photo by Lara Herscovitch
I am a lifelong educator. Though I’ve always loved learning, I hated almost every minute of my formal education. Now, with over a quarter-century of teaching experience, I understand why.
One of the standardized tests used in Connecticut in the early 2000s was the CAPT, given to high school sophomores in the spring. Part of the test included a short story and four one-page responses to four different prompts. Scores were given based upon a rubric. On one version of this test, the last prompt read, “Was this story effective for you as a reader?” One of my brightest students answered:
“It was more effective for me as a reader than it would have been if I’d been a rabbit.”
The person who scored his test failed him. If I had scored it, I absolutely would have given him credit. He recognized the silliness of the poorly-communicated prompt, and gave an appropriate satirical answer. Very bright students often see what designers of standardized tests don’t.
He had the prize of understanding. The test wanted proof of knowing.
What is the difference between knowing something and understanding it? What does it mean to be educated? Why does it matter? I don’t pretend to know all of the answers myself, but I do know this country is long overdue for a deeper conversation and rebuilding of our education system.
Five years ago, I reflected in The Circle about behavior change through restorative practices — much more effective and community-building than simple, strict punishment. As a lifelong educator, I think a lot about behavior, and the ways it is tied to meeting a need. Why do we act the ways we do? Because we have needs we are trying to meet.
And what’s the best motivation to change that behavior? My “Why.” When I want to change what I do, the first question I should ask is, “why is this change important or necessary?” That Why — because I want to feel better, because I want my work to work, because I value being reliable, and so on — becomes the objective for what I do next. It’s a lens that focuses on the vital details for what we set out to do.
How are our children learning what they need to, to build stable lives in the future? I fear — and I see far too often — that they aren’t.
There is no single, simple area to blame. Is it the teacher’s fault? The curriculum? Either could be true. But, a teacher does not affect the outcomes of thousands of students across the country. There are several curricula that are taught.
I’ve watched the field of education become a type of business where each salesperson spins the numbers to highlight the advantages of their methodology. Some have tried the ‘one-size-fits-all’ solution — and most of us have experienced some version of this that fails, from clothing to laws with terrible unintended consequences. Certainly, educating millions of children across 50 states and U.S. territories, will fail with a one-size-fits-all pattern.
So where do we start?
With our Why. What is our objective for educating children?
The Western European-based education model first wanted children to be able to read the Bible. Then, skills to get a job in our factories was added. Then, the knowledge and skills to work in offices or as secretaries was added. Some students were sent to college for occupations that required deeper understanding and expertise.
Do those Whys still make sense today? What do our children need to build secure lives in the 21st century? What has changed?
A lot has changed. Secretarial and factory jobs are scarce. As AI and automation take over, there will never be enough of those jobs to ensure financial security for the majority. What do young people need to know and understand to make decisions that are beneficial for their families? If we can answer that, then we will be closer to a set of objectives that will set them on a path to success.
What’s the difference between knowing and understanding? Why does it matter?
I know that a combustion engine needs lubrication to reduce friction. So I check the oil and add it when appropriate. I know the manual tells me what viscosity of oil to add and how much. But what if I need to improvise? Perhaps there is a shortage of oil I routinely buy. I know the car will stop working if I don’t replace what has been lost. Do I understand enough about how it works to find a different solution?
I don’t. My late husband did. (I was often amazed at how much he understood about things I merely knew.)
Many years ago, I came across the following example (in full disclosure, I don’t remember where I read it and I can’t find it, but credit goes to its architect nevertheless):
Here is your homework. Read the following text: “The glomat wammatted. Every time the glomat wammats, it gafrumps.” There will be a test on this material tomorrow.
You dutifully did your homework. You come to class and your teacher distributes the test.
A. What does the glomat do?
- It warms itself up.
- It smells with its claws.
- It wammats.
- It wails.
B. When does the glomat gafrump? Fill in the blank: ______________.
I suspect you know the right answer; you passed with 100 and will be on the honor roll. Congratulations! But what do you understand?
Much of how we are educating our children follows this pattern — your test followed the format of standardized tests today. This is more than sad, it is tragic.
I am in my 60s. I experienced education in this country in two states and several school systems, all of which were following a curriculum. I started in Texas, in two different school systems. I read early and was given work to do independently in first and second grade. My mother and I moved to Connecticut, where I spent too much time in three different school systems re-learning what I had already learned. I attended a state college in Connecticut. I was often bored.
Eventually I became a high school English Literature teacher. Much of my motivation to be a teacher was motivated by my passion for understanding.
As a teacher, all my objectives were tied to understanding and application, and I made sure that other academic subjects were connected to the literature we were reading. We call it a “body of knowledge” because it is all connected, like a patchwork quilt. Every subject is woven together so you are fully covered and warm no matter what the weather. I don’t know what will happen to you in your life, so I can’t predict the size of the quilt you will need or the thickness.
I used to play a game where I would ask the students to identify an academic discipline that they were sure they would not need at any time as an adult. Students would say Algebra, Geometry or Science. Ironically, many of those students were interested in carpentry. How will they win a project bid, or avoid spending too much money on materials because they can’t accurately do the math to determine the cost? How will they avoid wasting materials because they don’t know how to adjust and account for angles and can only compute simple square feet?
There was no way to know what knowledge would be vital to them or what they would need — because none of us could predict the future. So, my motto, “No Knowledge Left Behind.”
And this applied to me as well, in all areas of my life. In 2003 my husband was diagnosed with Stage 4 Cancer of the head and neck. The prognosis was bad. The suggested treatment started with surgical removal of all his lymph nodes followed by seven weeks of daily radiation while receiving chemotherapy twice a week.
The treatment could kill him. The doctor told us that virtually all the patients who refused the treatment died. My husband and I took a walk and talked through the dilemma; suffer and die or suffer less and die, or maybe live? Hard decisions.
I drew from every biology and chemistry class I took, my mathematics background and my ability to read well to inform a good decision. The problem required logic. My first introduction to logic was Algebra — the first place we learn how to separate and combine variables and take steps to solve a problem.
Which all led to a question for the doctor. “Tell me about the people who refused to take the treatment.” The doctor seemed confused. Why did it matter? They died. What did I hope to learn? I asked if they were young, old, religious? I wanted to understand why they refused. He hadn’t read the entire study. He’d only read the abstract.
To be fair, there is so much information out there, we all do this — and we were taught to do this through standardized testing. Skim the text. Look for the highlights. Make the decision.
What did we discover when we looked deeper? The people who refused the treatment had co-morbidities that would have made the treatment lethal. They would have died anyway. The summary left out details that were important to understanding. We chose the treatment.
Right now, the United States is divided generally into two camps. Each camp has come to a different conclusion about ‘the facts.’
But facts are not opinion. If I take a cyanide capsule, I will die quickly. That is a fact. If I jump off the roof of a skyscraper, I will fall. Every time. That is a fact. If I simply know things and I don’t understand them, how will I be able to determine what is fact and what is fiction? How many times in your life have you suffered from a decision you made and said, “If only I had understood before I made this decision!”
May we adapt our education classes and systems to distinguish between mere knowing and the real prize of deeper understanding, and build around the latter. Our world is changing rapidly — climate to computers and AI. May we learn how to learn, learn how to better teach. May we limit the number of times we experience mistakes that end in, “I wish I had understood that before I…”
To reach Cameo directly: thornec76@gmail.com