Does Practice Really Work in Schools?

Photo credit Clem Onojeghuo at Unsplash.com

I recently clicked on a link to an article in which New Yorker columnist Maria Konnikova wrote about the impact of practice on expert performance.  “Practice matters,” she stated, “but in many fields, it matters much less than you might think.”  She then referenced a 2014 meta-analysis that concluded that deliberate practice did not improve performance in education.

I was stunned.  I worship at the feet of Daniel Coyle and Anders Ericsson.  I preach the power of deliberate practice to students and teachers in reading classrooms across the country.  I have seen the impact of deliberate practice in the rapid increase in reading skills and the improvement of teacher skill over and over in my ten years as a Read Right training consultant.

Yet, I am a believer in science over personal experience.  It is possible I am wrong.  It is possible that deliberate practice does not really improve teacher or student skill.  I determined to open my mind and look deeper.

I clicked on another link in the article and looked into the meta-analysis itself.  The study found that percentage of variance in performance in education that was “explained by deliberate practice” was only 4%.

4%!  Holy Cow!

And that wasn’t the worst of it.

Reading the article, it became clear that what the study meant by education was the relationship between practice and students’ performance—not the relationship between practice and teachers’ performance.

Teachers’ performance was not studied independently but lumped in with other professions. In the professions, the relationship between “deliberate practice” and performance was only 1%!

Another bigger, louder Holy Cow!

Could I be that wrong?  Was my belief in the power of deliberate practice misguided and not based on the science?

I looked a little deeper.  In the study, the authors frequently refer to deliberate practice, but they do not define it the same way that Ericsson does.  They say that deliberate practice is “engagement in structured activities created specifically to improve performance in a domain.”  They do not define it as repeated attempts within someone’s zone of challenge with a focus on finding and fixing mistakes as Ericsson and Coyle do.

There is no attempt to distinguish the type of practice that is actually taking place.  They don’t differentiate the type of practice that typically takes place in schools and the type that takes place when someone is training for a sport or learning a musical instrument.

This is where the “aha moment” happens.

Of course, there is a weak relationship between “practice” and performance in education.  It is still the rare classroom that has students or teachers engage in true deliberate practice.  Our schools are not yet designed for that.

Ericsson states:

“When most people practice, they focus on the things they already know how to do.  Deliberate practice is different.  It entails considerable, specific, and sustained efforts to do something you can’t do well—or even at all.  Research across domains shows that it is only by working at what you can’t do that you turn into the expert you want to become.”

Deliberate practice is not any practice.  Deliberate practice is not just doing the skill and trying to do it right or even better.  This is the type of practice that mostly happens in our schools.

In schools, teachers usually “practice” by teaching.  Most teachers (contrary to some popular opinion) actively engage in working to get better at the skills of teaching.  They read articles, listen to podcasts, and attend conferences and trainings.  They try new skills and implement new systems.  If they are lucky, they work in professional learning communities and have opportunities to share new ideas and new methods with their colleagues.

But is only the very few—and the very blessed—that actually have the freedom and support to engage in repeated deliberate practice.

The very blessed have the time and freedom to teach the same lesson over and over while engaged in focused inquiry about what is working and what is not working.  They get to attempt-fail-analyze-adjust each lesson until excellence is achieved.

They do this a lot in Japan–it is called jugyokenkyu or “lesson study”.  Japanese teachers work in teams to perfect a teaching method by teaching the same lesson over and over and fixing aspects that are not working.

We don’t really do this in

the United States.

Fortunately, this is changing.  For an example of teachers engaged in true deliberate practice check out the work of the Teaching Channel Sarah Brown Wessling demonstrates how to squeeze every drop of learning from a lesson by revisiting what went wrong multiple times.

Somehow, I don’t think this is the kind of “deliberate practice” that Macnamara et-al included in their study.  This is something more than “engagement in structured activities created specifically to improve performance in a domain.”

In schools, students usually “practice” by doing school work.  Most students start out actively trying to get better at the things they are learning in school.  Some of them are able to maintain a strong focus on learning throughout their school careers.  However, far too many of our students have learned how to “do school”, not how to engage in repeated deliberate practice of the skills that are important to them.

They may engage in deliberate practice outside of school but it is only the very few—who little idea how blessed they are—who engage in repeated deliberate practice that involves doing the same task over and over with feedback until excellence is achieved.

For an example of deliberate practice, check out this video.

Deliberate practice is practice that is specifically designed to engage the learner in his “zone of proximal development”.  It is practice that is challenging for the learner and requires some type of adjustment, some sort of failure before the learner can achieve success, yet which is not so challenging that the learner cannot achieve success with a sufficient number of attempts.

Deliberate practice is practice where the learner pays attention to what they cannot yet accomplish, what is not yet excellent, and tries again and again with the specific intention of achieving excellence.

Deliberate practice is iterative.  It is attempt, fail, analyze, adjust, and try again.  It is not do something once and turn it in for a grade. It is do something, analyze how it could be better, and do it again and again and again until you achieve a reliable ability to do that thing consistently excellently.

Deliberate practice is fierce!  It requires us to face our fears and persevere in the face of embarrassment.  As Daniel Coyle says it requires “…a willingness to feel stupid.  To endure the unique social-emotional burn of repeated clumsiness.”

“The journey to truly superior performance is neither for the faint of heart nor for the impatient.  The development of genuine expertise requires struggle, sacrifice, and honest, often painful self-assessment.  There are no shortcuts.  It will take you at least a decade to achieve expertise, and you will need to invest that time wisely, by engaging in “deliberate” practice—practice that focuses on tasks beyond your current level of competence and comfort.  You will need a well-informed coach not only to guide you through deliberate practice but also to help you learn how to coach yourself.  Above all, if you want to achieve top performance as a manager and a leader, you’ve got to forget the folklore about genius that makes people think they cannot take a scientific approach to developing expertise.”

The Making of an Expert, K. Anders Ericsson, Michael J. Prietula, and Edward T. Cokely, Harvard Business Review

Macnamara et-al concluded that Ericsson and his colleagues were wrong in their belief in the power of deliberate practice in education and the professions.

I suspect, however, that their study illuminated something else.

Holy cow we have a long way to go in figuring out how to practice well in schools in the U.S.!

Figuring it out will take bravery, shame resilience, fierceness, collaboration and support.

We will have to be willing to fail—repeatedly—as we invent the kinds of schools and cultures that allow our teachers and our students the time and flexibility to engage in true deliberate practice.

But there are amazing teachers and leaders and students engaged in this work and more and more of us are getting grounded in the science of deliberate practice and calling for learning environments that allow us to iterate and fail until we get it right.

The Reading Wars Revisited

 

 

 

 

I woke up this morning in the wee hours with the strange thought going through my head that it was time to gird up my loins, put on some armor, get ready for battle, and head back out to front lines of war.

The Reading Wars, that is.

I have been on the sidelines of these wars for the last ten years—quietly, insistently, raising my voice and fighting small battles one school at a time.

I think the reason my subconscious issued me a call to action this morning was that I recently reread Daniel Coyle’s excellent book, The Talent Code.  Coyle’s perspective on learning is empowering and echoes and reinforces the lessons I have learned in my ten years as a Read Right training consultant and my seventeen years as a student of how learning works.  Coyle stands firmly for the science of how the brain learns by repeated practice that is focused on fixing mistakes.

I am with him!  Attempt, fail, analyze, adjust—this is the mantra I live my life by.  And it is how people get better at reading.

But, I think Coyle missed the boat with his take on the Reading Wars.

Here is Coyle’s view:

“For the last forty years or so American Education has been divided by what’s become known as the Reading Wars.  On one side stand the traditionalist forces of Phonics, who believe that the best way to learn to read is through memorizing the sounds of letters and letter-groups.  On the other side are the followers of Whole Language, a theory founded in the 1970s that says all children possess the innate ability to read and write, which arrives according to fixed developmental stages.  They believe the teacher’s role is to be, as the saying goes, “a guide on the side, not a sage on the stage.”

For much of the 1980s Whole Language was on the ascent.  “Matching letters with sounds is a flat-earth view of the world,” wrote Kenneth Goodman in What’s Whole in Whole Language.  Schools started providing literacy-rich environments of books, words, and stories where kids could express this presumably innate ability.  Meaning was emphasized over mere sound; systematic instruction in grammar was considered passé.  Students were encouraged to ignore errors and use invented spelling.  The movement caught on in education circles, and politicians trotted after.  In 1987 California mandated Whole Language for teaching reading and writing.

For midde- and upper-income kids, Whole Language seemed to help, or at least not to obviously hurt.  For minority and low-income kids, however, it was an unqualified disaster.  By the early 1990s California’s scores on the National Assessment of Educational Progress ranked lower than every state’s but Louisiana.  Other states that adopted Whole Language experienced similar test-score drops.  In 1998 two major research efforts, the National Research Council and the National Reading Panel, found that the lack of Phonics contributed to lower rates of achievement for most students.  Charles Sykes writes in Dumbing Down Our Kids of a fourth grader who received above-average grades and a teacher’s comment of “Wow!” for writing, “I’m going to has majik skates.  Im goin to go to disenelan.  Im goin to bin my mom and dad and brusr and sisd. We r go to se mickey mouse.”

Accordingly, the pendulum whipped back toward Phonics.  Defenders of Whole Language have retrenched, incorporating Phonics into their theories but still lobbying for the essential truth of their view.  Phonics supporters, on the other hand, point to their own list of promising programs.  All of which leaves many teachers and schools wading through piles of seemingly contradictory theories and wondering who’s right

Looking at the question through the prism of the talent code, the answer is clear.  The relationship between Phonics and Whole Language precisely mirrors the relationship between deep practice and ignition.  Phonics is about building reliable circuits, paying attention to errors, and fixing them.  It’s about chunking: breaking down a skill into its component parts, and practicing and repeating each action involved in that skill.  It’s about the systematic firing of the signals that build the trusty high-speed skill circuits you’re using right now.

Whole Language on the other hand, is about ignition, about filling motivational fuel tanks by creating environments where children fall in love with reading and writing.  Like any ignition, Whole Language can create acceleration for those who already have the inclination and opportunity to deep-practice, but it is worthless for those who don’t.  To understand myelin is to understand that the Reading Wars should not be a war.  Students need both to succeed.”

I do not fault Coyle on his history of the Reading Wars or his science of myelination, but his view on what deep practice in reading should look like, as well as what constituted Whole Language theory, had me lying awake at 4:00 in the morning forming an imaginary rebuttal.

And Coyle’s voice wasn’t the only voice prodding my subconscious.  I also heard echoes of the high school librarian who appealed to me to help her convince her district’s leadership to keep their Read Right program going.

“They’ve cut our staffing—our program is basically dead.”

“I feel like this program literally saves kids’ lives!”

“We know what works—not providing it is akin to malpractice.”

“Why isn’t Read Right in the What Works Clearinghouse?”

“What can we do?”

Her words reverberated in my mind and refused to let me fall back into sleep.

“Not providing it is akin to malpractice.”

 

Someone else’s words kept echoing in my mind as well—a teacher I sat next to at a conference on culturally responsive teaching.

I shared with her what I do and my concerns that our schools were not currently excelling at producing excellent readers who are grounded in meaning and capable of reading completely comfortably and naturally.

I shared that in school after school that I visit, the majority of students are not excellent readers and how I think that is because we do not currently offer opportunities for students to keep training their brains in reading to the level of excellence—and we also often send students inadvertently down a path towards developing reading problems by focusing on intense direct instruction in phonics and decoding at the expense of making meaning.

Later she said, “When I listen to you talk, it sounds like you’re down on teachers.”

This made me sad, because I am not down on teachers.  I am a teacher.  I understand how challenging it is to work in classrooms today.  I have tremendous respect for all of those engaged in educating our youth.  The teachers who are doing direct instruction in phonics are doing what they know to do—what they have been trained to do—and what they believe is in the best interest of their students.

The problem is, it isn’t working.

Our experiment in “Whole Language” didn’t work.  Coyle’s reading of the history of the movement is correct.  Reading and writing skills deteriorated.

However, our experiment with “Explicit Instruction in Phonics” is not doing much better.  In 2011 California was still ranked 46 out of 52 states and jurisdictions according to the 2011 National Assessment of Educational Progress.

And I know from my visits to schools around the country that even in districts that are posting better test scores, most students are not avid readers who are grounded in meaning when they read.  In other words, most students are not excellent readers even when they are reading at grade level.

We can do better.

We must do better.

Read Right Systems has been demonstrating for thirty years that there is a better approach–one that acknowledges that reading is a complex neural process that happens mostly below the level of consciousness, and that brains can get better at this process by engaging in deliberate practice in real reading within the “zone of proximal development” with ongoing specific feedback about what is working and what is not.

Is not giving all the children in our care the opportunity to become excellent at reading akin to malpractice?

No, it’s not, if we are sincerely doing everything we know to do to help our students learn to read.

But once we have seen something that works, and works reliably with all types of learners, then, yes, we have a moral urgency to move forward and try that something new.

Chris Sturgis, from Competency Works, recounts how a teacher in Colorado felt about his district moving forward with performance based education (which is essentially what Read Right methodology is) after seeing it in action in California.

“I’ve heard this phrase before, of not having a choice but to go forward, during other site visits. Often it is described as “moral urgency.” I asked Cook about it. He explained that after visiting a district that had been trying to balance teaching students at their performance levels part of the day with grade-level curriculum the other half (as far as I know, this was a failed experiment, so don’t try it at home) he realized that trying to do P-BL in baby steps, small chunks, halfway, or as hybrids wasn’t going to work. “There are many who don’t realize that delivering grade level curriculum day after day to kids regardless of whether they are learning or not is based on an archaic pedagogy,” he explained. “Many students are harmed by this – they end up thinking that they aren’t smart or give up on school. We know so much more about how students learn today, and our schools should be shaped around it. But if they don’t know that they are doing something harmful, are they really responsible?” He continued, “Once you see personalized, performance-based learning in action, you face a moral question. Are you going to be like Thomas Jefferson who knew that slavery is wrong but kept doing it anyway? Or once you realize that there is a better way to help students learn, are you going to do it, even if you bump up against other parts of the system?” He emphasized, “As a school system, we need to be clear – are we chasing students or test scores? Or trying to do both at once?” (You can listen to Darren Cook yourself on this video.)”

My anguish is that in 30 years of training teachers to deliver a methodology that is working to turn struggling readers into excellent readers, Read Right has not succeeded in shifting the national conversation about how to teach reading.

I haven’t seen any research on our methodology other than what Read Right has done itself.

I haven’t heard anyone talking about the implicit aspects of reading and how those implicit aspects cannot be taught explicitly because the brain doesn’t work like that.

I haven’t succeeded in convincing any schools that Read Right methodology is more than a reading intervention that they should only offer to their struggling readers.  I ask them, “Why should we only offer the opportunity to become excellent to a few?”  Their answer is always that they can’t afford to deliver the methodology any other way.

So, yes, I believe I have a moral obligation re-enter the Reading Wars.  I have a moral obligation to be a leader of learning and begin to shift that national conversation about what brains need—and what kinds of environments give them what they need—in order to become not just good readers, but excellent readers.

However, now that I am fully awake, I can see that the metaphor of a war is the wrong metaphor.  I do not have enemies.  I have colleagues.

My colleagues and I are all engaged in learning.  We are all engaged in getting better at getting better.  We are all on a journey to move ourselves and our schools up the learning curve.

We are fellow travelers on the road to developing schools that work for everyone and reading environments that are personalized, engaging, holistic, based on brain science, and highly effective.

Image by Clem Onojeghuo from Unsplash.co

Unhelpful Stories

It starts so early—the stories we make up about ourselves and our capacity to learn.  My nephew, the golden-haired king of playfulness and daring flips off the trampoline, came home from first grade and told his mother he was stupid. 

She is concerned about his abilities to learn too—as are his teachers. 

He is not keeping pace with his classmates.  His ability to shape his letters, use scissors, and make meaning from little squiggles on a page is not progressing as fast as his age-level peers. 

My sister got a letter sharing his teacher’s concerns and plans for “intervening”.

She is worried.

I am not.

I work with students all over the country who did not keep pace with their peers.  They did not excel at making meaning from squiggles on a page.  They too made up stories about themselves and their abilities to learn.  They too were labeled and given interventions—which maybe helped and maybe didn’t.  Regardless of the effectiveness of those interventions, they all ended up with a seat at a Read Right table.

They were placed at those tables by their schools because previous interventions had not worked well enough to help those students master the complex task of making meaning from text.

They likely were not given a choice (a mistake schools often make), but placed into this program because their test scores or their grades were too low.  They usually start out hating the work that we ask them to do—or the fact that they have a seat at that table at all—because they think it means that their school thinks they’re stupid…or slow…or unmotivated…or some other unhelpful story.

But they got a seat at that table and now they are working with a tutor who is trained not to “intervene” but to empower. 

They got a seat at a table with someone who is trained to ask not, “What grade is this person?” but, “What is the right level of challenge for this person?” 

They got a seat at a table with someone who is trained to ask not, “When should this group move up to more challenging text?” but, “When should this person move up to more challenging text?”

They got a seat at a table with a tutor who is trained to help students understand that the brain learns by making mistakes and fixing them, that there is nothing wrong with making mistakes, and that there is nothing wrong with not yet being excellent. 

It can take a while for those students to switch from disempowering stories about themselves to empowering stories, but when they do—they unleash the amazing learning power of their brains and make incredible progress in making meaning from text.  The results are usually life changing. 

It doesn’t just help them to become better readers, it helps them to see themselves as people capable of learning, of growing, of risking and daring.

So, no, I’m not worried about my nephew.

I work with him on reading.  He is making great progress.  His joy as he reads “Green Eggs and Ham” is a beautiful thing.

I teach him that all people learn at different rates and that his job is not to compare himself to his classmates, but just to show up and be a superhero-brain man who is always willing to learn, to fail, and to try and try again.

When we finish reading, I smile at my sister, and tell her not to worry—he is doing just fine.

 

Please note:  To all teachers and educators involved in interventions—I am not intending to demean the work that you do.  I recognize the intent and the challenge of working with students who are falling behind and needing extra support.  I applaud all efforts to make a difference for these students.  I am intending to suggest that our schools and our systems need to shift to a different mental model that does not view these students through the lens of, “Something is wrong,” but rather through the lens of, “Where are you on the learning curve?” and “How can I give you what your brain needs at this moment of learning?”

 Image by Joao Silas at http://www.unsplash.com

Shame and Learning

I am up for creating a world full of vibrant learning for all—and one of the biggest obstacles in my path is shame.  There is not much that shuts down learning faster.  There’s not much that shuts me down faster—that keeps me from taking risks, taking on new projects, or saying what I really believe.  And I’ve been playing the shame game for as long as I can remember.

My earliest, most vivid memory of shame is from first grade.  I made the dreadful mistake of forgetting to wear underwear to school.  But that wasn’t my biggest mistake.  I also was wearing a dress.  Forgetting to wear underwear when you’re in first grade is not such a big deal—unless you’re also wearing a dress.  Then, it’s a big deal.

But even that wasn’t my biggest mistake.  Forgetting to wear underwear when you’re wearing a dress in first grade is recoverable.  Just remember to sit and keep your skirts down.  Don’t go on the monkey bars, don’t go down the slide, and don’t do cartwheels.  Fairly simple.

Or it should have been.  But first grade didn’t come with an instruction manual and nobody told me that the worst thing to do when you’re in first grade and wearing a dress with no underwear is to sit down and cry about it.  I sat and cried.

I sat and cried with my legs splayed, my head in my hands and my sobs bursting forth—and every naturally curious elementary student came over to find out what was wrong and ended up peeking up my skirts.

It took me years to share this story.  And even now, my cheeks are pink with embarrassment and shame.  Yes.  Shame.  Still, after all these years.  I keep thinking, “How could I have been so stupid?  Why didn’t I just hide my mistake instead of blaring it to the whole schoolyard?”

As an adult, I have some compassion and empathy for my seven-year-old self.  But I don’t always have that same compassion for my fifty-year-old self.  I still find myself saying unhelpful and unkind things about myself:  “How could I be so stupid?”  “How come I am still so fat?”  “Woman, you are ugly!”  “You should be better at this by now.”

What does any of this have to do with learning?

In some ways everything.

When I am in the throes of shame, I am not capable of the risk-taking that learning requires.  I pull in.  I shut down.  I hide.  I may not still be sobbing on the playground with my legs splayed, but that little girl is still alive in me shouting, “Don’t be mocked!  Don’t let people laugh at you!  Don’t let them judge you out loud!”

When I pull in, when I hide, when I shut down—I stop learning.  Because learning requires participation, engagement, and being willing to fail.

Learning requires failing and being willing to try again and again and again.  Learning requires asking for and being willing to listen to specific feedback about where we are not yet excellent and how we can improve our product or our process.  Learning requires us to acknowledge that we are not yet perfect.  Learning is an act of courage.  Learning is an act of daring.

In the words of Brené Brown, author of Daring Greatly: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead, learning requires shame-resilient cultures that “nurture folks who are much more open to soliciting, accepting, and incorporating feedback.  These cultures also nurture engaged, tenacious people who expect to have to try and try again to get it right—people who are much more willing to get innovative and creative in their efforts.”

Schools around the country have been engaged for years in fostering growth mindsets and building grit and resilience in their students.  In my work in schools I have seen evidence of this work that teachers and districts are doing to foster greater resilience.  All of these efforts are admirable and are helping to build shame-resilient cultures in our schools.

Yet, at the same time, the national conversation about schools and teachers is often a shaming conversation.  We blame teachers for the failures of schools to change.  We blame teachers for low test scores.  We blame teachers for lack of student engagement.  We blame teachers for making schooling so expensive. The list of things we blame teachers for is long and often strident.

And even when it is not coming from outside, we often blame ourselves.  “I should have known better.”  “I should have been able to reach that student.”  “I should be better at engaging students.”

And we blame students too…and parents…and subcultures…and ethnicities…and socio-economic status.  The list of who or what is to blame when learning doesn’t happen, or doesn’t happen fast enough, is also long and frequently aggressively articulated with ugly words.

But blame and shame are not very effective tools for bringing about the changes we really want and need in public education.

Peter Sheahan, author and CEO of Karrikins Group says:

The secret killer of innovation is shame.  You can’t measure it, but it is there.  Every time someone holds back on an idea, fails to give their manager much needed feedback, and is afraid to speak up in front of a client you can be sure shame played a part.  That deep fear we all have of being wrong, of being belittled and of feeling less than, is what stops us from taking the very risks required to move our companies forward.

I love how the Maine Department of Education says it:

It is important to point out that our schools are not struggling due to a lack of effort.  Educators in Maine and across the nation are working harder than ever… [O]our schools are not failing, they are simply obsolete:  They were built for a bygone era, and the world of the 21st century requires something new.  —Education Evolving, Maine Department of Education

Perhaps we can stop talking about how are teachers are failing, or our students are failing, or our schools are failing, and start talking about how to build the new kinds of systems that allow vibrant learning to take place where shame is no longer part of the equation.

To create the kinds of learning environments that allow students to dare greatly, requires allowing educators to dare greatly.  We have to trust in the talents and integrity and creativity of the adults we have entrusted with the education of our children.  We have to empower them to be risk takers, to be willing to seek and receive feedback, to be willing to try new things, to be willing to invent the “something new” without fear of losing jobs or public shaming.

 

New Words-New Paradigms

I learned a new word today.  And it is an ugly word.  At least that’s what David Price calls it.  Price, who introduced the word in his book, Open: How We’ll Work, Live, and Learn in the Future, calls it one of the “three ugliest words in the English language”.

But I—I thought it beautiful.  I thought it powerful.  I thought it captured in one swoop an idea I’ve been pondering for years.

The word is heutagogy.

My spell checker doesn’t even recognize it as a word and the average person like me wouldn’t begin to guess the meaning just by looking at it, but I think it is jaw-droppingly gorgeous.

I’ll let Price explain it, as he does so beautifully.

“There must be some unwritten academic maxim somewhere that if you want to dissuade people from attempting to understand how learning works, you give them the worst names you can think of.  I will attempt to explain this in simple language, but let’s start with a technical announcement:

Though it was happening anyway, ‘open’ has accelerated the shift from pedagogy, to andragogy, to heutagogy.

There, aren’t you glad I told you that?  Notwithstanding the fact that I managed to combine the three ugliest words in the English language in a single sentence, I like to think there’s quite a profound thought in there.  The word pedagogy derives from Greek and, literally translated, means ‘to lead the child’; andragogy is translated as ‘to lead the man (adult); heutagogy means ‘to lead to find’.  I know that’s not much clearer.  But, if we look at commonly-used interpretations, it gets better.

In pedagogy, the learner is led to a conclusion determined by the teacher, informed by the teacher’s knowledge and beliefs—it could be termed ‘instructional learning’.  In andragogy, though the destination may be decided by the tutor, the route involves greater learner involvement, acknowledging the importance of relevance, motivation, and problem solving.  Although andragogy is a term open to many interpretations, let’s use it here to denote ‘self-directed learning’.  In heutagogy, there is not necessarily a defined destination, nor a prescribed route—it is self-determined learning.”

Price writes about the shift from pedagogy to andragogy to heutagogy as if there was a hierarchy with one level being better than the next, but I see it a little differently.  I see these three ways of looking at my role as a teacher as three tools in my tool belt.  Three tools that I can master and then choose which one to use depending on the needs of the learner.

The schools and teachers of today need access to all of these types of ways of thinking about teaching and learning.  We have invested heavily in training ourselves in pedagogy.  When that is the only tool we use, however, learners suffer.  Learners who are never given the freedom to choose what they want to learn, how they want to learn it, or how fast they must go when learning will begin to invent unhelpful stories about learning and their own capacities as learners.

I hear it all the time:

“Math is stupid.”

“I hate reading.”

“Why do I have to learn this?  I’ll never use it”

“I can’t do this.  It’s too hard.”

“This is boring.”

“I’m stupid.”

Some people might say that learners who say these things just have an attitude problem. If they’d just change their mindset, they might find they liked reading or math.  But I say that learners develop these unhelpful stories when the learning environments we create for them do not match what their brains need.  I have seen these stories change as the learning environment changes and we allow learners to start where they are-without judgement-and progress at their own pace.

Yet, given too much ‘self-determined’ learning or even ‘self-directed’ learning when we’re at the low end of the learning curve doesn’t work well either.  How many of us have shied away from learning because we didn’t have someone to guide us through the process?  We didn’t know where to start.  We didn’t know what we needed to learn.  I have put off for years (or abandoned altogether) learning about things—things I knew I could be passionately interested in if I could just develop a little skill—because I didn’t know how to teach myself.

Singing, Zumba, ballet, piano, videography—all abandoned almost as soon as I started because I didn’t have enough skill or enough of a growth mindset to persist through the tough beginning stages of learning.

Sometimes we need a little pedagogy.

But, often, we need more than that.  We need pedagogy, and andragogy, and heutagogy.   We need all three beautiful tools in our tool belts.