that is totally adaptableto circumstance. As Schwab (1983) puts it: “intelligence cannot traversethe gap between the generalities of merely expounded instructions and theparticularities of teaching moments” (p. 245).

A RADICAL PERSPECTIVE:TEACHERS AS INSTRUMENTS OF HEGEMONY

The role of the teacher within radical perspectives admits of many inter-pretations, none of them easy to specify. Nevertheless, the question ofteacher role is of central importance:

The heart of the process is to be found not in the context of the educationalencounter—or the process of information transfer—but in the form; thesocial relations of the educational encounter. (Bowles & Gintis, 1976, p. 265)

Instead of being held responsible for reproducing the content of thecurriculum, so that the good teacher is revealed by tests of student achieve-ment, the teacher is depicted as a reproducer of social relations of domi-nance and subordination. But, insofar as these are intended by curriculumplanners, teacher success is also teacher failure. The successful teacher,within a radical perspective that was not totally deterministic, would be the



one who subverted the intentions of planners and used the classroomencounter as a means of consciousness-raising. However, it has to beassumed that such teachers are in a minority, since, if they were not, thediagnosis of classrooms as sites for social reproduction would not be tena-ble. There is, therefore, in radical perspectives, an ambiguity aboutwhether the teacher role must be purely normative—since the reproduc-tion of social relations will go on in classrooms irrespective of the person-nel inhabiting them—or whether classrooms are controllable, or arepotentially controllable, so that teachers can make rational choices abouthow to resolve curriculum problems.

In spite of these perplexities, or perhaps because of them, radical per-spectives do tend to offer a richer view of teacher behavior than we find insystematic perspectives. Classroom interaction is not seen purely in termsof information transfer. Analysis of teacher and student talk is used to showhow normative frames of references are used on both sides, and howincompatibilities between these are resolved through the management ofclassroom relationships. For example, Keddie (1976) states:

It seems that one use to which the school puts knowledge is to establish thatsubjects represent the way about which [sic] the world is normally known inan “expert” as opposed to a “commonsense” mode of knowing. This estab-lishes and maintains normative order in and within subjects, and accredits assuccessful to the outside world those who can master subjects. The schoolmay be seen as maintaining the social order through the taken for grantedcategories of its superordinates who process pupils and knowledge in mutu-ally confirming ways. (p. 156)

These conclusions show more subtlety in their appreciation of thenature of classrooms, and of teacher behavior, than prescriptions abouteffective instructional procedures derived from psychometrically basedcorrelations of inputs and outputs.

AN EXISTENTIAL PERSPECTIVE: TEACHERS AS PROMOTERS OF PERSONAL DEVELOPMENT

If teachers, as seen within a radical perspective, have the possibility ofchoosing to “raise the consciousness” of their students, they do this in thename of social evolution towards a more just society. Within an existentialperspective, teacher ambition would be directed not toward the raising of ageneralized consciousness, with political significance, but toward theenhancement of personal consciousness, with significance for the develop-ment of the individual. Curriculum materials provided through centralizedplanning activities are unsuited to this, because they are not aimed at the



individual, and because the spirit of those who plan them is more likely tobe attuned to the imparting of information than to needs relating to thedevelopment of the psyche. The good teacher, then, is someone whounderstands the deficiencies of conventional curricula and can muster theingenuity to pillage them or circumvent them in order to serve the individ-ual interests of children. Since good teachers have insufficient time to actas personal tutors to every student, they will be skilled in using the class-room as a dramatic resource where curricular dramas can be played out insuch a way that all students have opportunities for discovering themselvesand others, and for building relationships with those sources of knowledgethat fit into narratives with personal significance for them. Good teachersunderstand how to create and sustain the dramatic line of the classroom,and know the individual actors well enough to write them into the story ina creative way.

Many teachers would see this as a more satisfying account of their rolethan that supplied by systematic or radical perspectives. Studies of teachinghave shown that, in general, what teachers value most is the immediateresponse of students, and this is most likely to be evident if the curriculumof the classroom reflects the personal preferences of students. Also, teach-ers assume a position of importance because they themselves, in a sense,become the curriculum. They share something of the aura of the psychia-trist whose skills and knowledge are deeply implicated with the ability oftheir clients to flourish as human beings. This is of far greater significancethan questions of whether or not students acquire particular items of skillor knowledge.

Thus, existential perspectives, like radical ones, provide a rich interpre-tation of the role of the teacher. This time, though, the focus is less on thetotal climate of the classroom than on the uniqueness of the individual stu-dent. Radical approaches make statements about the public face of theclassroom that are based on inferences about what is going on in the headsof the children. Existential approaches aim to make the question aboutwhat goes on in childrens’ heads into the most fundamental of all curricu-lum problems.

A DELIBERATIVE PERSPECTIVE: TEACHERS AS INTERMEDIARIES BETWEEN INSTITUTION AND PRACTICE

Given the variety and richness of the conceptions of teaching embedded inthe three perspectives so far discussed, what can a deliberative perspectiveadd? The curriculum commonplaces are bearers of knowledge: this knowl-edge is at once particular and general. It is particular in that the common-places represent unique kinds of experience. It is general in that the



activities from which this experience is gained are activities undertakenwithin the perspective of a universally shared interest. The experience ofthe teacher is unique because no one else has intimate knowledge of thecurriculum tasks of the classroom. The systematic perspective would seethis knowledge as a piece of the general curriculum knowledge to whichothers can and do have access. It might be given a separate name: instruc-tion. But this would be for the convenience of the overall plan. It would notsignal that there was an area of curriculum knowledge to which plannersor other curriculum experts outside classrooms had no access, or only lim-ited access. Those who view teaching from ideological positions are clearthat they know even better than teachers how classrooms should be con-ducted. Radicals, whether of the left or the right, usually regard theirknowledge of classrooms as superior to that of teachers. Critiques mountedfrom the left frequently represent teachers as short-sighted dupes of ahegemonic social system, the reality of which is visible only to dialecticallyinitiated outside observers, while the critique of those on the right assumesthat teaching is a straightforward task and that deficiencies must be due toignorance, laziness, or a lack of respect for authority. In late 1991, the Sec-retary of State for Education in Great Britain announced an inquiry intoteaching methods in primary schools. He made it plain, however, that healready knew how such teaching should be carried out, and demonstratedhis conviction that these were simple matters on which to form judgmentsby requiring the inquiry report to be produced in within the space of a fewweeks. But if the perspective of the observer is existential rather than radi-cal, or has tendencies in that direction, then the teacher does indeed haveparticular knowledge of constructive ways of conducting classrooms,though this is seen more in terms of knowledge of how curriculum can besubverted in the perceived interests of individual students (and theteacher), rather than in terms of how the institutional curriculum can beadapted to practice. The views taken of the character of teacher knowledgein all of these perspectives fall into two categories: either the teacher hasno special knowledge (beyond, perhaps, some rather low-level technicalcompetence), or, though this knowledge exists, and is important, it hasnothing positive to contribute to curriculum deliberation, since the inter-ests of curriculum as practice are inevitably in conflict with the interests ofcurriculum as institution.

If teachers have no special knowledge, then it follows that they have noknowledge of general significance either (except what might be contrib-uted by any randomly chosen person). Equally, if their knowledge is in con-flict with that which is offered by other curriculum actors, or othercurriculum interests, then its general significance is, at best, severely lim-ited. Within a deliberative perspective, however, the particular knowledgeof the teacher rests upon the idea that the activities of the classroom are a



manifestation of a public interest, and therefore the unique and universalaspects of the knowledge provided by the commonplace of the teacher areintimately bound together. The teacher can be claimed as the most impor-tant source of curriculum knowledge. This is because of the uniqueness ofthe teacher’s position as someone who has to reconcile the institutionaland practical aspects of curriculum. Within a deliberative perspective, theteacher is not merely an individual confronting or collaborating with 20 ormore younger individuals within the setting of a particular classroom. Theteacher is a representative of an institutional endeavor to advance, onbehalf of students and of society at large, a civic interest.

This is not just a theoretic proposition. In terms of what teachers canand cannot achieve in classrooms, it is a reality. They can, on the one hand,accept it and use it in the furtherance of their practice. The fact that theyare seen as institutional actors gives them the opportunity to invest theiraims and activities with meaning over and above the teaching of subject xto student y. This is a powerful aid to the encouragement of learning, andto the induction of students into ways of construing their worlds that canenhance their self-esteem and their usefulness to themselves and others.On the other hand, teachers can deny or neglect their institutional role invarious ways, often with harmful consequences. They may, for example, beencouraged to regard themselves as merely technicians, whose job it is todeliver useful skills and knowledge. In that case, what they do is seen in thesame light as what any person does who trades in commodities or offerspersonal services, and the question becomes, are these commodities or ser-vices wanted in the same way that other commodities or services that wepay for are wanted? At the very least there is scope for debate aboutwhether any particular item is wanted or not, and, realistically, we have toadmit that students, who are the people who matter most in the daily life ofthe teacher, may well decide that, from their point of view, a great deal ofwhat is on offer is not wanted. Alternatively, teachers may be encouraged tothink that their profession is a rather dismal, low-level piece of a conspiracyto make students into the victims of an oppressive society. The victims areusually quick to see through the contradictions of this position and resent-ful of the idea that they should be used as material for an ideological cru-sade. A further possibility is that teachers may be encouraged in anotherway to raise their own interest above that of the institutional curriculum,through pursuit of activities that depend on cultivation of the personalpreferences of students.

This last possibility raises questions of a different order from thoseposed by the other ways in which the institutional role is neglected. In thefirst place, such teachers are not totally ignorant of the commonplaces ofcurriculum. They are certainly paying a lot of attention to the common-place of the student. They are probably also paying attention to some



aspects of the commonplaces of subject matter, milieus, and curriculummaking, and doing so in a way that declares that they are not acting simplyas technicians or as obedient followers of ideological principles. Secondly,they can, as a consequence, be important discoverers and inventors of cur-riculum knowledge. Anyone who has spent time as a teacher will haveencountered colleagues who have created classrooms that have generatedtheir own frames of meaning to motivate students, while the doors havebeen firmly shut against the intrusion of the interests of larger communi-ties. How could such an achievement be regarded as less than admirable?

The problem with this way of denying the institutional role of theteacher is not absolute. Neither, for that matter, is any other way of denyingit necessarily an absolute problem. Many ways of teaching are appropriateif the context is right. To approach teaching as though knowledge were amarketable commodity is a perfectly acceptable strategy in a situationwhere everyone agrees that that is what it should be, and is free to enterinto a financially advantageous contract to buy it or sell it. But the curricu-lum of schooling is not one of those situations. Nor is it a situation where amajority of teachers should be free to raise the commonplace of studentsabove all the other commonplaces that should be claiming their attention.This is not only a moral statement, it is also a prudential one. To under-mine the institutional curriculum is also to undermine the practical curric-ulum. Those teachers who do command the high levels of skill andcommitment necessary to the running of private curricula within privateclassrooms succeed largely because many other teachers are willing to carrythe burden that they have laid aside. We can argue whether the institu-tional curriculum is needed, or in what ways it might be reformed, butschooling systems are based on the reality of the institution—a reality onwhich students, among others, base their actions—and it must be a centralpart of the role of the teacher to sustain it.

A variety of approaches to teaching is an essential resource for the prac-tice of curriculum, but the necessary though not exclusive character of theteacher within a deliberative perspective is that of a mediator between theimage and power of the institutional curriculum, and the needs, desires,and propensities of particular students within particular classrooms. Such ateacher takes a balanced view of all the curriculum commonplaces. Thestudent is attended to both as individual and as representative of a groupfor whom engagement with a larger institutional reality is necessary. Sub-ject matter is attended to, both in terms of what will work in the context ofa particular classroom and of how the significance of what is done in thatclassroom can relate to the wider institutional meaning of curriculum con-tent. The milieus are attended to both in terms of how the work of theclassroom is affected by the immediate community, and also in terms ofhow its curriculum reflects a wider civic interest. The commonplace of cur-



riculum making is attended to both at the level of decisions affecting itspractice in the classroom and at the more distant levels of school, district,state, or country. Few if any teachers will be able to have anything like a suf-ficient understanding of all these aspects of the commonplaces of curricu-lum; but the teacher is the one actor in the curriculum process who mustaspire to have such an understanding, because no one else can match upthe implications of curriculum as a universal idea to the particularities ofspecific settings, and ensure that curriculum practice represents an ade-quate reflection of its institutional categories. If teachers find that this isbeyond their capabilities, it is a sign that other actors in the curriculumprocess are paying too much attention to other commonplaces—probablyto planning—and not enough to the teacher.

If teachers are to act as mediators between institution and practice, theyhave to be prepared to use the power of the institution as an aid to prac-tice—and others have to be prepared to let them do that. Teachers as tech-nicians are allowed some bureaucratic power—things must be taughtbecause of regulation or requirement—but even this concession is under-mined by emphasis on the marketability of knowledge. The teacher whosefocus is exclusively on the student uses personal power, but is unhappy atthe thought of using institutional power. Caution is not out of place. Withpower comes responsibility. Is it being used wisely, sparingly, for the appro-priate ends, not as an end in itself? It is a sign that teachers are not beingtrusted even to think about such things when the term responsibility isreplaced by the term accountability. Those who are held accountable haveopportunities—to make mistakes—but not power. A deliberative perspec-tive is comfortable with the idea that teachers have institutional power—that is, they are representative of institutional categories that have meaningfor students irrespective of the means by which they are instantiated in anyparticular school or classroom. And this is something that they have defacto, whether they want it or not. Refusal to acknowledge it, or a willing-ness to surrender it does not abolish it altogether. Even after some decadesof attempts to undermine, in one way or another, the idea that the individ-ual teacher represents some larger category—a role or a subject or a statuswith institutional significance—the essential historical character of curricu-lum survives. It is the power from sources beyond the classroom to whichteachers have access that accounts for the degree of success that they stillenjoy in what is in many ways an improbable enterprise: educating studentswho have many reasons for not wanting to learn, within the parameters of asystem that looks, from any logical standpoint, as though it were made todiscourage rather than promote learning. It is this power that accounts forthe importance of the teacher as a source of curriculum knowledge. Otheractors in the curriculum process also have power, but the power of the



teacher is unique in its capacity to promote success or failure at the criticalpoint where institution must be translated into practice.

TEACHING AND LEARNING

Implicit within this account of the role of the teacher is a theory of knowl-edge, both of what it is and of how it is acquired. It is not a general theoryof knowledge, but one shaped to the task in hand. Knowledge is seen asbeing essentially potential rather than actual. No one is more aware thanthe teacher of how much is forgotten by students, no one more aware ofthe extent to which learning is dependent on a belief that learning is possi-ble. Experience of the world of the classroom demonstrates that whiletechnique is important, the limit of what it can achieve on its own is soonreached. Students are present in classrooms as a matter of routine. Someare always ready to learn, some are sometimes ready to learn, some are sel-dom ready to learn. The curriculum is on offer over weeks, months, andyears, irrespective of whether what it proposes has any intrinsic appeal tostudents or any relevance to their individual interests at any particularmoment. What the school curriculum is good at, or bad at, according tohow far the teacher is in sympathy with its character, is presenting practi-cally unlimited opportunities for students to teach themselves. What theyhave the opportunity to learn, almost without noticing it, is a sense of whatsorts of things are important to do or to talk about, an appreciation of thekinds of skills or language that are needed in order to do them or talkabout them, and a feeling that if they wanted to, they could learn enoughto do them or talk about them with some confidence. And perhaps, intheir own good time, they will do them or talk about them with confidence,provided that teachers, on their side, see themselves as managing the kindof environment in which the likelihood that this will happen is maximized.For this to be possible it is necessary that the classroom be constructed as amedium for the transaction of the institutionalized curriculum. This givesthe teacher the power to define its purpose as being about learning, andmarks it off as different from environments that are dominated by specialinterests, commercial or utilitarian, perhaps, or by personal interests,whether those of the teacher or the student. If these have a contribution tomake to learning, there are other places where they are better able to do it.On the other hand, the teacher, as translator of the institutionalized curric-ulum into practice, will use technical skills to ensure that opportunities tolearn are not lost, that propensities to learn are not diminished, and thatthe possibility is always open to students to think of themselves as compe-tent learners (see, for example, Thelen, 1981). This may seem like a ratherpassive account of how learning takes place. But it is the account that fits



with the character of curriculum. It is obvious that, theoretically, muchmore learning could be accomplished in a shorter time. Curriculum, how-ever, is not designed that way. If efficient learning is to be the sole criterionof success, a different kind of institution needs to be invented. Moreover,the kind of learning that is described here requires a great deal of knowl-edge, skill, and judgment on the part of the teacher.

Hirsch (1988), in his account of “What Every American Needs to Know,”works with a theory of knowledge that is very compatible with what I havebeen describing. He emphasises the importance of:

[T]he new picture that is emerging from language research.… It brings tothe fore the highly active mind of the reader, who is now discovered to be notonly a decoder of what is written down but also a supplier of much essentialinformation that is not written down. The reader’s mind is constantly infer-ring meanings that are not directly stated by the words of a text but are none-theless part of its essential content. The explicit meanings of a piece ofwriting are the tip of an iceberg of meaning; the larger part lies below thesurface of the text and is composed of the reader’s own relevant knowledge.(pp. 33–34)

Hirsch is talking about reading, but his observation can be extended toall areas of the curriculum. It is the provision of this relevant knowledge thatis the main function of the curriculum of the school. As we saw in a previ-ous chapter, such knowledge has to be specific, but not necessarily precise.To provide it is quite a different undertaking than to engage in instructionthat is aimed at giving students precise information or precise skills. It isdifferent first of all because the precise task is divorced, as far as possible,from backgrounds of relevant knowledge. For example, learning keyboardskills can be a task in its own right. Students can as a result of a highly tar-geted course of instruction, be taught to encode given informationthrough a standard keyboard at a determined and measurable rate. Theydo not need to know about the history of keyboards, understand the socialimplications of information processing, or appreciate the significance ofthe words they are encoding. Such learning will be successful if learners seethe task as one that is worth performing, and if they have the opportunityto practice it regularly. It has no particular implications for anything elsethey might learn. Such self-contained exercises in learning have their placein the school curriculum. The extract from the “Distar” addition programquoted at the beginning of this chapter may well be an instance of a pieceof self-contained instruction that can get over a skill blockage standing inthe way of the curriculum. But it is a remedial device. The school curricu-lum is much better at dealing with knowledge that provides or builds onrelevant background information. Secondly, the undertaking is differentbecause, while precise tasks may be prerequisite to the acquisition of cer-



tain capabilities, they do not on their own provide access to the sharedworlds of discourse or activity into which the curriculum of the schoolshould initiate students. This is the key to the uniqueness of the school cur-riculum, and therefore to the uniqueness of the commonplace of theteacher: the school curriculum is the source of the familiarity with modesof discourse of the kind discussed by Hirsch. This familiarity creates oppor-tunities for students to choose to interest themselves in more precise kindsof knowledge, and it can function in this way because what it offers is seenas related to a common civic interest. Students engage with curriculumcontent not because it is immediately interesting, though it may be, notbecause it brings economic rewards, though it may do that as well, butbecause the content is seen as significant in terms of what it means to be amember of a society.

Thus, when curriculum tasks are to be deliberated upon, the common-place of the teacher has to be attended to. It represents, among otherthings, knowledge about how institutionally based sources of legitimacycan be used to promote learning through a practice whose character isshaped by an understanding of how to deal with the particulars of circum-stances. On their own, the commonplaces of student, milieus, and subjectsprovide radically incomplete information about this. To be useful it has tobe interpreted through knowledge that the commonplace of teacheryields. Take, for example, this comment on subject matter:

The methods by which scholarly materials are translated into a defensiblecurriculum are no mere transformations of one kind or style of material intoanother. They are methods for assessing privations, perversities, errors, andmisdevelopments in those who are to be the recipients of the putative bene-fits of curriculum; then, methods for discovering in scholarly materials cur-riculum potentials which serve the purposes which have been envisaged inthe light of detected student needs; then, assessment of the probable advan-tages of one potential against others as a means toward educational benefits.(Schwab, 1978d, pp. 379–380)

This appears to set up grounds for competition between scholars, teach-ers, students, and milieus over who shall own the subject matter of curricu-lum. But the teacher, as the best source of experience on how theoreticknowledge can serve practical interests in the world of the classroom,should here be the principal ally of curriculum making in the process ofuncovering the knowledge that is needed in order to realize educationalbenefits through use of scholarly materials.

Such considerations have important implications for the preparation ofteachers. Clearly, teachers need to acquire skill and technique. But teach-ers who have little more than skill and technique will be poor witnesses inthe process of planning curricula. Their contribution will come not from



an important commonplace of curriculum, but simply from a technicalinterest. The health of curriculum has to be served by teachers who havelearned to see themselves as actors in the moral process of realizing a civicinterest and as practitioners who through application of skill and judg-ment, advance the careers of individual students and the well-being of localand national communities.

REPRESENTING THE COMMONPLACE OF THE TEACHER

With all of the commonplaces, we meet a problem of how they can be rep-resented in curriculum deliberation, either because the knowledge relat-ing to the commonplace is diffuse, or because this knowledge is notorganized in such a way that its variety can be represented. This problem isnot so intractable in the case of the teacher—provided that those whoinfluence processes of deliberation are prepared to see teachers as expert.Perspectives that represent curriculum theorists or curriculum planners asuniquely expert have difficulty with this. Why should someone whoseknowledge is inferior or nonexistent be admitted to processes of planningand policy making? A deliberative perspective, however, does not representany one form of expertise as being superior to all others. Each common-place is unique in what it can contribute to the deliberative process. Thereare no grounds for making out the commonplace of the teacher to be oflesser consequence than those of subject matter, the milieus, or curriculummaking, or superior to that of the student. We have to recognize differentkinds of teacher knowledge—that belonging to the specialist teacher of thecurriculum under discussion, that belonging to other teachers affected byit, and so on. But such technical problems should not present insuperabledifficulties. Teacher knowledge should be represented in curriculum delib-eration at all levels. As we have seen, teachers are a unique source of knowl-edge on how the institutional curriculum can be reconciled with thepractical demands of schools and classrooms.CH06—91


93


THE COMMONPLACEOF THE STUDENT

Rhetorically, most curriculum arguments are built around references tothe good of students. Perusal of the major headings in “America 2000,” forexample, shows widespread invocation of the student as the prime benefi-ciary of policy initiatives. Titles such as “For Today’s Students: Better andMore Accountable Schools,” or “For Tomorrow’s Students: A New Genera-tion of American Schools” proclaim that decision making on the curricu-lum is to be guided by a conception of what is good for students. But thepriorities dictated by rhetorical considerations are not necessarily thosethat would emerge from a rational analysis of the basis of curriculum per-spectives. How curriculum theory views the student is, in many ways, areflection of how it views the teacher. Teachers who act as intermediariesbetween curricular causes and curricular effects deal with students who areseen as the objects of those effects, or, in a slightly different version of thesame perspective, as purchasers of the effects that curriculum can produce.Teachers who are agents of a hegemonic social system help, however unwit-tingly, to make students victims of that system. Teachers whose aim is topromote personal development are complemented by students for whomthe name is a label of convenience rather than a role designation, sincethey are all individual clients. What we see in each of these cases is a debili-tating imbalance between the commonplace of the student, on the onehand, and one or more of the other commonplaces of curriculum on theother: students are subordinated to curriculum making, or to the milieus,

CHAPTER 7



or, in the last case, they are elevated to a position of overwhelming impor-tance in relation to subject matter, the milieus, or curriculum making.Even within a deliberative perspective, which emphasizes the equality ofthe commonplaces, there is a danger that the student becomes subordi-nated to the commonplace of the teacher, since, within such a perspective,so much hinges on understanding of the uniqueness of the teacher’s role.But if the purposes of curriculum are to be adequately served, whichmeans that the experience and knowledge of the student are to be admit-ted to processes of curriculum deliberation equally and conjointly with theexperience and knowledge of the other commonplaces, then studentsmust be conceived of as rational actors, taking their place alongside teach-ers, subject matter, milieus, and curriculum making as contributors to cur-riculum deliberation, but without dominating the course of thatdeliberation.

If this is to be the case—if students are to be sources of experience forcurriculum decision making in the general as well as specific ways thatteachers are—then we have to arrive at an understanding of the studentrole that raises such a possibility. To put alongside a conception of what it isthat teachers do as mediators between institution and practice, we need acorresponding conception of what it is that students do in the enterprise ofcurriculum. Our first requirement is that the student be seen as a rationalactor. Without that, we can make use of information about students—indeed, much curriculum planning within systematic perspectives is veryattentive to such information, usually yielded by psychometric tech-niques—but we are not able to draw on the experience of students. Thepossibility of seeing students as rational actors is present within existentialperspectives. Students as clients may need help to discover how to exerciserational choices, but if they are to use curricular opportunities to developtheir own resources, then they must be capable of taking informed initia-tives. The supposition is, however, that they take such initiatives in pursuitof a personal interest. They are not actors in the role of student; they areunique individuals who happen to be able to use their access to the statusof student as an aid to their pursuit of personhood. Their experience willprovide knowledge for the practice of teaching, but will be hardly relevantat all to the institution of curriculum. A further possibility, however, is thatstudents do indeed make use of curriculum as a resource for the further-ance of their own interest, but that they do so in ways that capitalize on itsintrinsic institutional nature, rather than in ways that depend on subver-sion of its public character. If this is the case, then, in the process of servingtheir own interest, students also serve the civic interest that curriculum rep-resents and constitute a body of experience relevant to curriculum as insti-tution, as well as to curriculum as practice.


The Commonplace of the Student 95

STUDENTS AS CONSTRUCTORS OF CURRICULUM CAREERS

The possibility that students can be more than objects of curriculum plans,or consumers of curriculum content, is based on premises about thenature of knowledge and learning compatible with those that underpin theconception of the teacher as a manager of learning opportunities. Theidea that the function of curriculum is simply to transfer knowledge fromsome existing repository—the text, or the teacher—to the student is inher-ently implausible. It depends on the assumption that effects can be predict-ably brought about through efficient means—a well-designed curriculum,a theoretically sound pedagogical strategy, or an effective teacher. But suchan assumption contains the further unstated premise that the student whois to embody these effects has a good reason for responding to the curricu-lar means that are used to achieve them. In some learning situations suchreasons will exist, but in others they will not, or will exist only to a limitedextent. If student attention to the curriculum is to be sustained over manytopics and many years this has to be assured by something more than effec-tiveness of curricular means. The premise of a deliberative perspective isthat student attention is related at least as much to the institutional as tothe practical character of the curriculum. This institutional character isderived from curriculum’s historically unique features: its capacities forpresenting itself as structured, sequenced, and capable of completion.

Optimally, student attention is secured first of all by the sense of beingengaged in something that is ordered in ways that reflect a wider reality.Science, or art, as part of a curriculum, is a kind of simulacrum of struc-tured ways of understanding and managing the world that permeate soci-ety generally. One may denigrate science, or art, or some part of science orart, regard one or the other as a fraud, a conspiracy, or an attempt to mys-tify the commonsense of everyday life, but science and art are majorthreads in the living culture in which all members of society are, in someway, participants. Teachers are not merely persons, they are, even whenthey are inefficient or lacking in skill as practitioners, representatives ofactivities and bodies of knowledge that are important in their own right. AsMeyer (1980) astutely points out:

From a technical point of view, rather than an institutional one, teachers arealmost unrelievedly authoritarian: they talk all the time, dominate interac-tion and agenda completely, and so on. Yet students rarely experience educa-tion in this way: they experience the larger invisible reality of education, interms of which teachers are “helping” them “learn the material.” (p. 54)

Of course, we would like students to work with teachers who will notonly convince them of the categorical (or, if you like, canonical) nature of



the learning that is proposed for them, but will also make their classesinteresting, pay skillful attention to individual differences, and so on. But,given the vast size of the enterprise of schooling, it will be unlikely, evenunder the best of conditions, that students will experience such outstand-ing levels of practice for more than a minority of the time they spend in theclassrooms. More important, and more achievable, is the condition thatstudents be willing to forgive or overlook practice that is less than totallyskilled. The point is well made by Burgess (1984) in his study of a coursedesigned for “low achievers” in an English secondary school:

The knowledge that was transmitted included simplified versions of subjectmatter and common sense knowledge that the teachers considered would berelevant to 16-year-olds who would leave school without taking many exami-nations. For the pupils this was perceived as very low status. Indeed, many ofthe pupils talked about “doing nothing” in their classes which they comparedwith real learning that had taken place in subject classes in earlier years …

Jenny: My best year here … I thought was my first year. It was reallygreat.

Sheila: Yes. Geography, English, Maths, tutorial, R. E., you learntloads here you know. It would be great if it went through allthe years. (pp. 190–191)

In considering this remark, we should note, first of all, that many of theteachers who were engaged in providing what was seen as “relevant,” andwhose classrooms were seen as places where there was no “proper teach-ing” were the same ones who, in other contexts, taught geography, English,mathematics, and other subjects of which the students approved. Thus,“proper teaching” is an effect of the curriculum, not just a matter of theability of teachers. Secondly, we should not take too literally Sheila’sremark that “you learnt loads here you know.” Realistically, we wouldexpect that if Sheila were tested on what she had learned in any of thosesubjects three or four years previously, it would be discovered that most ofit had been forgotten, and that most of what had not been forgotten hadbeen only half remembered. Debriefing of students on what they learnedlast week tends to show that their memory of it is vague and incomplete.What was learned years in the past will, unless it is frequently exercised,show even greater attrition. But this does not have to be a severe handicapto engagement with the curriculum, since curriculum is not only struc-tured, but also sequenced.

This second characteristic of curriculum helps ensure that the attentionthat is claimed by structured content will be sustained over the long periodof experience of schooling. Some parts of the curriculum, such as forexample, mathematics, lend themselves to sequencing. It can be arguedthat knowledge of some kinds of operations is a necessary prerequisite for



the acquisition of other operations, which are seen as more advanced.However, things are seldom as clear as those who approach curriculumfrom the standpoint of learning theory would have us believe, and, in thecase of other subjects, such as English, even learning theorists might agreethat there could be many opinions about what would be a proper order ofpresentation. From the viewpoint of curriculum as an institution, however,the issue is not so much about best orderings as about established order-ings. As long as it does no violence to the abilities of students or teachers,almost any sequence will perform its institutional work provided that it issatisfactorily implanted in their minds. Both parties to the transaction ofthe curriculum like to know what is third grade work and what is fourthgrade work, what kind of learning marks out the third former and whatkind the fourth former. However, what is motivating for students is not somuch what was learned in the third grade—though the feeling that some-thing was learned is important—as the experience of having successfullycompleted third grade and now being of fourth grade status. From thispoint of view, the more the curriculum of the fourth grade is marked offfrom that of the third grade, the better. Teaching styles can be different,teachers can be different, locations can be different. But what is mostimportant is that topics should be different. Theorists can talk about con-cepts such as the spiral curriculum, where the same topics return, but aretreated with greater sophistication, or about project work, where topics aremerged into overarching exercises of research or construction, but whilesuch ideas can make important contributions to practice, they have to beapplied with discretion. Students find it hard to understand why now thatthey are fourth graders, they are, apparently, studying topics that, in theirminds, belong to the third grade, or why, as high school students, they areworking on a project that looks very similar to one they did as elementarystudents.

The mention of “completing third grade” draws attention to the thirdcharacteristic of curriculum that is important for securing student motiva-tion. This is the capability of curriculum for representing itself as some-thing that can be finished in such a way that the person who has finished itoccupies a higher or at least a different status from the one who has not.Completion is closely related to sequencing. If it is important to know thatone occupies the status that comes from completion of a topic, then thesense of completion must not be put at risk by confusion over which topicbelongs where. When students draw a teacher’s attention to the fact that“we did that last year,” it is with a tinge of anxiety: “Does this mean that weare not bona fide fourth graders after all?” (The sensible teacher defineswhat is being done as “review”—not the real fourth grade stuff). Equally, ateacher’s reminder that “we did that last year” often carries a hint of irrita-tion: “Come on! This is the fourth grade. You are supposed to know that!”



Of course, as has been pointed out it is often the case that students do notknow that. Completion means that you were there. You went through theexperience. You, along with all or most of your group, did the assignmentswell enough to maintain your status as a third grader and earn promotionto the fourth, where it will all happen over again. The fact that you kept upyour standing is not evidence that you remembered all or even a majorpart, of what was taught, any more than someone’s present status as a doc-tor guarantees that he or she remembers what was learned in the first yearof medical school, or that accountants remember what they had to knowfor their professional examinations. What is remembered is whatever topi-cally marked off the experience of third grade, of the first year of medicalschool, or of preparing for the accountancy examination as special. Someitem caused everyone a problem, or was foreshadowed ahead of time assomething that would be coming along, or signaled entry into some newand significant domain. And, all along the way, if there were teachers whounderstood the skills of practice as well as the demands of categorical con-formity, learning opportunities abounded—occasions when the frameworkof motivation ensured by chainings of structure, sequence, and completiongave rise to personal enthusiasms that the teacher noted, encouraged, andfostered: when learning soared beyond minimalist ambitions to preservethe status of a “student in good standing” and was activated by the compel-ling demands of topics that they be properly understood or activities thatthey be properly mastered. And, if the teacher was very good, there fol-lowed occasions of reining back a little; of subtle reminders that, in thelong run, neither students nor subject matter should dominate the curricu-lum process to the exclusion of other considerations.

STUDENTS AS SOURCES OF CURRICULAR EXPERIENCE

Students, like teachers, can understand, though from another viewpoint,the complementarity of institution and practice. They are, as I have writtenelsewhere, “rational consumers,” though “less concerned with knowingthan with the status that comes from categorical membership and thefuture promise that this implies” (Reid, 1984, p. 73). But they are also,potentially for most of the time and actually for some of the time, enthusi-astic participants in the educational process. Like teachers, they under-stand, at some instinctive level, that the two things—rational membershipand enthusiastic participation—are interdependent. Linking the twothings in this way makes for a certain conservatism. If anything, the conser-vatism of students is greater than that of teachers. Sacrificing the securityof established categories to the uncertainty of innovation may not be to thelong run benefit of the teacher, but the teacher’s career is usually, at some



level, secure. Students, on the other hand, see that opportunities lost donot come back. When Burgess (1984) noticed that Terry was not working,the following conversation ensued:

RB: Why aren’t you working?Terry: What’s the use of this work?

RB: What do you think you ought to do?Terry: I wanna do as little as possible for as long as possible. I

wanna do as little as I can. Anyway this work don’t give youany qualification. It don’t get you anywhere. (p. 183)

As a witness to the kinds of knowledge that should go into curriculumdecision making, Terry’s remarks would probably be dismissed by manypeople as unworthy of attention. But he is not merely indulging in igno-rant denigration of a curriculum, he is pointing to a truth that we ignore atour peril: his curriculum is out of joint. He can see no structure, nosequence, no prospect of a completion that would carry implications forstatus. If one started with that assumption, and asked more detailed ques-tions, Terry could probably be usefully specific about the deficiencies ofthe curriculum that he is experiencing. Of course, other students might beless critical. Perhaps—especially if they were assisted to do so by teachers—they would be able to see structure where none was immediately apparent.The issue is not whether structure exists, but whether structure is perceivedto exist. Most students need the familiarity of structure and, if we will listento them, they can tell us whether they can see it, what the consequences areof not seeing it, and what might help them to see it. Systematizers wouldregard such interventions as a brake on innovation. Curriculum is a matterfor experts, and if teachers are not expert, students are even less expert. Ifexperts see a need for innovation, why should this be blocked by studentswho are in no position to understand the goals and processes of curricu-lum planning? But these same experts would no doubt claim that what theywere doing was for the benefit of the student. Much play is made with theidea that students must be given what is relevant to them, though littleeffort is made to find out what students would regard as relevant, or toestablish whether, if something could be claimed as relevant, that would bea reason why it should be in their curriculum. Relevance is slippery as anidea, and even more slippery as a guide to curriculum practice. What doesit mean? If it does mean something, can topics and activities be categorizedas having such a quality or not having it? Is it not rather a matter of shadesof grey? How much curricular time, compared to the amount that is avail-able, can be filled with things that are relevant to all students? If somethingis relevant now, does that mean it will still be relevant by the time studentsbecome adult? And will they still remember it?



Student conservatism may well be a useful antidote to the urge to pro-mote innovations that carry such a freight of perplexity with them. Rele-vant topics often turn out to be such things as how to write a check or howto operate a keyboard. What kind of status is conferred by the study of suchtopics? Within a sequenced curriculum of topics with cultural significance,students understand that graduation has taken place, that they have, figu-ratively, “taken a step.” But within an innovative curriculum—which oftenmeans some version of Bobbitt’s (1918) conception that “human life con-sists … in the performance of specific activities” (p. 42)—it is hard to feelthat a step has been taken. When memory fails, instead of leaving a senseof landmarks passed and statuses acquired, it simply leaves a blank.Another kind of innovative curriculum can also be disabling: the one thatflies to a different extreme, and elevates personal experience rather thaninstrumentalism to be the arbiter of what should be taught. Unique, per-sonal exploration through art, acting, or writing raises the same kind ofproblem. Over the long period, structure, sequence, and a sense of com-pletion can be lost, and with them, the meaning of the career of the stu-dent. But a proper sense of conservatism on the part of teacher andstudent can lend significance to such experience. The character of curricu-lum is better suited to the kind of art that springs from a creative engage-ment with conventions. Art that defies or ignores convention is bestpursued elsewhere.

“A creative engagement with the conventions” is perhaps as good a wayas any of describing the circumstances under which students can findenthusiasm for the practice of learning within the institution of curricu-lum. Learning depends on a tension between security and risk—thoughwhat is safe and what is dangerous is an individual matter. Broadly speak-ing, it is the institutional curriculum that provides the secure backgroundthat students need. When well designed, it has an enduring charactermarked by predictability, by the reassurance of familiar landmarks, and bythe promise of progress toward goals of status. Teachers can use the institu-tional curriculum as “home base” from which exploration can take place;the categorical framework of sequenced topics can be the matrix withinwhich riskier areas of personal learning can be ventured upon. This iswhere students become witnesses to the specific knowledge that teachersneed in order to promote curriculum as a practice within their classrooms.The specific knowledge that is needed is not simply about past skills orinformation acquired, or about capabilities for the acquisition of skills orinformation in the future:

Education cannot … separate off the intellectual from feeling and action,whether in the interest of the one or the other. Training of the intellect musttake place (“must” in the sense of “unavoidably”) in a milieu of feelings and



must express itself in action, either symbolic or actual. We may employ theemotional and active factors existent in student and teacher as means forintensifying and facilitating the process of intellectual education—or ignorethem and suffer at least a loss of them as effective aids, and possibly an alien-ation which places them in active opposition to our purposes. (Schwab,1978a, p. 108)

In the ideal situation, general knowledge of how students think aboutthe institutional curriculum, and how it can be of significance for buildingpublic careers, is allied to specific knowledge of how they think about andcan relate to curriculum practice as private individuals. If such knowledgecan play a part in decision making on what should be taught and how, thebest chance exists that the two aspects of curriculum will become mutuallysupportive; that the security provided by the one can become a basis forthe risk and excitement of learning through the other, so that predictabil-ity becomes not only tolerable but also satisfying.

UTILIZING STUDENT KNOWLEDGE

In the case of all the commonplaces, it is not difficult to argue why they areimportant sources of knowledge. What may be more difficult is to suggesthow the knowledge they can contribute to curriculum deliberation is to bemade available. This is particularly the case where students are concerned.As we have seen, there is first of all a difficulty about persuading curricu-lum decision makers (among whom, of course, I include teachers) that stu-dent knowledge should be taken seriously. Students are the beneficiaries ofthe curriculum, but somehow disqualified from having a rational view ofwhat those benefits should be, or how they should be delivered. Within asystematic perspective, the means of delivery is one that only experts canunderstand; within a radical perspective, constructive views of how studentsmight benefit from experience of the curriculum are merely misguided;within an existential perspective, students are to be consulted about curric-ulum as a resource for personal development, but are not expected orencouraged to have views on the institutional curriculum. The firstrequirement, then, is to arrive at a conception of curriculum within whichstudent knowledge can be seen as both general and specific, both institu-tional and personal, both theoretic and practical. I have suggested onekind of view of curriculum and the student’s part in it that allows for such aconception.

But beyond this, there is a further problem to be faced. Even if we allowthat students have a sensible appreciation of curriculum matters, whichextends to questions of how decisions affecting its role as institution as well



as its role as practice should be reached, how is this intelligence to be madeavailable to curriculum deliberation? The easier case to consider is theincorporation of student knowledge into curriculum as practice. Curricu-lum as practice should always, to some extent, have the character of discus-sion. The discussion will seldom be overtly about matters of curriculumdecision. Rather it will, in the spirit of a theory of knowledge that sees it asstemming from the activity of the student’s mind, be discussion about mat-ters that arise from curriculum content. If the mind of the student is to beactive, then curriculum practice must exhibit some of the features of dis-cussion. It is not so much a matter of formally initiating discussion as a ped-agogical device, as of conceiving the question of how curriculum is movedfrom an institutional to a practical form in terms of translating prescriptivematerial into material whose specific realization depends on a process ofinteraction. This may, at certain points, recognizably become discussion.To return to the musical metaphor: the teacher is in the position of some-one who has been presented with a score (in the case of curriculum, ascore the form of which has, ideally, already been to some extent shaped byteachers). The problem now is to realize a performance in a particularplace, with particular players. The players (students) already know some-thing about working from scores, and the conductor (teacher) already hasa conception of what the music should sound like. What ensues is a processof sharing and enhancing the two sets of knowledge to produce a satisfac-tory outcome. To be satisfactory, it has to reflect, in some faithful way, themarkings of the score, but it also has to be authentic in itself, an exampleof the skill and commitment of the participants, and not simply an effort toreproduce as accurately as possible what has been written down. The pro-cess is called rehearsal. In the course of rehearsal players have to learnwhat some of the markings mean, and sometimes acquire new skills of play-ing. But the conductor also has to learn. Limitations of skill may have to beacknowledged and managed in some way; unexpected effects have to bethought about and not necessarily dismissed; alternative interpretationsmust be tried out. Rehearsal is a process of mutual discovery. People payattention to what others are doing. Sometimes clarifications and explana-tions are needed. Sometimes clarifications and explanations develop intoextended interchanges. When this point is reached, what is going on isobviously a discussion—but discussion is always implicit in the process. It istied to a specific text, but, indirectly, it is about much more: the nature oftexts, the interpretation of texts, the difficulties, suitability, and improve-ment of texts. Once curriculum practice is seen in this way as a process ofmutual enlightenment, student knowledge becomes active in shaping it.Whether, or to what extent, it becomes active is partly a matter of the skilland insight of the teacher, but also a matter of the theoretical stance ofthose responsible for the institutional curriculum. Do they see it as simply a



matter for decision by experts? Or, if it is the result of a process of delibera-tion involving the commonplaces, have they all been enabled to play theirproper part in that deliberation?

Here we face the more intractable problem. Students should contributenot only to curriculum at the classroom level, where discussion is alwaysdifficult, but never impossible, but also to curriculum at the institutionallevel, where participation is much harder to manage. If student knowledgerisks being ignored where students form a natural majority, and whereopportunities for them to establish their credibility can never be com-pletely denied, how much more likely it is to be passed over in places wherelarger-scale curriculum decisions are taken. Apart from the obvious obsta-cles of distance and lack of status, a further problem emerges: since stu-dent groups are characterized by great diversity while deliberating groupsare ideally small—not many more than a dozen or so people at the most—how can a proper range of expertise be accommodated? Teachers, milieus,and subject matter are also diverse, but their diversity is something that is amatter of communication and knowledge. Those who speak for the com-monplaces can be conscious of the particularity of their viewpoint and, tosome extent at least, accommodate their own view to the generality of viewssufficiently to contribute in a more than merely representative way to delib-eration. But it is hard for students to represent anyone other than them-selves. There is no satisfactory answer to this difficulty. Schwab (1983), in“The Practical 4,” can offer only two short and rather lame paragraphs onthe subject of student participation in curriculum deliberation (as againstseveral pages on the other commonplaces) (p. 248—249). Probably, wehave to live, however uneasily, with the idea that, at the institutional level,most of what is offered in the name of the commonplace of student willhave to come from those who occupy other roles—teacher, subject-matterexpert, and so on. If they speak from a perspective that recognizes theimportance and cogency of the knowledge that students possess, so thatthey do not offer merely psychometric data or platitudes about relevance,the damage may not be too great. But it remains an ironic fact that thosewhom curriculum is supposed to benefit are the hardest to accommodatein deliberations on its form and content.

Possibly the problem is even more fundamental. Curriculum, as I haveexplained, is an institution that grew with modern conceptions of literacyand literate views of the world. Those in a student role are, in one way oranother, being moved from oral to literate modes of understanding. This ismost obvious in the case of children first entering school. Even if theycome from literate homes, their first initiation into the world will havebeen an oral one. The curriculum not only shows them how to read, butfamiliarizes them with ideas of universalism and causality that the broadercontexts of literacy demand. At later stages of the curriculum, too, the con-



cepts of subjects such as science and mathematics continue this process ofdetaching the student from the particularities of oral culture. If the curric-ulum process is seen in this light, then it is understandable that admissionof student knowledge to the practice of curriculum, which inevitably has tohave an oral component (recitation, if not discussion), and is focused onparticularities of place and participants, is less problematic than admissionof student knowledge to deliberation on the institutional curriculum, withits assumptions of universalism and objectivity. Those journeying from oral-ity to literacy, in the broadest cultural sense of those words, can, it is sup-posed, have little knowledge of destinations. But this is a shortsightedconclusion. Literacy and orality do not have to be in conflict:

It is possible at the level of the overall planning of the curriculum for theconception of the work to be done to be grounded in a proto-literate tradi-tion of deliberation.… Deliberation, like other practical arts, can only existwithin a context of literacy.… However, through its emphasis on the spokenword, it preserves many of the virtues of the oral world, the benefits of whichare now being advocated not only in curriculum but in many other areas ofmacro-level planning. (Reid, 1993, p. 24)

The extent to which student knowledge enters into curriculum delibera-tion, at all levels, could, therefore, be seen as an index of its state of healthand, consequently, of the state of health of the institution and practice thatit sustains.CH07—104


105


THE COMMONPLACEOF SUBJECT MATTER

The most heated battles that take place around the curriculum of theschool concern subject matter. In spite of this, some perspectives inclineto understand subject matter either as something of marginal importance,or as something that need not be controversial. Radical perspectives oftenimply that subject matter is, in a way, adventitious: it is whatever the domi-nant class sees as affording materials for the establishment of the “socialrelations of the educational encounter.” Systematic perspectives see theimportance of subject matter—indeed they often make great play with theneed for subject matter to be “reformed,” “updated,” or “made rele-vant”—but generally assume that some obvious principle is available formaking decisions on such questions, and that applying it is a matter ofinvoking the requisite technical expertise. Existential perspectives see sub-ject matter in terms of the individual needs of the student, and, thoughthey value it as a resource, rather than denigrating it as simply a means ofsubordinating students to the demands of a hegemonic system, theyaccord it a rather elusive and amorphous role. However, we know that sub-ject matter is the cause of great concern at all levels of the curriculum pro-cess: the U.S. federal government is concerned because it believes thatsubject matter in mathematics, science, and technology lacks the depthand sophistication that would allow competition on level terms with coun-tries such as China and Japan; states and school districts are concernedbecause pressure groups want topics relating to race or religion mandated

CHAPTER 8



in or banned from the curriculum of public education; and teachers andstudents are concerned because they are urged to teach or learn thingsthat seem not to match the purposes of the practice in which they areengaged. In all these ways, subject matter appears as an important andcomplex resource for processes of curriculum building. What conceptionof its character and role might, then, be appropriate to an understandingof it as a commonplace of curriculum deliberation, alongside the othercommonplaces of teacher, students, milieus, and curriculum making? Asan aid to examining this question, let us look more closely at the kinds ofconcerns about subject matter that I have just enumerated.

SUBJECT MATTER AS A NATIONAL CONCERN

The elements of curriculum subject matter that arouse national con-cern—principally language, mathematics, and science, and to someextent history and social science—did not originally find their place in thecurriculum because they were seen as of great moment in the well-beingof nation states. In the centuries when the forms of the curriculum werebeing laid down, such studies established themselves because they wereseen as culturally significant for those who were to benefit from the expe-rience of schooling. To speak well and to write well had been culturallyimportant achievements since classical times. The study of history and ofother modes of investigating the nature of society provided matter forspeaking and writing. Mathematics was another cultural achievement thathad long been valued, while science had, by the 18th century, attained aparallel status. The processes that moved the subject matters of the old lib-eral curriculum into the forms and structures of a curriculum of schoolingtied to national identities and aspirations, also moved the conception oftheir importance from one associated with cultural distinction to onelinked to cultural competition.

However, while the overtly expressed motivations for urging the impor-tance of studying these subjects have changed, as is evidenced, for exam-ple, in the language of “A Nation at Risk” (U.S. Department of Education,1983), the underlying institutional reasons for their presence in the curric-ulum have not disappeared. The idea that science should be studied inU.S. high schools because it will enable the Americans to be as good as theJapanese at designing and selling automobiles turns out to be less compel-ling, within the frame of reference of the school curriculum, than the ideathat science should be studied because it is a cultural achievement, whichtakes its place as part of the civic identity that experience of the curriculumshould confer. This underlying consistency in the way that subject matterfunctions within school curricula is related to the historical nature of cur-


The Commonplace of Subject Matter 107

riculum as an institution. Subjects, as we understand them, entered thecurriculum as a result of the transformation of texts into textbooks, withconsequences for the structuring and sequencing of subject matter and forrepresenting it as capable of completion. The outcome of this process wasthe establishment of school subjects, which are only loosely related to sub-jects within other contexts.

Failure to remember this has resulted in the dissemination of many falseideas about the subject matter of the curriculum. For example, argumentshave been made about how principles of design can be derived from theproposition that subjects represent “forms of knowledge,” and it has beenproposed that a complete curriculum should be made up of subjects thatembody all the forms that have been identified. This idea is based on themistaken premise that subjects of the curriculum are the same as the corre-sponding forms of inquiry that produced the knowledge described by theirtitles; that, for example, science, as a school subject, is the same as the pro-cess that, somewhere else, creates scientific knowledge. Science, as part of acurriculum, is an entirely different kind of sociotechnical construct andfunctions to serve curricular and pedagogic ends rather than scientificones. Much of the recent history of science in the curriculum has con-cerned attempts to bring the nature of school science closer to some ver-sion of the nature of real science—this is essentially what the sciencecurriculum reform movement of the 1960s was about—but, interestingly,the curricular forms of science have proven resistant to change. “America2000” has much to say about the importance of science in the curriculum,but nothing about the need for further efforts to move it closer to real sci-ence. School people gave up science to the scientists when reform wascalled for; now that the calls have faded, they have quietly taken it back.

Therefore, when we consider what kinds of knowledge about subjectmatter should be taken into account in curriculum deliberation, we haveto think not only of the character of subjects as they are found in situationsoutside schooling, but also of the character that subjects have establishedfor themselves as part of the institution of schooling. We are used to theidea that subjects need to be adapted for pedagogical purposes:

The curriculum is not to conform to the material: the material is to be usedin the service of the student. (Schwab, 1978d, p. 377)

But this is not the only adaptation that must be made. When we speak of“using material in the service of the student,” we are talking about theneed for subject matter to lend itself to the practice of curriculum—that is,the interchange of the classroom. This has a somewhat flexible character,but, in many ways, conforms to established tradition. Simultaneously, how-ever, we have to take into account the equally important question of the



capability of subject matter for serving the institutional ends of curriculum,that is, for yielding opportunities for sequencing, completion, and certifi-cation. The ways in which this can be done are also somewhat flexible but,again, only within the limits of established tradition. Inevitably, the needswill sometimes be in conflict. Pedagogy thinks in terms of small units—thelesson, or even part of the lesson. An exemplar of good pedagogy would bea lesson that gripped, stimulated, and enriched the minds of students.Constructing such a lesson would involve judging its components on thebasis of their intrinsic exploitability for these immediate ends. It wouldalmost certainly mean ignoring institutional conventions about grade lev-els, prerequisites, and higher level sequencing of topics. But the institu-tional curriculum has to be thought about in terms of large units, not smallones. It has to demonstrate endurance over the longer haul where gradelevels, prerequisites, and sequences assume prime importance. Materialsfrom outside curriculum have to be transformed into subject matter that isserviceable for both purposes. As well as knowing how material canbecome a resource for the practice of curriculum, we also need to knowhow the same material can be adapted to the institutional curriculum.

A curriculum that serves the civic interest has to give weight both to theneeds of practice and to institutional needs. Moreover, it has to pay atten-tion not only to questions of initiation into cultural achievements, but alsoquestions of how those achievements relate to the practical ambitions ofnation states, which compete with each other for political and economicadvantage. However, such practical ambitions cannot become the overrid-ing consideration when we frame the questions that we want the common-place of subject matter to answer. They take their place within a muchmore complex network of considerations about the practical and institu-tional limits and possibilities of the materials of the curriculum.

SUBJECT MATTER AS A LOCAL CONCERN

Questions of curriculum that are seen as reflecting a national interest(whether that is understood to be simply an economic interest, or a moreelaborately defined civic interest) can be pursued at a level of considerablegenerality. For example, the proposition that science should be repre-sented in the curriculum raises arguments about why the nation needs citi-zens who understand and know about science, as well as arguments aboutwhat kind of science should find its way into school curricula and how. Butit does not usually run up against arguments that discuss how the learningof science may affect idiosyncratic interests. However, when subject matteris considered at the state or district level, the situation is different. Here, wecan expect to find issues that arise from the confrontation between general



expectations about what should happen and the specific wants and ambi-tions of particular subcultures. Some examples are very obvious andfamous: how is the teaching of the standard biology curriculum to be rec-onciled with the religious beliefs of groups who maintain that Genesisoffers an accurate account of the origins of life? This is territory withinwhich subject matter controversy is mostly about the appropriateness oftextbook versions of proposed curriculum content. It is, in fact, at this levelthat the nature of the public interest, insofar as it relates to subject matter,is worked out. Seldom is the disagreement about whether topics of the cur-riculum are useful or not: we do not often see, at the local level, proteststhat something economically advantageous is missing from school pro-grams. Most often, the nature of the controversies that are aroused signalsthat the function of subject matter is indeed to confer on those experienc-ing it a kind of cultural allegiance, and that what is at issue, therefore, isthe relationship between the general, incorporative identity that curricu-lum proposes and the unique identity that subcultural groups wish to pre-serve for themselves. Two opposite possibilities present themselves. On theone hand, subject matter can become the occasion for throwing into ques-tion the whole idea of curriculum as a vehicle for establishing commonalityof interest within a polity, or, on the other hand, it can become the meanswhereby commonality is preserved in spite of the existence of potentiallycompeting interests.

Historically, curriculum was protected from the possibility of challengesto its authority because, at higher age levels, it addressed itself to an elitethat automatically pursued a common interest and, at lower levels, itfocused on such enabling skills as reading and writing, which were usuallythought of as uncontroversial. Therefore, its extension to other audiencesand other subject matters has tended to proceed on the assumption thatthe institutional curriculum does not need to concern itself with localinterests. National, state, or provincial curricula tend to be too detailed,too specific in their demands for testing and evaluation, and too legalisticin their imposition of demands. An institutional curriculum that hasbroadened its scope to embrace students of all backgrounds must define itssubject matter in ways that facilitate the resolution of controversy, and notin ways that make controversy intractable. Deliberation, therefore, shouldbe not only about content, but about the levels at which particular kinds ofdecisions on content should be made. Assuming that there is generalagreement on the need for science to be part of the school curriculum, inwhat ways should science be defined at the national level, and in what waysshould it be defined at the district or classroom level? What kinds of free-dom should exist at the various levels for interest groups, or individuals, toadapt the curriculum to their own requirements or preferences? Suchquestions raise a wide spectrum of possibilities. Might there be a choice of



which science to study? Could an overall science curriculum be defined interms of kinds of knowledge or abilities that could be illustrated by arange of topics? Alternatively, could one begin with required topics andallow for flexibility in the interpretation these might receive in terms ofspecific knowledge? But these are not issues that can be pursued solelywithin the frame of reference of science itself, or of interest groups, or ofpedagogic principles. The more fundamental question is how discussionabout such ingenuity in the specification of curriculum can be employedto preserve its institutional character, while also enabling students of verydiverse character to engage with it. The mistake is to believe that theirengagement depends exclusively on those aspects of curriculum thatrespect diversity. The nature of curriculum, in its currently institutional-ized form, is such that the engagement of very diverse groups or individu-als also depends on the preservation of those aspects that mark it out ashaving a universal character.

SUBJECT MATTER AS A CLASSROOM CONCERN

In spite of the intimate connection that exists between the levels of deci-sion making where curriculum problems occur, resolving them at the class-room level must be regarded as an activity of a different order from theactivities of resolving them at the national or local level. The resolution ofnational or local subject matter issues is, in the main, an institutional pro-cess. The decisions that are made appear as requirements, directives,schedules, or specifications. These function as instruments that define andregulate the character of the institutional curriculum. The resolution ofissues about subject matter at the classroom level, however, is an activityrelated to the conduct of a practice. Therefore, different kinds of consider-ations apply to the process and to its outcomes; while institutional activityhas to satisfy curriculum interests, classroom practice has to satisfy curricu-lum participants. A decision about what science is to be taught in highschools is a decision with generality. It must take account of the nature ofhigh schools, high school teachers, and high school students, but only in aglobal way. Even if the decision is made at the district level, and in responseto local interests, it still has a general quality. But decisions about what sci-ence to teach in particular classrooms involve first of all considerationsabout specific teachers and specific students, and secondly considerationsabout consequences for the relationship of those teachers and students asparticipants in an activity that is primarily regulated by principles of prac-tice rather than institutional rules. If teachers are unresponsive to sugges-tions that certain curricular topics be taught, this may not be because theyregard them as unimportant, or because they lack the competence or the



willingness to teach them, but because, for practitioners, the classroom is acertain kind of arena that readily admits some topics and admits othersonly with difficulty. At the institutional level, for example, it may seem nec-essary for curriculum to have regard to issues of race, gender, or moralitythat might be perceived, at the classroom level, to threaten the relationshipof teachers and students within the context of practice. If such curriculaare mandated, it will be possible, in a few classrooms, for them to beaddressed in the way that their promoters intended. These classrooms, forthe time being, will be cut off from the mainstream of curriculum activity.They will resemble clinics, tribunals, or TV talk shows. But in most class-rooms, the least educative aspects of the institutionalized curriculum willbe called upon to render the intrusive subject matter acceptable within aframework of classroom discourse. Controversial material will be reducedto a minimal textbook curriculum, emphasising rote learning of neutralfacts within a routine of recitation and testing of recall. Attempts to intro-duce topics such as health education, sex education, or consumer educa-tion in schools often produce this result. More traditional subjects, on theother hand, such as history or science, will often evoke attempts to gobeyond the recitation, to creatively involve students in styles of learningthat overcome the implied limitations of schedules of content. This hap-pens because what is proposed is congruent with the process of curriculumenactment, so that subject matter can be extended, adapted, and exploitedwithout compromising the intrinsic nature of the classroom.

Arguments about subject matter, then, are differently directed accordingto whether it is the institutional curriculum or the classroom curriculum thatis at issue, and, in the two situations, the commonplace of subject matterassumes a different face. In the first, it is a source of arguments for the provi-sion of the resources that the institutional curriculum needs if it is to exist,flourish, evolve, and command the respect of local or national constituen-cies. In the second, it is a source of arguments for pedagogical practices thatcan secure the engagement of students and teachers in the processes ofschooling. But the two need to be connected. In a logical sense, we are talk-ing about two different kinds of subject matter, but, in a practical sense, theyhave to be the same. The credibility of schooling depends on the perceptionof a necessary relationship between the scheduled or promulgated curricu-lum and the curriculum as it is enacted within classrooms (hence the excite-ment engendered by issues such as grade inflation). The commonplace ofsubject matter must be interrogated to establish ways in which possibilitiesfor mutual adaptability between curriculum as institution and curriculum aspractice can be identified and exploited.



THE CHARACTER AND ROLE OF SUBJECT MATTERIN THE CURRICULUM

Discussion of the relation of subject matter to a variety of rather disparatecurriculum-focused concerns leads to the observation that some kinds oftopic will be better able than others to satisfy the demands of potentiallycompeting interests. On the whole, we can have some confidence thatthose topics that have succeeded in the past in satisfying, to some degree atleast, the conflicting demands of various constituencies—mathematics, sci-ence, language, social studies—will continue to do so for the immediatefuture. If we view subject matter in this light, it is perhaps not so surprisingthat the recommendations of the 1983 document, “A Nation at Risk” bearmore than a passing resemblance to those of the Committee of Ten, whichreported in 1894; or that the National Curriculum for England and Walesof 1988 follows rather closely the prescriptions of the 1904 Regulations forSecondary Schools—much as this contradicts persistent calls for curricu-lum reform. Let us review the desirable characteristics of curriculum sub-ject matter as they appear from the present analysis:

1. It should be culturally significant.2. It should be seen to serve, or not offend against, national interests

(civic interest, economic interest, etc.).3. It should be seen to serve, or not offend against, group or individual

interests (interests of teachers or students, ethnic or religious inter-ests, etc.).

4. It should be adaptable to curriculum as institution (structuring, sequencing, completion, etc.).

5. It should be adaptable to curriculum as practice (pedagogical poten-tial, classroom relations, etc.).

Discussion of these characteristics will proceed on the basis that theissue is to identify subject matter that is appropriate to schools in general,but is also adaptable to particular settings. Often, such discussion, espe-cially when it is of a reformist nature, starts from the opposite end. It is sup-posed that subject matters (in which I here include methods as well ascontents) can be selected solely on the basis of criteria internal to the mat-ters themselves or to pedagogies associated with them; that one could, forexample, devise a science curriculum founded upon principles derivedfrom the intrinsic nature of science as inquiry, or, alternatively, from con-sideration of idealized pedagogic procedures. Such ideas often supply thedriving force behind reformist proposals for the subject matter of curricu-lum. The defect of such an exclusive approach is that it tends to ignore thefact that subjects as part of a curriculum are not the same as subjects as



they exist outside schooling, and to overlook the extent to which the peda-gogical possibilities of classrooms are, in general, subordinated to the char-acter of the institutionalized curriculum. They constitute what I would callcurriculum proposals for privileged settings, by which I mean settings thatoffer extraordinary possibilities for invention related to curriculum con-tent and processes. Such privilege can stem from enlightened administra-tive leadership, special qualities of teachers or students, or unusual accessto resources. But curriculum as an all-embracing institution has to dealalmost exclusively with settings that are not privileged; that are character-ized by average leadership, average teachers and students, and averageendowment of resources. Privileged settings serve a purpose; they areexemplars on which ideals of practice can be focused (see Reid, 1987, p.15). But subject matter should be thought of as suited to the generality ofsettings and adaptable to privileged ones, rather than suited to privilegedones and adaptable, at some cost, to those lacking special endowment.With this caveat in mind, let us review our list of the respects in whichattention should be directed to the commonplace of subject matter.

It Should be Culturally Significant

The phrase culturally significant is italicized to signal the extent to whichit is controversial. To say that something is culturally significant is toassume a definition of culture. This raises a number of difficulties. Firstly,with what territory or group is the idea of culture to be associated? Are wejustified in assuming that cultures belong to nations? If so, how do nationalcultures relate to cultures that are claimed by social, religious, or ethnicgroups, or to cultural values that can be held to be international? Secondly,what kind of a definition of culture is relevant to the consideration of cur-riculum content? Is culture to be understood as a way of life, as achieve-ments of a way of life (knowledge, artifacts, and so on), or as a set ofcriteria by which a way of life and its achievements are to be valued?

Curriculum, in terms of its recent historical development, is identifiedwith the recognition of national cultures. Study of curriculum shows thatbroad commonality of content generally coincides with national bound-aries. As Meyer (1980) points out, a sharp discontinuity in the geographycurriculum occurs as the U.S./Canadian border is crossed, though no obvi-ous change in terrain or inhabitants occurs (p. 31). Where such disconti-nuities are observed at boundaries of significance within nations, as, forexample, in the social studies and language curriculums between Quebecand the rest of Canada, this is usually a sign that national integrity is inquestion. Most often, variation in curriculum content within national sys-tems of education occurs gradually as regions are traversed, or variation is



found within isolated pockets. This general uniformity of curricula withinnations, coupled with strong differentiation at national boundaries, evenwhen no physical demarcation is apparent, is a matter of common observa-tion. Curriculum is institutionalized at the national level, and it follows thatfor purposes of choice of subject matter, “culturally significant” implies sig-nificant in terms of a prevailing national culture, one indicator of which isthe existence of a unified schooling system.

However, as we have noted, the development of schooling systems thatembrace the whole of a nation, rather than, as was earlier the case, certainmore or less homogeneous subgroups, means that the curriculum now hasto be adaptable to large numbers of students whose cultural backgroundsdiffer from the assumed norm, and also from each other. Choice of cultur-ally significant subject matter, therefore, needs to made in such a way thatinventive variation is possible for localities, groups, and individuals.Equally, subject matter has to be capable of illuminating ways in which cul-tural values and achievements transcend national boundaries. How weanswer further questions on the nature of culture will depend on how weapply additional criteria for subject-matter selection.

It Should be Seen to Serve, or Not Offend,Against National Interests

Curriculum, as has been suggested, serves a national interest. What isdebatable, as we consider questions of content, is whether this interestshould be interpreted in specific ways—that is, by understanding it as, forexample, an economic interest—or whether it should be interpreted in ageneral way as standing for what I have termed the public interest. Themodern institution of schooling presumes the existence of a public interestto which it can be attached. More specific interests, such as those that focuson employability, or academic excellence, or technological expertise, tendto be associated with the needs or ambitions of particular social groups.They may figure as components of the public interest, but their exclusivepursuit risks fragmenting the institution for which they are alleged to act asa unifying influence.

It Should be Seen to Serve, or Not Offend,Against Group or Individual Interests

If subject matter is to facilitate the ability of curriculum to engage thewhole spectrum of students, it must not only represent a general publicinterest, but also be capable of retaining the allegiance of those whose pre-



ferred identity is only partly supported by such an interest. Most obviously,the wants and ambitions of ethnic groups must be taken into account. Butperhaps more important is the capability of subject matter to be adapted tothe unique case. Often, for the teacher, the ethnic or religious group is anabstraction. What matters is to be able to use the resources of subject matterto engage the student as an individual. Indeed, this is what is expected ofthose professionally engaged in a practice. It is the welfare of the client thathas to be considered. To pay attention to social or cultural markers of a cli-ent’s status can be helpful—even essential—but this attention is a means toan end, not a way of determining definitively what should be done.

It Should be Adaptable to Curriculum as Institution

The institutional curriculum achieves its effects through structure,sequence, and completion. It is possible that many kinds of subject mattercould fulfill this criterion. What is often overlooked is that the work of ren-dering subject matter into forms that incorporate these desired attributesis very considerable, and requires not only the selection and working out ofcontent-related paradigms, but also their incorporation into a tradition.The tradition secures widespread recognition of the legitimacy of theordering of subject matter, and also ensures a supply both of teachers whointuitively understand this ordering and of textbooks that incorporate it.The difficulty of establishing such traditions explains the failure of somereformist attempts to change the subject matter of the curriculum. Newversions of science, even in the short run, have difficulty in competing withtraditional forms. In the longer run, they usually disappear completely, orleave behind fragments that have succeeded in attaching themselves to tra-ditional sequences.

It Should be Adaptable to Curriculum as Practice

Finally, subject matter must have qualities of adaptability that enable itto become the vehicle of a practice as well as the stuff of institutional activ-ity. Curriculum practice typically takes place in classrooms that incorporatetheir own understandings about the role of subject matter. While institu-tional activity consists of the formulation of published plans and accredita-tion of past performance, classroom activity is concerned with themanagement of interpersonal processes and capitalization on current per-formance. The history of the curriculum of schooling has ensured theavailability of many kinds of subject matter that fulfill these dual functions.New proposals have to be scrutinized for the degree to which they embody



the same possibilities. Subject matters that have institutional advantagesmay lack adaptability to the needs of practice, and vice versa.

SUBJECT MATTER AS A CURRICULAR RESOURCE

Consideration of the commonplace of subject matter contends with threevery large problems. First, the vast range of material that might providesubject matter. There is virtually no activity, practical or theoretic, whichcould not, on the basis of some argument, be put forward as a source ofcontent for the curriculum. The proliferation of courses of all kinds inAmerican high schools—already an occasion of widespread criticism—isstill not enough to satisfy the claims of various special interests for theirconcerns to be made part—often a required part—of the curriculum. Butsecondly, and driving us in the opposite direction, there are many con-straints on what can be fruitfully included in the curriculum. How manysubject matters can claim to be culturally significant (on more than a locallevel), to be seen to serve national interests, to be seen to serve local inter-ests, to be adaptable to curriculum as institution, and to be adaptable tocurriculum as practice? The ease with which some topics already take theirplace in the curriculum, with weighty arguments to support their inclu-sion on all counts, and fitting in with institutional and classroom tradi-tions, can blind us to the scale and subtlety of the feat of invention whichthis represents. Finally, when we confront promising new subject matter,the equally remarkable but not often noted problem of how to translatethe knowledge and activities of the outside world into the stuff of curricu-lum content still remains to be surmounted. Interrogation of the com-monplace of subject matter demands that we be aware of and attentive toall these considerations.

When we apply them to the question of what subject matter already existsin national schooling systems, we become aware of some compelling rea-sons why these subject matters are often drawn from or related to academicdisciplines or fields of inquiry. First of all, academic disciplines have claimsto be culturally significant. They deal with matters that society regards asconsequential and, in most cases, has so regarded for a long time. Peopleare ready to devote careers to their study, they are widely reported in themedia, and resources are provided, often out of general taxation, for theirsupport. Secondly, they are related to issues of national interest. Academicdisciplines impinge on questions of national prestige, economic interest,the definition of issues on which opinion has to be formed, and positionsthat must be attacked or defended. Thirdly, while not necessarily seemingto be directly supportive of sectional interests, they do not, in general, standout as being opposed to them. No doubt they do, to some extent, represent



a special interest of their own, but this could be held against any subjectmatter, and the disciplines seem to offend less than many other sources ofcurriculum content in this respect. We may note, in support of this conten-tion, that academic disciplines, more than other kinds of studies, are found,often in much the same form, in the curricula of many different nationalschool systems (see, for example, Kamens & Yun-Kyung Cha, 1992). Finally,historically, there has been a close link between academic inquiry and peda-gogy—indeed within some academic cultures the two are seen as insepara-ble. A long history of formalizing academic knowledge for purposes ofcommunications has established traditions, embodied in textbooks, jour-nals, and encyclopedias, of how such knowledge can be translated into thematerial of curricula, syllabuses, and lessons.

However, while history can be claimed in support of the virtues of aca-demic disciplines as sources of curriculum subject matter, history can alsobe invoked against them. The reason for their strong presence in the cur-riculum, it might be claimed, is that when secondary schooling was the pre-serve of an elite, they represented a special interest. This argument toodeserves respect. If the commonplace of subject matter is to be looked atdiachronically as well as synchronically, history can tell many stories. How-ever, the central point is that as long as the institutional structures ofschooling persist, whatever subject matters are admitted to the curriculumhave to serve very much the kinds of purposes that academic subject mat-ters have served in the past. A shorthand way of establishing the curricularpossibilities of candidate subject matters, therefore, is to ask how far theyare capable of yielding the kinds of resources that the disciplines provide.Perhaps, in the end, new forms of content will establish themselves, but thiswill come about only if we are aware of how much past time and effort wentinto honing the fitness of the disciplines as curricular materials.

If we provisionally accept the academic disciplines as exemplars of ser-viceable curriculum content, how should we view them in relation to otherissues that have been raised? These include the question of levels of deci-sion, the question of whether culture is to be understood as a way of life,set of achievements, or criteria of judgment, and the question of whethercultures should be seen within an absolutist or relativistic perspective.

Curriculum subject matter should be capable of both specification forinstitutional purposes and elaboration for pedagogic purposes. These tworequirements are related, but should be thought about separately. Themore curriculum is specified in detail at the institutional level, the less it isadaptable to classrooms and to individuals. The academic disciplines lendthemselves to this kind of dual function. Since the work of communication,to which they are shaped, has enabled them to generate canonicallysequenced topics, they are suitable for macrolevel curriculum specifica-tion. At the same time, teachers who have had contact with the discipline



are well aware of the kinds of legitimate possibilities that topics contain,and can choose and adapt them in terms of the context of their practice. Itis important that any subject matter that is capable of it should be allowedto retain this flexibility. It can be lost not only through overspecification ofcontent at the institutional level but also by moves from content specifica-tion to objectives-based specification, especially when these are linked, asthey often are, to rigid forms of assessment.

What of the view that is taken of disciplines as culturally significant activ-ities? Should the focus be on the activities themselves—science as “Whatscientists do?” (Schwab, 1978b)? Or on the product of the activities—theachievements of science? Or on an abstract account of procedures and cri-teria of judgment—the philosophy of science? Ideally, none of these possi-bilities should be sacrificed. It is a strength of disciplines as sources ofsubject matter that they lend themselves to multiple interpretations oftheir nature. But how are these multiple possibilities to be capitalizedupon? First we should note that an institutional level interpretation of sub-ject matter stressing achievements is probably the most effective from thepoint of view of persuading constituencies of the validity of the endeavor atthat level, through provision of readily understood schedules of content.At the same time, it is the least threatening to local interests, since subjectmatter as achievement is less likely to be seen to be promoting either socialconventions or philosophical assumptions that could clash with personalor group values. In some instances, as with the case of evolutionary theory,it does not avoid them altogether, but it does allow controversy to befocused on a particular and potentially manageable item of a curriculum,rather than on the curriculum as a whole. Secondly, the specification offactual content, while it may not provide the most pressing invitation to tryout alternative pedagogies, does not bar the way to them. It is probably eas-ier to move from science as achievement to, for example, science as philo-sophical paradigm than vice versa, and it is to be remembered that what isat issue in this discussion is the curriculum for classrooms in general, notthe curriculum for privileged settings. Finally, subject matter as achieve-ment fits well with the important case that Hirsch (1988) has made out forthe teaching of cultural literacy as central to the purposes of the schoolcurriculum. Familiarity with the achievements of science, mathematics, lit-erature, and the humanities goes a long way towards supplying the materialrequired to fulfill what he has termed “the acculturative responsibility ofthe schools.” Subject matter is the primary resource for teaching “the waysof one’s own community,” which

has always been and still remains the essence of the education of our chil-dren, who enter neither a narrow tribal culture nor a world culture but anational culture. For profound historical reasons, this is the way of the mod-



ern world. It will not change soon, and it will certainly not be changed byeducational policy alone. (p. 18)

WHO SHOULD SPEAK FOR THE COMMONPLACEOF SUBJECT MATTER?

From the foregoing discussion it is evident that while experts in the knowl-edge and activities associated with subject matters, together with classroomteachers of subject matters, must be represented in deliberations on curric-ulum content, this is not sufficient to respond to the complex variety of sub-ject matter as a commonplace. For this, it is also necessary to have access toknowledge of the possible relationships of subject matter to the institutionalcurriculum, and to knowledge of the processes of translation by which sub-ject matters are made suitable for various kinds of curricular use.

A particular difficulty attending deliberation on subject matter is that ofincluding disciplinary experts without permitting them to act and be seenas experts in matters of translation of disciplinary content or classroom ped-agogy in which they are not expert. Their presence can also be a hindranceto the discovery of new subject matters, or the radical revision of existingones, which is of central importance in the adaptation of the curriculum togroups and to individuals. This problem will be examined further when wecome to a discussion of the commonplace of curriculum making.CH08—119


121


THE COMMONPLACEOF THE MILIEUS

Teachers, students, and subject matter can be thought of as commonplacesinternal to curriculum. But we have reviewed many examples of how thesecommonplaces cannot be disassociated from the world beyond curriculum,the classroom, and the school. For example, “the teacher is a representativeof an institutional endeavor to advance … a civic interest.” Or, “studentattention is secured first of all by the sense of being engaged in somethingthat is ordered in ways that reflect a wider reality.” Or, again, “subject matteris the primary resource for teaching the ways of one’s own community.” Atevery turn, curriculum deliberation is confronted by the fact that it cannotbe conducted without constant reference to various manifestations of theworld within which, and for which, curriculum is transacted. Sometimes theworld in question is a small one. The classroom itself, viewed as a socialrather than a pedagogical system, has been seen as one such world (seeThelen, 1981). Sometimes it is a big world, coextensive with a nation, oreven a continent. Curriculum in Australia has to reflect traditions and aspi-rations binding together hugely scattered populations (Marsh & Stafford,1988). A suitably inclusive and neutral word for referring to such widely dif-ferent but similarly conceived entities is milieus.1 Curriculum, in its various

1. This is the expression that Schwab uses in his discussion of the commonplaces(Schwab, 1978d, p. 366–367).

CHAPTER 9



aspects and manifestations, operates within a multiplicity of milieus andattention to them as a commonplace is constantly necessary alongside atten-tion to teachers, students, and subject matter.

As we think about the milieus as a commonplace, once again the distinc-tion between the institutional and the practical curriculum is a useful one.Confronted by the multiplicity of the milieus that could influence curricu-lum activity, we need some way of deciding not only what kinds of milieusshould claim our attention, but also what kinds of knowledge about themwe should attend to. Our confusion is diminished if we start by looking atthe nature of the curriculum problem that has to be solved, and use theresults of that enquiry to guide us toward the appropriate ways of address-ing the commonplace of the milieus. Is our problem about what to do inthe classroom? Perhaps how to interpret a national, state, or district curric-ulum for our own students? In that case, it is practical. Or is it about how todesign a curriculum at the national, state, or district level? In that case, theproblem we face is an institutional one. Let us consider how they differ.

THE MILIEUS AS A COMMONPLACEOF THE CLASSROOM CURRICULUM

From some points of view, the classroom itself can be seen as a milieu: the“milieus include the classroom and the school in which the learning andteaching are supposed to occur” (Schwab, 1978, p. 366). I prefer to thinkof the classroom and, to some degree, the school, as belonging to the cur-riculum. Classrooms are the sites where the institutional curriculum istranslated from an idea into a reality. They are simultaneously internal andexternal to the curriculum. They operate in many ways as self-containedsocial systems, but those who inhabit them—teachers and students—arrivefrom the milieus, move between them and the milieus, and, frequently,look forward to moving to other milieus. Classrooms are permeable. Val-ues, habits, beliefs, and ambitions nurtured elsewhere enter into them andaffect the nature of the practice that can be conducted in them (see Reid,1978, Chapter 5, for a more detailed discussion).

Consider, first of all, the arrival of a new teacher and new students in aclassroom. The teacher, apparently, has a designated, professional role.The class has an institutional label—first grade, let us say. The schoolingsystem chooses which children will be in it, prescribes, more or less, whatthey should be learning, and provides materials for the purpose. But thedesignated role of the teacher in the classroom is not to be compared withthe designated role of the pilot in the airliner or the surgeon in the operat-ing theater. The teacher is not faced with a task for which there is a well-defined technology responding predictably to skilled handling. What


The Commonplace of the Milieus 123

makes the difference is the milieu. Classrooms are built of human expecta-tions and responses, and the expectations and responses of those whoinhabit them are varied, contradictory, and not always easily foreseeable.Of course, as we have noted, attempts have been made to override thisinherent characteristic of classrooms by making teaching into a highlyscripted performance. But such heroic efforts have limited application.The question of the milieus is not so easily dismissed.

Our first instinct is no doubt to study the milieus from which our newstudents arrive:

What are likely to be children’s relations to one another? Will the classroomgroup overlap the play or neighbourhood group or any other group in whichchildren function? Will the children begin as friends and acquaintances orstrangers? Will their relationships be dominated by cliques or other sub-groups? (Schwab, 1978d, p. 366)

But this natural instinct perhaps should be tempered by reflection that,first of all, we should think about the teacher. The teacher too is a productof and a participant in the milieus. If we want to encourage reference tothe milieus as a commonplace of curriculum, we might suggest that wherecurriculum as practice is concerned, teachers think about their own experi-ence. They bring to the classroom attitudes and habits that have beenshaped elsewhere—by their upbringing, education, training, and participa-tion in social and cultural groups. Before they turn their attention to stu-dents, it is good that teachers look into their own experience, and ask, howfar does my own experience of the milieus shape the way I behave? Theclassroom allows teachers a lot of choices of how to proceed, how to relateto students and colleagues, and how to judge the worth of their own andtheir students’ performance. What use am I making of this freedom ofchoice? Is it limited by restrictions imposed on it by my own expectationsand responses? My own experience will lead me to interpret the meaningof behavior in particular ways. Do I assign these interpretations to theactions of students? Do I assume that students use words in the same waythat I use them?

One benefit of proceeding in this way is that, as we look into the ways inwhich we have been shaped by the milieus, we assume, naturally, that thisshaping has not been decisive. It has interacted with our own personalitiesand has been subjected to our own judgments of what is admirable ordeplorable. Then, as we think about students, we may be less inclined tosee their relationship to the milieus as determinate: what children fromparticular kinds of families can or cannot do, or what children of particularethnic origins will or will not accept. The knowledge of the milieus that weneed for classroom purposes is knowledge of the relationship of individu-



als to cultures, groups, or communities. Generalized knowledge is helpful,but it is not to be relied upon for constructing the curriculum of the class-room. The practice of curriculum requires that we adapt it to the needsand interests of specific students.

THE MILIEUS AS A COMMONPLACE OF THE INSTITUTIONAL CURRICULUM

The position with regard to the institutional curriculum is different. Thiscan take the milieus into account only in a general way. Knowledge of thecommonplace of the milieus is mediated through politics and throughsocial enquiry, both of which deal in generalities. Politics reduces individ-ual wants and ambitions to general issues and demands. The social sci-ences, even when they attend to cases, are interested in producinggeneralized descriptions and explanations. But these are appropriatesources of knowledge of the milieus when the question that concerns us is:

What are the conditions, dominant preoccupations, and cultural climate ofthe whole polity and its social classes, insofar as these may affect the careers,the probable fate, and ego identity of the children whom we want to teach?(Schwab, 1978d, p. 367)

When we ask what kind of institutional curriculum we should decideupon, we have to attend to two main purposes: the engagement of studentswith the curriculum that comes from its power to involve them in the con-struction of school careers, and the adaptability of the curriculum to localcircumstance. For both purposes, we need knowledge of the milieus. Forour first purpose, we have to know about the range of applicability that cer-tain kinds of subject matter might have. Our judgments on this can only beapproximate. What kinds of culturally significant subject matter are mostlikely to serve, or not offend against, group or individual interests? Mandat-ing the study of mathematics might be an uncontroversial move, but man-dating learning of a particular language might not. In the second case, atwhat points in our selection of content should we allow freedom to schoolsand teachers to adapt the curriculum to local circumstance? We might rea-sonably insist that music should be in the curriculum of all children butnevertheless leave wide freedom of choice of what particular kinds ofmusic should be taught. These sorts of judgments have to be made on gen-eral criteria. What general confidence might we have that a mandatedmathematics curriculum would not encounter the opposition of particulargroups or cultures? What general considerations lead us to believe that insome communities, classical music would not be well received?



Use of such criteria is acceptable as long as we attend to the imperativethat we use them to identify the places where it is unhelpful to insist thatgenerality should apply. If the institutional curriculum is to be effective, itmust have regard to the needs of the curriculum in practice and acceptthat local interrogation of the commonplace of the milieus by schools andteachers will lead them to conclusions that are opposed to the require-ments of an over-prescribed and detailed institutional curriculum. It hasbeen a defect of curriculum design at the national and state level that whatis seen, for historical or ideological reasons, or from an argument of eco-nomic imperative, to be desirable as part of a curriculum must thereforebe imposed as a requirement. Another way to look at this is to say thatthere has been too much preoccupation with the commonplace of subjectmatter and too little with the commonplace of the milieus.

A further difference between the milieus at the classroom and the institu-tional levels is that unless they have strong political representation, they are,as an institutional-level commonplace, more easily ignored, while at thelevel of the school and the classroom they force themselves on the attentionof those who are responsible for curriculum as practice. Distinguishingbetween the two levels highlights important features of knowledge of themilieus, but effective curriculum deliberation demands that this common-place always be attended to in both its general and its local aspects.

THE INTERNATIONAL MILIEU

Current debates on the institutional curriculum are, in fact, more likelyto extend their scope in the direction of international rather than localmilieus. “America 2000” (1991), invoking Operation Desert Storm as amodel for the scope of its ambitions, warns that:

the rest of the world (is not) sitting idly by, waiting for America to catch up.Serious efforts at education improvement are under way by most of our inter-national competitors and trading partners. Yet while we spend as much perstudent as almost any country in the world, American students are at or nearthe back of the pack in international comparisons. If we don’t make radicalchanges, that is where they are going to stay. (p. 5)

All countries are increasingly conscious of their participation in a globalmarket. The advent of modern technology enables instant transfer of infor-mation, and the information transmitted is predominantly economic andcommercial. Countries such as Canada and Australia, as well as the UnitedStates, are impressed with the urgency of competing in the internationaleconomic race; Pacific Rim is a call to broader horizons and renewed cul-tural identity, but also raises the spectre not only of a dominant Japan, but



of the rising economies of Korea, Taiwan, and, mainland China. Schoolingand curriculum are seized on as weapons in the intensifying economiccombat. But how do we use them? In order to justify differentiation of cur-ricula, and concentration of resources on the preparation of technical andcommercial leaders? Or in order to justify commonality of learning, andthe preparation of all students for participation in the global community?While a report from the Australian state of Victoria warns against the possi-bility that “technological advance could well result in the deskilling of amajority of the workforce and the concentration of high skills and power ina minority of highly educated workers” (Victoria Ministry, 1984, p. 6), thecommon National Curriculum in England and Wales is already being dif-ferentiated to make room for more teaching of technology (see Eggar,1990). The international milieu, to which so much attention is currentlypaid, is, at best, inscrutable, and, at worst, a facade behind whichentrenched ideologies can continue to override respect for the common-places of curriculum (see Reid & Holt, 1986). Where the milieus are con-cerned, more satisfying results are likely to come from attention to what iscloser at hand and more readily understandable.

DEMOCRACY, EXCELLENCE, AND THE MILIEUS

Attention to the milieu of the nation and the locality also highlights theissue of uniformity versus differentiation, and its special case of equalityversus excellence. The message from the milieus at the local level willalmost certainly be that more differentiation is needed, but this differentia-tion will be seen as a response to particularity—unique accommodations toa local group, neighborhood, or community. The message from the top,whether in favor of differentiation or commonality, will almost always takethe form of general prescriptions, perhaps alternative in character, but notaddressing specific situations. The conflict is exacerbated because, in prac-tice, calls for commonality, especially when they are tied to uniform systemsof evaluation and assessment, can sharpen differences. If groups of stu-dents with contrasting sympathies and aspirations are exposed to identicalcurricula, this can exaggerate their contrasting characters. Equally, insis-tence on differentiation, but according to standardized packages, can cur-tail the variety of outcomes that curricula might produce. The issue ofcommonality versus differentiation is far from simple, but study of themilieus can produce some guidance on how it might be treated.

First of all, attention to the local milieus shows that solution of such con-troversial claims usually has to take the form of a compromise. (This per-haps is not quite the right expression; accommodation of differingperspectives can result in something more inventive than mutual abandon-



ment of the integrity of positions.) We might expect the same to be true atthe institutional level, but here there is more scope for political impera-tives, ideologies, or theories to interfere. Those who view curriculum on abroad canvas tend to:

seek the right curriculum by consulting and constructing theories which theyhope will be theories of curriculum. They conceive theory as being immedi-ately applicable to every instance of its subject matter. Hence, most act as ifan adequate theory of curriculum, were it to be found, would tell us onceand for all what to do in every grade and every stage of every school in everyplace. (Schwab, 1983, p. 242)

If it is this kind of view of the curriculum and its relationship to themilieus that prevails, then compromise is difficult, and it is made less likelybecause those who see the virtues of it (teachers, for example) areregarded as less expert than those who promulgate and defend the all-embracing prescriptions. But compromise is a reality of the curriculum inpractice, whereas principled uniformity is an abstraction. Common sensetells us that, for example, the idea of a third grade, or a third grade curric-ulum, which is everywhere the same is illusory. Common sense also tells usthat it is important that we strive to keep the illusion alive. Without it, cur-riculum would lose a lot of its meaning. But recognition that we are deal-ing with an idea which is simply a means to an end and not a truth in itself,preserves our ability to make necessary and realistic compromises betweenwhat the idea demands and what local circumstances can deliver.

Secondly, attention to the local milieus shows that adjudication of theclaims of centrally inspired commonality and locally supported differentia-tion appears as a more realistic goal when deliberation can address the par-ticulars of circumstance, rather than the abstractions of broad issues orprinciples. Nowhere is this more apparent than when controversy ragesover the question of equality versus excellence. For those who areimpressed by an older vision of curriculum, which was allied to selectiveforms of schooling, the idea that academic standards could be sacrificed todemocratic aims is anathema; similarly, those who entertain a vision of afuture when economic and political advantage are equally distributedvehemently resist the possibility that it could be put at risk by giving prior-ity to academic achievement (Reid, 1991). Both sides are, of course,equally unrealistic. We know that excellence often exists more in the eye ofthe beholder than in some objective reality, while, on the other side, visionsof equality can be similarly detached from any serious hope of realization.Even at the general level, such abstractions need to be pinned down to thekinds of evidence that the milieus can provide. What confirmation is thereof a connection between specific kinds of learning and the exercise ofcapabilities in the milieus that students will enter when they complete their



schooling? Research shows that future performance has a lot more to dowith personal characteristics, and with a general sense of competence, thanwith marks of excellence that a curriculum can provide (Wankowski,1991). If this competence is not to be bought for the few at the price of themany, then the issue of democracy, and its relationship to the milieus,needs to be seriously entertained.

But for those who inhabit local milieus, the reality of membership in aspecific, identifiable community is likely to be a more pressing concernthan abstract considerations of equality. Students do not merely live withinlocal groups or cultures, or exhibit their culture’s attributes; they are mem-bers of them, and draw from them a sense of purpose and meaning. Thequestion for curriculum deliberation, then, is how this pre-existing sense ofpurpose and meaning, which can be studied in the local context, might beattached to the possibly unfamiliar or even threatening institution ofschooling. Nothing is gained by leaving the values of the milieusuntouched. Equally, nothing is gained by insisting that a traditional con-ception of the institution is incapable of modification. If feelings of compe-tence beyond the prevailing limitations of local groups and cultures are tobe generated within a majority of students, then compromises have to besought that allow the values of groups and of the wider culture to be pro-ductively joined. The curriculum cannot do its work if its essential charac-ter is abandoned in favor of purely local claims and preferences. Butneither can it do its work if local claims and preferences are ignored. Themanagement of this dilemma is the core concern of curriculum, and thework of managing it can only take place successfully at the local level,where questions of workable compromise can be solved within a specificcontext by reference to milieus that are specific and can contribute directlyto deliberation.

THE MILIEUS AND THE PUBLIC INTEREST

Quite different is the question about the relationship between the institu-tional curriculum and the commonplace of the milieus—which is the samekind of question as that which asks what constitutes culturally significantcontent. The message of the local milieus is reasonably plain—providedthat deliberation can be organized so that it is heard. But the milieus thatclaim to define the institutional curriculum deploy much more abstractarguments. From Plato to Dewey, philosophers have woven rationalizationsfor particular forms and contents of curriculum. But if Plato or Dewey havehad influence on the curriculum, it is not on account of the force of theirarguments, but because these have been taken over by particular interest



groups who have seen in them a means of justifying their own national-level claims on the curriculum. The question that has to be raised aboutthe milieus as a commonplace at this level is not so much what they canyield by way of information, as what grounds they can offer for assertingthat priority be accorded to their positions. The public interest is not, orshould not be, the interest of a specific group, but an amalgam of variousinterests that in some way rise above parochialism. As it is, we see, on theone hand, the promotion of particular interests, such as that of the indus-trial and economic milieus (see, for example, Secretary’s Commission,1991), which come forward with very specific claims on the curriculum,and, on the other, the endorsement of these claims by political intereststhat see them as offering simple and readily understood remedies fordeclining faith in the schools. Economic performance is flagging, or seento be flagging. The promotion of certain kinds of curriculum is put for-ward as a remedy for this. Therefore, it is in the public interest that suchcontent be mandated. This is to treat the commonplace of the milieus in avery superficial way. The complexity of curriculum as an institutiondemands that we take an equally complex view of what constitutes the pub-lic interest. The problem with taking the claims of particular interests attheir face value is that we commit ourselves to content—probably quiteminutely specified content—that has little flexibility for adaptation towidely differing classrooms. The more the public interest can be under-stood as being many-faceted, the more likely we are to give priority to mate-rial that can fulfill a variety of roles, and therefore be more effective inengaging students of all kinds in schooling. To do this, we need to tuneout, to some extent, those milieus that are powerful advocates of their owncause, or that find easy favor with politicians, and seek out the ones that areless vocal because they are less endowed with resources. Room for the rep-resentation of commercial content in the curriculum is frequently foundby sacrificing space that used to be given to art or music. In the end, thecentral curriculum problem, at the institutional level, as at the level ofpractice, is how content can be used as a resource. Proper use of the com-monplace of the milieus increases the range of invention that can bebrought to bear on this problem. Too much attention to clamorous inter-ests restricts our inventive capacity.

THE MILIEUS AND CURRICULUM DELIBERATION

Discussion of issues surrounding the commonplace of the milieus showsthe necessity, but, at the same time, the extreme difficulty of attending to itin processes of curriculum deliberation. One traditional and understand-



able reaction to this difficulty has been to try to ignore it. Curriculum hasbeen represented as something with a life of its own, which can pursue itsown interest independently of the interests of other groups and institu-tions. Walker (1975), for example, in his analysis of the deliberations of theKettering Art Curriculum Project, observed that “there is (an) almost com-plete absence of talk about society, about the world outside the school” (p.124). Of course, such behavior may not be totally obscurantist. Curriculumsurrenders its institutional power, and therefore its point and purpose, if itbecomes totally subservient to whatever outside interests can make claimsupon it. But as an institution that, on the one hand, must justify importantclaims on national resources and, on the other, must engage the attentionof the youthful years of the whole population, it cannot afford to be eitheranachronistic or sectarian. The knowledge that enables it to avoid thesetwin dangers is mainly knowledge to be found in the milieus. But how isthis to be entered into curriculum deliberation?

The problem with the milieus of the modern world is that they seem tobe too many and too varied to be easily accommodated within delibera-tion. The concomitant problem is that it is all too tempting to pay attentionto those that have immediate power, while ignoring others that may haveimportant contributions to make to decisions on what should be taught.This, of course, is not only a problem for curriculum. It is a problem forsocieties generally, as they face questions of how to organize themselves forall kinds of social, cultural, and economic purposes. The institutions, suchas curriculum and schooling, which are expected to devise and implementanswers to these questions, were, in the main, 19th century inventions. Atthe time of that invention, they represented exercises in problem solvingbased on widespread appreciation of the milieus in and for which theywere to exist. Subsequently, they have lost touch with this problematic tra-dition that lay at their origins. Today, institutions tend to be seen as logisticin character (for further discussion, see Reid, 1988). Running them anddeveloping them is thought of as an exercise in making them efficient andaccountable, in drawing up detailed specifications for how they should beorganized, and in subjecting them to the control of amorphous markets.These tendencies are reinforced by the availability of modern technologi-cal resources. The question for a deliberative perspective, then, is how thissituation can be reversed; how a problematic approach to the functioningof institutions can be reinstated. Society does not lack the ingenuity to con-ceive of ways in which institutions could be made responsive to the milieusand representative of the public interest—indeed modern technologycould be employed to this very end. But such an initiative would demandfundamental revision of current priorities that are separating institutionsfrom publics by too great an emphasis on logistic thinking applied from



the top, and by a lack of regard for the adaptative capabilities that theyneed in order to secure popular support. It is towards this revision that weare pointed by consideration of the commonplace of the milieus within adeliberative perspective. While such a perspective cannot claim to haveanswers to questions of how this revision is to be accomplished, it does havecapabilities for raising and articulating them.CH09—131


133


THE COMMONPLACEOF CURRICULUM MAKING

In recent years, citizens of countries such as the United States, Canada, theUnited Kingdom, and Australia have seen an outpouring of documents onschooling and the curriculum. These have covered an impressive range ofissues: the relationship of curriculum to social and economic problems;the need to devise curricular means of raising levels of skill and achieve-ment; the reform of school organization, subject matter, systems of assess-ment, teacher preparation, and so on. One could claim, with somejustification, that disquisitions on a deliberative view of the commonplacesof the teacher, the student, the subject matter, and the milieus are notneeded. Information, diagnoses, and proposals relating to these common-places are plentiful; the media are full of statements, reactions, and cri-tiques emanating from people and organizations of all kinds. Butdiscussion of one commonplace is conspicuous by its absence: how are allthese claims, counterclaims, remedies, and reforms to be translated into acurriculum plan? In the late 1970s in Great Britain, a “Great Debate” tookplace that addressed “the issue of the basic approach to teaching the threeRs in primary schools; the curricula for older children in comprehensiveschools; the examination system; the general problem of 16- to 19-year-oldswho had no prospect of going on directly to higher education” (Reid,198la, p. 26). Government reports were produced, regional meetings andmedia debates organized. Never was the question raised of how such issuescould be translated into plans. Today, “America 2000” follows a similar

CHAPTER 10



path. It sets goals such as “by the year 2000 U.S. students will be first in theworld in science and mathematics achievement,” or “the high school grad-uation rate will increase to at least 90 percent” (America 2000, 1991, p. 9).But it has nothing to say about what kind of curriculum making could pro-duce such results. Most of the time, reform proposals are put forward onthe assumption that someone, somewhere, knows what to do, that the ques-tion of how to make a curriculum does not need to be addressed, and thatdiscussion can be confined to the definition of desired states of affairs. Adeliberative perspective takes a contrary position: the key to an effectivecurriculum for schooling is the question of how all the experience repre-sented by teachers, students, subject matter, and the milieus can bebrought together to yield a workable plan that solves problems faced bycurriculum in both its institutional and its practical aspects. The how ques-tion has to be central; otherwise, the benefit of interrogating bodies ofexperience is lost.

INADEQUACIES OF PROCEDURE

But, it may be objected, surely we are right to assume that “somebody,somewhere” knows? People gain degrees and diplomas in something called“curriculum planning,” and then deploy their skills in ministries, statedepartments, and school districts. However, as was explained in a previouschapter, curriculum planning, as a subject of study, is mainly about theengineering approach to curriculum. It assumes, as do the many currentreports and proposals, that we can think about schools and classrooms as arelatively unproblematic delivery system for curriculum. Up to a point, thisis a reasonable assumption. Schools and classrooms, like any enduringinstitution, incorporate ways of “getting the job done,” of handling every-day problems of administration. But the complaint of the milieus is notabout needed adjustments to established procedures. The changing con-text of curriculum as an institution raises demands that go far beyond whatcan be delivered by approaches designed to fine-tune systems that arealready functioning well.

Again, objections can be raised: engineering is not only about maintain-ing systems in good order, repairing and updating them: it is also aboutdesigning new systems to meet new performance specifications. But herethe analogy breaks down. Designing a new automobile to meet fuel con-sumption and exhaust emission targets, recyclable parts requirements, andnoise standards for today’s world is one thing. Designing a curriculum for a90 percent high school graduation rate and to put the United States at thetop of the international achievement league in science and mathematics atsome arbitrary point in the future is quite another. What makes the differ-


The Commonplace of Curriculum Making 135

ence? First of all, high school students five or ten years from now are goingto come off basically the same production line that produces them now. Tomake a new automobile, we can scrap the existing line and design a com-pletely new one, taking the opportunity to build in state-of-the-art technol-ogy at the same time. Our investment in schooling systems is quite adifferent matter. To a large extent, we are forced, by reasons of economicsand cultural inertia, to work with what we have. Secondly, the work of cur-riculum and schooling is labor-intensive. Changing what schools do islargely a matter of changing what people do, not of introducing moresophisticated equipment. Thirdly, the technology of curriculum is a matterof cultural tradition and personal knowledge rather than of processes thatcan be built into the specifications of tools or computers. And, what ismore, this tradition and knowledge has to mesh with the understandingsand habits of publics outside the schools. It is not a self-contained technol-ogy. What this amounts to is that we are dealing, on the one hand, with afairly well-understood chain of causality, leading from a set of specificationsto a dependable technology for meeting them. This is an engineeringproblem. But, on the other, we must work with an uncertain linkage join-ing controversial demands to means of responding to them that are notdirectly controllable. The first step towards understanding the common-place of curriculum making, then, is to accept that it is not primarily asource of experience of procedures. This is not to say that procedure maynot, for some purposes, be important. But applications of procedure haveto be under the control of a larger view of what curriculum making is: aview that matches the scale and character of problems to the institutionalrealities of the system that will be the means of supplying solutions.

THE METHOD OF THE PRACTICAL

What can we offer as an alternative to the idea that curriculum makingmight be a set of procedures? Our guide to answering this question is aninvestigation into the nature of curriculum problems. I have suggested thatto conceive of curriculum making as a procedural matter is to mistake thecharacter of the problems it has to solve. In an earlier chapter, I offered ananalysis of curriculum problems, and concluded that they were to beregarded as moral practical problems, and that the means to their solutionwas the employment of “the method of the practical.” The shift from proce-dure to method may not seem large, but it is critical. A method, like a proce-dure, is a way of adapting means to ends. But, unlike procedure, it neednot treat means as a prespecifiable sequence, it need not treat means asseparate from ends, and it need not treat ends as being fixed:



The essence of methodic enquiry is to initiate and sustain a process throughwhich the nature of a problem is exposed and a solution converged upon. Eachstep is contingent on preceding steps: at each moment, method and subjectmatter interact.… At every point its use is subject to the judgment of individu-als, and only retrospectively can its course be charted. Its logic is continuouslyreconstructed as it interacts with its subject matter. (Reid, 1981b, p. 9)1

The method of the practical can be thought of as having states ratherthan stages. One state we will call “searching for the problem.” Naturally,searching for the problem is a state that is more likely to be encounteredearlier rather than later in the methodic process, but it is not inevitably tobe found there. Further along, it may become clear that the problem wasnot well formulated, or that some significant piece of it was missing. At thatpoint, searching for the problem will recommence. In any case, while themethod of the practical is in this state, it will not be completely closed toactivities associated with other states. Searching for the problem will, forexample, throw up ideas about possible solutions. Indeed, solutions mayclaim attention early on through masquerading as problems. One of thetopics for the Great Debate in Great Britain was the need for a commoncore curriculum. But to what problem was a common core curriculum theanswer? Another state is “searching for data.” If we are to understand whatcurriculum problems need to be addressed, and how they can beaddressed, we need information. But this information can be about ends aswell as means. We do not have to separate off ends as matters that havealready been decided, and focus exclusively on information about whatmeans could be used to bring about those ends. We might, on the basis ofthe data collected, determine that achieving 90 percent graduation by theyear 2000 was not a realistic end (if we had not already modified it throughconsideration of what problem it was supposed to solve). A third state is“the search for solutions.” Equipped with an understanding of the problemand with data on it, we look for ideas about what might be done to alleviateit. A fourth state is “the search for a resolution.” At some point, we mustfocus on what, specifically, ought to be done. Our resolution, however,could be a decision to find ways of improving satisfaction with the presentstate of affairs, on the grounds that to try to alter it would not solve ourproblem, or would be impossibly expensive. In this way, too, the method ofthe practical might declare ends to be subservient to means, rather thanvice versa.

The method of the practical begins not with some prespecified state-ment of the problem to be addressed, so that deliberation is confined to

1. For an extended treatment of the application of deliberative methods to cur-riculum planning at the school and school district levels, see Holt (1987a).



means, but from the feeling that some state of affairs is unsatisfactory, thatit is “constituted of conditions which we wish were otherwise and which wethink … can be made to be otherwise” (Schwab, 1978c, p. 289). This crite-rion is quite often met by investigations at the national or local level intowhat are perceived as poor levels of reading or poor performance in math-ematics or science. However, these studies typically do not follow a courseof practical enquiry. What happens in such cases is a familiar story. In thefirst place, the dissatisfaction that gives rise to the investigation originatesin, or is shaped by, political and administrative interests that sharpen broadconcerns about the quality of the curriculum into narrowly defined prob-lems. The hastily identified problem is then handed over to the technicalexperts who head in two main directions: they amass data to show that theissue is indeed serious, or they experimentally implement novel programsthat, it is claimed, will remedy the deficiency. Finally, reports appear thatdocument the problem on a very general level, and probably show thatthere is little to choose between the old and the new curricula. The ques-tion of what action to take is then handed back to the political or adminis-trative authorities who commissioned the investigation in the first place,and who may or may not take action depending on how their interests havemoved in the meantime. The essential difference between this way ofresponding to dissatisfaction and the way adopted by practical enquiry liesin the question of what controls the enquiry process. In the former case,control is exercised by political or administrative agencies who define andown the problem. In the latter case, control is exercised by the problemitself, which is the first object of search.

The search for information does not wait upon clarification of the prob-lem. Unlike theoretic enquiry, where data are represented as materialsgenerated by instruments or procedures shaped to the requirements of apreviously defined question, practical enquiry makes use of data to reestab-lish the nature of the problem it is trying to resolve. All states of enquirymake use of data. But since it is the nature of the problem that controls theprocess, no item of information has an automatically privileged status inproviding answers to the questions that enquiry has raised. Deliberation, asthe method of the practical, must decide what weight should be placed onvarious kinds of data, whether these be qualitative or quantitative, generalor particular. It is the deliberative process that assigns authority to facts andopinions. They do not enjoy status because of the expertise of the sourcefrom which they come.

As subject matter is gathered and deliberated upon, the focus of practi-cal enquiry shifts from the search for the problem, and the search forinformation, to the search for solutions. Of course, some solutions willhave suggested themselves at an early stage of the process—possibly theywere there before it started—but these will not have priority. Successful



practical enquiry will invent solutions in the course of deliberation, andwill have available to it a variety of solutions, old and new, that can beexamined for their relevance to the problem that has been defined and isbeing investigated. An essential element in this state of enquiry is the effortto trace out the consequences of actions, and this will, almost certainly,entail yet more data gathering. The final state of enquiry is the process ofresolving the problem, which means choosing a course of action throughconsideration of all available solutions. Practical problems are never, in anydefinitive sense, solved, and, therefore, enquiry must attend closely to allpossible consequences of the course of action it proposes.

In all states of the method of the practical, as applied to curriculum,search is conducted through drawing on the bodies of knowledge repre-sented by the commonplaces of teacher, student, subject matter, andmilieus. These are the sources of knowledge and ideas about problems,data, solutions, and resolutions. But the character of curriculum as anactivity associated with public institutions and with the conduct of profes-sional practice demands that the commonplaces be consulted throughface-to-face discussion. The method of the practical, in this case, is collec-tive deliberation. Therefore, ways must be found for preventing represen-tatives of the commonplaces, meeting in deliberation, from simplycompeting for attention and for power of influence over decision. Teach-ers have every temptation to reserve curriculum deliberation to them-selves, in order to avoid the labor of adapting what they do to the wishes ofothers. But, if the other commonplaces have representation, then:

It is easy for the scholar-specialist to overawe the group and to impose thecharacter and structure of his discipline as the correct model for the charac-ter and structure of the curriculum.

It is easy for the representative of the children to overwhelm the scholar withhis warnings of what children will and will not, can and cannot do, thusopposing his expertise—what children have habitually done in other curric-ula taught by methods appropriate to them—to the efforts of the scholar tourge trial of new purposes by new means.

It is also possible for the representative of the milieus to urge successfully theconventional caution that a member of a complex structure cannot hope tochange the whole of which he is a mere part, or even effect a partial changecontrary to prevailing habits and attitudes. (Schwab, 1978d, p. 368)

These are ways in which the commonplaces, brought together in delib-eration, can act negatively in the search for resolutions of curriculum prob-lems. It is the function of the commonplace of curriculum making tosuggest how they can be discouraged from adopting this negative role. But,more than that, its function is to show how the meeting of the common-



places can create a forum within which creative resolutions can be found,which would not have been discovered through attention to the common-places considered singly. In order that this can occur it is first of all neces-sary that:

each representative of a body of experience must discover the experience ofothers and the relevance of these radically different experiences to curricu-lum making for a partial coalescence of these bodies of experience to occur.These are necessary, “concurrent preliminaries” to the actual process of mak-ing a defensible curriculum which has some likelihood of functioning effec-tively. They are necessary preliminaries which are highly unlikely to occur ofthemselves. (Schwab, 1978d, pp. 367–368)

What Schwab is describing here is rather similar to what Walker (1975)has termed “platform building.” Walker’s term emphasizes the politicalaspects of the process. The art of politics consists of finding the commonground on which people with shared interests, but with differing emphaseson, and interpretations of those interests can stand. This is the art of defin-ing issues, which can lead on to the articulation of policies that can, moreor less, command general support. The search for the problem, which canalso be thought of as the search for the issue, will be the state of delibera-tion in which platform building occurs. But throughout the searches fordata, for solutions, and for resolution, refurbishments of the platform willbe required, as inconsistencies, contradictions, and inadequacies arerevealed. For some purposes, we may need to be content with this kind ofmetaphor. At the highest level, and even at lower levels, curriculum ques-tions are, inevitably, political questions. Politics is about the authoritativeallocation of advantage and disadvantage in a society. Curriculum is aresource that is in limited supply. Therefore, the question of who gets what,which is fundamentally political, cannot be avoided. The cry of “keep poli-tics out of education,” which was widely heard in Great Britain in the 1960s,was misguided. The price of separating curriculum from politics is to pre-serve it for the benefit of one commonplace above the rest, usually that ofthe teacher, or that of one or more privileged milieus. However, the aspira-tion of curriculum deliberation is to draw out those aspects of the com-monplace of curriculum making that go beyond the establishment ofplatforms by political means. A purely political interpretation of accommo-dation between the commonplaces would emphasise avoidance of conflict,tradeoffs based on relative power, and reconciliation between people whoare representative of positions. This kind of accommodation will some-times, and to some degree, be necessary in order to manage the bound-aries between the curriculum process and the political milieus withinwhich it has to take place. But, insofar as it is possible, the values internal tocurriculum making demand that higher objectives be set.



To assert that “each representative of a body of experience must discoverthe experience of others” is not simply to say that knowledge of the com-monplaces must become available to the deliberating group: deliberation isthe process through which “planners begin to discover themselves—theirvalues and their projections into educational intentions—begin to discovertheir colleagues, and begin to … accommodate their colleagues’ views andarrive at a collegiality … in pursuing the task in hand” (Schwab, 1978d, p.380). In other words, discovery, in the context of deliberation, is a moralrather than a technical process, and its successful pursuit depends on quali-ties of character, rather than mastery of technique. The commonplace ofcurriculum making can be looked upon primarily as a source of the virtuesthat must be brought to bear on the process of deliberation in order thatthe other commonplaces can combine to produce effective solutions to cur-riculum problems. These will include, for example, humility: if scholar-spe-cialists are to make a full contribution to curriculum deliberation, they mustnot dominate, but neither must they be snubbed. Realization of their poten-tial depends on acceptance by the group as a whole of the virtue of humility,which creates a context within which knowledge, ideas, and proposals canbe examined for their intrinsic worth and not as a means of establishing thedominance of some interests over others. The virtues of curriculum makingwill also include patience: deliberation does not have to be an extendedprocess, but often it will happen that the importance of some piece ofknowledge only becomes apparent when it is extensively considered, orwhen it is allowed to reemerge at a point when the rules of a technical pro-cess would declare that it had been dealt with and that to return to it was awaste of time. Ideally, such qualities will become qualities of the group,rather than of the individuals who compose it, and this will enable knowl-edge of the various commonplaces also to become a group possession,rather than the possession of representatives of diverse interests. The possi-bility of the creation of a unified and virtuous process, rather than one thatis driven by specialization of knowledge or of interest, is offered by the senseof a clear focus on a problem that is a problem for all the commonplaces.Curriculum making provides the resource that can lead to the identificationof a problem that is not about the improvement of teaching, the welfare ofstudents, the refurbishment of subject matter, or furthering the interests ofthe milieus, but about the creation of a curriculum. Faced with such a prob-lem, no commonplace singly has the knowledge to resolve it, but all of themcollectively have the unique capability to resolve it. The virtues, therefore,assume a natural importance. Deliberation becomes the practice of the iden-tification and resolution of curriculum problems, and, as a practice, takeson a virtuous character.



DELIBERATION AS PRACTICAL ART

On the one hand, then, deliberation, as guided by the resources of thecommonplace of curriculum making, is a virtuous process that has to befostered through such apparently esoteric activities as self-discovery, pur-posing in common, and the cultivation of qualities of character. But, onthe other side of the picture, it also depends on technical resources. Ifpractice, as understood within a deliberative perspective, has a side to itthat looks almost existential, this is complemented by another side that isclearly hard-headed and task-focused. We cannot expect that virtuous hab-its will arise from good intentions or qualities of character from exhorta-tion. Technique plays an important part in the creation of circumstances inwhich humble, patient, courageous, or honest behavior becomes naturalrather than unnatural. The commonplace of curriculum making will be asource of ideas on how the setting of deliberation can be conducive to thedisplay of such qualities. Informal settings will probably prove to be moreproductive than formal ones. Technique also plays its part in ensuring thatthe conduct of deliberation favors virtuous behavior. For example, withouttechnical intervention, the knowledge that is contributed to deliberation isassociated with the people who own it. In these circumstances, critical ordismissive responses are seen as damaging to the bearer of ideas, informa-tion, or proposals. But this need not be the case. It can be arranged forknowledge to be effectively disassociated from persons so that it can betreated in a more objective way (see Hegarty, 1977).

Another important technical question is how resolutions of curriculumproblems are to be communicated to those who are affected by them, butwho are not members of the deliberating group. When deliberation isabout problems at the institutional level, it is inevitable that the deliberat-ing group will include only a tiny number of those who will be affected byits workings. How, then, are the products of deliberation to be presented tothe many who have no direct knowledge of the processes that led to them?On the one hand, curriculum making has to contribute knowledge of whathas to be known, and determine how sufficient knowledge of the rightkind can be conveyed, so that intentions are translated into action, but, onthe other hand, curriculum making also has to judge what gaps in interpre-tation it is best to leave, so that general intentions can be adapted to thecircumstances of particular districts, schools, and classrooms.

In all these ways, curriculum making is a practical art, but the tech-niques that it possesses are subordinated to the requirements of amethodic process, dependent upon virtue and character. Technique doesnot appear as the answer to the question “what must we do?” but isinvoked, when required, as part of a methodic search for an answer to thequestion “what ought we to do?” In keeping with this conception of the



role and status of technique, curriculum making will see its products not asauthoritative, but as persuasive. Proposals for new contents and practicesmust not be simply directives about what expertise determines to be neces-sary activity, but also representations of the values that these contents andpractices are supposed to embody:

Educational intentions are specified and projected values of the planninggroup, values possessed and understood in terms broader than educationand much broader than any one concrete bit of educational curriculum.(Schwab, 1978d, p. 369)

REFLEXIVITY: CURRICULUM MAKINGAND THE CLASSROOM

It is intrinsic to the character of curriculum deliberation that it is not seenas a specialized piece of the curriculum process, whose nature and func-tion is distinct from those of other parts of the process. This is most clearwhen we consider the relationship of curriculum deliberation to the real-ization of curriculum in the classroom. Curriculum making as practice andteaching as practice share common forms and purposes. Both are con-cerned with the interests of the group (the community at some level, theclass), with the interests of individuals (representatives of the common-places, students), and with how these are to be creatively reconciled. Bothuse techniques for fostering qualities of character in order to encouragepurposing in common (see, for example, Olson, 1992; or Thelen, 1981).Both see process and product, ends and means, as inextricably linked.From a classroom perspective, deliberation, in terms of its style if not interms of its range, is relatively easy to understand. It is not difficult to agreewith the proposition that in dealing with curriculum, we have to manage“an uncertain linkage between controversial demands and a means ofresponding to them which is not directly controllable.” Teachers not onlyfeel competing pressures, but know that the resolution of these pressureshas to be found through their own practical action. They also know thatthe outcomes of this action are not entirely predictable. They are thereforeconscious of the need to search for the problem, search for information,search for proposals, and search for a resolution. And they understand thatnone of these searches can be conducted through the application ofexplicit rules, and that resolutions are unlikely to take the form of clear-cutformulae that solve the problem for good. Teaching creates a contextwithin which the deliberative consideration of ends and means is a totallynatural way of dealing with the problems of practice.



We can therefore speak of a reflexivity between the practice of curricu-lum making and the practice of the classroom. Each is, in important ways, areflection of the other. This ensures a compatibility in values between theone and the other, and makes it more likely both that teacher and stu-dents, as commonplaces, will be easier to enter into curriculum delibera-tion, and that proposals emerging from curriculum deliberation will bereadily communicable to the settings where they have to be translated intoactivities. Of course, insofar as classrooms are conceptualized differentlyfrom the way that is suggested here, and represented, for example, as “effi-cient media for translating causes into effects,” communication to them ofthe products of curriculum making will become more difficult.

REFLEXIVITY: CURRICULUM MAKINGAND THE PUBLIC INTEREST

Just as the classroom can be seen as a kind of microcosm of the curriculum-making process, so curriculum making itself can be seen as a microcosm ofarenas where “values possessed and understood in terms broader than edu-cation” are formed. This is a much less visible kind of reflexivity than thatbetween curriculum making and classrooms. If there has been a failure ofcurriculum making in recent years, as one would infer from the plethora ofreports on needed reform, this is perhaps due less to inadequacies in cur-riculum-making processes than to the decline of arenas where the publicinterest is debated and defined. The curriculum of schooling, as an institu-tion, is dependent for its vitality on the widespread recognition of commonvalues, of culturally significant content, of civic aspirations that it canembody. But the capacity of nations and communities to articulate andexemplify the virtues and achievements they wish to espouse has beeneroded by the growth of government. At the time of 19th century institu-tion building, government was still an interest among other interests.Issues relating to the public interest could be formulated outside the scopeof national or community politics. The public interest could be advancedwithout its manifestations being subjected to critique from positions basedon ever-shifting political orthodoxies. This is not to say that the matter ofthe public interest was not controversial. But the means for the resolutionof controversy were adapted to the question in hand. In England, forexample, matters of educational reform, of prison reform, of the creationof new institutions such as post offices and libraries, were treated throughcommittees and commissions that concerned themselves with discoveringand responding to a wide range of positions and proposals and translatingthem into a statement of public interest (and during World War II, whenconventional politics were suspended, and for a short time afterwards, sim-



ilar processes reappeared). Now, the hand of government, and therefore ofpolitics, is to be seen everywhere, and, at the same time, institutions arethought of as self-contained delivery systems. As a result, those who are tobe the practical reformers of curriculum (as opposed to the enunciators ofglobal goals and ill-defined concerns) are confronted with a multiplicity offragmented interests and have to try to take upon themselves the task ofdistilling from them some version of the public interest that has to informthe institution of schooling.

Of course, it could be objected that there are good reasons for thegrowth of government. An institution that was once mainly concerned withforeign policy and taxation now has to be involved in all kinds of social andeconomic activity. The modern world is complex and ever changing, andwidespread intervention is needed to combat poverty and disadvantage. Allof this is true and very relevant to the issue of the curriculum of schooling.But the fundamental problem remains. Curriculum as a public institutionhas to operate on an understanding of the public interest. And the processof defining the public interest is made more difficult in proportion asmore and more things that relate to it fall under the aegis of government.If curriculum is to continue as a public institution, then the need is for are-nas of public policy making to emerge that reflect the nature of curriculumdeliberation, rather than that deliberation should assume more and moreof the character of the political process. But such an outcome encountersmany obstacles. Insofar as government does withdraw from its involvementin some activities, its current tendency is to hand them over to privateinterests. Thus, in Great Britain public services and utilities have beenprivatized, and thereby cut off in a different way from responding to thepublic interest. Political forces have given way not to some better articu-lated common interest, but to the special interests of the closed worlds ofcommerce and industry. This then becomes a model for how the institu-tion of schooling should develop. The test of success becomes economic,and the output measures that such tests require have to be couched interms of various kinds of assessment of achievement. Use of these as anoverriding criterion in the pursuit of curriculum reform is inimical to theprocess of curriculum deliberation. Increasingly, models for the exercise ofpractical reasoning at the institutional level are lacking.

CURRICULUM MAKING: VICES OF SPECIALIZATION

Curriculum making has to shape its activities to the demands of the politi-cal world. Increasing specialization of interests in society generally deprivesit of the natural focus that it requires for confronting the problems of theschools. But, by the same token, curriculum making itself has been under



pressure to become a narrowly specialized field. First of all, the knowledgeappropriate to the field has been narrowly defined. This has had two unde-sirable results. The kinds of knowledge that have been certified as appro-priate to the curriculum expert have been almost exclusively of aprocedural nature. Indeed, much effort has been invested in devisingapproaches to curriculum that take as their starting point psychometricsand related branches of psychology, and which then elaborate theories ofplanning based on specifications of objectives, forms of objective evalua-tion, and systematic implementation of curriculum protocols. (For anaccount of the origins of efforts to give curriculum this character, seeWhite, 1982.) None of this sits well with the idea of curriculum making asan exercise in the arts of practical enquiry. But, also, the excessively narrowcharacter that curriculum making has assumed results in countermove-ments that fly to the other extreme. In place of efforts to broaden thescope of curriculum as practical enquiry, we have seen flights to neo-Marx-ist and existential interpretations of its nature that deny or ignore its fun-damentally institutional purposes. (For a sampling of such conceptions ofcurriculum inquiry, see Short, 1991.)

Secondly, curriculum making has come to be seen as subservient to theactivities of political and administrative agencies, which set reform agendashaving little to do with the practicalities of curriculum enquiry. This resultsin much busy activity of producing schemes for upgrading and evaluatingprograms, creating the impression that a great deal is happening, while theproblems of the practical curriculum in classrooms are unattended to, oreven exacerbated. Without the commonplace of curriculum making, theability of the other commonplaces to contribute to the resolution of prob-lems of schooling is limited. To remedy this, a new emphasis is needed inthe preparation of those who will present themselves as expert in the fieldof curriculum, an emphasis that diminishes specialization, and focuses onbroad issues of the nature and direction of society and its institutions. Thiswould represent a return to:

a practice which characterized them in the first quarter of this century buthas long been dropped. They would attend to what they perceive as evils andvicissitudes of our government and society. They would try to convince read-ers that these troubles exist, show the threats they pose, and suggest ways inwhich alteration of school practice might help ameliorate the conditions dis-cussed. Such publications would, of course, depart markedly from the moresof “objective” scholarship … Curricularists would … take positions in debate,concern themselves with a variety of evils and problems … They would rousethought and debate, among themselves and among their graduates. Theywould thus inject into the lives of educators an element of active intellectual-ism which is sadly wanting. (Schwab, 1983, p. 263)

CH10—145


147


EPILOGUE

SCHOOLING AND THEPUBLIC INTEREST

Through the pages of this book, I have pursued the question of what curric-ulum is and how we might think about it. In the spirit of my opening pages,I will not claim to have reached a final destination and to be in a position topronounce on the great issues of how curricula should be reshaped at thebeginning of the 21st century: indeed the whole thrust of my argumentabout the curriculum commonplaces has been to counter the notion thatany one person, group, or interest could or should have a unique insightinto such problems. But if pursuit does not lead to final destinations, it doesacquaint us with the territory that we are traversing and puts us in a positionto make some observations about it. What, then, stands out as important as Icontemplate current controversies about curriculum, or the attempts ofcurriculum as an academic study to respond to them?

UNDERSTANDING INSTITUTIONS

Above all, we face a profound problem about how we understand thenature and purpose of institutions such as curriculum. As I follow debateson the form and content of curriculum and on structures of schooling inGreat Britain and North America, as I read the reports of governments,ministries, and interest groups, I have a sense that many of those involvedas authors, researchers, and protagonists have lost touch with the world



that invented the great institutions of state. The institutions are there, alegacy from the past, and seem to be adapted to a purpose—to educate, toadminister, to provide medical care, to dispense justice, and so on. Theyare accepted as organizations constructed to accomplish certain tasks. Thebeliefs and values that underpinned their foundation, however, seem to beopaque to those who have inherited them.

One symptom of this loss of appreciation of the nature of institutions isthe tendency to see them simply as delivery systems for goods or services,and therefore to recategorize them as part of the world of business andcommerce. In England, schools have been encouraged by government toopt out of the control of local authorities and compete with each other forstudents. This has caused a sense of unease even in districts where controlis in the hands of politicians sympathetic to the policies of the parliamen-tary majority. As a result, the chairs of all the authorities in the south eastoutside London wrote to the Prime Minister to express their concerns.One of them stated, in response to a question:

It’s not that we want to cling to power or are afraid of losing our position, butwe believe the education service should be organised for the good of thecommunity by a democratically elected body. I dislike the idea of everyschool pursuing its own selfish ends. (Daily Telegraph, October 24, 1991, p. 10)

In his reply to the nine chairs, the Prime Minister stated that localauthorities would “need to reevaluate their services as they move frombeing providers to becoming enablers.” In other words, in response to aquestion about the health of an institution, he could speak only about thedelivery of a service. On one side, a problem was raised about the publicgood. On the other, there was an inability to see the issue as being aboutanything more than the provision of goods.

Now sometimes the exposure of students to knowledge is about theprovision of goods. If as private citizens we want to learn to drive, or asseekers after employment we want to learn how to program computers, wemay well purchase this knowledge in the same way that we would purchaseother kinds of commodities. But the places where we did it would not,except in the most superficial ways, resemble schools. If all kinds of knowl-edge had this character, and we were asked to design organizationsthrough which to deliver it, we would certainly not invent elementaryschools and high schools. To complain that the curriculum of schoolingdoes not reliably deliver specific knowledge and skills is to provide aglimpse of the obvious. There are very good reasons why schools are notcapable of doing this. One is that as far as students are concerned, theyare voluntary organizations. Attendance can be legislated for—thougheven this can be hard to enforce in the inner cities—but attention cannot


Schooling and the Public Interest 149

be required. Supporters of the delivery system conception of curriculumfail to note that it assumes a supply of willing customers, and even the bestmotivated students may not be willing customers for all that the curricu-lum offers.

Secondly, the curriculum of schooling is not able to give priority to effi-ciency as it is currently understood. Often, there is no doubt, knowledgewould be better conveyed by investing a given sum of money on intensiveinstruction over a fraction of the time that is actually spent in classrooms.But the question that then has to be faced is, how is this knowledge to bemaintained? Forgetting, as I have pointed out, is a more central curricu-lum problem than learning. Though it has been little studied, the researchwe have confirms this.1 We could very well equip fifth graders (though, ofcourse, in the alternative system I am contemplating, the term fifth graderwould be meaningless) with, say, a solid capability in speaking a foreignlanguage through intensive tutoring. At the end of the course we could testthem and prove that we (and they) had received better value for moneythan we would in the normal course of a school curriculum. But howwould this advantage be maintained? Having spent our resources, wewould have to return our students to the community, or look after them onthe basis of the cheapest kind of care. Most of them would lose the knowl-edge they had gained within a few months and we would have nothing toshow for our efforts, in spite of the positive evaluations we produced whendelivery was complete. If we are dealing purely with knowledge the posi-tion is even worse. Items of information are eroded even more quickly thanmotor skills. However efficiently we deliver factual knowledge in, say, sci-ence or social studies, it will not be remembered unless students have rea-son to exercise it. Even if they are motivated to attend to curriculumcontent, we face the difficulty that much of what they learn will not, in thenormal course of events, be kept alive through rehearsal.

Another symptom of lack of understanding of the nature of curriculumas institution is the expectation that it could be the means of solving allkinds of problems that are ill related to its history, its values, and its struc-tures. We see it projected as a source of solutions, or at least amelioration,for problems of interethnic conflict, as a counter to specific social prob-lems, such as drug abuse, as provider of job-related skills, and so on. Almostany task that can in any way be seen as having something to do with theacquisition of knowledge or skill is liable to be construed as task for the cur-riculum. It is treated as a kind of black box into which demands can be fed,and out of which answers will come. But if we look inside the black box, we

1. A program of research of this kind was carried out in Sweden in the 1960s.(See, for example, Dahllöf, 1960, p. 15.)



find an institution, composed of an established constellation of ideas, struc-tures, and social arrangements, which is well adapted to some tasks andpoorly adapted to others. The curriculum, for example, can, within its ownterms, be a source of information on religious and cultural differences, andarguments could be made why this might form part of its subject matter, butthere is no evidence that access to information is correlated with changes inattitude. To promote curriculum as an instrument for reshaping social val-ues relating to cultural differences is a much more problematic enterprise,especially when the values involved are contentious.

Thus, on the one hand, we find attempts to treat curriculum as some-thing much simpler than its institutional character would suggest and, onthe other, attempts to impose upon it demands that are much too sophisti-cated for it to cope with. Our response to this situation might be to say thatthe institution has outlived its usefulness, and that it has to be radicallyreformed. But since critiques of its inefficiency and inadequacy come fromso many different directions, it must be doubted that fundamental reformcould be undertaken successfully. This line of argument would be morelikely to lead us to the conclusion that curriculum, as it has come down tous from the 19th century, is far too primitive an institution to be useful,even in a reformed state, in the twenty-first. Therefore, its tasks, as they arenow perceived, should be broken down into component parts and handedover to a multiplicity of specially designed agencies. This would overcomethe problem of competing and conflicting goals; for example, that curricu-lum should, at one and the same time, be a means of instructing studentsin specific, job-related skills, and be a resource for countering decliningstandards of social and moral behavior.

And yet, should we be so eager to throw this institution away? Amid allthe analyses of what curriculum fails to deliver, there is a severe lack ofattention to what it does achieve. In terms of what are now claimed to be thegoals of schooling, we would not, perhaps, set up this kind of an institutionto secure them. But what might we be missing? Perhaps there are thingsthat the institution of curriculum does quite well—so well, in fact, that weare unaware of them, and fail to include them in our specifications. If,instead of associating knowledge-related problems such as an insufficientlyskilled labor force or a morally decadent society with failures in the con-tent or delivery of the curriculum, we were to ask what kind of an institu-tion could, at relatively little expense, engage the attention of the youth ofnations in ways that reflect the public interest, over a span of ten or moreyears, we might have to conclude that it would be hard to come up with abetter plan than one that closely resembled the present system of curricu-lum and schooling. I would go further. If we did set out to design afresh aninstitution to achieve the things that curriculum achieves we wouldencounter enormous difficulties. This proposition needs to be looked into



more closely. We need to consider, first of all, the important question oftime, and the related issue of student engagement, secondly, the magni-tude of the task of designing the institution of curriculum, and thirdly, theidea of the public interest.

The question of time admits of two kinds of rhetorical treatment.“America 2000” chooses to stress how little time students spend in school.It claims, without showing any calculations, that “Today’s young Americansspend barely 9 percent of their first eighteen years in school, on average”(“America 2000,” 1991, p. 6). This seems to be in the interest of emphasiz-ing the scale of the reform that is needed. Students, it is implied, live 91percent of their lives in a wicked world. The further implication that morelearning needs more time, and that the school day or the school yearshould be extended, is not spelled out. On the other hand, a book of thelate 1970s, which wanted to draw attention to just how much time studentsspend in school, was entitled Fifteen Thousand Hours (Rutter, Maughan,Mortimore, & Ouston, 1979). By anyone’s standards, 15,000 hours is a lotof time. If knowledge is the issue, testing of what students know when theyleave high school (better still, six months after they have left) would proba-bly lead us to conclude that measured against results, nine percent of 18years was far too long to be spending in school. How are we to understandthis question of time? Focusing on knowledge acquisition can only lead usto the conclusion that schools waste time. Yet there is also a suggestion inmany present reforms that time spent in school is per se a good thing. At thevery least, students are removed from violent streets, inadequate families,and temptation to engage in drug and alcohol abuse. (“America 2000,”1991, pp. 6–7). How are these contradictory assessments to be reconciled?

One of the few research findings that turns up quite consistently whenschool achievement is compared across cultures is that performance onsubjects and topics reflects time devoted to them in the curriculum (see,for example, Postlethwaite, 1975). In one way, this is not surprising. Wewould intuitively expect that more time would produce more learning. Onthe other hand, when we take account of the fact that the total amount oflearning achieved is small in relation to the number of hours spent in class-rooms, and that we are looking at effects produced over a span of severalyears, we might anticipate that this variable would be less explanatory oflevels of achievement than many others, such as class size (apparently notimportant) or the age at which children begin school (any differences haveusually disappeared by about fifth grade). The time variable in these stud-ies is generally referred to as “opportunity to learn.” This is a very appropri-ate title. What we are looking at is not episodes of learning, but episodesduring which students have the chance to learn. The likelihood that thesechances will be taken is, I would suggest, largely determined by the struc-turing of the curriculum. The school curriculum, as I have argued (Reid,



1984), is categorically constructed. That is to say, it is built up of elementsof universal institutional significance (subjects, topics, grades), which arereflected in the organizational categories of schooling. The power of orga-nizational categories to engender learning depends on how well they rep-resent the attractiveness of the corresponding institutional categories.Attractiveness, I have suggested, depends on four factors: centrality, univer-sality, sequential significance, and status-relatedness (Reid, 1984). Central-ity refers to the importance of a curricular topic for personal categoricalmembership. Perhaps to be a tenth grader in good standing one needs tobe studying algebra. Universality refers to the extent to which a topic is inthe curricula of all students. Maybe one is not a proper high school studentat all unless one is studying some kind of mathematics. Topics that havesequential significance are those that are needed in order to progress to ahigher level. Tenth grade algebra may be a prerequisite for taking eleventhgrade math. Status-related topics are those that both confer immediate sta-tus (calculus in the top grades of the high school), and have implicationsfor future status (college entrance). To a greater or lesser extent, thesecharacteristics of subjects and topics will be related to the amount of timedevoted to them in the curriculum. Subjects are unlikely to be seen as cen-tral if they receive little attention. It is hard to represent subjects that aresummarily treated as prerequisites, and so on. The curriculum, being acomplicated social artifact, and one that is in constant evolution, will admitof many exceptions and peculiarities. But in most curriculums, mathemat-ics, for example, will be central, universal, sequentially significant, and sta-tus related. There will be a lot of opportunities for the mathematicscurriculum to engage and hold the attention of students, and a lot of rea-sons why it should. But some curriculums will give it more time than oth-ers, representing more opportunities to learn and stronger reasons whythey should be taken up. Generally speaking, this will go along with betterlevels of achievement. Thus, if we look at curriculum as a categorical con-struction, rather than as an efficient machine for translating cause (teach-ing) into effect (learning), we can begin to see reasons why learning mightbe relatively inefficient, but still related to allocations of time.

We should, therefore, consider the possibility that the school curricu-lum is actually quite an effective, relatively low-cost way of filling manyhours of the time of young people with opportunities to learn culturallysignificant content, when they might otherwise be engaged in less promis-ing activities. To quite an extent they take these opportunities up andacquire knowledge that they would not naturally seek out, and for whichthey see no direct use. Moreover, the opportunity costs for the individualare not great. Any claim that the curriculum represents a tyrannical intru-sion into the freedom of young people seems preposterous if the calcula-tions of “America 2000” are even half right.



Once we begin to have an appreciation of what curriculum does, we mayalso begin to be impressed with its ingenuity as an invention. To marshalltopics and subjects into rational orderings that can claim public endorse-ment for their cultural significance, and at the same time be the means ofengaging student attention over 15,000 hours, is a major achievement. Butthe curriculum also has to be adaptable to the practice of individual class-rooms and the idiosyncracies of individual students. As well as having todemonstrate long-haul credibility to average students in average schools, italso has to be able to survive the comings and goings of teachers andschool administrations over even longer periods of time. As a prerequisiteto thinking about how the school curriculum might be reformed, or whatmight replace it, we should contemplate the complexity of invention that italready represents.

That such a complex structure can stay in place and continue to func-tion, even when governments and administrators seem to have such a poorunderstanding of it and spend much time denigrating it, is an indicationthat its social foundations are reasonably secure. It is, it seems, in some notvery well-articulated way, still connected to a “public interest.” The educa-tion committee chairmen who wrote to the Prime Minister felt that the ser-vice “should be organized for the good of the community.” They weretalking about a state of affairs that had, in their view, existed in the past,and that should not be sacrificed. “America 2000” is sure that the nine per-cent of their time that young people spend in school yields more for thepublic good, quite apart from any specific learning, than the 91 percentthey spend elsewhere. Students in at least one English high school were, aswe have seen, indignant that they were being excluded from contact withculturally significant curriculum content. Teachers regard their classroomsas places where public virtues are exercised, not simply as sites for thetransmission of knowledge. In the habits of those who are close to the run-ning of schools, the idea of a “public interest” lives and lends support tocurriculums that, in the first place, were founded upon the existence ofsuch an interest.

Should we then conclude, with the arch-conservatives, that the fact ofthe existence of an institution is proof of its usefulness and that reformefforts are misplaced? This, on the evidence of history, seems to be an evenless satisfactory stance than one that sees institutions simply as service deliv-ery organizations that can be sharpened up by exposure to market forces.History tells us that institutions have origins, develop over time, adapt,decline, or disappear. Though their evolution may be slow, periods of totalstability are rare. A whole range of possibilities needs to be entertained:that curriculum is basically healthy, but in need of refurbishment; that itsscope should be expanded or curtailed; that it is declining and should bereplaced by structures that are better adapted to the current state of soci-



ety. The question is, how are such overlapping and contradictory claims tobe translated into coherent strategies and policies?

DELIBERATION

This is the second urgent issue that stands out amid current curriculumcontroversies. How are the knowledge and concerns of many different peo-ple and of groups with many different perspectives and aspirations to beconstructively brought together to produce resolutions to these fundamen-tal problems that curriculum currently faces?

The immediate obstacle we encounter is that most curriculum perspec-tives relegate one or more of the commonplaces to an insignificant role indeliberation. Teachers, for example, are liable to be represented by radicaltheorists as dupes of the capitalist system, or turned by hypersystematizersinto “mere parrotters of packaged curricula,” as one critic put it. In eithercase, they are people of little consequence when it comes to making deci-sions on what should be taught. Students too are apt to be similarly patron-ized. For example, an account of an intensive study project that cut acrossthe regular framing of the curriculum noted that one of the key students“opted for a formal use of time despite being in a situation in which onemight expect school time thinking to have been displaced by the force of aspecific, engaging activity.” Other students also saw school time as “formal,legitimated time.” The conclusion was that students are easily confused andneed “help … in developing new performance capabilities” (Simon, 1979,pp. 80 & 85). The alternative possibility, that students understand the con-ventions of institutional behavior, the benefits of separating the private fromthe institutional, and the need to distinguish between different kinds of insti-tutional activity, is not considered. Those who are seen as in need of help areunlikely to be thought of as important contributors to the design of curric-ula. But taking curriculum questions seriously means taking seriously theviews of all who are affected by their resolution. Teachers, students, subjectmatter, milieus, and curriculum making are all important and uniquesources of knowledge that need to be given equal weight in deliberation.

The second obstacle is that deliberation is hindered by the adoption ofpositions that exclude a whole range of possibilities from consideration. Aswe have seen, some perspectives on curriculum are liable to espouse a prioriideas that are difficult, if not impossible, to reconcile with any alternativeview. It is a condition of successful deliberation that its course should bedetermined by the problems it addresses, and not by subscription to overrid-ing ideas or strategies that precede the identification of these problems.

The third obstacle is even more serious. The habit of deliberation insociety generally is progressively being lost.



I am writing this in the middle of a general election campaign in GreatBritain. Daily, great matters of state are on the agenda. Daily, they are trivi-alized in the interest of scoring cheap points off political opponents. Noone admits to doubts, no one accepts that issues may not be well formu-lated, or that questions may not have definite answers. As well as schoolingand curriculum, health, the arts, transport, housing, and the family, haveall become grist to the sloganizing mill. The wider the scope of adversarialpolitics becomes, the less space is left for deliberation; for processes ofinquiry that involve all those who can contribute relevant knowledge;which begin by trying to find out what the problem is, search inventivelyfor solutions, and engage in careful consideration of consequences beforedeciding on a course of action.

The most prominent casualties of this destruction of the deliberativecapacities of the nation are institutions, such as curriculum, which dependfor their health on the identification of a public interest. All interests nowbecome special interests. Policies in every sphere are promoted orattacked on the basis of the benefits they will bring to, or the damage theywill inflict on, this or that sectional interest. Few are trying to establish acommon interest, or take a position based on the proposition that a pub-lic or civic interest can be defined that is not simply the sum of a numberof special interests.

It would be good—and very appropriate—if workers in curriculumcould be prominent among those who take up the challenge of reversingthis process, and restoring the idea of the public interest to the position ofcentrality in our thinking and acting that it should occupy. As I have triedto show in this book, the growth of curriculum as a national institution,over a long period of history, was closely bound up with the developmentof a concept of a common good that maintains and nurtures a balancebetween interests of a more private or particular nature. And, in spite offorces which currently try to do away with such a concept, it does still livein the thinking and acting of those who work in our school systems. Let ushope that the 21st century will see a redevelopment of the associationbetween curriculum and the public interest that will be for the benefit notonly of our education systems but for society as a whole.EPI—155


157


REDISCOVERINGTHE PUBLIC INTEREST

J. Wesley Null

Reid, of course, was writing his conclusion to The Pursuit more than tenyears ago, and big changes have come about since that time. After manyyears of being banished from the public square, concern for the commongood is back. The American Educational Research Association was on theright track in dedicating its 2006 annual meeting to “Education Researchin the Public Interest.” Numerous books has been published on this topicin recent years. There is a deep-seated concern in our culture that individ-ualism has gotten out of hand. This concern comes with a related pointthat a re-emphasis on social responsibility is in order. One of the earliestbooks to argue forcefully for attention to the public good—at least inrecent years—is Alasdair MacIntyre’s After Virtue (MacIntyre, 1981). MacIn-tyre, not unlike Schwab, argues for increased attention to the tradition ofmoral and intellectual virtue that is rooted in the work of Aristotle. MacIn-tyre’s work, of course, is closely related to the work of both Reid andSchwab. Other books that are part of this larger effort to re-emphasize thepublic good include Beleaguered Rulers: The Public Obligation of the Professionalby William F. May, Work and Integrity: The Crisis and Promise of Professionalism

POSTSCRIPT



in America by William M. Sullivan, and Higher Education for the Public Good:Emerging Voices from a National Movement, by Adrianna Kezar.

All of these texts address the same problem. The general public increas-ingly believes that higher education is not serving the common good. Manypeople see a real need to re-connect college and university curriculum tothe public interest in general and to K–12 curriculum in particular. In theirintroduction to Higher Education for the Public Good, for example, AdriannaKezar (2005) and her co-editors, write:

The idea that higher education exists to serve the public good has been atthe heart of the enterprise since its inception in the United States almostfour hundred years ago … We believe that, for the most part, this charter isbeing lost as public policy and institutional decisions unintentionally focusmore on revenue generation and the individual benefits of higher educationrather than on its broader social role and benefits. (p. xiii)

Kezar argues that we are on the edge of a major movement nationwideto re-connect institutions of higher education to the communities that theymust serve. This movement became even more visible recently in the U.S.when Secretary of Education Margaret Spellings formed a Commission onthe Future of Higher Education. This powerful group will no doubt discussthe question of whether or not higher education is serving the public inter-est. When she announced the formation of this group in September 2005,Secretary Spellings, after questioning whether or not higher education ismeeting the public’s needs, explained the group’s purpose. She stated, “Itis time to examine how we can get the most out of our national investmentin higher education. We have a responsibility to make sure our higher edu-cation system continues to meet our nation’s needs for an educated andcompetitive workforce in the 21st century … The goal is to launch anational discussion on the future of higher education” (Spellings, 2005).

Much of the discussion surrounding the connection of higher educa-tion to public purposes has taken the form of language that is familiar tothose of us with experience in K-12 education. Talk about accountability,standards, and testing has grown up in the months that have passed sinceSpellings formed the Commission. Whether or not one agrees with whatcomes with standards, testing, and accountability, a common theme is thatmore and more American citizens are asking whether or not higher educa-tion is worth the tax dollars that we pay for it. Discussion of accountabilityand testing may be driven primarily by economic interests (as opposed tocivic concerns, as Reid puts it), but these interests do, nonetheless, makethe point that institutions of higher education must serve something largerthan themselves. The most interesting connection to draw between thesecomments on higher education and Reid’s book is to recognize that whatSpellings is addressing in her remarks, properly understood, is a curricu-


Rediscovering the Public Interest 159

lum problem. There is no reason to limit Reid’s argument to K–12 schools.If curriculum ought to serve the public interest—as Spellings makes evi-dent and as Reid argues in The Pursuit—then this point holds wheneverand wherever curriculum is discussed.

Other recent books echo Reid’s insistence that curriculum serve thepublic good. These books do not focus directly on higher education;rather, they challenge us to re-envision the concept of “profession” by re-connecting professionals to public purposes. In Beleaguered Rulers: The Pub-lic Obligation of the Professional, for example, professor of ethics William F.May (1989) argues:

[T]he professional’s covenant, in my judgment, opens out in three directionsthat help distinguish professionals from careerists: the professional professessomething (a body of knowledge and experience); on behalf of someone (orsome institution); and in the setting of colleagues. This summary definitionhighlights three distinguishing marks: intellectual (what one professes), moral(on behalf of whom one professes), and organizational (with whom one pro-fesses). These distinguishing marks call for three correlative virtues—practi-cal wisdom, fidelity, and public spiritedness. Professionals need these virtuesto be fully themselves, but the virtues are hardly their exclusive property. Thevirtues draw as well on some of the common traditions of the West. (p. 7)

May is working to redefine the concept of professional. By “profession-als,” he of course means teachers in K-12 schools, but he also has other pro-fessionals in mind as his audience. He also means lawyers, physicians,university professors, ministers, media professionals, engineers, and politi-cians. Professionals in all of these fields, May argues, need to reinvigoratethemselves by learning how and why to communicate with the general pub-lic about their specialized fields. Doing so helps them to serve local com-munities, while at the same time cultivating public support for theirprofessions.

May insists, moreover, that concern for community over and above indi-vidualism is entirely consistent with the social and political philosophy thatgave birth to America. In his words, “We have lost a sense of connectionbetween inner life and outer forms and institutions that led the AmericanRevolutionary thinkers to declare this country a republic (res publica, a pub-lic entity). John Adams at the time of the American Revolution saw publichappiness as the most important political principle” (May, 1989, p. 188). Inarguing for connecting curriculum to the public interest, Reid is workingin this same tradition. To Reid, the practice of deliberation is at the heartof re-instilling concern for the public interest. In Reid’s (2006) words:

The most prominent casualties of this destruction of the deliberative capaci-ties of the nation are institutions, such as curriculum, which depend for their



health on the identification of a public interest. All interests now becomespecial interests. Policies in every sphere are promoted or attacked on thebasis of the benefits they will bring to, or the damage they will inflict on, thisor that sectional interest. Few are trying to establish a common interest, ortake a position based on the proposition that a public or civic interest can bedefined that is not simply the sum of a number of special interests. (p. 155)

Both Reid and May demonstrate that institutions depend upon publicsupport for their survival. These institutions, moreover, cannot garner sup-port from the citizenry unless the professionals who support these institu-tions engage in the practice of deliberation. Deliberation connectsprofessionals to the communities that they serve (Needleman, 2002).

One final book along these lines is worth discussing at this point. InWork and Integrity: The Crisis and Promise of Professionalism in America, WilliamSullivan—like May, Kezar, and Spellings—admonishes professionals to con-nect to the public good. If they do not, Sullivan warns, professionals willexacerbate the crisis that is already upon us. This crisis may mean the elim-ination of professional identity for some fields. Sullivan’s argument isworth taking seriously. He traces the history of professionalism across the20th century. He shows how all major professions—for example medicine,law, and teaching—placed too much faith on modern science. In the pro-cess, they rejected the moral foundations for their vocations. These foun-dations must be rebuilt, he asserts, if these professions are to thrive in the21st century.

He further demonstrates how the rise of the American research univer-sity exacerbated the problem with professionals not serving the commongood. Obsession with purely intellectual prestige and money led research-based professionals to engage in hyper-specialization. This hyper-specializa-tion even further led to a disconnect with the general citizenry. In Sulli-van’s words, “The American research university embodied a faith inspecialized, scientific, secular reason and was as ill-suited as the liberalpolitical order to addressing issues involving fundamental matters of iden-tity and purpose” (Sullivan, 1995, p. 118). During the late 20th century, thegeneral public, Sullivan argues, was becoming increasingly interested inquestions of identity, wholeness, and purpose. In contrast to these con-cerns, the research universities continued their trend toward hyper-special-ization and the related rejection of concerns for the common good.

To address this problem, Sullivan makes a compelling case when heinsists that, “We need a new professionalism adequate to the changed cir-cumstances of American life. The first step toward this reinvention of pro-fessionalism, however, requires that professionalism be understood as apublic good, a social value, and not the ideology of some special interest”(Sullivan, 1994, p. 124). The philosophy to draw upon to address this chal-



lenge, Sullivan maintains, is a philosophy that acknowledges some value inthe American pragmatic tradition, but that also connects pragmatism tothe virtue ethics that has its roots in Aristotle’s Ethics. This reconstructionof pragmatic philosophy depends upon the cultivation of public-spiritedprofessionals who practice the art of deliberation. As Sullivan (1994) putsit, “As a species of practical reasoning, reconstruction is a modern descen-dant of the ‘practical philosophy’ developed by Aristotle for dealing withethical and political questions. Reconstruction is thus implicit in everyexercise of critical intelligence. This is the core insight of pragmatic philos-ophy” (p. 143). Sullivan declares that practical know-how is critical for pro-fessions as they move forward, but this practical know-how must be deeplyconnected to tradition, to moral philosophy, and to the challenges thatface American communities as a whole. In short, know-how must be con-nected to know-why. Failure to make these connections, Sullivan warns,likely will lead to a situation in which professionals will be even furthermarginalized than they are today.

Reid’s The Pursuit of Curriculum is clearly in line with these other nota-ble texts on the role of institutions in social and political life. In drawingupon the practical tradition of Joseph Schwab, however, Reid does morethan provide a philosophical vision for re-connecting curriculum workersto the public good. He provides us with a solid, yet flexible blue-print forhow to get this done, and it is this blue-print that I want to emphasize inthis final section.

DELIBERATION, THE DIFFUSION OF KNOWLEDGE,AND LIBERAL EDUCATION FOR ALL

For at least 250 years, democratic education has struggled with the ques-tion of purpose. Democratic curriculum must take into account the chal-lenge of equality, which is a relatively new problem. It does not ariseprominently in either classical or medieval educational thought. Classicworks such as Plato’s Republic and Aristotle’s Ethics address the question ofhow best to educate the young, but both assume aristocratic traditions.This aristocratic viewpoint, moreover, inevitably separates students intoone group that will do the thinking and another group that will do theworking. Medieval thought on curriculum and education continued thisstratification, but the justification for separating doers from thinkers wasbased on the authority of the church, not the future needs of politicalregimes. With the rise of modern states—and especially American educa-tion in the 19th century—the challenge of figuring out how to retain thevirtues of classical and medieval curriculum while at the same time beingdemocratic began. How could the liberal arts tradition that gave rise to



American civilization be extended in the face of the ideal of universal edu-cation? In what way should the liberal curriculum be changed to accommo-date these new ideas about democracy and education for all?

In the conversations that have taken place ever since this discussionbegan, there has been a tendency on the part of curriculum philosophersto follow three paths, each of which, I believe, has been destructive to thecause of democratic education. First of all, curriculum philosophers havetended to conceive of democratic curriculum as a purely theoreticendeavor, one that does not require practical decision-making and action.Second, curriculum philosophers have tended to become lost in discus-sions about means and/or process, while at the same time forgetting to askquestions about purpose and ideals. Third, and finally, democratic curricu-lum philosophers have generally ignored the crucial role that teacher edu-cation has to play in any plan for democratic curriculum. The Schwab-Reidtradition avoids all three of these potential problems.

The first problem—the tendency for curriculum to be viewed as a purelytheoretic endeavor—is attacked by Schwab directly in the first Practicalpaper. As mentioned above, curriculum within the Schwab-Reid traditionmust take into account action and decision-making within a particularinstitutional context. As for the second problem—the tendency for demo-cratic curriculum to get lost in discussions of process—Schwab and Reid re-connect curriculum to the metaphysical ideals that alone can keep curricu-lum from being reduced to procedure. It is at this point that I would like tomake explicit what I consider to be an implicit ideal in the work of bothSchwab and Reid. That ideal is liberal education for all. Reid is more com-fortable discussing “ends-in-view” than he is discussing an end or a telos inan Aristotelian sense; nonetheless, I want to argue that the deliberative tra-dition is most persuasive if it is connected to the ideal of liberal educationfor all (Sadler, 1932). This is, of course, a theoretical proposition that mustbe moderated by deliberation within particular institutional and commu-nal contexts. At the same time, however, it is a philosophical ideal that Ithink will ensure that the deliberative tradition avoids the pitfall of becom-ing lost in process.

By emphasizing the ideal of liberal education for all, I am in no way dis-counting the significance of professional education. The two must andshould be complementary. The inability to mediate between the liberaland the professional within higher education curriculum is emblematic ofthe challenge that we face as we strive to achieve the ideal of liberal educa-tion for all. Education school faculty should become more comfortableadvocating liberal education; at the same time, liberal arts and science fac-ulty members should become more focused on discussions of vocation andpurpose. The two worlds must be integrated if democratic curriculum is tobe anything beyond a theoretic proposition. Democratic curriculum



demands discussion by all parties who have the responsibility to worktoward this goal. Liberal curriculum for all, moreover, cannot be achievedwithout the professional education of teachers and curriculum workers.Schwab and Reid provide us with a framework that initiates this conversa-tion. They identify curriculum specialists as the chairpersons who have theresponsibility to stimulate discussions and take action toward the end ofdemocratic curriculum.

The third divergent path that curriculum workers have historically beeninclined to follow is the route of ignoring the critical question of teachereducation. In their zeal to theorize and pursue intellectual status, curricu-lum philosophers have distanced themselves from teachers in general andfrom teacher education in particular. This inclination hurts curriculum, itharms students, it marginalizes teachers, and it weakens teacher education.The rejection of teacher education—in both theory and practice—removes curriculum from the ideal of the diffusion of knowledge, whichwas emphasized by all of the founders of the American republic—includ-ing George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Rush, and NoahWebster (Milson, Bohan, Glanzer & Null, 2004). Early 20th century think-ers such as William Bagley, Isaac Kandel, and Charles McMurry argued thatthe diffusion of knowledge should be achieved through the establishmentof institutions that were dedicated specifically to teaching teachers. Theseinstitutions were to employ specialists in all of the subject-area fields—forexample history, mathematics, and foreign-languages—whose purpose asfaculty members was to teach teachers. They were to continue to studytheir subject-areas and, when possible, to publish research, but their rea-son for existence was to teach teachers (e.g., teachers of history, teachers ofmathematics, or teachers of German).

The ideal of the diffusion of knowledge that was inherent in these insti-tutions when they were created, however, has all but disappeared. It has dis-appeared because the curriculum within these former teachers collegeshas been fractured. It has been fractured by the pursuit of professionsother than teaching. The curriculum that now exists within what were onceteachers colleges no longer exists for teachers. This curriculum becamespecialized in order to produce a range of professionals—for example busi-nessmen, lawyers, physicians, and mathematicians. This trajectory withinhigher education curriculum has all but destroyed the moral foundationsof the teaching profession (Null & Ravitch, 2006).

The Schwab-Reid tradition, however, provides us with a new method thathas the potential to reinvigorate curriculum for teaching teachers. Delibera-tion is the only method by which specialists within the various subject-areascan become re-connected with teachers and education school faculty. Thedevelopment of a curriculum for teaching teachers is the common groundthat can bridge the gap between these special interests—all of which, when



taken to their extremes, harm the common good. Deliberation is themethod that should be used in the practice of diffusing knowledge. Conse-quently, it is the method that should be used to reconnect hyper-specializeduniversity faculty members. Schwab and Reid, of course, have targeted theirscholarship to K–12 curriculum, but I think a fruitful area of inquiry will beto think through how the deliberative tradition relates to curriculum withininstitutions of higher education. Specifically, their work speaks directly to there-institutionalization of curriculum for teaching teachers. The teaching ofteachers—at the undergraduate level—who graduate and then begin to dif-fuse knowledge is the most direct method of achieving the ideal of liberalcurriculum for all. At the same time, however, the graduation of curriculumworkers who engage in the art of deliberation within public institutions isanother crucial link in this effort. We need curriculum workers who teachdeliberation and who otherwise serve their communities as public educators.

CONCLUSION: THE PRACTICE OF CURRICULUM THEORY

Readers will find a serious philosophy of curriculum in this book. Reid isboth pragmatic and principled. He is both a philosopher and an actor. Hehas a vision for how to spread deliberation to a population that has notbeen challenged to think in this way for decades. The task, however,requires help from our colleagues from all of the specialized fields, espe-cially from political science (Sandel, 1996; Gutmann & Thompson, 2004).Bad politics focused purely on power acquisition does nothing to diffuseknowledge or teach deliberation. Ideology destroys the practice of deliber-ation. In Reid’s words:

The wider the scope of adversarial politics becomes, the less space is left fordeliberation; for processes of inquiry that involve all those who can contrib-ute relevant knowledge; which begin by trying to find out what the problemis, search inventively for solutions, and engage in careful consideration ofconsequences before deciding on a course of action. (Reid, 2006, p. 155)

Schwab worked for almost fifty years to battle this problem. During thistime, he developed the deliberative philosophy that is found in his work oncurriculum. Reid has continued this effort for the past forty years. The cli-mate may at last be right for those who study and teach curriculum to taketheir charges seriously. Their work connects with the numerous calls for re-emphasizing the common good that we hear today. Works such as The Pur-suit should be studied by curriculum directors and by others who workdaily in K–12 schools. It also should be studied by faculty members whoteach curriculum within universities.



There are of course many more lessons to learn from this book beyondthose that I have discussed. For example, Reid has much to offer in his dis-cussion of the five commonplaces of curriculum. He extends Schwab’swork on this crucial piece of curriculum-making. In doing so, Reid pro-vides curriculum workers with an extension of Schwabian thought that hasdirect relevance for day-to-day work in schools. He clarifies and strength-ens Schwab’s message. Another major lesson to learn from Reid grows outof his discussion of the institutional nature of curriculum. This is a pointnot emphasized in Schwab’s work, but Reid has a particular concern thatthe institutional nature of curriculum has been forgotten. Reid’s focus onthe nature of institutions serves as a useful counterpart to Schwab’s atten-tion to practice and the practical.

In the end, if we are to learn from Schwab and Reid, we will recognizethat the point of studying a book such as The Pursuit is not only to under-stand what Reid has to say. Understanding curriculum is a means, not anend. Schwab’s message is clear in this regard. The point is to do somethingwith the philosophy that is found in this book. We need less theorizing andmore reasonable, informed action toward a serious end. We need less slo-ganeering and more deliberation. Curriculum workers should engage thepublic by listening to the concerns that citizens have about American educa-tion and curriculum. In short, we need to follow Schwab’s lead and get busywaking people up to a life of deliberation. As Reid has pointed out previ-ously, what curriculum needs is a Cicero, a Jefferson, or a Churchill. To findour way out of our current wilderness, however, I believe all three of thesecharacters could use the help of Moses. Figures who combine the politicalskill of Churchill with the practical wisdom of Moses might very well leadcurriculum to a new promised land and, indeed, a brighter future.

PS—165


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Wankowski, J. A. (1991). Success and failure at university. In K. Raaheim, J. A.Wankowski, & J. Radford (Eds.), Helping students to learn: Teaching, counselling,research (pp. 59–67). Buckingham: Society for Research in Higher Educationand Open University Press.

Wankowski, J. A., & Reid, W. A. (1982). The psychology of curriculum theorizing: Aconversation. Journal of Curriculum Theorizing, 4(2), 112–131.

Westbury, I., & Wilkof, N. (Eds.), (1978). Science, curriculum, and liberal education:Selected essays of Joseph J. Schwab. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

White, W. T. (1982). The decline of the classroom and the Chicago study of educa-tion. American Journal of Education, 90, 144–174.

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Williams, B. (1985). Review: Privacy: Studies in social and cultural history. New YorkReview of Books 32(7), 37.

Willis, G. (1991). Phenomenological inquiry: Life-world perceptions. In E. C. Short(Ed.), Forms of curriculum inquiry (pp. 173–186). Albany, NY: State University ofNew York Press.

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173


Adams, J., 159Adler, M. J., 59Apple, M. W., 7, 28, 61Aries, P., 30Aristotle, x, xv–xvii, xx, 34, 157, 161Bagley, W., 163Berlak, A., 37Berlak, H., 37Berlin, I., 33–37, 38–39Bobbitt, F., xviii, 59, 60, 100Bourdieu, P., 61Bowles, S., 81Bullock, A., 25Burgess, R. G., 96, 99Charters, W. W., xviiiChurchill, W., 165Cicero, 165Cohen, D., 54Dahllöf, U., 149 n.1Dewey, J., xx, 128Eggar, T., 59, 60, 126Farrar, E., 54Gauthier, D. P., 69, 76Gintis, H., 81Hegarty, E. H., 141Hall, G. S., xixIllich, I., 23, 26, 28Hirsh, E. D., 53–56, 58, 89, 90, 118Holley B. J., 11Holt, M., xxiii, 39, 126, 136 n.1Hutchins, R. M., xv, 58

Jefferson, T., 163, 165Johnson, M., 7, 13Kamens, D., 117Kandel, I. L., 163Keddie, N., 82Kezar, A., 158, 160MacIntyre, A., 26, 28, 41, 157March, J. G., 1Maughan, B., 151May, W. F., 157, 159–160McCord, R. R., 81McKeon, R., xv, 39, 49 n.1McKernan, J., 40McMurry, C., 163Meyer, J. W., xxiii, 36, 95, 113Mitrano, B., 7Mortimore, P., 151Moses, 165Newsome, D., 58 n.5Olson, J. K., 81, 142Ong, W., 30Ouston, J., 151Plato, xvi, 28, 34, 35, 128, 161Passeron, J. C., 61Pinar, W. F., 7, 24, 25, 25 n.2, 66Popper, K. R., 39Postlethwaite, T. N., 151Powell, A. G., 54Pratt, D., 7Reisman, D., 6Rothblatt, S., 57

AUTHOR INDEX



Rudolph, F., 7Rush, B., 163Rutter, M., 151Schwab, J. J., x, xii–xxiii, 7, 64, 69, 70,

76, 81, 90, 101, 103, 107, 118, 121 n.1, 122, 123, 124, 127, 137, 138, 139, 140, 142, 145, 157, 161, 162, 163, 164, 165

Sellar, W. C., 52Sennett, R., 25Short, E. C., 145Simon, R. I., 154Socrates, xviSpellings, M., 158–160Sullivan, W. M., 158, 160, 161

Wakefield, J. A., 81Walker, D. F., 130, 139Wankowski, J. A., xxiii, 35, 128Washington, G., 163Webster, N., 163Westbury, I., xxiii, 64White, W. T., 145Wilkof, N., 64Will, G. F., 43 n.1Williams, B., 24 n.1Willis, G., 24Thelen, H. A., 88, 121, 142Yeatman, R. J., 52Yun-Kyung Cha, 117


175


A

Accountability, 28, 68, 87, 158Achievement testing/monitoring, etc.,

9, 13, 22Action, decisions about, guides to, etc.,

72, 47, 74connection with thought, 40, 41, 65–66Action research, 40After Virtue (MacIntyre), 28, 157American Educational Research Asso-

ciation (AERA), 157Austin (TX), xiii, xiv

B

Beleaguered Rulers (May), 157, 159

C

Categories, 37, 43, 52, 52, n.2, 70, 82, 98institutional, 36, 43, 52 n.2, 87, 152organizational, 36, 152

Certification, 14, 21, 30, 35, 36Character, xvi, 5, 19, 20, 27, 30, 34, 35,

36, 37, 38, 40, 41, 42, 43, 47, 49, 50, 51, 52, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 62, 65, 66, 69, 70, 72, 73, 75, 77, 79, 84, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 94, 95, 100, 102, 106, 107, 110, 113, 126, 128, 130, 135, 138, 140, 141, 142, 144, 145, 148, 150, 165

Citizenship, 21, 22, 51, 53Civic interest, see Public interest Civility, 25Commission on the Future of Higher

Education (U.S.), 158Common culture, 53Common good, xvii, xxi, 27, 155, 157,

158, 160, 164Commonplace of curriculum, 91, 106,

119, 123, 133–145Community, 8, 12, 36, 42, 43, 67, 72,

76, 86, 118, 121, 126, 128, 142, 143, 148, 149, 153, 159

Conservatism, 98of students, 98, 100of teachers, 100

Core curriculum (undergraduate), xv, 59, 136

Courage, xviCritical consciousness, 14, 15Currere, 7, 10, 11, 16Curriculum

categorical status of, 6and the civic realm, 21, 22, 23, 27,

61, 72as cultural reproduction, 14, 14 n.1,

16as social philosophy, xvii–xix, 17, 18,

28, 29for teaching teachers, 163–164as engineering, 35

SUBJECT INDEX


176 SUBJECT INDEX

Government Policies for, 60history of, 54as institution, 7, 9, 11, 12, 15, 16,

19–31, 42, 44, 54, 61, 64, 84, 94, 111, 112, 115, 116, 149

and international competition, 105national (UK), 36, 67, 112, 126as personal experience, 15–16as plan, 12–13as politics, 11, 65, 66as practice, 4, 5, 6, 31, 54, 55, 64, 84,

94, 102, 111, 112, 115–116, 123, 125

and the self, 7, 8, 25, 49statements about, 7

Curriculum content, 95, 102, 109, 113, 116, 117, 119, 149, 153

Curriculum design, see Curriculum Planning

Curriculum effects, 50–54Curriculum making (as Common-

place), xxi, 70, 71, 77, 86, 106, 119, 133–145, 154

Curriculum perspectives, 45, 47–62Curriculum planning, 4, 50, 54, 59, 60,

94, 99, 134, 136 n.12Curriculum problems, 2, 9, 11, 16, 35,

38, 41–45, 53, 62, 69, 72, 73–77, 82, 83, 110, 135, 136, 138, 140, 141

see also ProblemsCurriculum reform, 107, 112, 144Curriculum specialists, 163Curriculum theorists, xii, 7, 67, 91Curriculum theorizing, xvii, 7Curriculum workers, xviii, 161, 163,

164, 165

D

Decision-making, xiv, xix, 162Deliberation, x, xi, xv, xvi, xvii, xix–xxi,

17, 63, 64, 69–72, 76, 77, 84, 91, 94, 101–104, 106, 107, 109, 119, 121, 125, 127–131, 136–144, 154, 155, 159–165

rhetorical character of, 70

Deliberative perspective, 83–88, 91, 94, 95, 130, 131, 134, 141

Democracy, xi, xix, xx, 42, 58, 126–128, 162

Democracy and Education (Dewey), xx, 162Democratic curriculum, 161–163Diffusion of knowledge (the), 161–164Disciplines (subjects/subject matter)

as commonplace, 70, 71, 77, 105–119

E

Eclecticism/eclectic arts, 17, 27, 33, 37–40, 41, 45, 66

Effectiveness/efficiency, xviii, 22, 71, 95Empirical science, xviiiEnds/means relationship, xvii, xviii,

21–22, 58, 68, 72, 115, 127, 135, 136, 162, 165

Enlightenment, xviiiEnquiry, see InquiryEquality, 126, 127, 128, 161Ethics (Aristotle), xvi, 161Evaluation, 7, 13, 37, 50, 109, 126, 149Existentialists/existential perspective,

xviii, xix, 15–16, 17, 28, 49, 65, 66, 68, 79, 82, 83, 84, 94, 101, 105, 141, 145

Experts/expertise, xix, 13, 15, 17, 49, 62, 68, 84, 91, 99, 101, 103, 105, 114, 119, 137, 138, 142

F

Fidelity, 159Foreign languages, xviii, 163Forgetting, 52, 149

G

Grades/grading, 23, 30, 145, 152Great ideas, 9, 11, 27, 31, 33–45Greek philosophy, xvi

H

Happiness, xvii, 159


Subject Index 177

Higher education curriculum, 162, 163Higher Education for the Public Good

(Kezar), 158Human nature, xviiiHumanities, xviii, 118

I

Identity, 6, 22, 29, 40, 106, 109, 115, 124, 125, 160

Ideology, 38–39Individualism/the individual interest,

16, 17, 26, 30, 60, 61, 72, 83, 88, 112, 114, 124, 157, 159

Inquiry, deliberative, 76Institutional categories, see Categories,

institutional Institutions, xi, xix, 4, 5, 6, 8, 9, 11, 12,

13, 14, 15, 18, 19–31, 36, 40, 43, 47, 48, 49, 54, 55–56, 58, 60, 62, 67, 68, 69, 71, 130, 138, 143, 144, 145, 147–154, 155, 158, 159, 160, 161, 163, 164, 165

moral basis of, 43, 44and practices, 27, 28, 48, 83–87, 94,

98, 104and private interests, 23–25

Instruction, 7, 12, 13, 37, 45, 64, 80, 81, 84, 89, 149

Intellectual virtue, xvi, xvii, 157

K

Knowledge, forms of, 59, 60, 107

L

Leading ideas, see Great ideasLiberal curriculum, xv, 56–58, 106,

162–164Liberal education, xvii, xviii, 23, 56–60,

64, 161–164Liberal curriculum for all, 163, 164Liberal education for all, xvii, 58,

161–164Literacy, 11, 12, 37, 53, 53 n.3, 103,

104, 118cultural, 53, 118

Logistic mode, 48–49, 130

M

Markets/Marketing, 67, 68, 69, 71, 130Mathematics, 5, 34, 96, 104, 105, 106,

112, 118, 124, 134, 137, 152, 163Means, see EndsMetaphysical ideals, 162Method, 14, 24, 25, 39, 41, 49, 69, 70,

72, 73, 76, 77, 135–140, 163, 164Milieus (as commonplace), 121–131Modernity/Modernism, 50, 55Moral philosophy, xvii, xviii, 161Moral virtue, xvi

N

Nation states/national cultures, 29, 30, 106, 108, 113, 114, 118

O

Objectives, 1, 12, 13, 27, 37, 52, 57, 59, 75, 80, 118, 139, 145

Operationalism, 1, 39–41, 45, 54 Orality, 104

P

Philosophiescritical, 9social, xvii, xviii, xix, 2, 18of schooling, 3, 47–62

Plans/planning, xix, 5, 7, 8, 12, 15, 16, 47, 48, 50, 60, 79, 80–81, 95, 115, 133

Platform building, 139Political science, xv, 164Practical wisdom (phronesis), xvi, xvii,

xxi, 23, 159, 165Practices, 4, 5, 14, 15, 26–28, 40, 73,

111, 142Pragmatism, 1, 17, 55, 161Problems

practical, 49, 69, 70, 72, 75, 76 77, 81, 135, 138

theoretic, 10, 69


178 SUBJECT INDEX

Procedure (contrasted to method), 134, 140

Profession of teaching (see teaching profession)

Professional education, xvi, 162, 163Professionalism, 160Public interest, the, 21, 23, 59, 61, 67,

68, 69–73, 109, 114, 128–129, 130, 143–145, 147–165

Public-spiritedness, 159Purpose, xiv, xv, xvi, xx, 3, 7, 14, 22, 41,

43, 44, 60, 71, 88, 94, 106, 107, 117, 118, 128, 130, 145, 147, 148, 158, 159, 160, 161, 162, 163

R

Radicalism of the right, 9Radicals/radical perspective, xix, 15,

37, 49, 81–83, 101, 105Reconceptualism, 66Relevance (of subject matter), 99, 103Republic (Plato), 161Res publica, 159Research universities, 160

S

School and Society (Dewey), xxSchool districts, 20, 59, 105, 134School Review, xiii, 64Schooling, xv, xxiii, 1, 3, 4, 6, 22, 24, 25

n.2, 30, 31, 36, 42, 45, 48, 52, 56, 57, 60, 70, 86, 96, 106, 107, 111, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 122, 127, 128, 129, 130, 133, 134, 135, 144, 145, 147, 149, 150, 152, 155

Schooling, philosophies of, see Philoso-phies of schooling

Schooling systems (national), 31, 116Social action, theories of, 47Standards (of excellence), 26Students, differentiation of, 59Subject matter, xiv, xv, xix–xxi, 103, 114

see also DisciplinesSubjects of the curriculum, 107

Systematizers/systematic perspective, 12–13, 14, 16, 17, 38, 67, 79, 80, 99, 154

T

Teacher education, 162, 163Teachers, x, xi, xix, xxi, 2, 11, 20, 25

n.2, 35, 37, 44, 54, 60, 70, 71, 76, 77, 79–91, 99, 100, 101, 102, 103, 106, 110, 111, 112, 113, 115, 117, 119, 121, 122, 123, 124, 125, 127, 134, 142, 153, 154, 159, 163, 164

Teachers Colleges, 163Teaching, 1, 2, 4, 6, 11, 14, 22, 25, 26,

29, 35, 37, 40, 55, 63, 64, 81, 83, 84, 85, 86, 88–91, 94, 96, 97, 109, 118, 121, 122, 123, 126, 133, 140, 142, 152, 160, 163, 164

Teaching Profession, 163Testing, see AchievementTextbooks, 35, 51, 107, 117Theory, xiii, xix, 7, 9, 10, 11, 14, 15, 16,

17, 34, 47, 48–54, 61, 62, 68, 69, 70, 73, 79, 81, 88, 89, 93, 102, 127, 163, 164–165

relationship to practice, xix, 48–54, 62, 66, 69, 73, 79, 163, 164–165

Training, for employment, etc., xviii, 4, 26

U

University of Chicago, xvUniversity of Texas at Austin (The), xiii

V

Virtue/virtues, xvi, xvii, 21, 22, 23, 26, 38, 43 n.1, 56, 57, 104, 117, 127, 140, 141, 143, 153, 157, 159, 161, 161

Virtue ethics, 161Vocation, 160, 162

W

Work and Integrity (Sullivan), 157, 160


179

The Pursuit of Curriculum: Schooling and the Public Interest, page 179Copyright © 2006 by Information Age PublishingAll rights of reproduction in any form reserved.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

William A. Reid has been well known as a curriculum theorist since the1970s. After obtaining his B.A. degree from Cambridge University, hetaught in English high schools before moving on to conduct curriculumresearch at the University of Birmingham, where he obtained his Ph.D. Hewas among the first to extend Joseph Schwab’s work, especially Schwab’semphasis on deliberation, through the publication of books such as CaseStudies in Curriculum Change: Great Britain and the United States (co-editedwith Decker F. Walker, 1975), Thinking about the Curriculum: The Nature andTreatment of Curriculum Problems (1978), and Curriculum as Institution andPractice: Essays in the Deliberative Tradition (1999). He received the LifetimeAchievement Award for outstanding contributions to Curriculum Studiesfrom AERA, Division B, in 1994.

J. Wesley Null is a curriculum theorist, educational historian, and teachereducator at Baylor University. He holds appointments as an Assistant Pro-fessor in the School of Education and the Honors College. He earned hisB.S. and M.Ed. degrees from Eastern New Mexico University. In 2001, hecompleted his Ph.D. degree at The University of Texas at Austin, where hestudied curriculum theory and the history of education. At Baylor, Nullteaches curriculum and foundations of education in the School of Educa-tion and social science and great texts in the Honors College. He alsoteaches teacher education courses each semester at Waco High School.Null is co-editor, with Diane Ravitch, of Forgotten Heroes of American Educa-tion: The Great Tradition of Teaching Teachers (IAP, 2006). He is also theauthor of A Disciplined Progressive Educator: The Life and Career of WilliamChandler Bagley (Peter Lang, 2003), and a co-editor (with three others) ofReadings in American Educational Thought: From Puritanism to Progressivism(IAP, 2004). He serves as Editor of the American Educational History Journal.
