What Dreams May Come

If it be now, ‘tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now . . . – Hamlet

He gazed past the gleaming stainless steel, through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows to the vibrant, pulsating city far below. Tiny cars crawled amidst flashing signs and strange buildings shaped like gherkins, ships and pyramids. It looked like an exciting time to be alive, and by a miracle, he was here to see it.

The door opened and a slender, balding man with glasses and an oddly intimidating deference glided in. He extended a hand briefly, smiled even more briefly, and sat down to peruse the file on the glass desk without speaking. After a few minutes he looked up.

“Mr Simmons. Welcome to London 2017. I am your liason officer, Dr Lenning. How are you settling in?”

“Well, I only arrived this morning, so I hardly know. I mean, it’s all very exciting, and I simply can’t wait to –”

“Good, good,” said Lenning. He set the file aside. “Just a few formalities and you’ll be on your way with our Teach Second programme. As I’m sure you are aware, we are a true revolution in recruitment. We go back in time, find teachers who have already been trained, transport them forward thirty years and there you have it – recruitment problems solved! No messing about with training programmes, qualifications and so on. Just teaching.”

“Yes, they said that thirty years would be an exciting difference but not too much to cope with.”

“That’s right. We think it’s the perfect balance between familiarity and novelty. You’ll have some surprises of course, but most of those will be quite agreeable, I’m sure. You won’t believe how much more you’re being paid compared to what you’re used to.”

“I was impressed when they said that the education budget had been protected in real terms.”

Lenning’s brief smile came and went. “In a manner of speaking,” he said smoothly. “Now, you have the signed contract?” Simmons handed it over. “Any questions about that?”

“Well, only the bit about the option of returning to 1987 after the probation period. How . . . how will that work?”

“Ah, you mean, because of the time paradox? Does the transfer distort the fabric of the space-time continuum? It’s a question that often comes up.” He pronounced “often” with a drawl that betrayed – or perhaps affected – an upper-class background. “No, it turns out that there is no paradox. All we have to do is move people forwards and backwards at the same time to balance out the equation, and it all works splendidly. It’s all to do with quantum physics, apparently.”

“So I can go back whenever I want?”

“You can certainly go backwards whenever you want, Mr Simmons. I can’t say fairer than that, can I?”

Simmons felt that this response did not hold the reassurance he had hoped for, but before he could respond, the induction had apparently begun.

“So, you’ll notice a few changes from 1987, but not nearly as many as you might have expected. Your current teaching skills will still be of great value. For instance, we have abandoned the experiment with comprehensives and are reverting to grammars and secondary moderns. We have nearly restored funding to 1980s levels, so you won’t see any of the profligacy of recent governments’ romantic investments in social mobility and that sort of thing. No one can afford IT any more so you’ll be teaching from the front with a board and a marker pen. Behaviour is still patchy – and in some cases, disastrous.” This last point was uttered with a kind of shudder that Simmons took to represent laughter, though when Lenning’s head was thrown back and wobbled on his shoulders the impression was quite alarming. The odd laugh stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

“So you see, you’ll feel right at home. Lots of schools are understaffed, too – which, obviously, is where you and your Teach Second colleagues come in. You’re a very valuable resource, and I must say a welcome breath of fresh air in the profession. Here is your placement, and you can start as soon as tomorrow.”

Simmons shifted uneasily as he took his commission. “There is just one other thing,” he said. Lenning raised an eyebrow. “I understand that before Teach Second, there was a Teach First.”

“Yes, well done,” said Lenning. “Excellent independent research, that’s what we like to see.”

Simmons couldn’t tell if this was sarcasm, but he pressed on. “What happened to Teach First then?”

Lenning had been about to stand up, but he sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. He regarded Simmons closely over the rim of his glasses. “When Comrade Corbyn and the Committee negotiated the power-sharing agreement with the minority government, following its repeated failures to gain legitimacy, one of their conditions was that Teach First should be recognised as a deep-state, capitalist-Zionist conspiracy dedicated to free-market asset-stripping of the nation’s educational apparatus. So – personae non gratae.”

Simmons shifted in his seat again. “So, er, so what happened to them?”

Lenning appeared to be considering how much to say. Finally he leaned forward. “You will recall I explained that, in order to bring people forwards, we have to send others backwards.”

“So they’ve been sent back to 1987?”

Lenning gave another strange laugh and his head jerked about so much this time that Simmons actually thought it might detach. But he recovered himself as suddenly as before and leaned forward again.

“No, no, Mr Simmons. That simply wouldn’t do, would it? Far too confusing having all those idealistic, wide-eyed acolytes running about decades before their time. No, once you’ve discovered a tyrannosaur in your midst, there’s only one place to send it. And that’s much further back than 1987. Much, much further back,” he repeated softly, as if remembering a pleasant dream.

He rose. “Take care, Mr Simmons, and the best of luck. One eye on the future, eh?”

And he extended his hand once more.

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More Light?

OPHELIA: The king rises!

HAMLET: What? Frighted with false fire?

CLAUDIUS: Give me some light! Away!

– Hamlet

 In Act Three of Hamlet, the troubled prince hatches a plan to prove the king’s guilt. He stages a play re-enacting the circumstances of the murder he believes his uncle to have committed. The king’s reaction goes well beyond Hamlet’s expectations. Abruptly, Claudius gets up and rushes out of the makeshift theatre. “Light!” he cries. “Give me some light!”

The irony is impossible to miss. Crying for light, the guilty king runs for the embrace of the darkness that, until now, has sheltered him.

The same is true of life. Often, cries for ‘more light’ are accompanied by a flight into darkness.

One application of this idea is: how we engage in a discussion shows at least as much about us as the ideas we claim to endorse.

The recent attacks on Greg Ashman are an example. Having challenged (with evidence) the perpetuation of learning styles in Australian ITT, Ashman was alleged to have been denigrating women, promoting himself, making baseless allegations, and of being an incompetent researcher with incompetent supervisors. Quite a reaction, and that is just a selection.

The attacks against Ashman were off-topic, personal, focused on his integrity and competence, and betraying an indignation far out of proportion to the issue he had raised. Surely, if his questions were so trivial, it would have been a matter of posting a concise dismissal and moving on?

Likewise, when Tom Bennett questioned the tendency of ITT provision to over-emphasise certain theorists instead of equipping people to evaluate evidence (citing Mark Seidenberg’s book, Reading at the Speed of Sight) he was accused of attempting to tarnish all ITT providers, failing to cite evidence, and then of posturing and self-promotion. The echoes of the attacks on Greg Ashman were apparent, and just as empty. Calls for light accompanied by behaviour consistent with darkness do not provide illumination.

Returning to our play: it is the king’s reaction itself that establishes his guilt. Hamlet never again has to doubt his course of action; the king’s behaviour provides the evidence that he cannot face the scene before him.

I had my own taste of this sort of reaction recently, after co-presenting at a ResearchED conference in Oxford on rates of illiteracy in the UK. We gradually became aware of discussions on Twitter which developed into challenges to our truthfulness, integrity, and competence. We were, supposedly, ‘cherry-picking’ reports for the data that suited our ‘agenda’, ‘reprehensibly’ ‘frightening’ people into following that agenda, and using out-of-date and contradictory research to provide an overly specific and unjustified conclusion. These claims were made on the basis of seeing photos of a slide posted on Twitter, and later (perhaps) after viewing slides from the session. It was curious that none of those making these allegations were in the session. None of them had heard what we said about the sources we referred to: the qualifications, connections, comparisons, differences, or definitions. No one asked us; presumably this would have complicated the argument too much. One tweet even claimed that the presentation was an attack on primary teachers – the exact opposite of what had happened in the session, where much of their work was praised, and primary teachers themselves had raised concerns about their desire for more training.

Given that the criticisms came from people who were in no position to make them, I eventually reflected that our presentation must have been perceived as challenging someone’s status quo. Sometimes what people are protecting is their sense of ‘territory’, despite protestations for ‘more light’.

I learned long ago in teaching that making sensible suggestions about how we might change things for the better will quickly be seen by some colleagues as a threat. For them, their comfort zones are sacred, and they will engage in what they see as counter-attacks with surprising speed and ferocity. In school, I have been verbally abused, lied about to my superiors, and even challenged to a physical fight by another teacher. (The latter prompted by me suggesting (politely) that numeracy was not just a buzzword.) Where do such intense reactions come from?

One of the claims made in recent times is that ‘trads’ and ‘pseudo-trads’ are trying to impose a right-wing agenda that diminishes the voice of the poor, ignores individual differences, and creates unquestioning automatons instead of thinking students. I can see how such a claim can be arrived at. If one first takes the view that progressive education is the antidote to such outcomes, then an approach antipathetic to progressivism must be promoting them.

The error is two-fold. First, progressive education has manifestly failed to achieve greater equality, social and economic advantage, and civic participation for the poorest. It isn’t working. Secondly, the aims of those promoting a more evidence-based approach are very much in agreement with those that progressive educators want. Assuming the opposite is the kind of knee-jerk reaction that belies a desire to stay in charge, and a resentment of being questioned. Progressives are at least as prone to such behaviour as anyone else.

I was recently speaking to a friend in New Zealand whose school is being re-built based on progressive principles: few walls, open-plan; teaching spaces for 120, lots of seats dotted randomly around the building; social spaces prioritised over classrooms. It is incumbent upon schools to accept this kind of design from the Ministry of Education if they want new buildings. Requests to the contrary are denied. My friend tells me that while many teachers dread moving into the new buildings, “no one is willing to put their job at risk by putting their head above the parapet”. It is (once again) ironic that in a ‘progressive’ environment, a heavy hand of coercion is required to make sure everyone toes the liberal line.

When a comment or question stirs up a hornet’s nest, remember that the hornets are trying to protect something they value – not because they deserve sympathy, but because hornets will hurt you if they can, so that they can keep their nest undisturbed. Don’t be impressed by calls for “more evidence”. Look at what has been rejected, ignored, or misrepresented; and look at what has been alleged, and whether there is substance or evidence to back it up, or whether it is simply a personal attack.

The cries of the social justice warrior ring hollow when accompanied by personal attacks. Making personal attacks not only calls into question the attacker’s motives, it also weakens their argument. Demanding evidence from someone while personally attacking them is still personal attack. Such behaviour does not support constructive debate; in fact it hinders it, and undermines one’s own credibility. Such attacks can have only one goal, at least with respect to education policy and practice, and that is to silence people whose views, thoughts or questions are unwelcome.

Personal attacks undermine professional discourse. They should themselves be met with stony silence. Perhaps here, too, Hamlet’s thoughts are apposite: “Rightly to be great is not to stir without great argument . . . ”

Or, as the Book of Proverbs puts it: “Do not answer a fool according to his folly, lest you be like him yourself.”


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Requiem for a Straw Man

” . . . and indeed it takes

From our achievements, though performed at height,

The pith and marrow of our attribute.” – Hamlet

There is a common refrain in the discourse about teaching reading that almost immediately derails the debate, and which ensures that people are talking at cross-purposes. This does nothing to advance the cause of improved reading teaching, which is the cornerstone of a good education.

The misunderstanding is apparent every time someone proclaims that “there is more to reading than just the words on the page.” Surely this must be one of the most trite statements possible with regard to teaching reading. Of course there is more to it than that – otherwise why would anyone bother to read? The obvious facility of this position tends to suggest that the speaker is avoiding the issues – or else holds a prejudiced, and uninformed, view of what proponents of effective decoding teaching are actually advocating.

Those who propound good phonics instruction do so because it is a means to several related ends, ends with which almost every teacher would whole-heartedly concur: improved comprehension, access to background knowledge, development of imagination and empathy, and a love of literature. It is essential for us all to acknowledge that these are important points of agreement in an often conflicted and highly emotive field. Those who advocate phonics do so because they believe its effective inclusion in the curriculum will achieve these goals better than it if was left out.

Equally, those who propound phonics do not do so because they are in favour of rote, drill-and-kill, or some linguistic form of Pavlovian conditioning. They do so because they know that phonics is what children need to know, and decoding accurately and fluently is what they need to do, in order to support those longer-term aims.

It is important to stress the what in that last sentence. Phonics (i.e. knowledge of sound-spelling relationships) is a body of knowledge which students will need to recall automatically and effortlessly for the rest of their lives. As such, it needs to have a systematic organisation within the curriculum, and, just as importantly, in the teacher’s mind. For many teachers, this is commonplace; they simply see phonics as an aspect of curriculum and try to ensure that it is taught well, both in its discrete components and how it is integrated with the wider curriculum.

For others, though, a systematised body of knowledge seems too didactic. This is particularly so where theories of child development with discovery as the main focus of learning hold sway. In this view, children should find things out for themselves, and so the environment is arranged in ways that are intended to stimulate their imagination and creativity. Children encounter books and print, they talk about them, they make links between words and pictures, and they are encouraged to think from the ‘top down’, to infer what the text says from a general sense of what the story is about. While all this is often stimulating, it does not work well as a comprehensive system for teaching children to read.

The biggest problem with this approach is that it actually works for some children. Most children can actually intuit much of the English alphabetic code, given time and opportunity. Why is this a problem? Because for teachers it leads to what one researcher called “intermittent reinforcement” – just enough reward to harden our behaviour into a habit. Cognitivists might call it ‘confirmation bias’ – we attend to those success stories that confirm our preferred ways of doing things. So when some children pick up reading anyway, we can say, “See, Samantha learned to read this way. But Simon didn’t, so there must be something about Simon that’s causing the problem.” As a result, all children learn to read more slowly than they might, and some do not learn very much at all.

What is puzzling is that those who contest phonics do so in the face of overwhelming evidence that teaching this body of knowledge systematically is of great benefit to children’s emotional and cognitive development. Conversely, failure to learn reading – something that seems to afflict about 20% of children not taught systematically – has ongoing and debilitating effects on achievement, self-esteem, mental health, and behaviour. And that’s just during the school years. The effects of low literacy beyond that are enduring and pervasive.

So why oppose something that massively reduces the incidence of illiteracy, and greatly enhances children’s life chances? Writing off phonics teaching as a ‘one trick pony’ or ‘barking at print’ won’t cut it. There is indeed a lot more to reading than just phonics. In the same way, there is a lot more to being an athlete than just fitness, but you won’t get far without it.

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Reading is Knowledge


We shouldn’t confuse skills with knowledge 

One of the most discussed topics in education today is that of the so-called ‘knowledge curriculum’. Its most famous proponent is E D Hirsch, who has written extensively on the subject. Hirsch argues that depriving students – especially poorer students – of the ‘cultural capital’ that middle and upper class children have access to perpetuates inequality and injustice. Instead, he believes that the curriculum should reflect ‘powerful knowledge’ that enables students to gain the same access to higher education and working opportunities that those in better-off circumstances tend to have.


Hirsch, and many others, recognise that reading is an essential tool in this approach. The amount of knowledge that students need to consume in order to be well-equipped by the end of secondary school is vast. It is not possible to cover it all in lessons alone; nor is this desirable. Developing independence in…

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O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown! Ophelia, Hamlet.

It should not be surprising that a recent report by the Social Mobility Commission found that educational inequality is increasing. Schools tend to reflect, rather than direct, their communities, so in a society of increasing inequality, it should come as no surprise that that inequality is replicated in its schools.

This replication is not, however, a foregone conclusion. The mechanism by which inequality is reproduced is well embedded in the system, but there is also evidence to show that it can be changed, and that when this happens there are remarkable results for the children concerned. The mechanism in question is not funding, governance, leadership structures or even curriculum. It is not even the class system itself. Rather, it is the beliefs that educators, parents and policy-makers hold about intelligence – beliefs which are barely recognised, let alone discussed or questioned, but which pervade our actions every day.

It was Alfred Binet who first developed a test of intelligence. Working amongst the poor and deprived in Paris, he was commissioned by the government to find a way to classify students so that they could be given extra help according to their level of ability. His early tests were designed to identify three categories: idiocé, imbecilité, and moronité. While Binet’s motives were charitable, the sorting power of IQ tests was soon harnessed by eugenicists such as the Stanford professor Lewis Terman, who devised tests to ‘prove’ that immigrants from certain countries had sub-normal intelligence. Scandinavians scored the highest on his tests, he told an American Senate Committee, while the Irish and Mexicans scored at levels “dangerously close to those of negroes”. Later in the twentieth century, the British tripartite model of education (grammar, secondary technical and secondary modern), was heavily influenced by the work of Sir Cyril Burt – based on ‘twin’ studies purporting to show intelligence as hereditary and fixed, which were later discredited because Burt had falsified data.

The legacy of this approach to intelligence is that we have an education system inherently focused on sorting children according to their perceived intelligence. Underlying this pre-occupation is an attitude, often unspoken but nevertheless widespread: more intelligent children are more deserving of a quality education, whereas this would be wasted on those ‘less able’. The most recent policy built on this belief is the government’s determination to increase the number of grammar schools, i.e. state-funded, selective schools. The justification is that this will ensure ‘the brightest’ students receive ‘good school places’. In schools, the manifestation is more subtle. Almost universally, we infer intelligence from attainment – a proxy that is fraught with problems. The most important of these is that we can easily make our students bear the consequences of our failures.

In other words, is it possible that our students’ low attainment may be a consequence of our teaching, not an independent entity – one which excuses us from expectations of progress? We do know that the labels we apply to students are readily internalised, and can affect not only their expectations of academic progress but even their sense of identity and their role in society (Osterholm, Nash, and Kritsonis, 2007). It is entirely possible for the system to create an achievement underclass – an underclass overwhelmingly comprised of children from poor and disadvantaged backgrounds, as the Social Mobility Commission noted.

Take, for example, the case of a student in Year 10, having arrived at secondary school with all his Key Stage 2 scores several years below expected progress. His mean CATs were just above 70, indicating that he was at the bottom of the below average band – nearly two standard deviations below the norm, a long way behind his peers. The intelligence test results seemed confirmed by his reading age – he was reading at a six-year level. Well into his GCSEs, he was unlikely to finish school with anything other than a handful of poor grades. Such a student, you might think, is the perfect example of why we use setting – his particular needs could be accommodated within a small, nurturing environment.

Except that it was the other way around. It was precisely because he was treated as if he had a disability, as if there was something wrong with him, that he had underachieved. His low scores on the intelligence test were in fact because he lacked the tool skills – primarily reading – to be able to answer the questions. His poor academic performance was rooted in the same problem. How do I know? Because, when he was placed in a programme which ensured that he caught up in his reading, his scores across the board increased to the point where he gained five good passes (A* – C) including English and maths. He went on to sixth form and then university. The system had, for ten years, treated his low attainment as a proxy for low intelligence. No one expected very much from him – in fact, he was not expected to last at school until the end of Year 11 because his behaviour was so poor.

I am not offering this anecdote as evidence, but as illustration. For evidence, you can see other examples of students who acquired reading skills very rapidly on the Thinking Reading website. A few minute’s searching on Twitter and blogs will show you examples of remarkably high attainment by non-privileged students at Michaela School in Brent, London. A well-documented example is the Berieter –Engelmann Direct Instruction pre-school in Alabama in the 1960s:

“Confounding the belief that intelligence was hereditary, Engelmann found (and others later confirmed) that the mean IQ for the group jumped from 96 to 121 in one year. . . .” (Barbash, 2012).

Their IQ scores moved when they were taught differently. You can also see the other side of the issue in the telling study by Galen Alessi, reviewing the cases of 5,000 American students who had been evaluated by educational psychologists:

“All 5,000 evaluations attributed the student’s problems to deficiencies in the child and the child’s family. Not one linked the student’s problems to faulty curricula, poor teaching practices or bad management.” (ibid).

 My observation is that within the teaching profession, we hold deeply-rooted beliefs about intelligence and how we can infer it from students’ language, behaviour and performance. However, such low performances are actually likely to be the product of ineffective teaching in the past. I don’t say this to cast blame, but to suggest that we need to examine how we respond to low attainment.

We have only to look at the PISA results from 2012, cited by none other than the DfE, to see that 17% of UK school leavers were below the minimum level for literacy. They were the products of a system that assumed the problem was in the child, not the teaching. The evidence, however, shows this does not have to be the outcome.

We cannot neglect those at the lower performing end of the scale: they too have the right to the dignity and the power of a good education. It is only when we accept our responsibility to change the way we teach these students that the inequality we all decry will be addressed. If we do not, another kind of change will come, one that I fear will be a harvest of resentment, ignorance and hatred.

Perhaps the last word is best left to the founder of intelligence testing, Alfred Binet:

“Some recent thinkers…[have affirmed] that an individual’s intelligence is a fixed quantity, a quantity that cannot be increased. We must protest and react against this brutal pessimism; we must try to demonstrate that it is founded on nothing.”

I can think of no better way to describe a system driven by assumptions about student inability than ‘brutal pessimism’.


Barbash, S. (2012) Clear Teaching. Education Consumers Foundation.

Osterholm, K., Nash, W. R., and Kritsonis, W. A. (2007) Effects of Labeling Students “Learning Disabled”: Emergent Themes in the Research Literature 1970 Through 2000. Focus on Colleges, Universities and Schools 1 (1).

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8 DIY Steps to Build a Reading Culture

Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,

But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy  – Hamlet

Many UK schools have invested in online ‘reading acceleration’ schemes which claim to foster a richer reading culture and to improve students’ motivation to read. Such a scheme will likely cost the school considerably more than the price tag of the licences, in IT equipment, librarian time, teacher time, and of course the books that the school must buy in. (See here for an estimate based on an EEF study).

Schools may find some value in this, especially if funding is readily available and the new product helps students to feel that they are part of something novel and exciting. It feels positive to have a display of students’ reading mileage; and when Ofsted comes calling it is always helpful to hand over a sheaf of statistics showing how reading levels and mileage are being tracked.

These are, of course, advantages of form, not substance. The reality is somewhat different. Any novelty will certainly wear off with time. There are other ways of tracking student progress in reading, and with more depth and greater reliability. Crucially, the success of the system does not actually rely on the software – it relies on the motivation, organisation and enthusiasm of the staff promoting it.

Then, of course, the big question is: do such schemes actually assist reading progress? The answer appears to be, not much – and for the weakest students, not at all. (See this post for example). If you are a student reading three years behind, this approach will not enable you to catch up during your entire five years at secondary school.

The fact is, we don’t need to import a system when we already have able and intelligent staff who know their students. Points on an IT system will not motivate most teenagers for long. It is the interactions between staff and students that build motivation, and that provide the foundations for a reading culture. Limited resources should be targeted where they are most needed.

Here are 8 steps to building a reading culture without resorting to an unnecessary software package :

  1. Use standardised tests already in school. Some of the pre-packaged test scores bounce around a lot which makes them difficult to use for tracking progress. If your school lacks a good standardised reading text, it is a high priority to obtain one.
  2. Teach students how to work out if a book is too hard for them (e.g the five-finger rule). But don’t stop them from reading challenging books!
  3. Use free online readability calculators to check the appropriate reading level for each book. Show students how to use this method for themselves.
  4. Have students write quiz questions for books. Store these quizzes centrally in the school library for use by others. If stored digitally, they can become a modifiable ‘wiki’ resource.
  5. Have a wide range of activities available for students to respond to different books. Use the resulting performances, talks and displays to keep raising the profile of reading across the school. An example list is here.
  6. Award recognition according to students’ needs, not a pre-determined formula. Consider effort, obstacles and improvements in attitude as avenues for recognition. Celebrate all forms of progress, and take into account students’ circumstances in a way that software can’t.
  7. Have students keep a diary, log or “passport” to track what they read and when. Have parents support by listening to their children read, signing the passport, and talking to students about book recommendations.
  8. Track overall attainment through school-wide standardised testing. Ensure progress for low attainers is tracked as part of a suitable, age-appropriate intervention. Independent reading on its own is not enough to help those reading two or more years behind to catch up.

It may seem that all this relies on the strength, commitment and enthusiasm of the school librarian and the English staff. That’s because it does – they are indispensable to the success of any reading promotion scheme. Handing over the ownership of that process to the team who will deliver it is much more likely to bring long-term success than asking them to fit into the pre-programmed systems of a multi-national software company. And you won’t have to hand over thousands of pounds every year.

You may also be interested in . . .

If you are interested in other ways to audit spending, target resources more effectively, or choose appropriate interventions, you can join this one-day workshop for literacy leaders.

A longer version of this post is available as a PDF download here.

A PDF of sample reading response activities is also available here.


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The Search for Research Literacy

“Sit down awhile;

And let us once again assail your ears,

That are so fortified against our story . . .” – Hamlet

‘Research’, like any other word, can acquire and shift meanings. In the last few years we have seen a shift in usage from research as quantitative evidence to much more fluid ideas around qualitative and descriptive ‘data’.

Likewise, we used to talk about ‘research-based’, but now we talk about ‘research-informed’ practice. But unless we have criteria for establishing what research is worth being informed by, the phrase is meaningless. Like every other semantic shift in the endless parade of political ideas masquerading as educational practice, placing ‘professional judgement’ and ‘teacher autonomy’ above – or even on a par with – hard evidence is a way of giving ourselves permission to do whatever we like. It only takes a few vacuous blogs, effusive ‘Principal’s Welcome’ pages on school websites, or a glance at school performance appraisal policies to see that very fuzzy ideas abound in education.

At this point the common objection is that hard evidence is impossible to come by in education; that we have to accept that learning is primarily a social interaction, that the relationships in the classroom are the most important thing and that each teacher has make a judgement in their context as to what they will do. While relationships are obviously important, that is true in every human context, and it is an entirely separate issue from whether teachers engage in the most effective practices. The refusal to believe that there are some practices which are more effective than others is a deeply held conviction by many educators, at least many that I have worked with, and many I have encountered on social media.

Can there really be a set of effective practices? What would they look like? How would we know? And even if there were, wouldn’t it be a terrible loss to teacher creativity and classroom spontaneity, which are much more important to student motivation?

In short, yes, there are such practices, and some of them have been validated over decades, replicated through single-subject and group designs. The evidence in favour of certain practices is very strong, but knowledge of this research within teaching communities is scant to say the least. As Professor Graham Nuthall said, teaching is more of a craft than a profession, and we build our practice more on folklore than on evidence. It takes time to get to grips with decades of research literature, and teachers are busy people.

We wouldn’t, of course, accept this approach in, for example, medicine or aeronautics. No one these days would expect to see a doctor who cares more about autonomy than evidence, or to fly in an aircraft  designed by an engineer who values creativity above correct procedure. The old chestnut that medicine is a ‘hard’ science and teaching isn’t, is plain wrong – medicine is intensely personal, highly subjective and often requires a great deal of inference. Doctors still get things wrong, but the improvement in medical practice, and its impact on society over the last century, have been nothing short of astounding. This did not happen because the medical profession argued about what research is, or what good practice is. It happened because there was a consensus to learn from evidence, or people would suffer and die, and that wasn’t acceptable. Yes, there are plenty of examples of poor practice, but they stand in contrast to the enormous progress that has been made.

Teachers, too, could take a more robust view of what constitutes evidence, and a much clearer view of what constitutes effective research. Neither busyness nor philosophical arguments should deter us from a fundamental quest to equip our students with the best tools we can, as early as possible. The alternative is to accept the status quo: 20% of students in secondary school struggling to read and write; millions of adults unable to deal with daily reading requirements of the most basic nature – signs, forms, newspapers. The great majority of these students – usually labeled ‘dyslexic’ – need nothing more than effective teaching. If we knew the evidence, we would act differently, and students would have better outcomes.

There is a commendable move afoot to establish research leads in schools, but there is also a risk that the movement will falter and fade because the initiative had too much freedom and not enough rigour. Schools do not need so much to conduct research themselves as ensure that their staff are familiar with the most important literature and that they are required to implement the findings of robust research faithfully. That may reduce some teacher autonomy, but autonomy is less important in education than it was; the more we know as a body, the less room we have to exercise our own preferences in spite of the evidence. Until we are familiar with the literature, and how to sort the wheat from the chaff, we are not in a position to decide what further research needs to be carried out. Through knowledge, we will save ourselves enormous work, and our students will not need to be guinea pigs whose education is sacrificed by our ignorance.

Can we imagine how the profession might be different in two or three decades? Perhaps we might have a truly research-informed profession, where all new teachers require at least two additional years of training to master’s level; where a year of becoming familiar with educational research and how to evaluate it is compulsory; where a year of actually undertaking research and submitting it for academic assessment ensures that teachers have a grasp the practical difficulties. There would be a major shift in the way in which teacher recruitment and training are resourced and organized; the master’s level pathway would be slower, and more costly, but likely result in greater retention and more effective practice. School managers, who currently often have a very good grasp of the latest Ofsted handbook but less so the useful findings of the last fifty years in educational research, would have to be a different breed in order to lead professional debate rather than suppress it.

It cannot happen overnight, but it must happen, because otherwise we are saying that our personal choice is more important than our students’ outcomes. But we are not consumers in a market; we are those in whom a great trust has been placed. A future with more of the same grinding inequality will perpetuate outcomes that threaten the very fabric of our society. We have the opportunity to establish a different future, but I sense that the window is closing fast. The democratisation of education through social media and debate may have already seen its heyday; increasingly, the discourse is aggressive, and increasingly, the bureaucrats are gaining back control of the levers of power.

Knowledge of educational research is the best way to challenge political and ideological initiatives that do not serve students, that squander resources and stunt the growth of the profession. All teachers have a responsibility to confront the issues. We do not have to agree – not at first – but we should be working towards a professional consensus based on the best knowledge we have.

I am optimistic, if only because there really isn’t any alternative.

PS: This post by Jon Brunskill resonated with me and articulates some key reasons why primary school education will benefit from greater exposure to the findings of robust research.












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