Primary School in Japan: Self, Individuality and Learning in Elementary Education (Japan Anthropology Workshop Series)

Primary School in Japan

The balance between individual independence and social interdependence is a perennial debate in Japan. A series of educational reforms since 1990, including the implementation of a new curriculum in 2002, has been a source of fierce controversy. This book, based on an extended, detailed study of two primary schools in the Kansai district of Japan, discusses these debates, shows how reforms have been implemented at the school level, and explores how the balance between individuality and social interdependence is managed in practice. It discusses these complex issues in relation to personal identity within the class and within the school, in relation to gender issues, and in relation to the teaching of specific subjects, including language, literature and mathematics. The book concludes that, although recent reforms have tended to stress individuality and independence, teachers in primary schools continue to balance the encouragement of individuality and selfdirection with the development of interdependence and empathy. Peter Cave is a lecturer in Japanese Studies at the University of Manchester, and was formerly lecturer in the Department of Japanese Studies at the University of Hong Kong. His main research interest is Japanese education in comparative context.

Japan Anthropology Workshop Series Series editor: Joy Hendry, Oxford Brookes University Editorial Board: Pamela Asquith, University of Alberta Eyal Ben Ari, Hebrew University of Jerusalem Hirochika Nakamaki, National Museum of Ethnology, Osaka Kirsten Refsing, University of Copenhagen Wendy Smith, Monash University Founder Member of the Editorial Board: Jan van Bremen, University of Leiden A Japanese View of Nature The world of living things by Kinji Imanishi Translated by Pamela J Asquith, Heita Kawakatsu, Shusuke Yagi and Hiroyuki Takasaki Edited and introduced by Pamela J Asquith Japan’s Changing Generations Are young people creating a new society? Edited by Gordon Mathews and Bruce White The Care of the Elderly in Japan Yongmei Wu Community Volunteers in Japan Everyday stories of social change Lynne Y. Nakano Nature, Ritual and Society in Japan’s Ryukyu Islands Arne Røkkum

Psychotherapy and Religion in Japan The Japanese introspection practice of Naikan Chikako Ozawa-de Silva Dismantling the East-West Dichotomy Essays in honour of Jan van Bremen Edited by Joy Hendry and Heung Wah Wong Pilgrimages and Spiritual Quests in Japan Edited by Maria Rodriguez del Alisal, Peter Ackermann and Dolores Martinez The Culture of Copying in Japan Critical and historical perspectives Edited by Rupert Cox Primary School in Japan Self, individuality and learning in elementary education Peter Cave

Primary School in Japan Self, individuality and learning in elementary education

Peter Cave

First published 2007 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 270 Madison Ave, New York, NY 10016 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2007. “To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.” © 2007 Peter Cave All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Cave, Peter, 1965– Primary school in Japan : self, individuality and learning in elementary education / Peter Cave. p. cm.—(Japan anthropology workshop series) Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. Education, Elementary—Japan. 2. Japanese—Education (Elementary) 3. Individuality in children—Japan. 4. Child development— Japan. I. Title. LA1314.C38 2007 372′.952—dc22 2007020622 ISBN 0-203-93581-0 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN13: 978–0–415–44679–2 (hbk) ISBN13: 978–0–203–93581–1 (ebk) ISBN10: 0–415–44679–1 (hbk) ISBN10: 0–203–93581–0 (ebk)

For my parents the best teachers

Contents

List of figures List of tables Acknowledgements Note on conventions Preface Introduction: self, society and education in Japan

viii ix x xiii xiv 1

1

Education and individuality in Japan

13

2

Groups and individuals at primary school

52

3

Stories of the self

88

4

Mathematical relationships

111

5

Learning gender

152

6

Ceremonial creations

175

7

The next stage – 2002 and all that

194

Conclusion

213

Glossary Bibliography Index

223 224 239

List of figures

1.1 1.2 2.1 2.2 2.3 2.4 3.1 3.2 4.1 4.2 4.3 4.4 4.5 4.6 4.7 5.1 5.2 5.3 6.1 6.2

Morikawa primary school in the late 1990s Children playing in the playground at Morikawa Class slogan poster in 6–3 at Nakamachi Human pyramids at the Nakamachi sports day, 1996 Cleaning the school entrance at Morikawa, 1996 Class meeting in a fifth year class at Morikawa, 1994 Painting a picture to illustrate a story from the kokugo textbook in 6–3 at Nakamachi, 1996 Kokugo lesson in 6–3 at Nakamachi, 1995 Illustrating things that change together in 6–3 at Nakamachi Children explaining to the class in 6–3’s maths lesson at Nakamachi, 24 November 1995 Maths lesson in 6–3 at Nakamachi, 1995 Group seven’s graph Group four’s graph Group three’s graph Maths lesson in 6–1 at Nakamachi, 1995 Home economics lesson in 6–3 at Nakamachi Children playing dodgeball at Morikawa Children at Morikawa playing at keeping the volleyball in the air Cards recording memories and days until graduation Sixth years at Morikawa cleaning the school walls before graduation

7 8 61 64 66 67 98 99 117 127 128 131 132 133 140 163 164 166 179 185

List of tables

4.1 4.2 4.3 4.4 4.5

Group seven’s table Group two’s table Group three’s table Group eight’s table Table for paper sheet problem

121 123 125 125 138

Acknowledgements

My first and greatest debt is to all those teachers, children, and parents of the primary schools of ‘Sakura’ who allowed me to participate in their lives and gave so generously of their time. I hope that I have done them justice, and offer my heartfelt thanks for all that they shared with me during the memorable and enjoyable time of my fieldwork visits. Though anonymity veils his identity, I must particularly thank the principal of ‘Nakamachi’, who so enthusiastically persuaded me to do research in the school of which he was so justly proud. Many friends deserve my deepest thanks for all the practical help and kindness that they gave me over the years that this research was conducted. Particular thanks to the Ikoma family for their ever-generous hospitality, and for being an endless fount of humour and fun (and great cooking). Many thanks also to my old friend Mr Katayama Chijo, for making many introductions in schools for me, and for sharing his wisdom, along with the wonderful hospitality of his home and family. Warmth, practical help, and insight were also given by Inoue Kayoko, the Matsui family, Nakano Hideharu and Michiyo, the Nakata family, Nakatani Ayami and Tsukahara Togo, Yamasaki Kotoko, and Yukawa Emiko and Sumiyuki, among others. Jeffrey Johnson gave invaluable practical help during my 2004 research. For giving of their valuable time to be interviewed, I am very grateful to Nishizawa Kiyoshi, vice-president of the Japan Teachers’ Union (Nikkyo¯ so), Higashimori Hideo, vice-president of the All Japan Teachers and Staffs Union (Zenkyo¯ ), and Takano Kunio, Research Institute of Democracy and Education (Minshu¯ Kyo¯ iku Kenkyu¯ jo). This book developed from a doctoral thesis supervised by Roger Goodman at the Institute of Social and Cultural Anthropology (ISCA), Oxford University, and it is good to be able to thank Roger in print, not only for his responsive supervision, but for his unfailing support and encouragement over many years. I would also like to thank my other teachers at ISCA and, earlier, at the Oriental and Nissan Institutes, for their rigour, stimulation, and inspiration – especially John Davis, Paul Dresch, Phillip Harries, Wendy James, and James McMullen. Indeed, writing a book about primary education made me keenly aware (again) how much I owe to all my teachers, at primary,

Acknowledgements

xi

secondary, and university levels. As the Japanese graduation song says, ‘How far beyond treasure is the debt I owe to my teachers!’ Those who have helped me learn about Japanese education over the years are too many to name, but I must express particular gratitude to all my friends and colleagues from my time on the Japan Exchange and Teaching (JET) Programme from 1987 to 1990, as well as to Robert Aspinall, Eyal Ben-Ari, Ronald Dore, Fujita Hidenori, Rebecca Fukuzawa, Dawn GrimesMacLellan, Joy Hendry, Horio Teruhisa, Inagaki Tadahiko, Inagaki Kyoko, Kariya Takehiko, Gerald LeTendre, Catherine Lewis, Okada Akito, Sato Manabu, Len Schoppa, Tsuneyoshi Ryoko, Merry White, Yoko Yamamoto, and Shoko Yoneyama. I would like to thank Gordon Mathews and Lynne Nakano for their forthright yet constructive criticism of my original book proposal. Their suggestions were pivotal in helping me to widen the scope of the book and make it more accessible for readers. I also appreciated the helpful comments from the Editorial Board of the Japan Anthropology Workshop series. I am very grateful to Anne Watson for her encouragement and suggestions for improving Chapter 4, and to Lynne Nakano and Glenda Roberts for reading and making very valuable comments for the improvement of Chapter 5. I would also like to thank the anonymous Routledge reader for valuable comments on the manuscript. Joy Hendry, the Senior Editor of the Japan Anthropology Workshop series, was, as always, reassuringly helpful and efficient, and Peter Sowden, Editor at Routledge, shepherded me through the editing and production process with clarity and smoothness. Responsibility for the final work rests, of course, with me. The M.Phil. and D.Phil. research upon which much of this book is based was financially supported by Postgraduate Training Awards from the Economic and Social Research Council of Great Britain, and my fieldwork in Japan from 1995 to 1997 was funded by a Research Scholarship from the Ministry of Education, Japan. Completion of the doctoral thesis was much assisted by the award of the Tokyo Electric Power Company (TEPCO) Senior Studentship for 1997–98 by Pembroke College, Oxford. Transcriptions of some interviews and lesson recordings were funded by a grant from the Louis Cha Fund, Faculty of Arts, University of Hong Kong. I am also grateful to the Department of Japanese Studies and Faculty of Arts at the University of Hong Kong for giving me four months’ sabbatical leave in 2003 and thus freeing up time for me to make substantial progress on the book. As I am about to leave the University of Hong Kong after nine years, it is a particularly good moment to thank my colleagues in the Department of Japanese Studies, present and past, for helping to create a supportive research environment; and also to express my appreciation for the services of the University’s splendid library. Special thanks to Mr C.K. Lee for his invaluable technical help. Chapter 1 draws on and expands material previously published in my 2001 article, ‘Educational Reform in Japan in the 1990s: “individuality” and

xii

Acknowledgements

other uncertainties’ (Comparative Education 37: 2, pp. 173–191: http://www. informaworld.com). I received stimulating feedback on an earlier version of Chapter 5 at the First International Conference on Gender Equity Education in the Asia-Pacific Region, 25–26 November 2004, organized by the Women’s Research Program, Population and Gender Studies Center, National Taiwan University, Taipei, whom I thank warmly for their invitation to present. In Chapter 2, I am grateful to KYOGEI Music Publishers for permission to use and translate the lyrics of Hiroi sekai e (© 1987 by KYOGEI Music Publishers), and I am grateful to Ongaku no tomo sha for permission to use and translate the lyrics of Michi o aruku no wa kimi (© 1988 by ONGAKU NO TOMO SHA Corp., Tokyo, Japan). I am also very grateful to the University of California Press and to Mr Hiroaki Sato for permission to reproduce his translation of Miyazawa Kenji’s November 3rd. For permission to quote from and translate Ikiru, in Chapter 3, I am very grateful to Mr Tanikawa Shuntaro¯ . Every effort has been made to ascertain and contact copyright holders of texts reproduced in the book; should any inadvertent omissions have occurred, those concerned are requested to contact the publisher, in order that such omissions can be rectified in future editions. More than anyone, I must thank my family for all their love and encouragement throughout my life. Words are quite inadequate to express even a fraction of all they have given me. My parents have been my best and most important teachers, and I dedicate this book to them. Peter Cave April 2007

Note on conventions

All Japanese terms are romanized in the modified Hepburn system used in Kenkyu¯sha’s New Japanese–English Dictionary (4th Edition, 1974), with macrons used to show long vowels. However, long vowels are not shown in the case of familiar place names such as Tokyo, Kyoto, or Osaka. Japanese names are usually given in the Japanese style, with the family name first and the given name second. An exception is made in the case of Japanese authors of works in English. In order to preserve anonymity, pseudonyms have been used for places, institutions and people in the fieldwork site, and some details that might inadvertently lead to identification have been changed. Teachers are given the honorific suffix – sensei (meaning ‘teacher’ or ‘master’) after their name, as in the original Japanese. Girls and boys at the primary schools studied were referred to and addressed by teachers (and one another) with the suffixes – san (for girls) and – kun (for boys) after their names, and I have also used these suffixes. Unless stated otherwise, all translations of Japanese texts are my own.

Preface

An important aim of the Japan Anthropology Workshop series is to present studies that offer a long-term understanding of aspects of Japanese society and culture to offset the impression of constant change that so tempts the mass media around the world. The present volume combines the author’s relatively long-term knowledge and experience of the Japanese education system with a detailed ethnographic analysis of the outcome of some rather well-publicised recent attempts at reform. Some of these reform ideas are themselves partly the outcome of the attention of outside media, insisting that Japan pay attention to the individual children in their efficient and (almost too) effective school system, so this volume, which addresses precisely this aspect of the proposals for change within wider ideas of selfhood in Japanese society, is particularly welcome. Peter Cave makes clear at the start of his book that this subject is actually about much more than the elementary school children and teachers with whom he did fieldwork. Debates about the nature of the education system, which have been raging since the mid-1980s in government, universities and the media, are essentially about how to train the forthcoming generations for the society that Japan has become, the global position it now occupies, and the future that is variously envisioned. An important concern is to nurture creativity for a changing world without losing the effective socialisation that Japanese schools and pre-schools have been so good at delivering in the past, and Cave quite rightly emphasises the need to place all this discussion in the context of the complex multiplicity of discourses about selfhood that exist in Japanese society. The book thus offers insights at two main levels. The first is a detailed and comprehensive analysis of internal Japanese debates concerning pedagogy and its perceived contribution to wider sociocultural issues, with a focus on the place of the self in Japanese society. This section also offers a comprehensive account of the reforms that have actually been implemented, the debates out of which they emerged, and the practical ways in which they have brought about change in schools. It also summarises much previous work on this subject, and identifies a gap in the understanding, which is largely at the level of practice. The second and longer part of the work, then, takes the

Preface

xv

reader right on into the classrooms and staffrooms of two selected schools, choosing as a focus for detailed description the mathematics and Japanese language classes at the upper end of elementary school. As well as some very fine analysis of the interaction between teachers and pupils, and between pupils and pupils, which are also examined for gender distinctions, there is an unusual level of attention to the views of the teachers who are trying to implement the reform ideas of the policy makers who have little experience on the ground. This is a nice feature, for teachers often play only a marginal part in ethnography on Japanese education, quite disproportionate in my view to the enormous role they play in practice. Cave’s interviews with teachers illustrate the degree of freedom they have in designing their classes, for example, and in choosing how to implement the educational aims laid out in the reform documents. A chapter is also devoted to the preparations for and execution of a ceremonial event in the schools, demonstrating ways in which these school-based social interactions are adapted to situations beyond the purely pedagogical. Thus we see some broader themes emerge for how the citizens of tomorrow will get along together in Japan. A great contribution to the series! Joy Hendry Oxford Brookes University Series editor of the Japan Anthropology Workshop Series

Introduction Self, society and education in Japan

Modern societies have invested huge expectations and huge resources in formal education. This is particularly true of wealthy industrialized societies, where the proportion of children and young people in schooling has reached levels unprecedented in human history. Not only are schools expected to impart knowledge and skills; they are also given a large part of the task of socialization – expected to shape children into adults with the character qualities that society demands. Education is asked to make children more cooperative, more creative, more sensitive, more independent, less aggressive, and more disciplined – among other things. In short, education is seen as a shaper of selves. The expectations placed on schools are as high in Japan as in other rich, modern countries, if not higher. Japanese schools have long been entrusted with a major role in the production of ‘desirable human beings’ (kitai sareru ningen), to quote a 1966 report from the government’s education advisory council (Yokohama Kokuritsu Daigaku Gendai Kyo¯ iku Kenkyu¯ jo, 1973: 97–107). In the course of the twentieth century, schools have been expected to produce patriotic children (in the 1930s), democratically-minded children (since the late 1940s), and skilled, disciplined and cooperative children (throughout the century). In recent years, however, the image of the desirable human being has changed again, in response to the perceived demands of a fast-changing future where Japan is a world leader in economic and other fields. The image now includes new emphases on individuality, independence and creativity, alongside more traditional concerns that children be socially well-adjusted. Once again, Japan’s schools have been called on to shape these desired selves. These new developments, together with accompanying changes in Japanese society, prompt a re-examination of understandings of self in Japan, and the ways in which Japanese people learn them. How is the individual understood in Japan, and how individual is it really possible for Japanese people to be? Japan has often been seen as a group-oriented society, and ideas about individuality and individualism have faced a mixed reception in modern Japan. Yet at the end of the twentieth century, the development of creative individuals and independent self-starters began to be seen as essential for

2

Introduction: self, society and education

Japan’s future progress – so much so that the creation of people with these qualities even became the focus of a major educational reform programme undertaken by the Japanese government. This book explores the nature of this programme, and its consequences in Japanese school classrooms. It asks what can be learned from Japan’s schools about Japanese understandings of selfhood. It also considers the significance of Japan’s classroom practices for pedagogical thought and practice more widely. Questions about the nature and formation of the Japanese self have been repeatedly debated during Japan’s modern history, both by the Japanese themselves, and by overseas observers. Japan has been seen by some as a group-oriented society where individualism is frowned upon, and by others as a society of strong-minded individuals who endlessly challenge or subvert an official ideology of collective harmony. While the view that the Japanese self is interdependent and situationally oriented seems to hold majority approval among scholars, a significant minority of voices point to other ways of being in Japan – ways that evince independence, individuality, and autonomy. Further debate centres on the question of how Japanese people come to be the kind of selves they are – whether that be group-oriented, individualistic, or something else. Answers to this question have often been sought by looking at Japanese education. Some writers see the postwar school system as a highly successful socializing machine. They argue that bonds of indulgence and dependence develop between mothers and infants, after which preschools and primary schools use group activities to teach children to fulfil expected roles. This ability to fulfil one’s role then continues to be developed in a group context at secondary school – though at this stage children are also increasingly expected to act as disciplined individuals with a limited degree of autonomy. Other writers focus more on teaching and learning processes than socialization, praising what they see as the development of independent, creative thinking in the Japanese primary school. Still others see the school system as an oppressive monster, crushing the diverse needs of individuals in order to churn out suitably programmed resource units for Japanese employers. Yet whether malign or benign, liberating or oppressing, there seems agreement that education plays a significant role in making Japanese people who they are. Analysts must also decide whether to see Japanese schools mainly in terms of their contribution to Japanese society, or whether to look at their learning and socializing processes in the light of wider educational thought. Both approaches have been taken – some writers concentrating on how Japan’s educational system and practices can be understood within its social and cultural context, while others focus on Japanese schooling in terms of comparative pedagogy. Several writers have combined these approaches, using Japanese education as a window into culture, personhood, and society, but also pointing to lessons that can be learned from Japan by educators abroad. This book examines the questions of how selfhood is understood and formed in Japan, and in particular, the role of the education system in that

Introduction: self, society and education

3

process. Focusing on upper primary education, it attempts to understand the schooling process and the ongoing educational reform programme in terms of debates about selfhood and education within Japanese society. It also tries to show how what goes on in Japanese upper primary classrooms can be illuminated by the insights of a sociocultural pedagogy, and how, in turn, these Japanese educational practices may contribute to the further development of such pedagogy. The study is pursued through an ethnographically grounded exploration of discourses and practices that are historically particular yet enduringly significant, representing as they do continuing debates about ways of being and doing in Japan.

Settings and methods In this book, I focus on the sixth and final year of primary school. The sixth year makes a good subject for ethnographic study, because it represents the culmination of primary education. Sixth year students are treated as school leaders by their teachers, and are given various responsible roles. The ways in which sixth years behave inside and outside class reveal much about the impact and significance of the primary school experience. Sixth years are also the focus of a climactic series of rituals that bring primary school life to an end – most notably the graduation ceremony. These rituals are given great importance by teachers and embody significant discourses about selfhood, as viewed by the primary school. For these reasons, an examination of sixth year education can show particularly well what Japanese primary schools aim at and what they achieve. Perhaps surprisingly, this final year of primary school has attracted relatively little attention from scholars writing in English, though there is a fascinating ‘insider’s’ account written by Anne Conduit, an Australian mother whose son Andy (a co-writer of the book) spent most of the fifth and sixth grades in a Tokyo primary school during the early 1990s (Conduit and Conduit, 1996). Two studies have looked at the fifth year of primary school from different perspectives. Gail Benjamin’s (1997) account deals with both the first and fifth years of primary school in Saitama, in which her children were enrolled in 1989–90, and takes the ‘semi-insider’ view of a mother of primary school children. Nancy Sato’s ethnography of two fifth year classrooms at Tokyo public primary schools from 1986 to 1989 (Sato, 2004) also provides valuable comparative data from a different part of Japan from the present study. Catherine Lewis’s landmark study of Japanese primary education (Lewis, 1995), concentrates more on the lower and middle years of primary school, while Ryoko Tsuneyoshi’s comparative study of primary education in Japan and the United States (Tsuneyoshi, 2001) takes a wideranging view across all years. These and other qualitative or ethnographic studies of Japanese primary education to date leave largely unexamined the possible impact of the educational reform programme from the early 1990s on. In addition, their view of Japanese schools comes mainly from the

4

Introduction: self, society and education

standpoint of the educationalist, and with the exception of Benjamin, they have less to say about the significance of Japanese primary education for the sociocultural understanding of Japan. The current work addresses these relatively untouched subjects. In Japan, primary school (sho¯ gakko¯ ) lasts for six years, from age 6 to age 12. Almost all children also attend one or more years of preschool before they enter primary school.1 After primary school, children go on to chu¯ gakko¯ (variously translated as ‘junior high school’ or ‘middle school’), which lasts for three years, from age 12 until 15. Primary and junior high school comprise compulsory education; however, since 1980 about 95 per cent of children have gone on to high school (ko¯ ko¯ ), a three-year institution for children between 15 and 18. The proportion continuing to tertiary education has risen from about 54 per cent in 1995 to 66 per cent in 2005, mainly due to the declining numbers of children in Japan (Monbukagakusho¯ , 2006).2 Over 98 per cent of Japanese children attend the local public primary school, entering by virtue of living within the catchment area of the school district. Nationwide, 92 per cent also attend the local public junior high school, again entering on the basis of residence; there is no entrance exam for public junior high schools (Monbukagakusho¯ , 2006). In Tokyo, a much higher proportion (about 25 per cent) of children go to private junior high schools, for which they have to take a competitive entrance exam, and this is also true to a lesser extent in other large cities (Chu¯ o¯ Kyo¯ iku Shingikai, 2005: 95). However, in the small city where my research was conducted, very few children went to private junior high schools (there were only three such children out of about 200 sixth years at the two schools I studied). In fact, there were hardly any private junior high schools within convenient travelling distance. As a result, children were not faced with extra study for junior high entrance exams. I have used two major research methods: ethnographic fieldwork, and study of documents and other literature relating to Japanese educational policy. By this means, I try to show the relationship between Japan’s educational reform as prescribed and debated at the national level, and actual practices in particular local schools. This represents my own attempt to meet a challenge that has confronted anthropologists for some time, namely, how to retain the strengths yet transcend the limitations of the traditional community study (of which the school study is one variation) (Davis, 1980). It was impossible to understand what went on in the schools I visited without reference to the larger changes represented by the educational reform programme; at the same time, analysis of the programme itself would have been less significant, had its effects upon the experience of schooling gone unexamined. Furthermore, to understand the reform programme and its interpretation in schools, it was necessary to situate both within the context of debates, discourses and sociocultural changes in the Japan of the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries.

Introduction: self, society and education

5

The schools and their setting My field research took place in a small city of about 100,000, which I call Sakura (a pseudonym). Sakura is located in a semi-rural part of the Kansai region of Japan – the six prefectures (Osaka, Kyoto, Hyogo, Nara, Shiga and Wakayama) that surround the cities of Osaka, Kyoto, and Kobe. It has been a significant town since the Tokugawa period (1603–1868). Parents who had moved there from other parts of Japan, such as Kanto or Kyushu, often said to me that Sakura was a conservative place where people didn’t speak their minds. For them, its many temples and quasi-compulsory community activities showed the city’s old-fashioned outlook. It was hard to say how fair such perceptions were (personally I have known some very open and open-minded people from Sakura), but certainly the city had a traditional core. Like many cities (shi) in Japan, in the mid-1990s Sakura was a sprawling administrative area containing much agricultural land (mostly rice fields) outside the city centre. Even so, 95 per cent of the population was employed in manufacturing, construction, trading, or services; large manufacturing companies in electrical goods, tyres and aluminium had factories in the city. Incomes in the prefecture were close to the national average, while education levels were a little higher than average. Overall, the city was relatively prosperous; 80 per cent of the population lived in owner-occupied dwellings, higher than the national average of 60 per cent (Zaidan Ho¯ jin Yano Tsuneta Kinenkai, 1996: 474). About 2,000 people in the city received unemployment benefit (shitsugyo¯ kyu¯ fukin) in 1996–97. The city was and is best known for its heritage, such as large parks and gardens dating from the Tokugawa period, and the many cherry trees under which people enjoy spring flower-viewing. However, in recent years its commercial and cultural facilities have been expanding. While I was living there in 1996, a large new shopping mall containing a multiplex cinema opened, and just after I left in 1997, the city unveiled a new cultural centre, containing three concert halls along with other facilities. The first half of the 1990s had also seen a doubling of the number of the city’s foreign residents to around 1,000, about 1 per cent of the city’s total population; most foreign residents were either Brazilians of Japanese descent, or Koreans. There was a small number of Brazilian children in the primary schools I studied, but none in the sixth year classes upon which I focused; nor were there any Korean children in these classes. In this book, I call the two primary schools I studied Nakamachi and Morikawa.3 Both were public schools administered by the city board of education, drawing their pupils exclusively from their own school districts. The two school districts were adjacent, and together with that of a third primary school, Ishida, they formed the catchment area of Tachibana junior high school. The three districts were located in the most densely populated part of the city. During pilot research in 1994, the Tachibana vice-principal told me that the junior high school’s district was a diverse mixture, composed of longestablished, traditionally-minded Sakura households, along with incomers

6

Introduction: self, society and education

whose thinking was more modern. Traditional households saw no real division between home and school, which they considered part of a single community, he said, while modern-minded incomers drew a clear line between the two. However accurate this perception was, it helped to indicate the terms in which teachers viewed the local population. Nakamachi school district occupied the city centre, and was seen as the most traditional of the three primary school districts. Housing in the area was a mixture of old-fashioned wooden buildings, modern detached houses, and low-rise apartment blocks (manshon). The district contained many small businesses, including many family-run shops in long-established shopping arcades; city statistics showed that in 1991, a greater proportion of Sakura’s population (20 per cent) were employed in this district of the city than any other. The parents of sixth year Nakamachi children included a timber merchant, the owner of a bicycle shop, a tyre merchant, a maker of Buddhist altars (butsudan), the owner of an electrical goods shop, and more than one restaurateur – along with a doctor, a firefighter, and a high school teacher who was also the priest of a local Buddhist temple. Yet the district’s population was declining, along with the number of children at Nakamachi; at the time of my research in 1995–96, the school enrollment was about 500, down from much higher numbers in earlier decades, and it has continued to fall since then. The Nakamachi vice-principal saw the district as one where older people had considerable power, due to their relatively large numbers. Nakamachi children were also seen by teachers as lively and articulate compared to more rural children, and as well brought-up, since they tended to come from families that were seen as ‘traditional’ – owners of small businesses, living in three-generation households. There was no doubt some stereotyping in this view, as in teachers’ generalizations about children in other schools, and it was also clear from talking to teachers that the character of a class could vary dramatically from year to year. The teachers of the sixth year classes at Nakamachi in 1995–96 agreed that this group of children had been brought up by their families with particular care, and saw them as unusually close to their parents. Yoshioka-sensei, the head of year, contrasted them to her previous sixth year class at Nakamachi, which, she said, had been made up of much more uninhibited children who were more of a handful for teachers. Morikawa school district was larger, and further from the city centre. Mostly agricultural in the early postwar period, it had since seen considerable residential development, which was still continuing as the population of the district grew. As a result, most of its housing was in the form of new estates of small family homes (shinko¯ ju¯ taku), as well as some apartment blocks, though it still also contained quite a number of older residences and sprinklings of paddy fields. Within the estates, houses were built in a fairly uniform detached style, but elsewhere, there were a startling variety of dwellings within a stone’s throw of one another. Large handsome houses, newly built but in a traditional style, could be found close to rows of tiny and

Introduction: self, society and education

7

shabby one-storey terraced houses – although I only discovered two small groups of such poor housing as I cycled round the district. Morikawa primary school itself fronted a river said to be mentioned in the Manyo¯ shu¯ (the oldest extant collection of Japanese poetry, dating from 761). Beyond the school buildings rose two low wooded hills, from one of which the Meiji emperor had reviewed the Imperial troops a century before. While hills and river echoed more distant history, Japan’s postwar industrial development had left its mark in the busy trunk road that crossed the river just a hundred yards from the front gate of the school. The main school buildings at Nakamachi and Morikawa had been built in the mid-1950s and in 1960 respectively, with later additions. Both schools were equipped with a large gymnasium, an outdoor swimming pool (used only in summer), a music room, a home economics room, a science laboratory, an art room, and an audio-visual room equipped with televisions. In the mid-1990s, they did not yet have computer rooms. Each had an extensive playground (undo¯ jo¯ ) made up of hard-packed sandy earth, which was used as a playing field during Physical Education lessons. Around the edges of these grounds were climbing frames and exercise bars which were well used by children. Because of Morikawa’s expanding numbers of children (about 650 by 1996), two new wings had been built for the school by the time of my 1996 fieldwork. Even this was inadequate to cope with growing numbers, however, and by the time I revisited the school in June 2004, construction of an entire new school building was taking place on the same site; some children were taking lessons in that part of the new building that had been completed, some

Figure 1.1 Morikawa primary school in the late 1990s.

8

Introduction: self, society and education

Figure 1.2 Children playing in the playground at Morikawa.

took lessons in the remaining part of the old building, and some in temporary prefab classrooms. Research methods My research on the Japanese government’s educational reform programme mainly relied on the study of primary documents in Japanese from the Ministry of Education, government advisory councils, and teachers’ unions. These were supplemented by interviews with officials from the Ministry of Education and the two leading teachers’ unions (Nikkyo¯ so and Zenkyo¯ ) in July 1998. Ethnographic research for this book has taken place over a decade; pilot research at Morikawa was conducted in autumn 1994, while my most recent visit to Morikawa took place in June 2004. The longest period of research, in primary school classrooms at Nakamachi and Morikawa, was carried out between October 1995 and March 1996. I decided to carry out research in Sakura for two major reasons. First, I had many personal contacts among teachers in the area, which I believed – rightly, as it turned out – would considerably ease my access to local schools. Second, I believed that Sakura and its schools had no strikingly unusual features, and were reasonably representative of many communities within Japan. Since there are significant variations in social, economic, political and cultural features across Japan, it is impossible to find either a locality or a school that can be called representative of the entire country. It is clear that

Introduction: self, society and education

9

the educational situation in rich, urbanized, and hyper-competitive Tokyo is very significantly different from that of rural areas in regions such as Tohoku or Shikoku, for example. Nonetheless, I believed, as I still do, that a study in Sakura would tell us much about Japan more generally. One important reason for this is the postwar national standardization of education that has resulted from the central control of Japan’s Ministry of Education, including a national curriculum, centrally ratified textbooks, and relatively egalitarian educational facilities and resource distribution (Cummings, 1980: 6–15). Another is the nationwide reach of the media of pedagogical discourse, notably the large number of action research journals written and read by teachers (Sato and Asanuma, 2000: 116). Moreover, the broad commonalities in outlook and practice reported from schools in different parts of Japan by previous researchers support such a view. I carried out pilot research in fourth, fifth and sixth year classrooms at Morikawa for two months between October and December 2004, combining this with visits to classrooms at Tachibana junior high school. My original intention had been to return to Morikawa in October 2005; however, in the interim the principal of Morikawa was transferred to the adjoining school, Nakamachi, and he encouraged me to do fieldwork there, especially since Nakamachi teachers were specifically doing action research on how to teach in line with the government’s educational reform programme. This seemed too good an opportunity to miss, not just because of the action research being done by Nakamachi teachers, but because it allowed me to see two different schools. In the end, therefore, I spent four months at Nakamachi (from October 1995 to January 1996) and then six weeks at Morikawa, until the end of the school year in March 1996. From April 1996 until March 1997 I continued research at the local junior high school, Tachibana, some of the results of which have been published in Cave (2004). At Nakamachi, I began by observing each of the fifth year and sixth year classes for an entire day. After this, I concentrated my observations on two of the sixth year classes, both of which were taught by experienced and highly skilled teachers in their mid-thirties. Most of my time was spent with class 6–3, taught by the head of the sixth year (gakunen shunin), Yoshioka-sensei.4 As a result of my earlier fieldwork, I felt that more could be learned about teachers’ philosophy and teaching techniques from continuous long-term observation of one or two classes, than from observing several classes less frequently. It was clear that teaching was based on units of the textbook (tangen), and that teachers thought of and planned lessons as series that covered a particular unit. The style and format of lessons changed as different stages of the series were reached, so it was better to observe the entire series in order to grasp the teacher’s approach. Continuous observation of one or two classes also allowed more extended exploration of the worlds of meaning that the teachers were attempting to create in their classrooms. Experienced and able teachers were chosen for observation because I felt

10

Introduction: self, society and education

that they provided examples of Japanese primary teaching that were as close as possible to what Japanese teachers themselves would see as its ideal realization. Yoshioka-sensei’s class was prioritized for observation because its children were the most lively and responsive, both to the teacher and to me, of any of the three sixth year classes at Nakamachi. As well as observing classes, I carried out 35 interviews with 11 teachers at Nakamachi, not including informal conversations. After four fascinating months at Nakamachi, I returned to Morikawa at the beginning of February 1996. Having already managed to carry out indepth long-term observations in two classrooms, I decided to make observations in all four of the sixth year classes at Morikawa, in order to see several teachers at work and gain a broader view of upper primary teaching. I also carried out 24 interviews with ten teachers. At both Nakamachi and Morikawa, I was given a desk in the staffroom, and arrived each day in time for the morning staff meeting (uchiawase) at 8.20 a.m. After the staff meeting, I spent most of the day observing and taking notes on lessons and other class activities, starting with the morning meeting (asa no kai) in one class.5 Some lessons were also videotaped. During breaks, I usually stayed in the classroom, or played with the children on the exercise ground or in the gymnasium. I ate the school lunch with the children in their classrooms, and participated with them in school cleaning. As time went on, I usually spent an hour or two of the school day in the staffroom, taking a break and updating my notes. After lessons finished, I was usually at school until five or six o’clock, since this was the best time for interviewing and conversing with teachers. Besides observing everyday activities, I also took opportunities to attend research lessons and seminars. At Nakamachi, there were several such research lessons during my stay; these were preceded by preparatory meetings and followed by discussion seminars, during which teachers discussed their plans for these lessons with their colleagues, and later reflected on how they had gone.6 Listening to such discussions helped me learn about the issues that preoccupied teachers, as well as the key concepts and vocabulary they shared. I also attended two two-day action research conferences for teachers during the summer vacation of 1996, one in Yamanashi prefecture and the other in Mie prefecture. Most participants were primary school teachers, while organization and leadership was shared between primary teachers and university professors, the latter including Professor Inagaki Tadahiko, former Dean of the Tokyo University Faculty of Education, and Professor Sato¯ Manabu, also of the Education Faculty at Tokyo University. At these conferences, several discussion sessions centred on videos of lessons by teachers from various parts of Japan, and this confirmed the similarity of basic pedagogical practices nationwide. Though teachers at these conferences came from widely dispersed parts of Japan, they clearly talked and understood a common educational language. Conversations and discussions at these events were useful for deepening my understanding of teachers’ approaches and assumptions.

Introduction: self, society and education

11

Besides these educational meetings, I also joined a number of dinner and drinking parties with staff at Nakamachi and Morikawa – an excellent opportunity for informal conversation and relationship-building. Since leaving Sakura in March 1997, I have revisited the city and its schools several times. In June and July 1998, I returned to Tachibana to interview 21 third years who had been sixth year primary pupils in 1995–96, including 15 from Nakamachi and 2 from Morikawa. I also interviewed 4 teachers at Nakamachi and 2 at Morikawa. In January 1999, I spent several weeks at another of the primary schools in Sakura, conducting observations of fourth and fifth year maths lessons there. In 2002, I observed single fifth year lessons at Morikawa and Ishida primary schools, and in 2003 I conducted interviews with the principals of Nakamachi and Taira primary schools about further reform measures. Finally, in 2004 I revisited Morikawa for two weeks. Since 1997, an important change affecting Japan’s primary schools has been the announcement of a revised national curriculum in 1998, followed by its introduction into schools in 2002. Equally important was the reduction of the school week to five days, also in 2002. As described in Chapter 1, the revised curriculum encountered sustained criticism, amid concern about allegedly falling academic standards in Japan’s schools. In response, the Japanese government encouraged primary schools to introduce small-group teaching ‘adapted to the needs of the individual’, mainly in mathematics. In June 2004, I made a two-week visit to Morikawa, to learn how the school was dealing with the challenges posed by the new curriculum and the backlash against it. The new curriculum and its impact are discussed in Chapter 7. Visits to Sakura since 1997 have enabled me both to observe a larger number of teachers at different schools, and to continue to talk to teachers about the ongoing educational reform process. In all, since the beginning of my research in 1994, I have observed sixth year primary lessons by 15 different teachers in various Sakura schools, mostly on more than one occasion, as well as observing lessons in other years of primary education by 11 other teachers. I remain in touch with many of the teachers mentioned in this book. It was also a personal pleasure to meet many of the children – now adults – at their coming-of-age ceremony (seijinshiki), held at the Sakura Cultural Plaza in 2004. These continuing observations and conversations have confirmed my view that the discourses and practices described in this book are reasonably representative of Sakura primary schools – and, evidence from other authors would suggest, of primary schools elsewhere in Japan. Having said this, I would also echo Nancy Sato’s insistence (2004: 15–17) that Japanese primary teachers are individuals; though they work within a broadly shared paradigm, and choose from roughly the same extensive repertoire of practices, they do so in a way that suits their own personal capacities, and the perceived needs of their particular pupils at the time. The variety in teachers’ practices was repeatedly emphasized to me by the teachers I observed, and could also be seen while watching lessons at Nakamachi and Morikawa. Different teachers often approached the same textbook unit in different ways. It is also

12

Introduction: self, society and education

worth repeating that the teachers whose lessons are discussed at length in this book were very good teachers, both in my judgement and that of their peers and pupils. Of course, not all teachers in Japan are so good, nor is every lesson in Japan successful. But even so, I consider that the discourses and practices that I describe would be recognized by Japanese primary school teachers as individual teachers’ variations on common themes. They are not idiosyncratic or far from the mainstream. They represent the attempts of talented professionals to meet the challenges of the time, and do their part in bringing up Japanese children who can flourish in the twenty-first century.

Notes 1 In 2004, 1,753,393 children were enrolled in kindergartens (Monbukagakusho¯ , 2006), and 1,544,659 children aged 3 to 6 were enrolled in day-care centres (Zenkoku Hoiku Dantai Renrakukai/Hoiku Kenkyu¯ jo, 2006 182), a total of 3,298,052 children. In comparison, the total number of children enrolled in the six years of primary school in the same year was 7,200,933 (Monbukagakusho¯ , 2006). 2 Tertiary education includes four-year universities, two-year junior colleges (almost entirely female), and a very wide range of vocational courses at specialist training schools (senmon gakko¯ ). In 2005, 47 per cent of high school graduates entered either university or junior college. 3 All names of schools, teachers and children in the book are pseudonyms. 4 The names of teachers and certain other respected, educated professionals, such as doctors, are customarily followed by the suffix – sensei, a word which can also itself mean ‘teacher’. 5 At primary schools in Sakura, morning meetings were held by individual classes; the week did not begin with a whole-school assembly, as it did in the schools observed by Nancy Sato in Tokyo (Sato, 2004: 65). 6 Action research lessons in Japanese schools are described in Fernandez and Yoshida (2004).

1

Education and individuality in Japan

The period since the mid-1980s has been a time of ferment for Japanese education. There have been frequent expressions of dissatisfaction with the educational system, and repeated calls for reform, in response to what are seen as new demands resulting from changes in Japanese society and the world economy. Debates have taken place in government, universities, and the media about what kinds of change are needed, and why. Reform programmes have been published, and reform measures implemented. As the foundation of Japanese schooling, primary education has been significantly affected by these developments. This educational ferment reveals much about the challenges facing Japan’s contemporary society, and provides a window on the different visions of Japan’s future that are being debated. Particularly important have been arguments about the extent to which education should develop individuality, and what this should mean in practice. Debate has centred on the issue of how to develop children who are not only creative individuals, but also well-socialized members of society. These debates cannot be adequately grasped without understanding discourses of selfhood in Japan, and in turn, the focus on developing individuality shows the need for a reappraisal of those discourses. In this chapter, I will first describe key debates about education that have taken place in Japan since the late 1980s, along with the major reform measures implemented, particularly those affecting primary education. I will then analyse the discourse about ‘individuality’ (kosei), which has been a dominant motif in reform debates, and trace the history of this concept within Japanese education. The question of whether or not more individuality is needed in education is related to the issue of selfhood in Japan, which has often been seen as stressing the group over the individual. This chapter argues that analyses of selfhood in Japan have not sufficiently recognized the multiplicity of discourses of self in Japanese society. After outlining these discourses, I suggest that emphasis on individuality has grown with postwar social change. Finally, I introduce recent educational research that illuminates the wider pedagogical significance of practices in Japanese primary schools. This work in sociocultural pedagogy has attracted wide interest among educational

14

Education and individuality in Japan

researchers, but has not yet been connected with the practices of Japanese teachers. The summary of this research in this chapter provides the foundation for more detailed analyses of practices in Japanese primary education later in the book.

Demands for reform in Japanese education In the second half of the roaring eighties, with the Nikkei and the yen soaring, Mitsubishi buying New York’s Rockefeller Center, and Japan proclaimed ‘Number One’ by a Harvard professor (Vogel, 1979), Japan found itself the object of admiration, emulation, and envy throughout the world. Japanese society and culture were ardently scrutinized by overseas observers eager to discover the secrets behind Japan’s success. One of the most frequently identified causes of Japanese strength was education (Vogel, 1979: 158–83; White, 1987), especially primary education (Cummings, 1980; Lewis, 1995). Yet while many abroad were praising Japan’s education system, within Japan itself there was concern about its perceived shortcomings. As Goodman (1990: 91–4) noted, there was long-standing dissatisfaction about schools among various groups, including parents, business leaders, and commentators from across the political spectrum. Japanese education was seen as too uniform and rigid, too restrictive of children’s freedom, too focused on the goal of entrance examinations, and too concerned with inculcating knowledge at the expense of self-motivated inquiry and creative thought. Problems such as violence in schools (ko¯ nai bo¯ ryoku), bullying, and school refusal were blamed on the pressure that children allegedly felt as a result (White, 1987: 165–78). Dissatisfaction with education continued through the 1990s, though the sources of discontent differed. Some on the Right wanted more stress on patriotism, ‘Japanese tradition’, and moral education; business leaders wanted more emphasis on creativity; teachers’ unions wanted smaller class sizes and more resources; and some on the Left wanted the opportunity of high school education for all and the end of high school entrance exams. Nonetheless, a mainstream consensus did emerge in the discourse on education, partly due to its reiteration by successive high-profile governmental advisory committees such as the Ad Hoc Committee on Education (Rinkyo¯ shin) in the late 1980s, and the Central Council for Education (Chu¯ kyo¯ shin) in the 1990s.1 The pronouncements of such committees both reflected and shaped widely held public views about Japan’s education and its ‘problems’. This mainstream discourse levelled two major complaints at Japanese education. First, schools were criticized for allegedly cramming children with knowledge, yet stifling their ability to think creatively and independently. Fujita (2000: 46) has divided these criticisms into a ‘functionalist’ strand, more concerned about how Japan could cope with a postmodern society in a globalized world, and a ‘progressivist’ strand, more focused on schools’ damaging effects on children. In practice, the two strands often overlapped, at

Education and individuality in Japan

15

least superficially. Business leaders argued that too much emphasis was being placed on students’ equal progress and on the inculcation of knowledge, and too little on developing the individual thinking needed for Japan to compete in the information age (Goodman, 1990: 92; Nakatani, 1996: 245–52; Keizai Dantai Rengo¯ kai [Keidanren], 1996). Concerns about the need for creative thinking and communicative abilities were voiced by Tokyo University’s Sato¯ Manabu (Sato¯ , 1999: 33), an educationalist usually associated with the liberal Left, and similar misgivings were voiced in the Final Report of the 21st Century Vision Committee of the largest teachers’ union, Nikkyo¯ so: The conventional Japanese education system . . . has forced ‘massproduction’ educational methods . . . on children or people who by nature have diverse personalities and abilities and grow differently. . . . At the level of elementary and early secondary education, the scholastic ability of Japanese children is reportedly high with regard to international standards. Their ability to think and create, however, is open to question. (Japan Teachers’ Union, 1995: 2–3) At the educational grassroots, one primary school teacher succinctly summed up this view to me with the words, ‘We need more people like Bill Gates.’ A second focus of discontent was anti-social and asocial behaviour by children and young people, inside and outside school. This took various forms; violence in schools (ko¯ nai bo¯ ryoku) in the early 1980s, bullying in the mid-1980s and mid-1990s, classroom indiscipline (gakkyu¯ ho¯ kai) and social withdrawal (hikikomori) in the late 1990s, and steadily rising levels of school refusal through the entire period.2 Though it is hard to gauge the seriousness of these problems, especially in an international comparative perspective (Okano and Tsuchiya, 1999: 195–207; Lewis, 1995: 178–9; Wray, 1999: 25–6), intense media coverage certainly created the impression within Japan of an educational crisis, epitomized by book titles such as A Hard Age for Children (Sukemune, 1996) and the bestselling School Collapse (Kawakami, 1999). Behavioural problems were frequently blamed on children’s allegedly decreasing social interaction, together with the pressures resulting from a rigid and exam-centred education system. The educational role of the family and local community (chiiki shakai) was seen as having declined compared to thirty or forty years before, when children had acquired much of their moral and social education informally – from parents, grandparents, and neighbours, and from playing with other neighbourhood children.3 Children in the 1980s and 1990s were thought to spend less time playing together outside, because of increased pressure to study, more organized enrichment activities (o-keikogoto), and the rise of indoor, sedentary activities such as television and computer games. Meanwhile, it was claimed that the trend for both parents to work outside the home meant that few children learned about the world of work and adult society from direct experience, as many did in the days when farms and small businesses

16

Education and individuality in Japan

dominated the Japanese economy. Such views have been reported in studies of preschool (Tobin et al., 1989: 58–60) and junior high (LeTendre, 1994: 73–7) education, and I heard similar views from several teachers and parents during fieldwork in Sakura. In response, there have been calls to revive the educational role of the home and the locality in order to ensure children’s healthy moral and socio-emotional development.4 Meanwhile, children were also thought to be stressed by study pressure and a disciplineoriented school system that made few concessions for individual differences. The Educational Reform Programme issued by the Ministry of Education in 1998 began with a summation of this view of the situation of contemporary children: While life [for children] has become affluent and education has quantitatively expanded, the educational influence of the home and local community has declined, excessive examination competition has emerged as educational aspirations have risen, and the problems of bullying, school refusal, and juvenile crime have become extremely serious. (Monbusho¯ , 1998a: 1) Baba Masashi, an official of the left-wing teaching union Zenkyo¯ , blamed the ills of children and young people on excessive competition: ‘Competition in education has been so accelerated that new words, i.e. “examination hell” and “school failure” have been coined. This has resulted in a great many school refusers and high school drop-outs. Bullying and consequent suicides by children have sharply increased’ (Baba, 1997). Individual commentators might well have disputed diagnoses such as the above as simplistic. Nonetheless, during the late 1980s and 1990s they attained the status of common sense among large parts of the public and media. Within Japanese public discourse, a broadly-based consensus emerged about the chief problems of the country’s education, and any reform proposals had to contend with this consensus if they were to be publicly credible.

Individuality and educational reform: the development of government policy It is the government that ultimately sets the education policy agenda in Japan. Particularly influential in the development of the government’s educational reform agenda was the Ad Hoc Council on Education (Rinji Kyo¯ iku Shingikai or Rinkyo¯ shin). This was a high-profile advisory council, set up by former Prime Minister Nakasone under his own office in 1984, which produced four reports before winding up in 1987. The Rinkyo¯ shin made few concrete proposals, but was highly influential in setting an agenda for subsequent policy through its focus on key directions for education, including internationalization (kokusaika), information technology ( jo¯ ho¯ ka), lifelong learning (shakai kyo¯ iku) and most fundamentally, increased individuality

Education and individuality in Japan

17

(koseika). ‘Stress on individuality’ (kosei ju¯ shi) was laid down as the first principle of educational reform by the Rinkyo¯ shin’s first report in 1985 (Kyo¯ iku Seisaku Kenkyu¯ kai, 1987: 68–9; Katagiri, 1995: 76). By the mid1990s, educationalists such as Sato¯ Manabu (Sato¯ , 1995b: 44–5) and officials such as the Ministry of Education’s Tsujimura Tetsuo (Tsujimura, 1997: 34) alike saw the influence of the Rinkyo¯ shin as decisive in producing a situation in which ‘individuality’ had come to hold what Tokyo University’s Fujita Hidenori called ‘a virtually absolute position in debates about the state of Japanese education’ (Fujita, 1995: 85). In 1999, another Tokyo University educationalist, Shimizu Ko¯ kichi, wrote that ‘ “individuality” (kosei) has been the key word of Japan’s educational reform in recent years’, again pointing to the Rinkyo¯ shin as the starting point of this movement (Shimizu, 1999: 193). The new emphasis on individuality had its first major impact on schools with the introduction of a revised national curriculum (gakushu¯ shido¯ yo¯ ryo¯ ), published in 1989 and implemented in 1992–93 (Kariya, 2002: 55–64). The curriculum’s most prominent new feature was what was called the ‘new view of academic attainment’ (shingakuryokukan), which emphasized pupils’ interest and motivation (kyo¯ mi, kanshin, iyoku) rather than just the knowledge and understanding (chishiki, rikai) that had previously been seen as constituting academic attainment (gakuryoku) (Hirahara and Terasaki, 1998: 33). The change was prominently signalled by a new paragraph at the very start of the revised curriculum: When devising and carrying out the school’s educational activities, efforts must be made fully to realize education which gives thorough guidance on basic content and makes the most of individuality (kosei o ikasu). Also to be fostered are motivation to learn for oneself, and the capacity to cope as an independent subject with changes in society (mizukara manabu iyoku to shakai no henka ni shutai-teki ni taio¯ dekiru no¯ ryoku). (Monbusho¯ , 1989: 1)5 This paragraph was not present in the previous 1977 curriculum. Further new sections instructed teachers to emphasize experiential (taiken-teki) activities, harness children’s interests, adapt teaching to individual pupils’ needs, and encourage independent and spontaneous learning ( jishu-teki, jihatsu-teki gakushu¯ ) (Monbusho¯ , 1989: 3). The result was a tone significantly different from that of earlier curricula. However, the only major change in curriculum content came in the first two years of primary school, with the replacement of Social Studies and Science by the new subject of Daily Life (seikatsu-ka), which was intended to allow more integrated, experiential, and exploratory learning.

18

Education and individuality in Japan

Educational reform during the 1990s The next major step in the educational reform programme came with the publication of the 1996 report of the 15th session of the government’s advisory council, the Central Council for Education (Chu¯ o¯ Kyo¯ iku Shingikai or Chu¯ kyo¯ shin), entitled On Education for the Twenty-First Century in Japan (Monbusho¯ , 1996b). The report effectively authorized the mainstream view of the failures of Japanese education and socialization, outlined above. On the one hand, it deplored what it saw as the decline in the quality of children’s socialization, linking this to a decline in local community and correspondingly, in children’s ethics, social skills (shakaisei) and independence ( jiritsu). An important element in this supposed deterioration, according to the report, was that children were spending less time in experiences of play, daily life, and nature that the report’s authors considered natural and appropriate for them (kodomorashii seikatsu taiken/shizen taiken). On the other hand, the report also urged the need for more creative self-starters to cope with what it envisioned as a rapidly changing future society in which knowledge would quickly become obsolete. It argued that having achieved the long-standing goal of catching up with the West, Japan’s economy was now a world leader and could no longer rely on copying from elsewhere; the situation therefore called for the creation of new scientific technology and the penetration of new frontiers. Moreover, as the structure of the economy changed, practices such as lifetime employment and seniority-related promotion were being questioned (Monbusho¯ , 1996b: 12–19). In these circumstances, knowledge acquired by rote-learning alone would be inadequate for coping with new situations. Children would need to be able to learn, think, and act independently, identifying and solving problems for themselves, and so there was a need to identify children’s individual talents (sono ko nara dewa no koseiteki na shishitsu) and actively develop their creativity (so¯ zo¯ sei) (Monbusho¯ , 1996b: 21). The report thus advocated the development of both traditionally valued qualities – feeling for others (omoiyari), cooperation, and sociality – and newly demanded ones, particularly creative, individual, and independent thinking. It labelled this combination ‘ikiru chikara’ (literally, ‘power to live’, though somewhat misleadingly translated by the Ministry of Education as ‘zest for life’). The key to developing this combination of qualities, according to the report, was to enable children to live less pressured lives with more time in the family and community, while introducing more interdisciplinary study and subject choice at school. What the report called ‘excessive exam competition’ should therefore be relaxed, while the educational role of the home and locality should be recognized and used to the full. Concrete measures to realize these aims were proposed both in the 1996 Chu¯ kyo¯ shin report (Monbusho¯ , 1996b) and in a second report a year later (Monbusho¯ , 1997). Besides further curricular reform, the proposed measures included the expansion of alternatives to conventional exams for entrance to

Education and individuality in Japan

19

high school and university, and the introduction of six-year secondary schools, which would remove the need for children to take a high school entrance exam. These and other measures have since been implemented on a limited scale.6 The Chu¯ kyo¯ shin also made the very significant recommendation that Japan’s schools move fully from a five-and-a-half day to a five day school week. This move had originally been advocated in the late 1980s, for reasons connected with foreign relations rather than education. A major motive was the desire to align Japanese working practices and lifestyle with those of other leading industrialized countries, to counter overseas criticisms that Japanese trade competition was unfair because Japanese working hours were too long.7 One Saturday a month was made a full day’s school holiday from 1992, increasing to two Saturdays a month from 1995. The policy was then given educational rationalization by the argument that giving children more free time would allow them to learn freely through experience and exploration outside school (Monbusho¯ , 1996b: 66). The Chu¯ kyo¯ shin’s proposals were put into effect in the curriculum revision published in 1998. The major feature of the revision was a cut in the content and hours of traditional compulsory subjects at primary and junior high level, in order to allow more hours for elective subjects and a new, crossdisciplinary area called so¯ go¯ -teki na gakushu¯ (usually called by teachers so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ , and literally translated as Integrated Studies).8 The media trumpeted the changes as a ‘30 per cent cut’ in the traditional curriculum; the reality may have been less dramatic, but even so, the changes represented the most radical overhaul of the school curriculum since its inception in the late 1950s.9 At primary level, the introduction of so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ was the curriculum’s major new feature. The aim of so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ was given as to develop children’s abilities to think, learn, and explore independently and creatively, discovering and solving problems by themselves (Monbusho¯ , 1998b: 2–3). The curriculum gave teachers considerable freedom in this new area, laying down only the briefest and most general guidelines about content and teaching approach – a stark contrast to the detailed specifications for traditional subjects, and a radical departure for an educational system that had traditionally been regarded as subject to strong central control. Controversies surrounding the 1998 curriculum The 1998 revisions came into effect from the 2002–3 school year. Between their publication and their implementation in schools, however, the revisions came under sustained attack. Despite the long consultation process that had preceded them, and the apparent prior consensus that such revisions were a move in the right direction, the actual publication of the curriculum seemed to galvanize those who had misgivings or who thought the changes were an outright mistake. Four main concerns were voiced. The first expressed fears about falling academic standards and the further exacerbation of this

20

Education and individuality in Japan

situation. University professors of economics and science pointed to their students’ inability to do sums with fractions and decimals, and credible evidence was produced from longitudinal tests to suggest that Japanese children’s mathematical performance had declined during the twenty years between the late 1970s and the late 1990s (Nishimura, 2001: 5–20). Second, critics were alarmed at evidence that Japanese children were studying less at home, and were less motivated to study. Educational sociologist Kariya Takehiko marshalled longitudinal survey evidence that indicated a dramatic increase in the proportion of children who reported not studying at all outside school, especially since the late 1980s (Kariya, 2002: 118–36). He also pointed out that surveys from 1995 and 1999 suggested that Japanese children’s interest in and motivation towards study were decreasing (Kariya, 2002: 32–5; Tsuneyoshi, 2004: 373–4). The third concern expressed about the revisions was egalitarian. It focused on evidence of increasing disparities in achievement between the best- and worst-performing children, and expressed fears that devoting less time to traditional subjects would disadvantage children from homes with less economic and cultural capital (Kariya, 2002: 174–5). All these concerns were exacerbated by the results of the 2003 PISA international tests of the educational attainment of 15-year-olds, organized by the OECD. The facts that drew attention were negative: Japanese students dropped to sixth place out of forty countries in maths tests, from the first place they had occupied in the 2000 PISA tests (OECD, 2004a: 356), and their reading scores dropped from eighth to fourteenth place (OECD, 2004a: 444).10 There was also clear evidence of a widening gap between the scores of the best and worst performing students, while Japanese students showed less interest than any others in what they learned in maths (OECD, 2004a: 120). The facts that Japanese students, along with Finns, performed best out of 40 countries in science tests (OECD, 2004a: 448), and that Japan was in the top group of four equally-performing countries for problem-solving (OECD, 2004b: 42) drew less attention.11 Finally, some critics argued that admirable though the aims of the reforms were in some respects, their implementation and resourcing had been inadequately thought through. As a result, they risked lowering standards and intensifying inequality, for a return that was doubtful at best (Kariya, 2001: 80–1). Some writers tended to give the impression that they saw little wrong with postwar school education in its pre-1989 (or even pre-1977) guise – high academic standards for all, hard work, tests and a focus on the basics had served Japan well and should continue to do so. Psychiatrist Wada Hideki, one of the most active critics, argued that Japan faced a choice between either maintaining the thrust of its postwar educational and social systems, or transforming itself to try to become like the United States. For Wada, Japan’s postwar education delivered uniformly high standards at the price of failing to nurture outstanding geniuses. The price, however, was worth it because of the social stability that he thought resulted. In contrast, he saw the United States as a polarized country whose education system aimed at creating a few

Education and individuality in Japan

21

brilliant leaders, but also accepted that many would do very badly – an approach that led to economic inequality, crime and social disorder (Wada, 1999: 10–20, 122–41). Wada also argued that in any case, the United States (and Britain) had recognized that flirtations with ‘progressive’ education had been a mistake, and had restored a traditional focus on tests and hard work during the 1990s. Indeed, Wada claimed that trying to raise academic standards was the trend all over the world, with only Japan’s Ministry of Education going against ‘international common sense’ by cutting school hours and curriculum content (Wada, 2001: 32). Kariya Takehiko also pointed to discontinued US experiments with progressive education as experiences from which Japan should learn caution (Terawaki and Kariya, 2001: 93; Kariya, 2002: 163–76). While Kariya was not as negative about child-centred education as Wada, he did warn against imposing it top-down without giving teachers necessary preparation and resourcing (Kariya, 2002: 180–5, 210), and he drew attention to the difficulty of producing evidence for its benefits (in contrast to the relative ease of measuring academic attainment as conventionally understood). Kariya also shared Wada’s view that Japan’s postwar education system had benefited the nation, especially the economy, by concentrating on giving a high-level education to everyone, rather than focusing on the education of an elite (Terawaki and Kariya, 2001: 92–3). Kariya’s Tokyo University colleague, Fujita Hidenori, similarly drew attention to the success of the postwar system in combining high academic performance with a relatively egalitarian structure and ideology (Fujita, 2000: 43). The response of the government was fourfold. First, it tried to assuage concerns about falling standards by stating that the standards set out in the national curriculum were only a minimum, meaning that schools were free to teach to a higher standard. Second, it instituted national achievement tests, in order to provide better information about children’s academic attainment. Third, it encouraged teaching children in groups organized according to academic performance, particularly in maths and (at junior high level) in English (Tsuneyoshi, 2004: 366, 379–80, 384–5). And finally, in December 2003 it made minor revisions to the curriculum, expressly indicating that the curriculum was indeed a minimum, and adding a new aim for so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ , that of integrating knowledge and skills acquired in academic subjects – thus linking so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ more closely to the existing academic curriculum (Monbukagakusho¯ , 2007). Individuality and basic academic attainment Rather than centring on concepts such as individuality, the debate on the 1998/ 2002 curriculum reforms focused on other issues, especially falling academic standards, falling motivation to study, and inequality. ‘Koseika’ (increased individuality) had been displaced as a media catchword by ‘gakuryoku teika’ (falling academic attainment), while the term that served as the main target of attack was not ‘individuality’ but ‘yutori kyo¯ iku’ – a term that

22

Education and individuality in Japan

could be positively translated as ‘education that will allow children “room to grow” ’, or negatively as ‘relaxed education’ (Tsuneyoshi, 2004: 367). Indeed, most criticism of the 1998/2002 curriculum was not an outright attack on the idea that education should promote individuality. One vocal critic, economics professor Nishimura Kazuo, explicitly denied that he was opposed to individuality: People’s individuality (kosei) flourishes in a free environment. It is important to remove the framework of uniform control (kakuitsu-teki kanri no waku), and this has nothing to do with studying or not studying. Individuality flourishes even when one is studying. (Nishimura, 2001: 25) Kariya Takehiko did not voice outright opposition to the goals of the reforms, but argued that they could not be achieved if the acquisition of basic knowledge and understanding were neglected: At first glance, it seems as if judgement and thinking ability might be increased by ‘ikiru chikara’-type education that tries to develop the ability to think and learn for oneself. However, if basic attainment (kiso-teki na gakuryoku) and knowledge are treated too lightly, the ability to build up discriminating arguments will not be learned, and it is possible that what will be formed is a critical attitude capable of nothing but self-assertion. (Kariya, 2001: 80) In a later publication, he argued that the notion of autonomy (shutaisei) was being misunderstood by enthusiasts for the educational reform programme: There is an over-hasty notion that if we just give children chances to say what they think, this on its own will develop their ability to think for themselves. In fact, that is likely to result in supposedly ‘autonomous’ study (‘shutai-teki’ na gakushu¯ ) that is nothing more than a hollow shell. . . . The autonomy of the learner is an important factor in acquiring knowledge, and making study that can develop such autonomy meaningful should be at the foundation of what the teacher does. (Kariya, 2002: 204) Yet while there were few direct attacks on ‘individuality’, there could be no doubt that the weight of criticism favoured teaching all children ‘the basics’ (kiso/kihon) (usually conceptualized as those academic subjects that had been central to the postwar curriculum, especially maths, Japanese, science, English and social studies). Whether or not this was ‘back to basics’, in the sense of an explicit preference for the past, depended on the writer; Wada (1999, 2001), for example, definitely gave this impression, while Kariya’s position was more complex, arguing that the past achievements of Japan’s

Education and individuality in Japan

23

schools should not be despised, and that any reform should be pursued with care and with adequate support for the teachers who had to carry it out. Kariya also pointed out that the idea that Japan’s primary teachers had simply been stuffing knowledge into children’s heads before the 1990s was far from the truth, as research done in the 1980s had shown (Kariya, 2002: 193–6). Concern about falling standards and inequality did not necessarily translate into opposition to the introduction of so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ and exploratory, project-style learning into the curriculum. Some writers, such as Kariya, criticized the obligatory introduction of so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ in all schools, arguing that teachers often had an inadequate understanding of how to make this time into a genuinely valuable learning experience (Kariya, 2002: 80–90). Others were positive about the potential of so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ , but unhappy about the cutting back of traditional subjects to make way for it: for example, Kyoto University professor Ueno Kenji wrote that ‘if so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ could be set up and run well without cutting core subjects, it could send a fresh wind through education’ (Nishimura, 2001: 42). Primary school principal Kageyama Hideo, who became a ‘poster boy’ for critics of yutori education through his energetic advocacy of practice exercises and drilling in the ‘three Rs’, nonetheless welcomed the possibilities offered by so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ , setting out a plethora of practical examples of this kind of learning (Kageyama, 2002: 181–204). Ryoko Tsuneyoshi (2004: 366–7, 388) has plausibly suggested that the debate was affected by a national loss of confidence about Japan, its society, and its future in the late 1990s and early 2000s. After ten years of economic stagnation and amid increasing media reports of youth crime and disorder, there was a general sense of malaise encapsulated by the popularity of the term ‘collapse’ (ho¯ kai). First used with reference to classroom indiscipline (‘class collapse’ or gakkyu¯ ho¯ kai), it was soon being used in book titles about falling academic standards (‘the collapse of academic attainment’ or gakuryoku ho¯ kai) (Wada, 1999) and ‘school collapse’ (gakko¯ ho¯ kai) (Kawakami, 1999). Without wishing to minimize the genuine concerns raised by critics, it is hard not to agree with Tsuneyoshi (2004) that the anxiety and harking back to the past that characterized the criticisms were remarkable, when one considers the continued good performance of Japanese children in international tests. The government’s response to its critics was not a dramatic reining back of the promotion of individuality. In fact, the measures that were taken tended to further promote individualized teaching, at least in the sense of teaching in small groups organized according to children’s academic attainment. Despite the calls for an earlier-than-scheduled full-scale revision of the curriculum, no such revision was carried out. So¯ go¯ gakushu¯ , the cuts to traditional subjects, and the five-day school week remained in place. Moreover, by no means all those who participated in the debate were critical of the reforms, as Tsuneyoshi (2004: 380–3) has pointed out. On the other hand, the intense

24

Education and individuality in Japan

public concern stirred up about academic standards did force the government to institute measures to deal with the issue. The furore also forced schools to pay close attention to the kind of academic attainment and study habits that critics of reform favoured. As a result, the debate did not end in a clear-cut victory for either the proponents or critics of educational reform. This was perhaps not surprising, since the debate clearly showed how wide a variety of views existed within Japan about the nature of teaching and learning, the importance of discipline and freedom, and the relationship between individuals and society.12 There was obviously no consensus in favour of either full-blown ‘progressive’ education, or education focused on teachertransmitted, exam-tested knowledge. The debate also suggested that while there was considerable support in Japan for increased emphasis on ‘individuality’, there was also disagreement about what exactly that might mean in practice – as well as suspicion among some that too much emphasis on individuality might result in laxness, indiscipline, and a weakened social order. As we shall see, ‘individuality’ is a term whose meaning has been variously interpreted and debated in Japan over the last hundred years, and which has been claimed by proponents of various points of view in support of their arguments.

‘Individuality’ and its meanings Despite the frequency of its use in Japan’s educational reform debate, the exact meaning of the word ‘individuality’ (kosei) is by no means clear. This has been pointed out both by Kataoka (1996: 33), and by Fujita Hidenori, who writes: ‘I have no objection to arguments for “education that stresses individuality” (kosei ju¯ shi no kyo¯ iku) or “respect for individuality” (kosei no soncho¯ ). But to what does that “individuality” (kosei) refer?’ (Fujita, 1997: 46). In fact, not only the Ministry of Education and educational advisory councils, but also many other writers on education have treated the word ‘individuality’ as a positive term that refers to something of which they approve. What is disputed is the meaning of the word, in terms of its practical implications for education. Some critics of the government’s educational reform programme have argued that the government’s version of kosei is not ‘real’ kosei. In particular, it has often been suspected on the Left that government rhetoric about ‘individuality’ is a way of masking intentions to introduce neo-liberal market principles into education, along with intensified academic selection designed to produce an academic elite. For example, in the late 1980s Hamabayashi Masao criticized the Rinkyo¯ shin’s version of ‘stress on individuality’ as threatening to translate in practice into a mechanism for sorting children according to abilities conceptualized as fixed. Hamabayashi’s counter-argument was that children had limitless potential, and that real stress on individuality meant allowing each child’s abilities and aptitudes to flourish (Hamabayashi, 1987: 24–5). Similarly, in the mid-1990s Sato¯

Education and individuality in Japan

25

Manabu argued that if what the government proposed were truly education that stressed individuality, it would be welcome, but ‘the problem is that what they are saying is grounded in neo-conservative policies and ideology’ (which he implied were inimical to such education) (Sato¯ , 1995b: 46). Fujita Hidenori (2000: 54) has argued that modern societies have three main organizing principles, two of which involve stressing the individual, but in radically different ways. In what he calls segregated symbiosis, ‘different groups of people are separated from each other socially, culturally, and sometimes, even spatially’; in civic symbiosis, ‘all individuals are assumed as being equal, autonomous and independent, but at the same time, as having an orientation to accept different people, ideas and cultures, and to cooperate for improving their welfare’; and in market-oriented symbiosis, ‘individuals tend to be self-oriented, concerned with personal benefits, indifferent toward others, and not willing to cooperate in order to improve social benefits’. Fujita advocates ‘civic symbiosis’ and the cooperative, socially-oriented individual over ‘market-oriented symbiosis’ and the selfish, socially indifferent individual, criticizing what he sees as government moves towards marketization and elitism, especially in policies concerning school choice (Fujita, 2000: 48–50, 53–5). Concerns about elitism are justified, given the influential support for increased selection into elite and non-elite tracks within public education (Yoneyama, 2002: 200–5), though it is important to note that there is no immediate prospect of such changes. In fact, the word kosei has a long history in Japanese educational debate, and both Katagiri (1995) and Sato¯ Manabu (1995a) suggest that during that history there have been more or less constant disputes about its meaning. According to Sato¯ (1995a: 34), the word came into Japanese in the early years of the Meiji period (1868–1912), and was first used in educational discourse in the 1880s, to mean physical or mental difference. Katagiri puts its appearance in the educational world a little later, in the mid-1890s, but both authors agree that it was in the decade 1900–10 that the use of the term spread in educational journals. Sato¯ suggests that this arose from psychological interest in educational efficiency, linked to the contemporaneous spread of IQ and achievement tests, and the interest in eugenics, which led to attempts to identify outstanding or inferior children (Sato¯ , 1995a: 34). At this stage, then, ‘kosei’ was being used to mean ‘difference from others’, a difference which could be either positive or negative. In the decade 1910–20, articles including the word ‘kosei’ in the title became frequent in the educational journals, and the concept was discussed with passion. The number of such articles rose further in the 1920s, reaching a peak in 1928 (Katagiri, 1995: 56, 67–8). These two decades were the heyday of the Taisho Free Education (Taisho¯ jiyu¯ kyo¯ iku) movement, for whose proponents kosei was a key word (Nakano, 1968; Sato¯ , 1995a: 26, 32ff.). The Free Educationalists’ understanding of kosei does not seem to have been consistent, however; at some times, they seem to have thought of it as meaning ‘uniqueness’, and having an unequivocally positive meaning; at others, as

26

Education and individuality in Japan

meaning ‘difference’, ‘ability’, or ‘aptitude’, in which case it could be positive or negative. Despite a common emphasis on individuality, moreover, key figures of the period took strikingly different approaches in crucial areas of pedagogy. Whereas some figures, such as Oikawa Heiji, favoured ability grouping for the sake of pedagogical efficiency, others such as Kinoshita Takeji opposed it (Nakano, 1968: 116ff., 183–5; Katagiri, 1995: 65–7). In Kinoshita’s case, this was because he believed that the individual could only be understood in the context of social relationships. Kinoshita conceived of the class (gakkyu¯ ) as primarily a unit of social organization, in which children of varying academic abilities could learn from one another, and he therefore thought that ability grouping damaged the progress of the class, considered in this light. Here we already see the belief that children learn from diverse others, which Lewis (1995: 93, 99) finds to be characteristic of primary teachers today. Moreover, Sato¯ Manabu has pointed out that although the leading figures of the Free Education movement believed that education had to be centred on children’s self-motivated learning, rather than on instruction by the teacher, by and large they fell into line with the nationalist ideology of the prewar period, seeing no ultimate contradiction between their goals and those of the state (Sato¯ , 1995a). Sato¯ goes so far as to argue that for the pioneers of the movement, being a subject13 (shutai) was tied up with loyalty to the state, and that the education they developed ultimately amounted to a method for the internalization of expanding state power (Sato¯ , 1995a: 33). Nakano also points out that while the movement was much occupied with trying to improve educational methods, it had little impact on the content of education (Nakano, 1968: 271). Nakano suggests that the movement was important for the modernization (kindaika) of educational methods, but that modernization was not necessarily linked to democratization (minshuka) (Nakano, 1968: 287). In terms of the discourses of selfhood discussed later in this chapter, it might be suggested that while leading members of the movement accepted the individual uniqueness of children, their notions of individual autonomy were either weak, or of a kind which understood autonomy as inseparable from loyalty to the state and society, conceived as one unit. According to Matsumoto Sannosuke, this type of fundamental outlook was typical of many Taisho intellectuals, unable to rid themselves of ‘the assumption that the state is a prior and self-justifying entity, sufficient in itself’, in contrast to individuals, who were ‘not believed to exist for and of themselves as autonomous entities’ (Matsumoto, 1978: 38).14 In 1927, the Ministry of Education itself issued a directive stressing the importance of ‘respect for individuality’ (kosei soncho¯ ) and the dangers of uniformity, in terms which bear a striking resemblance to Ministry rhetoric during the 1990s. However, Katagiri suggests that this position was not quite what it might seem. In his view, the Ministry’s line derived mainly from concern about possible labour shortages as a result of the increasing preference for a secondary education over post-primary employment. Katagiri suggests that what the Ministry really meant by ‘individuality’ (kosei) was

Education and individuality in Japan

27

‘aptitude’ (tekisei) (Katagiri, 1995: 67–8). As we shall see, this is also a charge levelled at the Ministry today. Official rhetoric soon became more complicated, however, as nationalism increased through the 1930s, culminating in the Ministry’s publication of the Kokutai no Hongi (Cardinal Principles of the National Entity of Japan) in 1937. This document directly condemned ‘individualistic pedagogy’ (kojinshugi kyo¯ ikugaku) and ‘education that devotes itself to the cultivation of individual creativity and the development of individuality (kosei no kaihatsu)’ as alien and inappropriate to the essence of Japanese education (Katagiri, 1995: 69). Four years later, however, while some Ministry directives continued to condemn education which aimed solely at individual development, in other regulations the Ministry was directing teachers to show concern for kosei, among other educational factors. Contemporary educationalist Ishiyama Shu¯ hei argued that while ‘mistaken totalitarianism (ayamatta zentai-shugi) ignores individuality’, Japanese totalitarianism ‘respects the individualities (kosei) of the people and demands that they discharge their duties according to their individualities’. Ishiyama made a distinction between kojin-shugi (individualism), which ‘makes the individual its object and ignores the totality’, and kosei-shugi (‘individuality-ism’), which ‘makes the totality its object and gives play to individuality in its service’. The latter was compatible with totalitarianism (1995: 70). Despite embracing this position in 1940, under the postwar Allied Occupation Ishiyama was an official in the Ministry of Education textbook bureau, and according to Katagiri, was a central figure in the composition of the New Education Guidelines (shin kyo¯ iku shishin) issued under the Occupation in 1946–47. The third chapter of Part One of the Guidelines was entitled ‘Humanity, Character, and Respect for Individuality’ (ningensei, jinkaku, kosei no soncho¯ ), and explained that: ‘Education from now on must make the completion of each person’s individuality (kosei) its primary aim. That is the correct meaning of individualism (kojin-shugi)’ (1995: 71–2). The document went on to explain that: to complete individuality (kosei o kansei suru) is not to make each person into a lonely human being, separated from every other. Human beings are ‘social organisms’ (shakai-teki seibutsu), and have the ability to live their lives cooperating with and helping one another. . . . As a matter of course, therefore, completing individuality includes developing this kind of ability. The more individuality is perfected, the more this kind of ability will be displayed, and the stronger will become links with other individualities, in other words, social solidarity (shakai-teki rentaikan). (Katagiri, 1995: 72–3) By considering sociality to be an integral and inevitable aspect of individuality, this interpretation makes increased social solidarity the natural corollary of increased individualism. In contrast to earlier versions of kosei which

28

Education and individuality in Japan

stressed difference, uniqueness, or aptitude, this version is paradoxically designed to de-emphasize the individual nature of individuality and to emphasize its social nature. Given the complexity of Japanese ideas about selfhood, to be discussed later, this attempt to reconcile individuality and social solidarity does not seem so surprising. The contrasting positions taken up by Ishiyama in 1940 and 1946 can be seen as two attempts to achieve such a reconciliation. What the two versions have in common is an unwillingness to see human beings as fundamentally ‘isolated, independent choosers’ (Midgley, 1994: 113). In the 1940 case, this involves denying individual autonomy altogether. In 1946, the position is more complex; individual autonomy is not explicitly denied, but it is implied that since human nature is ultimately interdependent rather than independent, it will ensure that individuality and solidarity are compatible. Since people will want to live in solidarity, their autonomy to do otherwise is not seen as a potential problem. According to Katagiri, the term kosei appeared little in education policy documents issued by the government during the high-growth period (1955– 1973). Rather, key words were ‘ability’ (no¯ ryoku) and ‘aptitude’ (tekisei). Both these words occur frequently in the influential 1963 Report Concerning Policies on Human Ability ( jin-teki no¯ ryoku seisaku ni kan suru to¯ shin) issued by the Economic Investigation Committee (keizai shingikai), and again in the report on high school education issued by the Chu¯ kyo¯ shin in 1966, whereas kosei appears only once in the latter report and not at all in the former (Katagiri, 1995: 74; Yokohama Kokuritsu Daigaku Gendai Kyo¯ iku Kenkyu¯ jo, 1973: 90–6, 225–32). The importance of developing kosei was emphasized in the controversial 1971 Report of the Chu¯ kyo¯ shin, but rather than using a single term to drive home its message, this report made use of a whole variety of terms, such as ‘according to ability’ (no¯ ryoku ni o¯ jite) or ‘according to the special qualities of the individual’ (kojin no tokusei ni o¯ jite) to express its emphasis on proposals for streaming and diversification in the education system (Monbusho¯ , 1973: 113–44) – which eventually came to nothing (Schoppa, 1991: 204–7). In contrast, the reports issued by the Rinkyo¯ shin and by the 1996 Session of the Chu¯ kyo¯ shin simplified their language to emphasize the universally attractive quality of kosei, thus making a wider appeal. It is indeed arguable that prior to the Rinkyo¯ shin, it was government critics such as liberal educationalists and teachers’ unions who were more likely to advocate encouragement of individuality. In the early 1970s, for example, the Japan Teachers’ Union (Nikkyo¯ so) set up a Committee to Investigate the Education System (kyo¯ iku seido kento¯ iinkai), chaired by noted educationalist Umene Satoru. This Committee’s 1974 report contained many references to the importance of encouraging the development of children’s individuality (Umene, 1974). There were also a number of similar references in the 1983 report issued by a second Nikkyo¯ so-sponsored Investigation Committee ¯ ta, 1983). Liberal and left-wing critics of the government, such as Sato¯ (O Manabu (afterword in Ishii, 1995) continue to use the term kosei approvingly;

Education and individuality in Japan

29

in my interviews with the respective vice-presidents of teachers’ unions Nikkyo¯ so and Zenkyo¯ in 1998, both insisted that they were in favour of encouraging kosei. As I have already noted, however, critics on the Left tend to suspect that when it comes from the government or business, encouragement of individuality masks a hidden neo-liberal agenda that will result in more unequal educational opportunities. For the more left-wing of the two major Japanese teachers’ unions, Zenkyo¯ , using the language of individuality merely allows Japan’s conservatives to put a more attractive gloss on the policies they have been trying to implement for over thirty years – namely, to introduce a higher degree of selection into school education and to promote education for an academic elite, while abandoning any serious attempt to ensure that all children achieve basic academic standards (Baba, 1996, 1997). According to this view, the Ministry of Education has been using the term individuality (kosei) to refer to what it previously called ability (no¯ ryoku) or aptitude (tekisei). The larger of the two teachers’ unions, Nikkyo¯ so, has taken a more cooperative stance which accepts the government’s rhetoric at face value, but criticizes government for aspects of policy which Nikkyo¯ so considers hinder the development of ‘genuine’ individuality. When it comes to specifics, in fact, the two unions appear largely to agree on what is necessary to allow individualityoriented education. In my interviews with the respective vice-presidents of Nikkyo¯ so and Zenkyo¯ , both emphasized that what was needed was more money, in order to increase the number of teachers and bring down class sizes from their current maximum of 40. Nikkyo¯ so has also been in favour of so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ and increased hours for elective subjects. Indeed, the five-day school week, Integrated Studies, and increased hours for electives were all proposed in the 1974 report of the Nikkyo¯ so-sponsored committee chaired by Umene Satoru (Umene, 1974). What this history makes clear is the flexibility with which the word kosei can be and has been used. It also makes clear the recurrent attempts to reconcile simultaneous emphases on individuality and sociality – attempts which continue today. As explained above, many critics of the educational reform programme deny being opposed to individuality. What they disagree about are the meaning and practical implications of the term. Meanwhile, writers across the political spectrum show considerable concern that education should promote sociality and the integration of society as a whole. The Left in Japan has long emphasized the importance of a common basic education for all (kyo¯ tsu¯ kyo¯ yo¯ ), and there has been a continuing debate about the amount of curricular choice that secondary students should be allowed (Umehara, 1998).15 There has also been much emphasis on creating strong class groups within which it is intended that students can learn that though they are individuals, they are not devoid of common interests with and responsibilities for others; rather, they have obligations to play a constructive part in a democratic society (Nakano and Oguma, 1993: 244–63). As Nikkyo¯ so Vice-President Nishikawa Kiyoshi pointed out to me in interview,

30

Education and individuality in Japan

postwar left-wing educators have been strongly influenced by Dewey and the Soviet educator Makarenko, both of whom were much concerned with developing sociality (Nakano and Oguma, 1993: 244; Goodman, 1990: 122). Accordingly, left-wing critics often suspect the government of aiming at an education system that emphasizes competition and the production of human resources at minimum cost, meaning that neither individuality nor sociality would be properly developed. Such critics would certainly argue that their notion of the properly socialized individual – autonomous, yet committed to cooperating with others for the good of society – differs fundamentally from that of conservatives, since the conservative ideal is seen on the Left as amounting to a reliably docile and hard-working employee (Baba, 1996, 1997). When considering Japanese ideas of selfhood, however, what is interesting is the shared assumption on both sides that individuals must recognize their roles in society and their obligations to others, and that schools should play a key role in this socialization process. Kosei and the power of ambiguous rhetoric Why has the language of kosei proved so powerful? The answer is partly related to the changing nature of Japanese society, which has become increasingly diverse during the postwar period. However, kosei is also a powerful term because of its ambiguity. As we have seen, the term has been interpreted and used in a startling variety of ways since it entered the Japanese language. Its ambiguity means that while the word itself is used with approval by practically everyone in the world of education, ideas about what ‘stressing individuality’ requires in practice may vary dramatically. As a result, the language of kosei has the capacity to attract wide support. Problems arise, however, when the rhetoric of individuality is translated into specific policy measures, about which disagreements are much more likely. This is not to say that kosei cannot be perceived negatively. Even when it is criticized, however, it is unlikely to be condemned outright; rather, critics are likely to argue that kosei has been overemphasized, or that its meaning has been misunderstood. To borrow Moeran’s terms (1989), kosei belongs to a discourse which recognizes the legitimacy of individual qualities and private feelings and interests, and one can therefore anticipate its denigration when people feel that the situation calls for stress on alternative discourses, such as self-discipline or interdependence. As this suggests, discourses of selfhood in Japan are multifarious and complex – far from the caricature of a ‘grouporiented’ society that is still sometimes encountered. These discourses affect educational debate and what goes on in schools at primary and other levels; they are also constantly being recreated in new forms through the practices of teachers and children within schools themselves. To grasp how ‘individuality’ and the individual are understood in Japan, it is necessary to examine these discourses of selfhood in greater depth, along with the role that schools play in shaping them.

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Selfhood in Japan Writers who draw attention to the strength of discourses of individuality in Japan have been in a minority. More frequently, emphasis has been placed on the ‘interactionist self’ (Smith, 1983: 74) or the ‘social preoccupation’ (Lebra, 1976: 2) of the Japanese. Even so, there has been a longstanding recognition that the individual has an important place in Japan. The tension between internalized social control and individual autonomy was a central concern of Ruth Benedict’s classic study, The Chrysanthemum and the Sword (Benedict, 1974 [1946]). Benedict used the two images in her title as symbols of two contrasting Japanese notions of the self and its cultivation. On the one hand, the chrysanthemums shown in annual flower shows, ‘each perfect petal . . . held in place by a tiny invisible wire rack inserted in the living flower’, symbolized the model of severe socialization into ‘a simulated freedom of will’ (Benedict, 1974: 295). On the other hand, the sword for whose shining brilliancy the wearer was responsible symbolized ‘ideal and self-responsible man’ (Benedict, 1974: 296), accountable for his own individual actions – an ideal which Benedict saw as already existing in Japanese thinking. Much of The Chrysanthemum and the Sword is devoted to expanding upon these two models. Benedict emphasized the importance in Japan of accepting one’s place and social role, and also the extent to which notions of indebtedness and reciprocity permeate Japanese society, so that each person is regarded, and regards himself, as a ‘debtor to the ages and the world’ (Benedict, 1974: 98) who is obliged to spend his life attempting to make some repayment for his debts if he wishes to retain any self-respect. Benedict suggested that, in Japan, ‘self-respect’ itself meant prudent effort to avoid the adverse judgement of others, so that external sanctions for self-respect were more important than the internal sanction of conscience, which she saw as crucial to American understandings of self-respect (Benedict, 1974: 219–24). On the other hand, Benedict also pointed out the Japanese emphasis upon self-reliance and ‘self-discipline’, the title of her antepenultimate chapter. She explained what might have appeared a contradiction with her suggestion that whereas in America self-discipline tended to be seen as self-sacrifice and frustration of the individual, in Japan it was not seen as involving loss to an individual, but as part of the system of reciprocal exchange, and furthermore, as necessary for the true enjoyment of life (Benedict, 1974: 230–4). Benedict’s analysis is particularly interesting because of her identification of a dual emphasis in Japanese understandings of selfhood. On the one hand, she pointed to a stress upon interdependence – individuals can never be thought of as independent of others, but must be aware of what they owe to the rest of society, past and present. On the other hand, she identified a strong emphasis on self-reliance and individual accountability. Later writers have tended to pay more attention to the first of these two elements, though there have always been those who point to discourses in Japan that stress the individual too.

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The interdependent self The interdependence of the Japanese self with others has been emphasized by writers such as Doi (1981), Nakane (1973), and Lebra (1976). Doi (1981) has been influential in arguing that Japanese psychology is marked by its readiness to show dependency (amaeru) on others; ethnographic instances of this have been found in caregiving (Long, 1996), family and family-like relationships (Kondo, 1990: 151–2; Rosenberger, 1994; Borovoy, 2005: 95–101), and hostess clubs (Allison, 1994: 170–83), though most of these ethnographers are careful to note that dependency is not innocently natural or inevitable, but is often an aspect of hierarchical (especially gender-hierarchical) relationships. Psychological anthropologists William Caudill and George DeVos traced the formation of the interdependent self back to the Japanese family. Caudill’s studies of Japanese child-rearing and sleeping arrangements (Caudill and Plath, 1986; Caudill and Weinstein, 1986) suggested that these tended to encourage dependence on the parents (especially the mother). DeVos (1974: 122–3), meanwhile, suggested that it was the ‘quiet suffering’ and ‘selfsacrifice’ of the Japanese mother that caused her children to internalize a powerful sense of the obligations they owed her, her compelling example influencing them to imitate such other-oriented behaviour. Rohlen (1989: 19–20) points to evidence that Japanese mothers tend to seek to control their children through ‘a close emotional bond’ that ‘sensitize[s] the child to the parent’s feelings and wishes’, rather than through assertion of authority, and Hendry (1986: 159–60) also states that ‘relations of trust and security with a child are . . . regarded as essential if it is to become sunao – compliant and cooperative’. Lebra (1976) too has stressed that in Japan, the self tends to be seen as inextricably interdependent with others, rather than autonomous. She directs attention to what she sees as the sensitivity of Japanese social interaction to the demands of a particular situation, even at the cost of personal inconsistency. Lebra argues that situations are defined in terms of the indigenous categories uchi (inside, private), soto (outside, public), omote (exposed to public attention), and ura (hidden from public attention) (Lebra, 1976: 112, 2004: 37–176). To be able to discriminate among situations and behave accordingly is a skill known as kejime, which is ‘a part of moral discipline, as well as a sign of maturity’ (Lebra, 1976: 136). Doi (1986: 33) has similarly argued that ‘to be Japanese is to be aware of the fact that things have an omote and an ura, and a person is not considered to be an adult until he or she has grasped this distinction’. The work of Doi and Lebra has been taken up by ethnographers of Japanese preschools such as Hendry (Hendry, 1986: 138–9), Peak (1989; 1991) and Tobin (1992). Peak argues that while infants learn to expect indulgence of dependent or even selfish behaviour at home (an ‘inside’ or uchi arena), at preschool (an ‘outside’ or soto arena) they must learn to do things for themselves and be a cooperative group member (Peak, 1989: 93–9). Life

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outside the home is defined as shu¯ dan seikatsu – life in a non-family group, demanding a degree of self-restraint (enryo). While agreeing that shu¯ dan seikatsu is defined as a collective experience that demands more discipline than infancy in the family, Hendry (1986) and Tobin (1992) suggest the situation is somewhat more complex than Peak describes; they argue that at preschool, children experience both periods of exuberant freedom (ura behaviour) and rituals and routines that demand self-control and active cooperation with the group (omote behaviour) (Hendry, 1986: 134–9, 144–52). Tobin therefore argues that preschool is an important place for Japanese children to learn kejime, which he describes as ‘the knowledge needed to shift fluidly back and forth between omote and ura’ (Tobin, 1992: 24). Several writers have argued that Japanese grammatical structures indicate how pervasive and deep-rooted interdependence is as a way of being. Robert J. Smith notes what he calls ‘two absolutely fundamental characteristics of the Japanese language’, the inescapability of language that is marked with regard to status differences, and ‘the absence in Japanese of anything remotely resembling the personal pronoun’ (Smith, 1983: 74). The result is that selfreference in Japanese is ‘constantly shifting’ and ‘relational’ (Smith, 1983: 79), so that ‘there is no fixed centre from which the individual asserts a noncontingent existence’ (Smith, 1983: 81). Self can only be defined in linguistic terms with reference to the other, a point previously made by Suzuki (1986). Dorinne Kondo agrees (1990: 26–31), and also draws attention to the pervasive use of linguistic structures which imply that actions are carried out not independently, but for the sake of others or due to their benevolence. As Kondo points out, using a phrase such as sasete itadakimasu (literally, ‘I humbly receive your allowing me to do’) implies that ‘in simply acting, you are linked to others in relations of obligation and connectedness’ (1990: 146, emphasis in original). Bachnik (1994) has taken this further by linking relational linguistic structures and sensitivity to situational context, and arguing that pragmatic (i.e. context-dependent) meaning is crucial in Japan (and many other societies). She states that ‘Japanese perspectives on human nature . . . [define] society as profoundly human, and self as quintessentially social’ (Bachnik, 1994: 21). Though linguistic and other cultural structures mean that ‘interdependence’ as a way of behaving and understanding may to some extent be acquired unconsciously, many writers have noted that considerable effort is also made in Japanese society to try to ensure that such behaviour becomes ingrained. Nakane argued that Japanese social groups seek to endure by creating ‘a feeling of “one-ness” ’ within the group, together with ‘an internal organization which will tie the individuals in the group to each other’ (Nakane, 1973: 9). The result, in her view, is that ‘the power and influence of the group not only affects and enters into the individual’s actions; it alters even his ideas and ways of thinking. Individual autonomy is minimized’ (Nakane, 1973: 10). As already noted, educational institutions have been seen as very important in the process of socializing the self into interdependence.

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Peak notes that preschool teachers operate on the fundamental premise that children will come to ‘understand the fun of being together with others’ (Peak, 1989: 116), since to enjoy ‘the experience of camaraderie, of fusion, of unity with something larger than the self’ is part of human nature (Tobin et al., 1989: 39). Participation in the group is thus made as attractive an option as possible; but it is also, effectively, the only option, for those who do not join in are not even accorded the dignity of punishment, which might serve as an acknowledgement of their independent existence, but are ignored, quietly ridiculed, or smilingly coerced (Hendry, 1986: 144–52; Peak, 1989: 117–23). Independent selfhood outside the group’s activities is thus rendered virtually impossible. Peak suggests that this is an early encounter with a pervasive phenomenon in Japanese life, the group as ‘both the unsympathetic force to which the child’s ego must submit and a primary source of companionship and fulfillment’, with the result that ‘to the Japanese individual, the group both beckons and binds’ (Peak, 1989: 123). She thus points to a deep-seated Japanese ambivalence about the interrelationship of self and society. Lewis (1989; 1995) points out many continuities between practices at preschools and in the early years of primary school. At both stages, teachers continue to strive to ensure the active participation of all children in classroom routines and management, partly through a system of classroom organization that rotates positions of authority and responsibility around the entire class (for preschools, see also Hendry, 1986: 170). Teachers seek to develop the ability of children to manage themselves and to help and support one another, and often avoid imposing discipline themselves unless absolutely necessary. Some even prefer children themselves to deal with fights (unless these are out of control), using such incidents as opportunities for children to learn to take responsibility for stopping others’ conflicts through negotiation (Hendry, 1986: 147; Lewis, 1989: 145–6; Peak, 1989: 107–11; Tobin et al., 1989: 33). Teachers also encourage children’s managing of themselves and one another by dividing the class into small groups, in which children work together both on academic tasks and on non-academic activities such as serving lunch and cleaning (Lewis, 1989; 1995: 74–100; Tsuneyoshi, 2001: 24– 34). ‘Groups are arranged, not by ability, but according to considerations of what will make them effective in terms of their internal dynamics. Teachers report putting friends together, balancing talents and allocating leadership qualities’ (Rohlen, 1989: 23). This institutionalized practice seems to reflect a belief that such mixed-ability groups best allow children to interact with and learn from one another, in a way which is most beneficial for the development both of individuals and of the group as a whole. This in turn reflects an understanding of development which considers academic, social, moral and personal development as parts of one integrated whole. The key assumption is that a person cannot develop properly without learning to deal constructively with diverse others. It has been suggested that experiencing the full gamut of roles, from leader to follower and server, helps children to appreciate the roles’ importance and put themselves in the place of those who hold

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them (Hendry, 1986: 170; 1992: 62). Meanwhile, collective identity is also fostered through cooperative class projects such as wall pictures and musical performances (Hendry, 1986: 170), as well as through the gradual extension of common, standardized routines for activities such as greetings, eating lunch, cleaning, and preparing to go home (Hendry, 1986: 134–41; Peak, 1989: 115–16; Rohlen, 1989: 26; Tsuneyoshi, 1994: 120–8).16 Writers on junior high and high school continue to see a strong emphasis on learning to identify with a group and behave as a group member. At junior high, classes decide on collective goals and mottos for themselves, and work together on class projects, such as those for cultural festival (Fukuzawa and LeTendre, 2001: 39–40). In many cases, however, researchers see a shift towards an emphasis on ‘social control’ through ‘peer pressure’, particularly at junior high school (Fukuzawa, 1994: 79, 83). LeTendre argues that while junior high school clubs, like preschools, train students in ‘group life’ (shu¯ dan seikatsu), this term has a new meaning in junior high, referring to ‘functioning as part of a chain of command’ rather than living in ‘groups where mutuality and communality [are] the overarching concerns’ (LeTendre, 1996: 278–9). Both Fukuzawa and LeTendre suggest that there is little room for individual difference or independent action at junior high school; rather, there is ‘one path’ that all must follow (Fukuzawa, 1994: 84; LeTendre, 1996: 288–9). Junior high and high school clubs, meanwhile, can also generate an intense sense of identity as a group member – though they also develop individuality, since students can choose their own clubs (Cave, 2004). Rohlen notes that Japanese high schools too use institutions such as homerooms and annual school events to try to create a sense of unity, participation, and group focus (Rohlen, 1983: 178–209), while Yoneyama (1999) draws attention to problems that may be caused by overemphasis on social control, including student alienation, bullying, and school refusal. The individual self As described above, writing on self and personal identity in Japan has tended to focus on interdependence and group orientation. However, there has also been significant attention to independence, individuality and autonomy. Lebra (1976), for example, notes how behavioural norms can be manipulated and exploited by individuals for their own ends. Smith points out aspects of Japanese custom and practice that emphasize the individual, notably the significance of individual names, and the recruitment of members into households, through adoption, on the basis of performative ability and in preference to blood kin (Smith, 1983: 87–90). Hendry also draws attention to the significance of the individual at preschool, and the acceptance of an idiosyncratic private self, clearly separated from a defined public role (a form of kejime) (Hendry, 1992: 59–60, 63). Mouer and Sugimoto (Mouer and Sugimoto, 1980, 1986; Sugimoto and Mouer, 1980) argue that many writers on Japan have failed adequately to portray the variation, conflict, and

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self-interest within Japanese society. One chapter of their 1986 work, Images of Japanese Society, is entitled ‘The Autonomous Individual’, and in it they point out the strong Japanese sense of ‘the importance of individual effort and willpower’ (Mouer and Sugimoto, 1986: 195), the widespread admiration for strong-minded individuals (fed by many popular biographies), the popularity of sports and pastimes for the individual, the emphasis on household privacy, and the existence of proverbs affirming human diversity, such as ju¯ nin toiro (‘ten people, ten colours’). Long (1999) has pointed out that a degree of direction and control over one’s own life is widely valued in Japan. Befu (1980) and Atsumi (1980) also emphasize the importance of individual self-consciousness, agency, and self-interest. Atsumi’s study of Japanese personal relationships showed that her informants clearly distinguished between relationships ‘cultivated out of social necessity or a sense of obligation’, and ‘personal relationships sought for their own sake’ (Atsumi, 1980: 69). (In contrast, Nakane (1973: 130–1) and Lebra (1976: 118–19) had made no such distinction.) Atsumi’s study suggests that while Japanese people may be adept at performances of social solidarity, this may not represent what the actors regard as their real feelings. Kiefer (1999), meanwhile, has described the independence shown by some better-off elderly Japanese who choose to live in a retirement community, rather than with their grown-up children. A number of scholars have drawn attention to forces that have made for increased diversity and ‘incremental gains in personal autonomy’ (Allinson, 1994: 179) during the postwar period. Allinson (1994: 179) mentions ‘affluence, more leisure, higher levels of education, and the demise of cooperative village agriculture’. Tada Michitaro discusses the emergence of ‘my-homeism’ (maiho¯ mu-shugi), or ‘the attitude that one’s family should be of central importance’ in the 1950s and 1960s (Tada, 1978; see also Dore, 1973: 212–13).17 Eyal Ben-Ari argues that Japan’s modern residential suburbs are ‘communities of limited liability’ (1991: 271), into which individuals invest time and energy voluntaristically and for the sake of ‘personal fulfilment’ (1991: 273), rather than out of a sense of obligation. Brian Moeran (1989: 51–4) has argued that modern consumer advertising appeals to the individual and thus promotes individualistic attitudes, while Gordon Mathews (1996) has drawn attention to the emergence of the idea that one’s purpose in life (ikigai) should be the self-realization ( jiko-jitsugen) of the individual. Kuniko Miyanaga (1991) has suggested that two types of individualism have developed in Japan – the active form of independent-minded people such as entrepreneurs in new industries, and the passive form of people who seek fulfilment in private life while maintaining involvement in mainstream society only as necessary. Since the 1980s, there have been signs of increased desire for individualization, along with antipathy to uniformity and standardization. Moeran (1989: 68) described ‘the newly fashionable word “individual” or “idiosyncratic” (kosei)’ as one of the ‘in words’ of the Japanese advertising and art worlds

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during the 1980s. Ellis Krauss (1998) has written of how television news has diversified to attract a more individualistic younger generation, while Hikaru Suzuki (2005) vividly describes a strong trend towards personalized funerals in the decade between 1994 and 2004. Expressions such as ‘looking for oneself ’ ( jibun-sagashi)18 and ‘living one’s own way’ ( jibunrashiku ikiru) have been common in the media during the 1990s and 2000s. An 18-year-old participant in an organized walk across the US wrote that ‘I want to make it a journey of self-exploration’ ( jibun-sagashi no tabi ni shitai) (Morishima, 2001). The 18 March 2001 issue of the Yomiuri Weekly magazine carried a feature headlined, ‘For women, 29 is the key age for looking for yourself.’ One very popular TV drama around the turn of the century was Shomu-ni, a comedy about a group of maverick office ladies, headed by the tall, assertive, and selfwilled Tsuboi Chinatsu (played by Esumi Makiko). The question, ‘Are you living your own life?’ ( jibunrashiku ikiteimasu ka) was part of the theme song of the first series, and doing what they wanted was the guiding principle of the show’s heroines. Wanting to do things in one’s own way ( jibunrashii ikikata) is a key aspiration for a retired salaryman and community volunteer interviewed by Lynne Nakano (2005: 21–2), and Colin Smith (2006) notes that freelance workers (furı¯ta¯) often voice the desire to do work that suits their individuality ( jibunrashiku hatarakitai) or allows self-exploration ( jibunsagashi). Fiona Graham (2003: 232) similarly observes a shift towards ideas ‘of finding work that matched one’s “individuality” ’. At the same time, an increased emphasis on the individual is a complex matter, and is not generated only by the agency of individuals themselves. Volunteer activities have been increasing in Japan since the 1990s, and work on this suggests that volunteers are often doing such activities for themselves, to enhance their own lives and feel a sense of self-actualization (Ogawa, 2004; Nakano, 2005: 21–2). Nakano (2005: 168) suggests that for the volunteers she studied in Yokohama, volunteering was a matter of ‘individual reflection and conscious choice’. At the same time, the activities are also promoted by the state as a way of replacing public social services and thus cutting costs; moreover, enriching one’s own life as a volunteer is often about making friendships and getting to know people (Ogawa, 2004), so that it is hard to separate doing such activities ‘for oneself ’ and ‘for others’ (Nakano, 2005: 168). Similarly, the phenomenon of freelance workers or ‘freeters’ ( furı¯ta¯) reflects both the desires of young people to pursue their dream career outside the organizational straitjacket, and the unwillingness of companies to hire permanent staff (seishain) with the stagnation of the Japanese economy during the 1990s (Smith, 2006). Emphasis on the individual may also partly be a by-product of a labour market that has become more competitive, with a larger rewards gap between permanent staff and the rest (Borovoy, 2006). As Borovoy points out, not only the language of individuality and self-exploration, but also that of individual merit, opportunity, and risk is increasingly prevalent.

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Individualism and ‘the individual’ as concepts The language of analysis is a problem for any English-language discussion of ‘the individual’ in Japan. Use of the English words ‘individual’, ‘individuality’, or ‘individualism’ involves the analysis of Japanese realities in terms that were developed in and for modern Western society. Moreover, though such terms are in daily use in English, their familiarity may disguise the fact that their meaning is by no means clear or unambiguous. This necessitates an examination of the terms themselves. When we try to discuss Japanese self and society in relation to the concept of ‘the individual’, what do we really mean? That the individual is the dominant concept of the person in modern Western societies seems generally agreed. Mauss (1985 [1938]: 14) described the modern Western notion of the person as that of ‘a complete entity, independent of all others save God’, and identified legal, moral, metaphysical, and psychological sources for this idea. Philosopher Mary Midgley suggests that the origin-myth of modern Western civilization is the myth of the Social Contract, which ‘sees the pre-ethical human state as one of solitude’ (Midgley, 1994: 109). Midgley argues that this ‘myth of the original isolated, independent chooser . . . still provides the main image that we in the West are supposed to have of our moral nature’ (1994: 113). In their study of modern American ideology, Habits of the Heart, Robert Bellah and his co-authors argue that ‘individualism has marched inexorably through [American] history’ (Bellah et al., 1996: xlii). Louis Dumont defines the conception of the individual found in modern Western ideology as ‘the independent, autonomous, and thus essentially non-social moral being, who carries our paramount values’ (Dumont, 1986: 25). However, as Lukes notes (1973: ix), ‘ “Individualism” is a word that has come to be used with an unusual lack of precision’. Lukes suggests that the term is often used to give ‘an illusory air of unity and coherence’ to a congeries of diverse ideas, ‘from individual autonomy to equality of respect to the idea that society is the product of individual wills; from Roman law to Christian morality; from Rousseau and Kant to Bentham; and from a methodological to a practical doctrine’ (1973: ix–x). Lukes goes on to describe the differing histories and correspondingly differing associations of the term in France, Germany, America and England, and then outlines a whole range of separate ideas which are commonly assimilated into the ideology of individualism, from ‘the dignity of man’ to autonomy, privacy, self-development, political individualism, economic individualism, and several others. Lukes’ work is important because it suggests that individualism is not a coherent philosophy, but a term that refers to a loosely-constructed ideology or myth. It also becomes clear that the term embraces so many different ideas that it can readily be used to lend its talismanic power to any selection of its parts. This ambiguity allows ideological variation to be disguised and legitimated. A good historical example is provided by José Harris’s account of debate about

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society and the individual in England between 1870 and 1914. Harris notes that many influential men and women of the period embraced views which combined ‘individualism’ in the economic sphere with idealist notions of a group mind in the philosophical – or, alternatively, like Sidney Webb, combined an atomistic conception of society with advocacy of interventionist state action (Harris, 1994: 231–2). The notion also changed: ‘for many people, by 1914, individualism . . . meant something quite different from what [it] had meant fifty years before’ (1994: 233). Harris’s account supports Lukes’ contention that individualism is not a coherent philosophy. Scarcely coherent enough to be called an ideology, it is simply a convenient term used to bundle together a loosely associated set of ideas. What these ideas have in common is the notion that the person can be considered as fundamentally separate from other persons, whether as a moral, spiritual, political, economic or expressive agent. The ideas are supported by powerful myths, in the sense of stories which have acquired a justifying symbolic power: such myths range from stories such as Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, or journals by authors such as George Fox or John Wesley, which focus on the spiritual progress of an individual, to the origin myths offered by Hobbes, Rousseau, or Sartre (Midgley, 1994: 109–11), and economic myths of prosperity through individual effort, ranging from the works of Benjamin Franklin and Samuel Smiles to Adam Smith and his famous metaphor of the ‘invisible hand’. It may well be that these separate myths effectively help to legitimate types of individualism other than those with which they are originally connected. However, as Lukes (Lukes, 1993) points out, this does not mean that the ideas themselves cohere into a single whole. Realizing this allows us to recognize that debates about whether or not Japanese society is individualistic can be misleading. Once it is realized that there is no such thing as a coherent individualist philosophy that necessarily applies across all areas of life, it will not be surprising to find that in relation to some aspects of life, there are influential or even dominant discourses in Japan which place importance on the individual agent. However, nor will such a discovery lead us to expect to find such ‘individualism’ in other areas of life, merely for the sake of a consistency which is actually unnecessary. Nor will it mean that the concept of the person as an isolated individual that is dominant in the West is also dominant in Japan. Japan’s multiple discourses of self Much of the disagreement about selfhood in Japan has resulted from the fundamentally misguided search for a single Japanese understanding of selfhood, and the consequent failure to recognize that there are a variety of discourses about the self in modern Japan, discourses that are potentially or actually in conflict. Moreover, different aspects of Japanese social organization also involve implicit discourses about the self, and exert conflicting pressures towards different modes of acting and being. In this respect, we can

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apply to Japan André Béteille’s (2005: 86–8) argument that societies are best viewed as ‘field[s] of conflicting forces’, with dominant and contrapuntal values, meaning that every society has potential for change. The discourses of self that I will identify are my own analytical categories, though some of them are based upon indigenous Japanese terms. The first discourse is that which sees the self as interdependent with others and inextricably entwined in obligations to others in a variety of social groups, from the family to the neighbourhood and the work group. This discourse emphasizes the inescapability of human interdependence; Benedict’s statement that a Japanese sees himself as a ‘debtor to the ages and the world’ (1974 [1946]: 98) captures it well. This discourse is found embedded in many aspects of social organization, from the close dependent relations fostered by Japanese child-rearing practices to the kind of exchange relationships, involving activities such as gift-giving and eating and drinking together, that are described by Befu (1968; 1986) and Atsumi (1980), as well as the more or less extensive welfare systems that have been organized by many Japanese companies for their workers and dressed up in a language of interdependence and mutual obligation (Cole, 1971: 171–224; Dore, 1973: 201–21). The discourse is also embedded in the Japanese language, with its relationally-determined personal pronouns, and its many linguistic structures that present action as integrally dependent on others. Finally, it is reinforced by the emphasis of Japanese Buddhism on the interdependence of all things in the cosmos, an idea with considerable appeal in Japan (Morioka, 1991). It is important to realize that the discourse of interdependence is neither simple nor monolithic. In political terms, for example, it can be part of either left-wing or right-wing agendas, left-wingers coupling the discourse with egalitarianism or ethical socialism, right-wingers linking it with arguments against disharmonious activities such as strikes. This complexity is common to all the discourses outlined here. Each can itself be interpreted by being combined with other ideas, and in the process can assume modified forms. A second discourse is that of seishin (spirit), ‘one’s inner being which often derives spiritual fortitude from self-discipline’ (Moeran, 1989: 59). The discourse of seishin focuses on the individual who shows his strength of character by disciplining himself for some worthy purpose. It thus contains what may appear to be a paradox, since this discourse glorifies individual strength of character, yet that strength of character is shown in what could sometimes be seen as self-sacrifice. In the seishin discourse, however, self-discipline for the sake of something greater than the self is seen not as self-sacrifice, but as a means of self-realization, a point perceived by Benedict (1974 [1946]: 230–5) and reiterated by Frager and Rohlen (1976). This is at least partly because this discourse is much influenced by Buddhist and Neo-Confucian ideas about conquering the self and achieving liberation from its enslaving desires. Seishin discourse is embedded in many spheres of Japanese life where self-discipline is needed, from companies (Rohlen, 1986; Kondo, 1990: 76–115) to sport (Moeran, 1989; Whiting, 1989) and exam preparation, particularly in juku

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(supplementary tutorial colleges) (Rohlen, 1980: 217–21).19 It also lies behind much of the emphasis upon perseverance and effort that pervades Japanese life (Holloway, 1988; Singleton, 1989; Kondo, 1990: 108–9, 235–41; Ben-Ari, 1997: 83–94). A third discourse is that of individual feeling and desire. Historically, and in particular during the Tokugawa period (1603–1868), individual feeling was seen as subordinate to the public interest, and the desires of the private person tended to be denigrated as selfish. Nonetheless, the power and attraction of private feeling was recognized in the urban literature of Tokugawa Japan, one of whose perennial themes was the conflict between giri (social obligation) and ninjo¯ (human feeling) (Keene, 1976: 260–1). In plays such as those of Chikamatsu (1653–1725), for example, ninjo¯ is depicted with considerable sympathy, even though social obligation must finally be satisfied, usually by the suicides of those whose passion has led them to infringe the rules of society. In the post-1868 period, and particularly since 1945, this discourse has been enormously strengthened, particularly by Western influences, so that in contemporary Japan, people can assert the legitimacy of conduct stemming from private and individual desires – even if such assertions may still be powerfully opposed by voices stressing the primacy of the group. Legitimate desires are likely to be differentiated by being seen as natural, common and reasonable (using terms such as kimochi or ninjo¯ ), whereas illegitimate desires (yokubo¯ , yokushin, gayoku) may be seen as unreasonable, excessive, and selfish. Naturally, Japanese daily life sees incessant negotiation about where the boundary defining legitimate and illegitimate desire should be drawn. In practice, however, modern Japanese consumer capitalism depends upon appealing to the desires of the private individual in all sorts of spheres (Moeran, 1989; Skov and Moeran, 1995), so that this discourse is an integral part of life in contemporary Japan. A fourth discourse is that of the independent agent who takes responsibility for providing for himself and his family without depending on the state, and who engages in economic and social competition. Such competition has been a part of Japanese life for many centuries, but has been particularly marked in the post-1868 era. Dore (1967) has noted the Japanese tradition of ‘success literature’, beginning as early as 1871, with Nakamura Keiu’s translation of Smiles’ Self-Help. While this tradition has often drawn upon Western sources (such as the stories of Franklin and Lincoln), it has become a thoroughly assimilated genre. Dore points out that in ‘success literature’, some authors suggest that it is the truly moral person with others’ interests at heart who will succeed, thus trying to reconcile collective ideology with competitive social organization. Others have no such qualms, however, and explain without embarrassment how the codes of obligation described by Benedict can be manipulated for individual self-interest (1974: 125–9, 143–4).20 Despite the widespread practice and acceptance of what Lebra has termed situational behaviour, there is also a strong conflicting discourse of personal integrity in Japan. It is considered bad to be two-faced (omoteura ga aru), and

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people who try to please everyone may attract the critical phrase happo¯ bijin (‘a beauty from every angle’). A striking example of the power of this discourse appears in Shimizu (2001), who presents one high school girl’s agonized criticism of her own tendency to talk and act hypocritically just to be liked by others. Linked to personal integrity is the discourse of the autonomous self. In the sphere of thought, in particular political philosophy, it is embodied by the concept of shutaisei, literally meaning ‘being a subject’ (i.e. a thinking agent), and sometimes translated as ‘autonomy’ (Kersten, 1996; Koschmann, 1996).21 In popular speech, it is expressed by the common approbatory phrase jibun ga aru (‘to have a self’, or to know one’s own mind) (Doi, 1981: 132–4; Lebra, 1976: 156). These are by no means new discourses – they can be found, for example, in the 1914 essay, ‘My Individualism’ (‘Watakushi no kojinshugi’) by Natsume So¯ seki, within Japan the most renowned of modern Japanese novelists (Rubin, 1979). Finally, there is the discourse of individuality – what makes people different from others. As I have described earlier, this concept has been in use since before the twentieth century, often with a positive connotation. However, it has also not been uncommon to use the term critically; to call someone ‘individual’ (kosei-teki or kosei ga tsuyoi) has often been used ironically as a polite way of implying ‘idiosyncratic’, ‘eccentric’ (kawatta) or ‘weird’ (hen). On the other hand, the term jibunrashisa (also meaning ‘individuality’, or literally ‘that which captures one’s real individual self’) is unequivocally positive. As I have noted, individuality seems to have become increasingly valued during the 1980s and since, not only in education but in Japanese society more generally. While I have separated these discourses out for the sake of clarity, they are not normally found in such pure forms. Rather, they are mingled, as people draw on several different discourses (usually without being conscious that they are different) to support a point of view for which they are arguing. For example, Moeran has pointed out that the discourse of seishin is often combined with the idea of interdependence and the priority of the group (1989: 64–5). Seishin discourse can also be used in combination with a discourse of the individual as competitor, however, and is so used by the private tutorial colleges ( juku) that undertake to equip children for the ‘examination war’ ( juken senso¯ ) (Rohlen, 1980: 217–21). Yet such associations are by no means inevitable; since seishin discourse is primarily about self-discipline for a purpose greater than the self, it may potentially be turned to many ends, just as it was suggested above that the discourse of interdependence may assume various forms as it is interpreted.22 The differing discourses of the self are also embodied in different terms to denote the self. While the most common term for the self is the neutral or positive jibun, the term ga is also found, usually with negative connotations. Read as wa, this character appears in the expression wagamama (selfish), for example. Rohlen refers to it as ‘the primitive self’ which must be conquered to allow a person to ‘achieve contentment through the development of an ordered

Education and individuality in Japan

43

and stable psyche’ (1986: 332).23 One junior high teacher in Sakura distinguished the favourable expression jibun ga aru (‘to know one’s own mind’) from the pejorative ga ga tsuyoi (‘to be self-willed’), saying that the latter indicated selfishness, while the former meant that one kept one’s own point of view, while being receptive to others (ta o ukeirenagara, jibun o to¯ su). Thus differing discourses on the self are embodied, by implication, in different phrases, both of which are generally felt to be widely applicable in daily life. This supports the argument of Billig that ‘common-sense is not a harmonious system of interlocking beliefs, but is composed of contraries’ (Billig, 1996: 235) and can thus ‘provide us with dilemmas to think and argue about’ (1996: 238). It must also be noted that discourses do not simply emerge; they are promoted and manipulated, particularly by interested parties. Thus, as Kondo has written (1990: 43), ‘ “a concept of self” is inevitably implicated in relations of power’. For example, Sheldon Garon has documented the complex process, starting in the Meiji period and continuing to the present day, whereby the Japanese state and other interested parties have deliberately fostered the idea of self-reliance, partly in order to keep down welfare bills (Garon, 1997: 3–59, 215–30). As places where children learn behaviour, absorb cultural understandings, and develop personal identity, schools are powerful institutions in which selfhood and its discourses are constantly being reshaped. As writers such as Lewis (1995), Tsuneyoshi (2001), and Sato (2004) have shown, there is no doubt that Japan’s primary schools have played a key role as places where children have learned the cooperation and empathy that are central to the interdependent self. The organization of learning has also fostered self-reliance and autonomy, as children have been given individual assignments and tests to complete, and have been encouraged to explore different ways of solving problems in subjects like maths and science. At the same time, there have been some questions raised about the extent to which individuality is encouraged; Lewis notes, for example, that children are sometimes required to conceptualize and behave according to approved cultural scripts. Despite their considerable attention to the individual (Sato, 2004: 99), it may nonetheless be the case that Japanese primary schools have tended to place most emphasis on the development of interdependence. The new stress on individuality in educational reform programmes since the late 1980s therefore raises questions: to what extent have teachers changed their practices in order to emphasize the individual? What form have the changes taken? And how do teachers feel about the results? The answers will provide insights not only into Japanese education, but also into the question of what kind of people will make up Japan’s future society.

Sociocultural pedagogy and Japanese primary education Ironically, as researchers on Japan have started to pay more attention to the individual, researchers on education have increasingly been emphasizing the

44

Education and individuality in Japan

importance of community participation and interaction with others for learning. These approaches have gathered momentum in the Englishspeaking world since the 1980s. However, they have taken little account of teaching and learning practices in Japanese schools as yet; nor have writers on Japan related their accounts of Japanese educational practices to these new currents of thought. Since Japanese primary schools emphasize learning through group interaction and discussion (Stigler and Perry, 1990: 329, 351; Lewis, 1995; Stigler et al., 1996), one can expect that examining their pedagogical practices in the light of these new theoretical approaches may not only lead to better understanding of Japanese primary teaching, but also provide a wider empirical base through which to consider the validity and applicability of these innovative educational theories. This is particularly important given the evidence that learning through genuinely thoughtful interaction among members of the classroom is often in short supply in primary classrooms in some countries, such as England (Galton et al., 1980; Galton and Williamson, 1992) and the United States (Stigler et al., 1996). I will therefore give a brief introduction to these new approaches and outline their relevance to the analysis of primary educational practices in Japan. More specific analyses will be presented in later chapters on particular curricular subjects. I use the term sociocultural pedagogy to indicate theories of teaching and learning that focus on the learner’s interaction with her or his sociocultural setting. Research in this area is wide-ranging and derives from a number of different intellectual sources. However, what they have in common is dissatisfaction with the individual-focused theories of teaching and learning that dominated much of the twentieth century. At the risk of oversimplification, two particularly important intellectual influences on research into sociocultural pedagogy can be identified. The first is the work of the psychologist Vygotsky and his associates in the Soviet Union from the 1920s onwards. This came to the attention of English-speaking scholars as a result of the translation of the work, starting in the 1960s. Vygotsky placed social activity at the centre of his theories of cognitive development, in contrast to Piaget, the dominant Western figure in twentiethcentury developmental psychology, who focused on the individual as central. To quote Rogoff (1990: 144), ‘For Piaget, development moves from the individual to the social, and for Vygotsky, development moves from the social to the individual.’ Vygotsky . . . emphasized that cognitive development occurs in situations where the child’s problem solving is guided by an adult who structures and models the appropriate solution to the problem (in the ‘zone of proximal development,’ the region of sensitivity to social guidance where the child is not quite able to manage the problem independently). In Vygotsky’s view, the child’s individual mental functioning develops though experience with cultural tools in joint problem

Education and individuality in Japan

45

solving with more skilled partners working in the zone of proximal development. (Rogoff, 1990: 36) One of those whose work was influenced by the Vygotskian tradition was the American psychologist Jerome Bruner. In a study of the tutoring of young children, Bruner and the British psychologist David Wood introduced the influential concept of ‘scaffolding’, referring to the process whereby a more skilled person helps a child to learn to do a task by showing her how to perform key activities, simplifying the task, removing distractions, or highlighting an important point that the child had overlooked (Wood, 1998: 98–101). This and later studies of ‘scaffolding’ showed how a key element in Vygotsky’s theoretical paradigm was borne out in practice. Another important writer stimulated by the Vygotskian tradition is Neil Mercer. Together with other British social psychologists such as Michael Billig and Derek Edwards, Mercer was instrumental in creating what has been called ‘discursive psychology’ during the 1980s and 1990s, focusing on ‘how discourse accomplishes and is a part of social practices’ in order to better grasp the relations between language and understanding (Edwards and Potter, 1992: 17). Mercer’s work is especially important because it takes into account the realities of formal education systems. It is thoroughly grounded in qualitative classroom research, analysing particular school situations using detailed discourse analysis. Mercer points out the limitations of Vygotskian theory when applied to school education, and the further work that needs to be done if such theory is to be of use in such settings: . . . the theory must take into account the nature of schools and other educational institutions, as places where a special kind of learning is meant to happen. . . . Although Vygotsky offers us valuable insights into the relationship between thought, language and culture, his theory was not based on research in classrooms. . . . the concept of ‘scaffolding’ emerged from research on one-to-one relationships . . . the differences between these and classroom education are obvious – a matter of the number of learners per teacher and their effects on the kind and quality of communications involved. . . . But one of the most crucial differences between classroom education and other, more informal kinds of teaching and learning is that in school there is a curriculum to be taught. (Mercer, 1995: 78–9) Thus, if the insights of Vygotsky are to be of practical use in school education, it is necessary to take seriously the particularities of schools as sociocultural institutions. A second major influence on sociocultural pedagogy has been the work of Jean Lave and her associates on learning through participation in sociocultural practices. Lave’s most well-known work stems from two studies of

46

Education and individuality in Japan

learning and cognition: the first, research on apprenticeship among Liberian tailors, and the second, research on how American adults use mathematics in everyday situations (supermarket shopping and weight-watching). An important influence on her work has been practice theory, as developed by Bourdieu, Giddens and others (Lave, 1988: 13–18). She challenges the view that learning is most effective when formal instruction provides learners with ‘ “abstract, decontextualized” knowledge’ which can then be generalized and transferred to situations outside the classroom (1988: 41). Instead, she argues that ‘direct experience is . . . the more basic condition of learning’ (1988: 183). These arguments are formidably supported by qualitative evidence showing that American adults showed themselves capable users of mathematics in practical situations such as the supermarket, yet were much less capable of solving formal mathematical problems, similar to school maths problems, that had exactly the same logical form as the maths they used in the supermarket (Lave, 1988: 45–71). Lave has gone on to argue that ‘social practice is the primary, generative phenomenon, and learning is one of its characteristics’, or, to put it another way, ‘learning is . . . an aspect of all activity’ (Lave and Wenger, 1991: 34, 38). Learning is thus inseparable from relations within social communities and the construction of personal identities: As an aspect of social practice, learning involves the whole person; it implies not only a relation to specific activities, but a relation to social communities – it implies becoming a full participant, a member, a kind of person. In this view, learning only partly – and often incidentally – implies becoming able to be involved in new activities, to perform new tasks and functions, to master new understandings. Activities, tasks, functions and understandings do not exist in isolation; they are part of broader systems of relations in which they have meaning. These systems of relations arise out of and are reproduced and developed within social communities, which are in part systems of relations among persons. The person is defined by as well as defines these relations. Learning thus implies becoming a different person with respect to the possibilities enabled by these systems of relations. To ignore this aspect of learning is to overlook the fact that learning involves the construction of identities. (Lave and Wenger, 1991: 53) In attempting to capture this perspective on learning, Lave and Etienne Wenger have described learning as ‘legitimate peripheral participation’ in ‘communities of practice’. Although Lave and Wenger have not made formal schooling a subject of their research, they do consider that ‘rethinking schooling from the perspective afforded by legitimate peripheral participation will turn out to be a fruitful exercise’, writing that ‘such a study would . . . raise questions about the social organization of schools themselves into communities of practice, both

Education and individuality in Japan

47

official and interstitial, with varied forms of membership’ (Lave and Wenger, 1991: 41).24 Lave’s influence, like that of Vygotsky, has been enormous, though it has probably been more evident in research on workplace rather than school learning (Edwards, 2005: 49). This is probably not surprising, given that Lave’s own research has been on learning outside formal educational institutions, and given her hostility to the idea of ‘transfer’ on which much school instruction continues to be at least notionally based. However, the concepts that Lave and Wenger provide have been developed with specific reference to schools by other writers, notably Canadian educationalist Gordon Wells. Wells has proposed that schools be seen as ‘communities of inquiry’, where ‘a “community of inquiry” is a particular type of “community of practice” ’ (Wells, 1999: 122). He prefers this term to the alternative, ‘community of learners’, since the latter might suggest (contrary to the arguments of Lave) that learning is the object of what the community does, rather than a byproduct of its activities. For Wells, classroom activities should be focused on an improvable object, such as model buildings, newspapers, role-plays, or multi-media representations, and should be filled with the spirit of inquiry, understood as ‘a stance towards experience and ideas – a willingness to wonder, to ask questions, and to seek to understand by collaborating with others in the attempt to make answers to them’ (Wells, 1999: 121–4). The work of Vygotsky, Bruner, Mercer, Lave, Wells, and others concerned with what I have called sociocultural pedagogy has clear relevance for research on Japanese primary education. As Stigler et al. (1990; 1996), Lewis (1995) and others have clearly shown, Japanese primary teachers encourage children to express their ideas and engage in dialogue and discussion about objects such as mathematical problems. Japanese primary schools are not dominated by the idea that learning is primarily something that involves the individual child’s cognition, with social interaction at best a useful means to an end. Like the Japanese preschool teachers studied by Tobin, Wu and Davidson (1989), Japanese primary teachers place great importance on the way children learn from one another, and see one-to-one attention from the teacher as less important than, for example, American preschool teachers (1989), or British primary teachers. They place great importance on creating classroom communities in which children have a secure identity as a member of the class group (Lewis, 1995; Tsuneyoshi, 2001; Sato, 2004). One reason for this, no doubt, is the strength of the discourse of the interdependent self in Japan, and the way in which it is embedded in everyday life. It is therefore important to examine in more detail the extent to which the approaches of sociocultural pedagogy are indeed useful for understanding practices in Japanese primary classrooms. Sociocultural theories of learning suggest that one of the keys to the effectiveness of Japanese primary classrooms could be their emphasis on interaction and community. We also need to consider whether a greater emphasis on individuality is changing Japanese primary practices, and if so, in what ways. Are Japanese primary classrooms

48

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abandoning their stress on identity as an interdependent member of the classroom community, or is this being maintained, alongside increased attention to the individual?

Conclusion The educational reform debates of the last twenty years have revealed much about views of Japanese society within Japan, as well as the different visions of the country’s future that exist. There have been arguments about whether education should place more emphasis on the individual, or else continue to stress standardization, equality, discipline, and the teaching practices that are seen to have maintained high levels of academic attainment as traditionally conceived. There have also been debates about what increasing stress on the individual actually means in practice – how it should be translated into specific policy and practical measures. In addition, educational reform has addressed concerns that children are inadequately socialized, as a result of too much studying and school time, and too little experience of social life outside school. The debates have taken place in the context of anxieties about Japan’s changing society, and the changing international reality with which the country has to deal. On the one hand, concerns about quality of life and social order at home spur arguments that children need either more freedom, or more discipline, depending on the diagnosis of the ‘problem’. On the other, the demands of the rapidly changing, high-tech and globalized world that many envisage lead to calls either for a focus on developing creative, independent individuals, or for a return to the rigorous and egalitarian across-the-board schooling that accompanied the postwar economic miracle. The overall picture is one of anxiety and confusion. While individual commentators may have strong and clear views about how to identify and meet Japan’s educational needs, it is currently hard to detect a consensus on these issues among the public at large. It can be seen, however, that Japan’s ongoing debates about education are conducted in the context of broader arguments about self, society and human nature. Behind the discussions lie questions about what kind of people the Japanese believe they are or should be, and what kind of society they want to live in. As Fujita (2000) has pointed out, an emphasis on the individual can mean very different things, since individuals can be self-oriented and indifferent to others, or socially oriented and cooperative. Ishiyama Shu¯ hei’s postwar education guidelines also remind us that ‘individuality’ does not necessarily have to be understood as opposed to sociality. Understanding human beings as inherently social may result in a simultaneous stress on individuality and interdependence. Indeed, this seems to me the most likely outcome of current debates in Japan, given the fundamental differences between the Japanese understanding of human selfhood and that prevalent in the West. The kind of ‘individuals’ the country ends up with will depend partly on the education system and educational practices Japan adopts.

Education and individuality in Japan

49

Debates about educational policy among policy-makers, academics, and other commentators, while important, are almost always conducted at a remove from schools and classrooms, the places where formal education actually goes on. The following chapters therefore move to the school level, exploring how primary teachers themselves tackled the practical challenge of placing greater emphasis on the individual. Did they see this as incompatible with developing interdependence and sociality among children? How did they face the twin challenge of trying to develop individuality, while providing more opportunities for healthy socialization? What kind of choices did they make as they tried to ensure that children learned? Did they abandon interactive, class-focused teaching strategies in the quest to develop the strengths of individuals? The answers to these questions may shed light on the fundamental understandings that infuse Japanese primary teachers’ approaches, as well as help illuminate how Japan’s educational dilemmas can be resolved in practice.

Notes 1 For more details on the Rinkyo¯ shin and the Chu¯ kyo¯ shin, see Schoppa (1991), Roesgaard (1998), and Okano and Tsuchiya (1999: 210–28). Schoppa refers to the Rinkyo¯ shin by the acronym AHCR, whereas Roesgaard uses NCER (National Council for Educational Reform) to refer to the same body. Schwartz (1993) analyses the role of government advisory committees in Japan. 2 For violence in school, see Kakinuma and Nagano (1997). For bullying and school refusal, see Okano and Tsuchiya (1999: 195–207) and Yoneyama (1999). For classroom indiscipline, see Asahi Shinbun Shakaibu (1999) and Takahashi (1999). 3 Hendry (1986: 59–60) refers to this phenomenon, and also notes that the idea that children learn sociality from neighbourhood play goes back at least to the early twentieth century and celebrated folklorist Yanagita Kunio. 4 For examples from a leading business organization and the largest teachers’ union respectively, see Keizai Dantai Rengo¯ kai (1996: 18) and Japan Teachers’ Union (1995: 21). 5 The wording of the Primary and Junior High Courses of Study is identical. 6 For more details on these measures and their implementation, see Cave (2001, 2003), and Aspinall (2005). 7 This point has been made by Fujita in (1997: 135ff.), and at the Symposium ‘New Challenges to Japanese Education: Economics, Reform, Immigration and Human Rights’ at the University of California, Berkeley on 8 April 2006. In 2001, an official from the Ministry of Education also confirmed to me in conversation that the five-day school week was not originally a Ministry initiative. 8 This translation is somewhat misleading, since it is not clear that so¯ go¯ -teki na gakushu¯ actually integrates studies. The content would be better described as cross-curricular exploratory learning. For this reason, I will refer to the subject by the abbreviation usually used in Japanese schools, so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ . 9 For details, see Cave (2001: 179; 2003). 10 As the OECD report made clear, the drop in the score of Japanese students was the result of the introduction of extra areas of mathematics into the 2003 tests, and there was no drop in score in the areas that were tested in both 2000 and 2003 (OECD, 2004a: 90). The mean score of Japanese students in 2003 was 534 from a possible 700, compared to 550 in the top-ranked ‘country’, Hong Kong. Other

50

11

12

13 14 15

16

17

18 19

Education and individuality in Japan countries above Japan were Finland, South Korea, the Netherlands, and Liechtenstein (!). One wonders in how many other countries such a performance would be greeted with concern. In the Daily Yomiuri (8 December 2004), for example, the headline of an article translated from Japan’s bestselling Yomiuri Shinbun newspaper read ‘Japan academic skills fall’. The article placed all its emphasis on negatives such as the drop in maths and reading scores, with Japan’s top-ranking scores in science and problem-solving mentioned almost in passing. In this summary, I have not mentioned the reports of the National Commission on Education Reform (Kyo¯ iku kaikaku kokumin kaigi) set up by former Prime Minister Obuchi, which met during 2000. This is partly to avoid complicating the already complicated picture further, and also because the Commission seems to have made little impact on curriculum or pedagogy. Its focus was on attempting to push forward neo-conservative proposals such as introducing community service in schools and revising the Fundamental Law of Education (FLE), along with neoliberal proposals for increased school choice and tracking into elite and non-elite streams. A number of changes have been introduced in line with the Commission’s recommendations (e.g. schoolchildren are now required to do short periods of community service), and education policy seems to be moving increasingly towards a combination of closer external evaluation of schools, and greater choice of schools for students. However, such changes are at present gradual and incremental. Most hopes of the Commission’s members have not yet been realized, nor is there a clear prospect of their realization. Nonetheless, the Commission’s reports do make clear the views of the neo-conservative and neo-liberal Right in Japan, and one of its major recommendations, to revise the FLE in a conservative direction, to stress the importance of ‘Japanese tradition’ and love of country, was realized in December 2006. For more on the Commission and the move to revise the FLE, see Okada (2002) and Yoneyama (2002). That is, ‘subject’ in the sense of ‘thinking agent’. The first of these quotes is of Matsumoto’s own words, the second, of the words of prewar socialist thinker Kawakami Hajime, whose analysis Matsumoto cites approvingly. Though he is not explicitly aligned with any political camp within the educational debate, Fujita Hidenori’s opposition to the extension of school choice is based on a similar view of the importance of a ‘basic, common education for all children’ at primary and lower secondary schools that are rooted in their local communities (Fujita, 2000: 54). Sato¯ Manabu has also suggested that ‘basic academic attainment’ (kiso gakuryoku) should be understood not as ‘the three Rs’, but as ‘a common basic education for all’ (kyo¯ tsu¯ kyo¯ yo¯ ), which he also regards as equivalent to the English concept of ‘literacy’ (Sato¯ , 2001: 39–42). It is worth noting that Japanese superhero dramas aimed at small children, such as Ultraman, Sailor Moon, and the Ranger (Renja¯) series, often also feature cooperation and interdependence among teams and families, rather than the selfsufficient independence of American superheroes such as Superman (Gill, 1998). Tada also pointed out that ironically, in practice, ‘my-home-ism’, often meant that an employee became more strongly tied to the company, by taking out a company loan in order to buy his new house. Nonetheless, Tada sees ‘my-home-ism’ as showing a new tendency to accept the legitimacy of the private sphere, especially among the young. The Japanese term literally means, ‘looking for oneself’, in contrast to the English ‘finding oneself’. The difference is subtle, but possibly expresses a less confident or more relaxed attitude towards the quest. Writers of juku literature can be highly eclectic, drawing on Western as well as indigenous sources of seishin advice. In a book of pep-talks used by a well-known

Education and individuality in Japan

20

21

22

23 24

51

and highly successful Kyoto-based juku, for example, the author draws on Bertrand Russell and Plato to emphasize his point that taking exams should be a contest with oneself, not with others (Momose, 1995: 72–5) While competition indicates that an individual places importance on his success vis-à-vis others, it does not indicate that he is not other-oriented or group-oriented – in fact, rather the reverse. Being competitive means wanting to achieve according to a scale of values that one shares with one’s reference group (Béteille, 2002). As Kuwayama (1992) has pointed out, in Japanese farming villages being competitive often means wanting to be ‘at least as good as’ everyone else in terms of the status brought by possession of the latest machinery. This implies that people are expected to be able to succeed by their own efforts, but according to a common scale of values. In a sense ‘individualism’ and ‘group-orientation’ are thus combined. The meaning of the term shutaisei has been fiercely debated by postwar Japanese thinkers, as Kersten and Koschmann show, but it is arguable that it is most closely associated with the renowned political scientist Maruyama Masao, who believed that it represented the Lockean idea of autonomy as disciplined selfdetermination, an idea which Maruyama believed had not developed adequately in Japan, but which needed to do so (Koschmann, 1996: 149–202). Koschmann suggests there is a certain ambiguity in the concept of shutaisei as developed by ¯ tsuka Hisao, as it may be hard to distinguish Maruyama and, before him, O between apparent autonomy that results from internalizing the gaze of state authority, and true autonomy (Koschmann, 1996: 169, 239). The apparent autonomy he posits is, of course, that of the modern individual according to Foucault, who comes into being as a result of techniques for self-surveillance developed by the modern state (Foucault, 1977; Koschmann, 1996: 169, 241). The ambiguity of the concept, and the variety of its permutations, should thus be kept in mind, but its importance should not therefore be forgotten. An interesting example of this involves what might be regarded as a British piece of seishin literature, Rudyard Kipling’s poem If. Kipling is not considered a politically progressive writer, but according to Sheila Cassidy (1978), If was very popular among left-wing activists imprisoned in Chile after the Pinochet coup of 1973. They found its emphasis upon self-discipline and perseverance entirely appropriate to their situation. Similarly, imprisoned Burmese democracy leader Aung San Suu Kyi has used If at political rallies and describes it as ‘a great poem for dissidents’ (Garton Ash, 2000). Long (1999: 13) similarly points to the term jiga, glossed as ‘egotistical self’. There seem to be important similarities between Lave’s view of learning and that implied by the concept of the ‘hidden curriculum’.

2

Groups and individuals at primary school

In Japanese primary schools, learning takes place through both academic and non-academic activities (Lewis, 1995). Teachers attach great importance not only to subject lessons, but also to the activities that take place outside lessons, ranging from everyday matters such as serving lunch and cleaning the classroom, to major events such as sports days and graduation ceremonies. Considerable trouble is taken to try to achieve the aim of a cohesive class group whose members help, support, and feel for one another. As part of this process, children learn implicit understandings of selfhood – what kind of person they are expected to be. While there were variations in the ideals of moral and personal development that teachers at the schools studied embraced, as well as the approaches they used, these remained variations within the common basic paradigm of the class group as a cohesive community. In this chapter, I first give more details about the schools and teachers studied. I then go on to explain the concept of the class group as community in Japanese education in general, and at Nakamachi and Morikawa primary schools in particular. Particular attention is given to the concept of the class group as nakama – people who naturally belong together. I then explain various approaches that were used by different teachers to try to shape the children’s experiences and achieve the goal of a warm and cohesive class group. Though the class group was the dominant organizational concept at the two schools, teachers’ concerns for children’s development went beyond this. Teachers also wanted to develop children’s autonomy, and their ability to have good social relations with older and younger children. The increasing importance attached to the individual also led to debates about the extent to which unorthodox behaviour by children should be accepted. These issues are discussed later in the chapter.

Nakamachi and Morikawa primary schools and educational reform As explained in the introduction, Nakamachi and Morikawa were both ordinary public primary schools, non-selective and only accepting children

Groups and individuals at primary school 53 who lived in their school catchment areas. Nonetheless, there were differences between the two schools. Nakamachi had a long-standing reputation as a school whose teachers put greater than normal efforts into lesson development and practical pedagogical research. In the past, it had been considered second in this regard in the prefecture only to a national primary school that was attached to the Education Faculty of a national university. During the four months I spent there, hardly a week seemed to go by without one or two ‘research lessons’ (kenkyu¯ jugyo¯ ) – lessons that were open to other teachers to attend, allowing colleagues to learn from one another’s practices. Such lessons take place at all schools in Japan (Fernandez and Yoshida, 2004), but at Nakamachi they were unusually frequent.1 A few years earlier, the Ministry of Education had designated it a pilot school2 for early introduction of the new subject of ‘daily life’ (seikatsu-ka), which had been introduced into the curriculum in the 1989 revision to replace social studies and science in the first two years of primary school. This showed that the school was recognized as being at the cutting edge nationally in developing progressive educational approaches characterized by cross-curricular, experience-based learning, centring on children’s own interests. From 1995 to 1997, the Sakura City Board of Education designated Nakamachi to pursue research about developing the ability to study (gakushu¯ ryoku o sodateru). The presentation of its results, including several open research lessons, took place in November 1996. According to the principal, the school was generally able to secure highly regarded staff in personnel transfers,3 because of its high research reputation and the corresponding demands on teachers. Nakamachi teachers themselves saw the school as progressive and innovative (susundeiru), and devoted particularly to developing in its pupils the ability to act and study as independent individuals. They were generally well aware of the government’s pedagogical agenda, and my survey in July 1998 showed that seven of the school’s 25 teachers subscribed to the Ministry of Education’s journal, Shoto¯ kyo¯ iku shiryo¯ (Primary Education Materials). The same survey showed Nakamachi teachers’ level of commitment to ongoing professional development: 19 of the 25 subscribed to a pedagogical journal,4 while four had formerly done so, and ten subscribed to two or more such journals. Six teachers were members of privately organized pedagogical research groups (kenkyu¯ kai),5 and six more had formerly been members of such groups. Nakamachi was thus a school with a conscious commitment to the development of independent individuals, and with a well-informed and professionally committed teaching staff. Morikawa was not a self-consciously progressive school, although its teachers were aware of the educational reform agenda. During my six-week visit in 1996, two of its staff were sent to observe a presentation of reformoriented research and research lessons at a Tokyo primary school. In comparison with Nakamachi, however, there was less pressure on teachers to develop their teaching along reform-oriented lines, and indeed, less pressure to present research lessons in general. One Morikawa teacher told me that he

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Groups and individuals at primary school

thought his colleagues were unsure how to change their teaching methods, and also lacked the time to do so. Yet it must be borne in mind that the annual personnel transfer between schools ensures a constant intercourse of ideas between schools, with new staff bringing with them the expertise and experience they have gained at previous schools. In 1998, for example, there were to my knowledge at least two former Nakamachi teachers at Morikawa, and two former Morikawa teachers at Nakamachi. This constant interchange of personnel among schools helps to prevent differences between schools from becoming too great. When interviewing and talking to teachers at Nakamachi and Morikawa during my fieldwork in 1995–96, the topic of the government reform agenda sometimes arose spontaneously, and my notes record comments related to reform by seven or eight teachers, roughly evenly divided between the two schools. Without exception, their attitude to reform was positive, even if they were uncertain about how exactly to teach in the new style they felt was demanded. What was interesting, however, was that they rarely talked about ‘individuality’ (kosei); what they were enthusiastic about was having pupils think, make judgements, and initiate study themselves. Expressions such as ‘think and judge for oneself ’ (mizukara kangae, mizukara handan suru) were used positively by teachers. One sixth year teacher at Morikawa, Satoyamasensei, told me that she had heard that in England, pupils did self-directed study ( jibun de gakushu¯ o susumeru), and she thought this was wonderful. This attitude was also reflected in her own practice as a teacher, as I observed it, as she gave pupils considerable scope for deciding how they wished to study. The same positive attitude to change was apparent in the interviews I conducted in July 1998. On this occasion, I specifically asked the seven teachers I interviewed what they thought about educational reform. Again, the attitude of all was basically positive. It was again apparent that teachers at the primary level interpreted reform as centring on discovering and thinking about problems for oneself, and that it was this that they were welcoming. When they expressed misgivings about aspects of reform (as several did), their concerns centred on the danger that weaker pupils and relationships between pupils within the class might be neglected. In terms of the discourses of self discussed in Chapter 1, they seemed to be interpreting reform as encouragement of autonomy, and welcoming it on that basis. On the other hand, they seemed less likely to favour interpretations of reform that might emphasize competition or diminish either the interdependence or equality of children. It was particularly interesting that two teachers told me spontaneously that in reality, as they saw it, reform was not something new, since primary schools had been emphasizing learning and thinking for oneself for many years. It was the government and the wider society that had caught up with primary practice, they suggested. This perception of basic continuity between educational reform (as interpreted by primary teachers) and long-standing school practice helps to explain why there was such a uniformly positive attitude to

Groups and individuals at primary school 55 reform among the primary teachers I talked to. A similarly positive attitude to reform was again apparent among teachers at Morikawa during my return visit in 2004, even after the criticisms of the reform programme by commentators and media reported in Chapter 1. Description and analysis in this and the following two chapters mainly makes use of observations and interviews at Nakamachi. This is mainly because of the longer continuous time I spent there (three months against six weeks), and because that time was in the middle of the school year. The six weeks of my main fieldwork study that I spent at Morikawa were at the end of the school year, with the result that teachers were sometimes hurrying to complete the syllabus, or teaching portions of the textbook devoted to revision lessons. This meant that some of the lessons I watched at Morikawa may not have been representative of teachers’ normal approach. In all, I observed lessons by three sixth year teachers at Nakamachi and four at Morikawa. Greatest use is made of observations of the experienced head of year at Nakamachi, Yoshioka-sensei, as explained in the Introduction. As I spent most time in her class, I was able to observe her practices more fully than those of any other teacher. Yoshioka-sensei seemed to me a very accomplished and committed teacher, with an excellent rapport with her class, an assessment which was supported in interviews with ten of her former students two years later, in July 1998. Her philosophy and teaching practices seemed to me to be reasonably representative, judging by my observations of and interviews with other Japanese primary teachers, although ‘representative’ does not of course mean ‘identical’. As with any other teacher, Yoshiokasensei’s philosophy and practice had their own particular emphases, yet these were well within what may be considered the normal paradigm of Japanese primary teaching. Attention to individuals helps to make clear that Japanese teachers are agents with their own personally worked out beliefs and practices, not merely representatives displaying a shared approach. This has not always come across strongly enough from previous works on Japanese primary schools. The following chapters consider what understandings of self and person are implicit in the philosophy and practices of Yoshioka-sensei and other teachers, and in turn, how such understandings may be transmitted to pupils through school practices. In particular, I examine whether the new pedagogical emphasis on the individual in recent educational rhetoric has been accompanied by changes in school practice, and if so, what kind of changes have come about.

The concept of the class group in Japanese pedagogy All the teachers whose classes I observed at Nakamachi and Morikawa took for granted the central importance of the class group (gakkyu¯ ). Such a view is long-established in Japanese schools, and is integral to their organization. According to Nakano and Oguma (1993: 1), the class group is the key unit in

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Japanese pedagogy. This is not a tradition that goes back before the Meiji period (1868–1912), as instruction in schools of the Tokugawa period (1603–1868) was mainly individual (Dore, 1992). The class group was an idea imported from the West for the purpose of mass schooling. Indeed, according to Sato (1998: 194), it was not until 1900 that ‘the modern groupbased classroom’ was created, through legal definition of a class as ‘a group of students of the same age’. Nonetheless, it did not take long for pedagogues to begin to pay attention to management of the class group (gakkyu¯ keiei). Noted educator Sawayanagi Masataro¯ 6 devoted a chapter to the class group in his 1909 book Jissai-teki kyo¯ ikugaku (Practical Educational Studies), and as early as 1912 there appeared what was probably the first book actually entitled Gakkyu¯ keiei (Class Management), by an author named Sawa. Sawa compared the class teacher to the head of a household (kacho¯ ): If he can bring forth the fruit of communal harmony (kyo¯ do¯ wago¯ ), with the pupils as his beloved children (aiji), together growing in friendly intimacy, discipline and good health, and serious and diligent too, then I think we can probably say that most of the purpose of class management has been achieved. (quoted in Nakano and Oguma, 1993: 5) Nakano Akira points out that Sawa stressed the influence of the class over the characters of its members, and quotes his statement that: ‘The atmosphere of the class (gakufu¯ ) possesses a special air, with the character ( jinkaku) of the teacher as its centre, and the character of the children as a whole ( jido¯ no so¯ go¯ -teki jinkaku) as the surrounds’ (Nakano and Oguma, 1993). Even at such an early date we see the stress upon the central role of the class teacher, upon class atmosphere, and upon the feeling that the teacher should have for his ‘beloved children’. These emphases on the role of the teacher and the importance of class atmosphere developed in subsequent decades, and have continued to be central to Japanese school pedagogy throughout the twentieth century. Sato (1998) outlines prewar developments in the theory and practice of the class group. One thinker and practitioner whose emphasis upon the class spans the prewar and postwar periods was Saito¯ Kihaku, not only a primary teacher and principal himself but also one of the most widely read authors of books on primary pedagogy in postwar Japan. According to Saito¯ , ‘Good things will appear for the first time when there is a good class group (yoi gakkyu¯ shu¯ dan)’ (Matsumoto and Takahashi, 1983: 153). One should also note the influence of groups such as the Zenseiken (Zenkoku Seikatsu Shido¯ Kenkyu¯ Kyo¯ gikai), or National Life Guidance Research Association, which has disseminated its particular, Makarenko-influenced approach to the class group widely through books and meetings. Many books have been and continue to be published on the topic of ‘creating the class group’ (gakkyu¯ -zukuri), and the important anthology of Japanese

Groups and individuals at primary school

57

pedagogical writings, Nihon no kyo¯ shi, devoted one of its 24 volumes to the topic (Nakano and Oguma, 1993).

Images of the teacher and the class group in television dramas The idea that the class group is a central educational unit is accepted beyond the educational world, as was demonstrated by portrayals of school life in television dramas broadcast during my fieldwork. The school drama (gakuen dorama) is a popular television genre in Japan, dating back to at least 1968.7 The three school dramas that attracted the largest viewing figures during my fieldwork were all broadcast on commercial channels during prime time (between 9 and 11 p.m.). What was interesting was that the central focus in all three was the teacher and his efforts to forge a good relationship with his class, helping individual students and creating a sense of unity and comradeship in the class group as a whole. In contrast, the British tradition of school stories, for example, has largely concentrated on relations between individual students or groups of friends. In British stories, teachers may be respected, loved, feared, or viewed with ambivalence, but they are generally peripheral figures as far as the plot is concerned, making only occasional interventions to complicate the story or to resolve knotty crises. This is as true of a modern television drama like the BBC’s Grange Hill as of older school stories such as the prewar Billy Bunter tales in the Magnet magazine. Nor is the class group as a whole more than a shadowy presence in such stories. In the Japanese school drama, however, the teacher is the central figure, and this role is taken by a leading popular actor or actress. One of the three series broadcast during my fieldwork was the most well-known Japanese school drama of all, Sannen B-gumi Kinpachi-sensei (Kinpachi-sensei of Class 3-B), seven series of which have been broadcast to date since its inception in 1979. The very title of the programme announces the centrality of the teacher and the class group. Each episode of the third series (1995–96) began with Kinpachi-sensei standing outside and yelling out to his class, ‘Sannen B-gumi!’ whereupon the whole class responded with a yell of ‘Kinpachisensei!’, rushed towards him, and lifted him off the ground. This was an excellent expression of the obedience and affection that the class came to show towards their teacher as the series progressed, and which the series presented, by implication, as the ideal relationship between a teacher and his class.8 Kinpachi-sensei is set in a Tokyo public junior high school. Of the other two dramas, Sho¯ ri no megami (Goddess of Victory) was set in a juku for sixth year primary children in Tokyo, while Minikui ahiru no ko (The Ugly Duckling) was about a fourth year primary teacher and his class. Although the three settings were different, the development of the relationship between the teacher and his pupils (all three teachers were men) was fundamentally the same. In each case, the teacher began with a class full of problems, divided amongst itself and hostile to him. Each week or two, a new problem would emerge to become the focus of attention. Little by little the teacher won the

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trust of alienated or recalcitrant individuals, while the class as a whole gradually developed a spirit of unity and mutual support. This was achieved mainly through the teacher’s emotional sympathy with his pupils, and through his unstinting devotion to them, manifested in the time and energy he spent with them, listening and talking to them. All three teachers gave up their free time to help pupils outside school hours, inviting pupils to their homes for extra tuition, for counselling, or to help build props for a school concert. On their side, the pupils called on the teacher at home in minor crises. The teachers made sacrifices for their pupils, most dramatically when a teacher in Minikui ahiru no ko was accidentally stabbed by a child he was trying to dissuade from harming himself with a knife. In short, the relationship between teacher and pupils was portrayed as one of deep personal commitment. The teachers were concerned not only about their pupils’ academic progress, but also their personal growth and welfare. Moreover, in the world of television drama the teacher can and does play a major role in changing the direction of children’s lives for the better. This is accomplished, above all, by the teacher’s commitment and understanding, which convinces pupils that the teacher believes in him or her, and can be trusted. Of course, these dramas are fiction, not reality, as many teachers I met were keen to point out. I met a number of teachers who disliked Kinpachi-sensei. ‘You never see Kinpachi-sensei doing paperwork, and he never has meetings to go to’, said one teacher at Morikawa over coffee, while one Tachibana junior high school teacher who was a very active homeroom teacher and club supervisor said he didn’t like the programme because it was unrealistic: ‘Teachers like that don’t exist. In my experience, whenever I’ve really put time and effort into trying to rescue a child, it hasn’t worked out.’ Without doubt, Kinpachi-sensei and series like it are examples of the idealising, didactic side of Japanese television, to which Harvey (1995) and Painter (1996) draw attention. (The ideal teachers are often depicted as surrounded by less dedicated colleagues.) On the other hand, I also met some teachers who enjoyed Kinpachi-sensei, and heard of others who seemed to see their role in a way that recalled Kinpachi-sensei and his like. Yoshioka-sensei told me that when the first Kinpachi-sensei series had been shown on television in her first year as a teacher, she had watched it and thought that she would like to be a teacher like that, if only she could. Nakamachi teachers also told me that their former colleague Nishihara-sensei, recently transferred to another school, put great time and energy into the quest to forge a class group whose positive atmosphere would influence children’s lives for the better. Nakamachi sixth year teacher Sanada-sensei said that Nishihara-sensei spent time with his class at weekends as well as in school – though Sanada-sensei’s own view was that this was not practical for all teachers. Certainly the teachers portrayed in drama series are idealized figures. But the point is not that all Japanese teachers are like Kinpachi-sensei (they are not, nor could they be), but that such an ideal exists at all. The portrayal of teachers in mass media forms such as television drama is significant because it shows the ideal image of a teacher

Groups and individuals at primary school

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who cares for his pupils individually and also tries to create a unified class group, shows remarkable continuity with the ideal delineated as early as 1912. Though by no means all teachers believe such an ideal attainable, and some may not think it even desirable, it does cast an influence over the way they fulfil their roles.

Sixth year classes at Nakamachi and Morikawa There were three classes in the sixth year at Nakamachi, and four classes at Morikawa. At Nakamachi, two of the three classes (6–1 and 6–3) were taught by experienced teachers in their mid-thirties, while the teacher of 6–2, Fujitanisensei, was a younger woman in her third year of teaching. Yoshioka-sensei, the head of year, taught 6–3; her teaching experience was mostly with fifth and sixth year classes. Sanada-sensei, who taught 6–1, had taught classes in all age ranges during his career. Both Yoshioka-sensei and Sanada-sensei were from rural households; Sanada-sensei was married with two young children, while Yoshioka-sensei was unmarried. The sixth year classes at Nakamachi were on the small side by Japanese standards; the maximum legal size for a primary class being 40, the 82 children in the year had only just escaped being divided into two classes (and in fact, their numbers had come down to 80 during my visit, after two children left). In Yoshioka-sensei’s class, 6–3, and in Sanada-sensei’s class, 6–1, there were 26 children, 16 boys and 10 girls in each case, while there were 28 children in 6–2. At Morikawa, there were altogether 124 children in the sixth year, divided into four classes of about 30 each. All the sixth year teachers were experienced, ranging from around 30 to 40 in age. The head of year, Kotani-sensei, taught 6–1; 6–2 was taught by Satoyama-sensei; 6–3 was taught by the experienced Hayashi-sensei, and 6–4 by the only male teacher in the group, Teraokasensei. I had observed Teraoka-sensei’s class for several days during my pilot visit to Morikawa in the autumn of 1994, when they were fifth years. During my fieldwork, the classes I most frequently observed were those taught by Yoshioka-sensei and Sanada-sensei at Nakamachi. Both were strong characters with their own styles of teaching and class management. ‘Even if we agree to do something the same way, it always ends up different,’ Yoshioka-sensei admitted. Similarly, there was significant variation among the approaches to teaching and class management of the four sixth year teachers at Morikawa. Yet such variations took place within the framework of a common paradigm – shared assumptions and ideas common to all the teachers as a result of having been educated as pupils and as teachers within the same system and culture. Much consultation and exchange of ideas went on, aided by the configuration of the staffroom, in which (as usual in Japan) the desks of teachers in the same year were placed together to form an ‘island’. The combination of similarity and difference showed how a fundamentally similar approach could be developed in different ways by individual teachers dealing with different groups of children.

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The class group as nakama The idea that the class is a group whose members belong together and therefore have a special responsibility to help and support one another was best expressed by the term nakama, a word used at both Nakamachi and Morikawa to refer to the class group. The word nakama can be used in a number of senses, but as used by teachers at Nakamachi and Morikawa, an English approximation would be, ‘a set whose members naturally belong together’. In contrast, there are other words that can be translated into English as ‘group’, such as shu¯ dan or guru¯ pu, but which carry no implication that the group members belong together by necessity. This distinctive meaning of nakama can also be seen in the term nakama-wake (categorization), which is often used in primary classes, especially maths. Nakama-wake involves allocating disparate items (such as maths problems) so that these items are arranged in the sets (nakama) to which they belong. To take a simple example, sparrows should be allocated to the bird family (tori no nakama) rather than the dinosaur family (kyo¯ ryu¯ no nakama). The implication of belonging together is reflected in the suggested translations for nakama in Kenkyu¯ sha’s New Japanese-English Dictionary (Masuda, 1974), which include ‘a company, a set, a circle, a bunch, a gang’ to translate the use of the word to denote a group, and ‘a companion, a mate, a comrade, a colleague, an associate, a confederate’ to indicate an individual (that is, an individual member of a group). To call a group of people a nakama should be seen not so much as a reflection of the real relations within the group, as an assertion by the speaker about how the group should be perceived. In other words, it is a (sometimes unconscious) rhetorical strategy. Such an assertion may in fact be an accurate assessment of the group, or it may be an attempt to appeal to an ideal fiction of group relations and to try to persuade group members that their relations should conform more closely to that ideal fiction than they currently do. Given the difficulty of getting an entire class of children to cohere as a unified group, one may expect that when teachers use the word, it is an assertion with a strongly persuasive intent. In fact, this point was made in a July 1998 discussion I had with a teacher at Tachibana junior high, who noted that he tended to use the term when articulating the ideal group to students. On the same visit, I noted an interesting usage on a union poster pinned to a staffroom noticeboard. The headline urged, ‘Have your new colleagues join up with [the local union branch] immediately’, the word for ‘colleagues’ being nakama, rather than its impersonal alternative, do¯ ryo¯ . Clearly the poster designers had felt that thinking of new colleagues as nakama, a term loaded with feelings of solidarity, was appropriate in the context. There are similarities between the concept of nakama and that of uchi, a word used in Japan to refer to primary groups to which one belongs and with which one identifies (notably the family and the company) (Lebra, 1976: 112). However, there are also differences between the two concepts. In the first place, uchi inevitably has a contrastive dimension, differentiating ‘us’ from

Groups and individuals at primary school 61 ‘them’, whereas nakama does not. Second, when used as a noun, uchi tends to denote groups that are truly primary and central to a person’s life and identity over a long period (especially the family, and to a lesser extent the workplace). Though nakama can be used to express a sense of solidarity and belonging, it does not necessarily indicate such a primary group. These differences from uchi are what make it suitable for use about a class of primary school children. Teachers would not wish to foster a ‘them-and-us’ feeling between different classes in the school, which would be unavoidable if the term uchi were used; and clearly, a class that will only stay together for two years cannot be seen as a long-term primary group. I did not hear all teachers observed at Nakamachi and Morikawa use the term nakama, and of those who did, some used it much more frequently than others. Yoshioka-sensei used the term very frequently, whereas Sanada-sensei did not. Yet Sanada-sensei too emphasized the unified class group, as we shall see later in this chapter. Teachers at Tachibana junior high also seemed to use the term relatively rarely, yet when I discussed it with them in July 1998, none of them seemed to find it strange to use the term about the class group. In other words, it seemed to be quite normal to see the class as a set whose members belonged together in a special way. Teachers like Yoshioka-sensei, who used the word frequently, placed particular emphasis on the concept. For Yoshioka-sensei, there was a subtle difference between being nakama and simply being friends (tomodachi). ‘I emphasize being nakama more than

Figure 2.1 Poster over the front blackboard in 6–3 at Nakamachi. In a format seen in many classrooms, each child paints her or his own face, and the pictures are then put together – uniting individuals as a group.

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Groups and individuals at primary school

being friends,’ she told me. ‘And I emphasize warmth (attakasa)9 more than kindness (yasashisa).’ For Yoshioka-sensei, ‘friends’ was a broader category than nakama – a distinction illuminated by the contrast she drew between ‘warmth’ and ‘kindness’, whose relationship seemed to be parallel to that between nakama and friendship, in her terms. Whereas yasashisa (kindness) was something one could show to anyone in the school, she suggested, attakasa (warmth) could only come about between children who had been together in a class for a long time. It was a question of ‘whether one is really thinking of the other person or not’. It was hard to get across to the pupils in the fifth year, but by the second half of the sixth year, she thought they began to realise what it meant. Because she set out the aim of a warm class (atatakai kurasu) from the start of the fifth year, the children gradually came to realise what was and wasn’t in accordance with this aim, through talking through all sorts of incidents in class as they happened. The process of tackling projects all together (minna de tsukuriageru) was also important. According to this view, therefore, kindness is something one can show to anyone, whether they are a member of your nakama or not, and furthermore, being friends has no necessary connection with membership of the nakama. One may have friends outside the nakama, and one may have special friends within the nakama. This is a matter of individual attachment. Being nakama, however, is a relationship that demands that you give special help and support to one another, regardless of personal likes and dislikes. Calling the class group a nakama is thus to state that its members belong together in a special way – not out of personal volition but simply by virtue of having been placed in the same class – and that they have a special responsibility to one another. This idea is clearly linked to the notion of necessary human interdependence, introduced in Chapter 1. What is particularly interesting is that the implications of the nakama relationship seem to go beyond duties to act in a certain way. There should also be a special feeling in a nakama, as Yoshioka-sensei’s comment about aiming for a ‘warm class’ suggests. There may appear to be a paradox here, since I have suggested that being nakama is independent of personal likes and dislikes. Insofar as the paradox is resolved, it is resolved on the basis that members of the class should come to feel warmth for one another on the basis of their shared experiences and efforts together, even if their personalities are very different. This is why being together for a long time is important, as Yoshioka-sensei suggested. Such an understanding is suggested by an essay in the 1994 Nakamachi graduation album (sotsugyo¯ arubamu), by one of that year’s graduating pupils, in a class taught by Nishihara-sensei. The essay is entitled, ‘From Friends to Nakama’ (tomodachi kara nakama e): I made lots of friends (tomodachi) from the first year onwards. As I went up with my friends from the fifth year to the sixth year, from being friends we became nakama who helped one another in all sorts of ways.

Groups and individuals at primary school

63

There were various opportunities for becoming nakama. There was all the helping one another on the school trip (shu¯ gaku ryoko¯ ). I experienced the ties (tsunagari) with my nakama, the hardship (kurushisa) and the fun (tanoshisa) when we stayed overnight together (gasshuku) at [a local countryside centre].10 We experienced hardship and learned endurance (gaman) at the sports day in the autumn. We tried our hardest and managed to achieve great success making human pyramids11 and in coming third for the Fighting Spirit Prize. Everyone gave all they had in the cheering (o¯ en) and the 100 metres race too. It was a really good feeling. . . . Through the school events (gyo¯ ji) in the sixth year, we changed from friends into nakama. Sometimes being joyful together, sometimes going through hardship together, we became nakama. . . . If one person was away, everybody was concerned (ki o tsukau). That showed we had become nakama. It was really good that I became nakama with everyone. There is an implicit understanding that compositions for the graduation album should dwell appreciatively upon school experiences. It is therefore not surprising to find that this composition presents school experiences positively and in terms of an idiom used by teachers. Nonetheless, the composition is significant because it shows that this boy has learned the idiom thoroughly, and has become able to articulate experience in its terms; this naming turns inchoate individual experience into social reality (Strauss and Quinn, 1997: 116–17). He defines nakama as people who help one another, are concerned for one another’s welfare, and share experiences of effort and emotion as the group works towards a common goal. It is clear from this account that school events such as the sports day and overnight trips were important in the process of becoming nakama, since they provided opportunities for these experiences of shared endeavour and emotion. According to this composition, it is this shared endeavour and the emotion accompanying it that seem to be crucial in bringing people together into what the boy defines as the nakama state. Claudia Strauss and Naomi Quinn (1997: 92–3) argue that emotional arousal during an experience results in strengthening of the cultural schemas that make sense of the experience, and such an argument helps to explain the durability in Japan of ideas about the value of nakama-type groups. The composition represents the process of becoming nakama in very distinctive language, with a number of motifs recurring in a quasi-formulaic manner. Particularly distinctive is the repeated notion that the shared experience of a combination of hardship and happiness formed ties (tsunagari) that bound the group together and made them into a nakama. This idea of the uniting power of the shared experience of pleasure and pain in situations of common endeavour is found in other primary school texts, notably the songs to be examined later in this chapter. The boy’s understanding and representation of his experiences in becoming

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Groups and individuals at primary school

Figure 2.2 Children making human pyramids at the Nakamachi sports day, 1996.

nakama cannot be independent of the language available to him – a language which he was probably learning from his teachers as he was undergoing the experiences, if indeed he was not already familiar with it. That experience and its interpretation are inseparable has been emphasized by a number of writers, perhaps most classically Becker (1991: 41–58), who explained how marijuana users learned from others to interpret the drug’s physical effects as enjoyable, thus changing their experience of it. Michelle Rosaldo argued that emotional experience flows from action and language working together: ‘feelings are . . . social practices organized by stories that we both enact and tell’ (1984: 143).12 This, however, requires that the fit between activities and the language of their narrative is felt to be plausible; and the fit may result from tailoring of the activities to fit the cultural narrative, as much as the other way round. That the boy experienced what he did was not simply because he experienced it in certain terms, I would surmise, but also because the activities that formed the ground of the experience were organized in a way that made interpretation in such terms reasonable. This working together of activity and the terms in which it is interpreted is also evident in other accounts of educational experience in Japan, such as the company training programmes described by Rohlen (1986) and Kondo (1990), and the preschool education described by Ben-Ari (1997, especially Chapter 4). Such examples show how both embodied action and social discourse are necessary to create felt experience. Embodied experiences, of various levels of intensity, and frequent verbal interpretation of such experiences are characteristic of Japanese education, in preschool and primary school. The big events, such as the school trip or the

Groups and individuals at primary school

65

sports day, when experience becomes exceptionally intense and memorable, can have their effects only because they build on daily activities and verbal interpretations of a more mundane kind, in which a particular way of experiencing is established. In the following sections, I examine some of the activities through which Yoshioka-sensei and other teachers attempted to have children learn particular ways of experiencing school life.

The class group and its activities at Nakamachi and Morikawa Lewis (1989; 1995: 74–100), Tsuneyoshi (1994; 2001: 21–49) and Nancy Sato (2004: 78–85, 183) have described the use of long-term small groups in Japanese preschools and primary schools in some detail. Lewis (1989: 146) explains how preschool teachers organize children into such groups for classroom activities ranging from lunch and chores to cooperative activities such as murals, collages, group dances, and other shared projects. Through these means, teachers expect children to learn how to interact, share resources, and communicate with others. Such small-group (han) organization is used by first year primary teachers for both academic and non-academic activities (Lewis, 1989: 149), an approach which continues through primary school, so that children can learn ‘how to cooperate and to contribute to others’ (Tsuneyoshi, 1994: 119). By the time they reached the fifth and sixth years of primary school, therefore, children at Nakamachi and Morikawa were very accustomed to classroom life organized in this way, and to the expectations and values integral to the approach. Classes at Nakamachi and Morikawa were organized into two or three separate sets of small groups. First were the seikatsu-han (daily life small groups). Children in the same seikatsu-han sat near one another and would often push their desks together for group study. They did cleaning duties together,13 and there were also many days when lunch was eaten sitting in seikatsu-han. The second set of groups was the kyu¯ shoku-han, the groups responsible for fetching lunch from the school kitchens and serving it in the classroom. The third set were kakari katsudo¯ groups,14 which were groups responsible for carrying out extra activities which were not essential to the smooth functioning of the classroom, but which, in the words of teachers, ‘made class life more enjoyable’. In 6–3 at Nakamachi, for example, there were nine of these kakari katsudo¯ groups, including a group to organize and conduct class singing, a group to organize fun events, a group to look after the flowers, a group to organize the recycling of cans and milk cartons, a group to organize the class library, and a group to make, put up, and take down posters and other classroom decor. In some classes, seikatsu-han doubled as kakari groups, but most teachers seemed to prefer to have the two groups separate, so that children had freedom to choose to join the kakari activity they preferred. Besides these various groups with their different responsibilities, there was also the post of daily monitor (nitchoku to¯ ban). In most classes, there were two monitors each day, one boy and one girl. Their

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Groups and individuals at primary school

precise duties varied, but might include leading the class in morning greetings and at the beginning and end of classes,15 cleaning the blackboard, and filling in the class diary (nisshi) with a record of the day’s lessons, homework, and other events, together with a personal reflection. The post rotated, each class member holding the post in turn for one day. In addition to these small group activities, the classes also did many activities as a unit. In particular, classes ran their own class meetings (gakkyu¯ kai), held roughly once a week, or more frequently or infrequently as felt necessary by the teacher.16 In such meetings, class rules were decided, special events planned, and the problems of daily class life discussed. Many classes had a box into which members could put items they wanted raised. Children themselves acted as chair and secretary, and the class members would raise their hands when they wanted to say something. In meetings I observed in several different classes, the teacher intervened only occasionally, and usually to clarify the discussion or urge a decision, rather than to make the decision herself. In one fourth year meeting I watched at Morikawa during my pilot research, there was a lively discussion after the girls complained about some boys’ playing an improvised form of baseball with a rolled-up glove inside the classroom. The boys were quite defeated in discussion, and agreed to think of quieter games to play. In a fifth year meeting at Morikawa, also during my pilot research, there were complaints that class rules about not bringing certain items such as electronic notebooks to school were being broken. After discussion, the chair (not the teacher) reiterated that since the whole class had decided on its rules, everyone should observe them.

Figure 2.3 Cleaning the school entrance at Morikawa, 1996.

Groups and individuals at primary school 67

Figure 2.4 Class meeting (gakkyu¯ kai) in a fifth year class at Morikawa, 1994.

Class meetings could also be called by the teacher in order to discuss what she saw as problems within the class. During an interview with Tachibana junior high third years in July 1998, a former member of class 6–1 at Nakamachi recalled how Sanada-sensei had once spent an entire day on an extended class meeting, in order to thrash out problems of clique-making among the girls in the class. Yoshioka-sensei also used class meetings for a similar purpose. During interviews in July 1998, I specifically asked most students (and all the former Nakamachi students that I interviewed) whether they preferred this approach to class problems, or an approach whereby individuals were counselled by the teacher. Of the 17 students asked, nine preferred the whole-class discussion approach, six said both should be used, depending on whether the problem involved the entire class or only individuals, one said both should be used together, and one preferred an individual approach. It did not seem that students had unpleasant memories of this type of meeting; indeed, when I asked another former 6–1 member whether having to say what she thought in Sanada-sensei’s marathon class meeting hadn’t been difficult, she specifically denied this, saying that she didn’t like giving her opinion in lessons, but she didn’t mind in a class meeting. In class meetings, children thus learned to discuss matters of concern to all, and to make decisions which should be binding on all. Most importantly, they learned that the good of the entire class should be the prime

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criterion when making decisions. Thus the sense of the class as a unit was strengthened. Besides class meetings, other class events were held as and when appropriate. Children who transferred to another school were invariably given a ritual send-off with a class farewell party (wakarekai). Parties for fun (tanoshimikai) and other events were also common. During my three months at Nakamachi, the kakari group responsible for leading such events in 6–3 organized a karaoke concert and snowball fight, in both of which the whole class took part (together with Yoshioka-sensei and myself). One class also organized a karaoke concert while I was at Morikawa, and another held a class basketball tournament. Classes at Morikawa also frequently spent their morning or lunchtime breaks in the school gym, doing jumprope (o¯ nawa) as an entire class. This involved two children turning a long rope, while the rest of the class lined up to jump in turn. The aim was usually to record as many successive jumps as possible. In 6–4, Teraoka-sensei made a wallchart, headed ‘6–4 Power’ (6–4 no chikara) on which the children could record how many jumps were achieved in each performance. Events and recreation of this sort were meant to bring the class together, and could also offer experience in working with others to organize an event. Even play could be organized to involve everyone in the class. Many classes seemed to have a kakari group responsible for play or recreation. While children usually played spontaneously during their morning or lunchtime breaks, occasionally a kakari group member would get up as lunch ended and propose playing all together (zen
in asobi). There would then be a brief discussion, and perhaps a vote, on what everyone wanted to play. While this did not happen often, that it happened at all showed a consciousness on the part of the class that it was appropriate to do things all together sometimes in order to strengthen class solidarity and have fun as an entire group. Some teachers also sought to bring the class closer together by regularly printing and distributing a collection of short extracts of class members’ writings. These ichimai bunshu¯ comprised a sheet of paper (usually B4 size) on which the teacher extracted writings on certain topics from class work or class diaries,17 usually adding his own comments. The topics could originate from lessons, a recent class or school event, or a problem that had arisen in the class. Extracting from responses to a story or poem read by the class in kokugo lessons was common. By this means teachers sought to make children better aware of what their fellow class members were thinking and feeling, and so increase companionship and mutual understanding within the class. None of the sixth year teachers at Nakamachi or Morikawa were making ichimai bunshu¯ during my main fieldwork in 1995–95, but two teachers at Morikawa were doing so during my pilot fieldwork.18 Classes also worked together for school events. At Nakamachi, such events included a school concert (ongakkai), a sports day (undo¯ kai), a ‘stamina run’ athletic meet ( jikyu¯ so¯ -daikai), and several events to do with the sixth years’ graduation; the Send-off for the Sixth Years (rokunensei o okuru kai), the

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69

graduation show (sotsugyo¯ happyo¯ kai), which was a revue staged by the sixth years for their parents, and the graduation ceremony (sotsugyo¯ shiki) itself (discussed in Chapter 6). All except the graduation show (a Nakamachi speciality) seemed to be events common throughout the city’s primary schools.

Music and song in the making of the class group Class singing was one important means used by Nakamachi sixth year teachers, and by Yoshioka-sensei in particular, to strengthen the sense of unity and common endeavour appropriate to nakama. Class singing was an entirely separate activity from music lessons, which concentrated (at least in theory) on teaching pupils musical skills and appreciation. In contrast, class singing was focused on the effort and feeling that the children put into the singing. Yoshioka-sensei told me that while teachers used songs in different ways, for her, songs were a form of class management: ‘With songs one creates a class’. When singing, all the children were equal (byo¯ do); songs were ‘something good they have in common’. They were also ‘important for creating the class atmosphere’. You could tell how the children were feeling from the way they sang, Yoshioka-sensei said. In the fifth year, when the group was fragmented (nakama ga butsu-butsu datta), there was no heart (kokoro) in their singing, but now, they sang with feeling. Songs were therefore important for Yoshioka-sensei because she believed that they helped to create that feeling of nakama unity that she felt desirable. Moreover, she believed that all children had equal access to songs, in the sense that they were all performing the same role, and could all contribute equally, since singing ability was not important outside music lessons. As Cummings (1980) and Tsuneyoshi (1990: 143–8) have pointed out, Japanese primary teachers in general tend to emphasize the equality of all children, and Yoshioka-sensei certainly preferred to think of children as equal as far as she could. In Chapter 1, I suggested that the discourse of interdependence can be understood in various ways. In relation to the children she taught, Yoshioka-sensei seemed to understand it in egalitarian terms: children were both interdependent and, ideally, equal. In 6–3, class singing was organized by two children (one girl and one boy) who comprised one of the kakari groups. These children chose the songs from cassettes supplied by Yoshioka-sensei. These carried a range of songs whose lyrics and musical demands were considered suitable for upper primary pupils. Most songs were recent compositions specifically written for school use, and published by large music publishers. Some were popular songs (kayo¯ kyoku) sung by popular singers for the commercial market, such as Matsuto¯ ya Yumi’s song, Haru yo, koi! (Come, Spring!) Others came from films or television series. The class usually sang once a day, during either the morning meeting or the going-home meeting.19 The pupils would stand at the back of the classroom, dividing themselves into high (ko¯ on) and low (teion) parts. After one of the

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two pupils in charge had led them in chord practice, the class would sing to a tape of the song, Yoshioka-sensei interjecting the occasional comment. At the end, the pupil in charge gave a brief assessment. The children sang strongly, melodiously, and (I thought) with feeling. I enjoyed the singing, and felt that it seemed to succeed in creating an atmosphere of unified feeling with which to start or end the day. Several ethnographers have given examples of the particular power of song to evoke emotional reaction (Rosaldo, 1980: 33; Abu-Lughod, 1986; Kondo, 1990: 93). Songs combine two highly formalized and memorable types of artistry, music and poetry, which perhaps explains why they are often so successful at creating what Appadurai (1990) calls ‘communities of sentiment’. This makes Yoshioka-sensei’s use of songs as a means of creating a ‘community of sentiment’ within the class seem a very reasonable strategy. Singing can be seen as a way of learning key terms and ideas which is potentially very powerful because of the special power of music and poetic expression to move the singer and listener. Singing is also a further example of a way in which verbal discourse and embodied activity are integrally joined to create experience. Whatever the provenance of the songs, there was remarkable consistency in the language and the messages of the lyrics. Certain words and metaphors recurred repeatedly, and the general tone was cheerful and upbeat. Themes of progress through perseverance and mutual support were frequent. A good example was a song entitled Into the Wide World (Hiroi sekai e), which was much practised, and sung by the entire sixth year at the autumn school concert. Its lyrics ran as follows: ぼくらのまえには　ドアがある いろんなドアが　いつもある ドアを　大きく　あけはなそう ひろい世界へ　出ていこう

Before us there are doors Always there are various doors Let’s fling the doors wide Let’s go out to the wide world

ドアのむこうの　輝きを じぶんのものに　するために ドアのむこうの　輝きを みんなのものにするために

So that what shines beyond the doors May belong to each of us So that what shines beyond the doors May belong to everyone

ぼくら　青い実 ぼくら　赤い火 雨に打たれ 風に吹かれ

We green fruit We red fires Beaten by the rain Blown by the wind

手と手をつなぎ 心をつなぎ 歌を　歌を　うたいながら

Link hand with hand Link hearts As we sing

ぼくらのまえには　ドアがある いろんなドアが　いつもある

Before us there are doors Always there are various doors

Groups and individuals at primary school 71 ドアを　大きく　あけはなそう ひろい世界へ　出ていこう

Let’s open the doors wide Let’s go out to the wide world

Before the concert, Sanada-sensei used these lyrics as the text in a 6–1 kokugo (Japanese) lesson. As preparation, he told the children to write out the lyrics and annotate them with their thoughts about the meaning. In the lesson itself, he first asked two children to come to the blackboard and draw the doors as they imagined them, asked the children what they thought was on the other side of the doors, and wrote up some focal words and phrases to think about, as follows: 1 2 3 4 5

Doors Various doors Let’s open Shining Green fruit Red fires

He then asked the children for their interpretations of these words and phrases. One boy suggested that the doors were ‘doors from which one sets out on a journey’ (tabidachi no doa), adding, ‘you overcome hardships (tsurai koto o norikoete) and open them’. This interpretation was taken up by other children, and Sanada-sensei wrote on the blackboard, ‘endure hard things; if we overcome them, we can open the door’. In response to his question about the meaning of the ‘various doors’, the children suggested ‘suffering’ (kurushimi no doa), ‘sadness’, ‘trials’ (shiren no doa), ‘failures’ (shippai), ‘embarrassment’, and others. Sanada-sensei’s next question was how one should respond to these things, to which the children offered answers such as ‘overcome failures’. ‘What doors do you have in front of you?’ asked Sanadasensei next. ‘A new [sports] record’, ‘a diet’, ‘study’, ‘homework’, ‘employment’, offered various children. The class then moved on to the second verse: So that what shines beyond the doors May belong to each of us So that what shines beyond the doors May belong to everyone The children interpreted these lines as expressing the importance of helping one another. ‘It ’s a matter of “just by yourself is no good” ’ ( jibun dake de dame desu yo, to iu koto ne), agreed Sanada-sensei, writing on the blackboard, ‘take everyone with you, not just yourself ’ ( jibun dake de naku minna o tsurete iku). Finally, he asked the class what the future closest to them was. ‘Graduation’, said the class. ‘That’s right’, agreed Sanada-sensei, ‘it’s life at junior high; we can call graduation the door.’ He told them to write about this in their reflections ( furikaeri) on the session,20 and brought the lesson to an end.

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Clearly, singing and analysing lyrics like this is one way in which children learn key terms and ideas within their culture. This learning process is complex. In this case, the interpretation of the lyrics that emerged came from the children themselves, yet with guidance from the teacher. It was the children who interpreted the lyrics in terms of what might be called a combination of interdependence and seishin discourses – mutual support and perseverance through hardship. Yet the interpretations that emerged in class were not the whole story. Sanada-sensei told me that the children’s annotations had contained various interpretations of the lyrics, but that he had deliberately picked up those that mentioned hardship (kuro¯ ), because he wanted to make them think about this subject. Even so, unobtrusive teacher guidance does not explain why children came up with such interpretations to begin with, not why the rest of the class was so willing to accept and develop this line of thought. It is likely that Sanada-sensei was amplifying understandings that the children had already acquired, probably over many years. Their interpretation of the doors as trials to be overcome surprised me at the time, since my own first reaction was to interpret them as opportunities to be grasped or potential to be realized – a fact which perhaps reflects the relative lack of emphasis on perseverance through hardship in British socialization. In contrast, many writers have noted the pervasive belief in Japan that perseverance is the master key to progress, and have drawn attention to the subtle and notso-subtle inculcation of this idea from an early age (Hendry, 1986; White, 1987; Holloway, 1988; Singleton, 1989; Kondo, 1990: 108–9, 235–41; Ben-Ari, 1997: 83–94). The pupils of 6–1 were therefore interpreting the lyrics in terms they had already learned. The lesson was an occasion for the renewed affirmation of the terms’ significance in a new context, so that their range was extended. Other songs also dwelt on the themes of mutual support and endeavour in the context of a journey into a hopeful future. Let’s Search for Tomorrow urged, ‘let’s set off on the journey all together’ (minna de tabidato¯ ), ‘swelling our wonderful hopes and dreams’ (kibo¯ to yume). Other songs addressed an unidentified person whom the speaker hopes to meet in the future; whether this person was someone they already knew or not was unclear. In any case, the emphasis was on connections with supportive others. The lyrics of It’s You Who Walk the Path (Michi o aruku no wa kimi), for example, began thus: 道を歩くのは君 山にのぼるのも君　　　 そしていつの日かめぐりあえる希望 生きることはすばらしいことさ 友だちがいるなら　力を合わせて 道を歩き　山にのぼれ

It’s you who walk the path It’s you who climb the mountain And one day – when will it be? – I hope we’ll be able to meet To live is wonderful If friends are with you Putting our strength together Walk the path and climb the mountain!

Groups and individuals at primary school

73

Later in the song, the lyrics urged: かたをだきしめて なみだを流せ ほほえみかえそう

With our arms round each other’s shoulders Let’s allow the tears to flow Let’s return smiles for smiles

Just as the lyrics of Into the Wide World stated that the singers not only linked their hands but also their hearts, so It’s You Who Walk the Path, with its emphasis on friendship, mutual support, and shared feelings, invited application of its lyrics to the children themselves, reinforcing the idea that the class should be a true nakama. Further, it seemed to suggest that there might be numberless other potential friends and sources of support waiting to be met – the as yet unknown and nameless ‘you’ who is ‘walking the path’ and ‘climbing the mountain’ (of life?) and whom the singers hope to meet one day. In this sense, the song expressed the common Japanese notion that the world is full of ‘mutual support networks’ of living beings (Morioka, 1991: 90), and helped to educate the children into this idea, in a similar way to the poems to be examined in the next chapter. Some pupils wrote about class singing in their compositions for the graduation album. One girl from a previous class taught by Yoshioka-sensei wrote a composition entitled ‘Songs and the Class’ (uta to kurasu) for the 1994 graduation album, as follows: Until now, I thought that ‘all you have to do with a song is sing it’. But as we took singing seriously (shinken ni) in the fifth and sixth years, I learned that what matters is putting your heart into singing what you want to convey through that song (sono uta de tsutaetai koto o kokoro o komete utau). I think that we have all been singing not just because we all like songs, but in order to widen the circle of the class and the circle of friends, to combine everyone’s power together, and to rise and come together in a joint project. The first song [we sang in the local concert] was Into the Wide World. No matter how big the door, [I/we] will cut it open.21 The second song was Valley of Butterflies. No matter what painful things there might be, no matter what sad things there might be, like the butterflies that endure (taeru), [I/we] will become strong. Filled with that confidence, I will surely never forget these companions (nakamatachi). . . . Together with those songs we’ve been singing. . . . As mentioned previously, when reading compositions for the graduation

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Groups and individuals at primary school

album, one should remember the implicit expectations guiding writers. Yet it would also be unwise to see such compositions as doing no more than paying lip-service to school ideals. This composition certainly gives the impression that the girl was indeed moved by the songs the class sang, and felt them to have had an effect both upon her and upon the class as a whole.

Interdependence beyond the class group: mixed-age activities As noted in Chapter 1, the last two decades have seen increasing concerns in Japan that children spend less time than they used to in mixed-age neighbourhood play, and that as a result, their ability to interact socially is becoming poorer. More than one parent I interviewed commented on the decline of such neighbourhood play, remarking that when they were at primary school between 20 and 40 years before, they used to play outside with neighbourhood friends until dusk. Tobin, Wu and Davidson (1989: 59–60) record similar comments from the 1980s. One father I interviewed also talked of the disappearance of the gaki daisho¯ , the ‘kids’ gang leader’ of such mixed-age groups of children, recalled by one of Tsuneyoshi’s interviewees (2001: 72). Social scientific data from the 1950s collaborates such reminiscences; a study of the Okayama village of Niike noted that ‘fifteen-year-olds play along with the six-year-olds and ten-year-olds’ (Beardsley, et al., 1959: 311), while the Six Cultures study of children in the Okinawan village of Taira showed that ‘both boys and girls are allowed at an early age to roam freely throughout the community’ (and much more than in the other societies in the study) (Whiting and Edwards, 1988: 53–4). Even in the 1980s, Hendry (1986: 59–60) noted that ‘little gangs of children of both sexes may be seen roaming about in many parts of Japan from quite an early age’; yet she also noted laments about the decline of neighbourhood play. Any such decline probably has multiple causes, including the spread of all sorts of organized lessons and activities, from swimming, baseball and ballet to calligraphy, piano and English; the popularity of indoor activities such as television and computer games; the increasing unfriendliness of the environment to children’s play, as open spaces disappear and traffic intensifies; and a gradually increasing concern for safety and cleanliness among parents. Just as Japanese preschools have seen themselves as obliged to take over the role of socializer of small children (Tobin, et al., 1989: 58–61), so I was told by teachers that many primary schools have begun to organize mixed-age activities within school, to compensate for the supposed lack of such activities in contemporary neighbourhoods. Evidence from teachers suggested that these activities were a relatively recent innovation in local primary schools. Two younger teachers who had grown up in the prefecture both said that there had been no such activities in their own primary school days, during the 1970s and early 1980s, one adding that he had grown up in a small village where you had to form mixed-age groups in order to have enough

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75

children to play games like baseball. The generic term for mixed-aged activities seemed to be tatewari katsudo¯ (literally, activities for which children are grouped by vertical divisions – instead of ‘horizontally’ by age, as are classes). Teachers at the two schools explained that their purpose was to encourage friendly interaction (ko¯ ryu¯ ) between children of different ages, and to enable children to learn to behave appropriately towards older or younger children. The activities seemed to be particularly for the benefit of the older children, who were expected to fulfil the roles of ‘big brothers and sisters’, thinking and taking care of the younger children, especially the first and second years. Fifth and sixth years were expected to act as leaders (lı¯da¯rashiku) in planning and organizing activities. Tatewari katsudo¯ activities took place every week at Nakamachi, less frequently at Morikawa. At Nakamachi, the increase in frequency only dated from the 1995–96 school year. According to Sanada-sensei, the increase had resulted from the children’s participation in volunteer assistance to help the victims of the disastrous earthquake that struck the Kobe region in January 1995. Their experiences had given them the desire to do more such volunteertype activities, and one of the ways of translating this into a school context was by increasing the frequency of mixed-age activities, which involved caring for younger children. Despite the difference in frequency, the content of the activities was similar at both schools, and at both, they normally took place during the half-hour mid-morning break. The children would spend some sessions planning fun and games, which were then enjoyed in later sessions – usually popular games such as tig (onigokko), dodgeball, or variations of fruit basket. Once a year, there was a longer session, lasting over an hour, which allowed more ambitious activities, most commonly a ‘walk rally’ (uo¯ ku-rarı¯) during which younger group members would walk around a series of checkpoints in or near the school, at each checkpoint carrying out a fun activity prepared by the older children. These mixed-age group activities seemed quite successful in achieving their objectives. Many of the older children were thoughtful about planning and leading activities that would be fun for all ages, and took care to look after the smaller children. Nakamachi teachers were pleased at the way children learned to plan and cooperate responsibly through the activities. There seems little doubt that there are significant differences between neighbourhood play, which generally seems to have taken place with little or no adult supervision, and mixed-age activities in school under the watchful eye of teachers. It may therefore be doubtful whether such school-based activities can really compensate fully for whatever social skills may be lost through the decline of neighbourhood play. However, such activities do demonstrate once again how committed Japanese primary teachers are to developing children’s abilities in healthy social interaction. They also show that teachers want children to develop a sense of interdependence that extends beyond the class group. In particular, they underscore that healthy social and personal development is still considered in Japan to be integrally bound up with the fulfilment of

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age-related roles. Not only can older children learn how to be responsible, thoughtful carers and leaders through their interaction with younger children, but they should fulfil those roles, being older. The strength of this view is no great surprise, of course, given its historical and continuing importance within Japanese families (Hendry, 1986: 50–1, 56, 58–59), educational institutions like school clubs (Cave, 2004), and workplaces (Dore, 1973: 254).

Developing the self-disciplined individual at Nakamachi and Morikawa From the above analysis of school activities, the importance of what I have called ‘interdependence’ discourse at Nakamachi and Morikawa is clear. Teachers wanted children to see themselves not only as isolated individuals, but as people who were bound to others in a particular group by ties of interdependence and obligations of mutual support. They did their best to ensure that these ideas were learned at a profound, experiential level, not just superficially. However, ‘interdependence’ discourse was not the only major discourse of selfhood at Nakamachi and Morikawa. At both schools, discourses of individual self-discipline and autonomy were also important, and were incorporated into school activity. At both Nakamachi and Morikawa, there were a number of activities which seemed designed to foster perseverance and willpower. Most notable was the ‘marathon’, an activity common to both schools. Three times a week, ten minutes were set aside at the start of the half-hour mid-morning break for all the children to run around a track marked out on the undo¯ jo¯ (the sandy ground that did duty as playing field and playground), while energetic music was played over the school Tannoy. This was meant both to encourage a positive attitude to exercise and physical fitness, and to help children acquire the habit of pushing themselves to make an effort. In this it seemed similar to the one-off ‘marathon’ for preschool children described by Ben-Ari (1997: 93–4). There was no set pace or set number of laps to be completed on any one day, though children did have individual cards on which they could mark their progress towards a final total (starting a fresh card if they finished the first). It was accepted that children ran at different paces; the point was in the effort made. No overt competition was involved, although one can imagine that in practice, children might well compete informally with their friends. However, teachers encouraged children to push themselves rather than to compete with others. While the ‘marathon’ was an activity focused on individuals and their personal effort and self-discipline, it was neither a solitary nor a voluntary activity. Rather, it was compulsory, and it was carried out together with the entire school, thus fulfilling the secondary function of strengthening school consciousness. Most children ran in a group with friends, racing one another or just keeping one another company. Writers such as Rohlen (1986) and Kondo (1990: 100–3) have written of the use of long-distance runs or walks to train participants in company

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training programmes in perseverance and endurance. As Kondo points out, such runs test the individual will, although considerable psychological support and motivation are provided by the presence of running companions. Kondo also acknowledges that such exercises can be effective in convincing participants that they have the power to persevere and accomplish things; indeed, both she and Rohlen confess that they themselves were personally affected by their experiences, despite a simultaneous and determined analytical detachment from them. The ‘marathon’ at Nakamachi and Morikawa seemed intended to teach similar lessons, although in contrast to the experiences of Rohlen and Kondo, there was little or no pain involved, only some puffing and panting. While the role of individual effort was emphasized, children were not forced to forego the support of others. Having the whole school run together was practically convenient from the point of view of organization, but also sent the message that it was quite acceptable and even normal for individual will to be supported by the comradeship of others. Other practices also encouraged individual perseverance and self-discipline. It was common for pupils in the upper years at both schools to have a exercise book in which they could do work of their own choice as homework. In Yoshioka-sensei’s class, 6–3, this book was called a jishu gakushu¯ no¯ to (voluntary study notebook); in class 6–1 at Morikawa, observed during my pilot research, it was called a ganbari no¯ to (trying-your-best notebook). In practice, there seemed to be an understanding that pupils were expected to do at least some work in these books, and sometimes there were incentives to spur them on; in 6–1 at Morikawa in 1994, for example, pupils who had completed an entire book would receive a certificate, while the total number of pages done by all the members in each seikatsu-han would also be totalled and added to points gained for various other approved practices (such as not forgetting to bring anything to school) to see which han gained the most points in a week. Not all teachers who used such notebooks had devised such incentive systems, however; in 6–3 at Nakamachi, for example, the number of pages pupils completed was at their own discretion. At Nakamachi, periodic days were also designated as ‘days for selfdiscipline’ (jibun o kitaeru hi) for children in the lower years. On such days, the younger children would decide on a personal goal (mokuhyo¯ ) for the day, a goal which boiled down to ‘try your best at something’ (nanika o ganbaru), as a friend’s young daughter, in the second year at the school, succinctly put it. This practice was specific to Nakamachi; I was told that it was inspired by the similar practice of a famous figure of the Tokugawa period (1603–1868) who had lived locally. Self-discipline and the values of the seishin tradition were communicated not only through activities but also through texts. One example that I encountered several times in primary schools was that of one of the most famous of modern Japanese poems, Miyazawa Kenji’s Ame nimo makezu (Neither Yielding to Rain):

78

Groups and individuals at primary school neither yielding to rain nor yielding to wind yielding neither to snow nor to summer heat with a stout body like that without greed never getting angry always smiling quietly eating one and a half pints of brown rice and bean paste and a bit of vegetables a day in everything not taking oneself into account looking listening understanding well and not forgetting living in the shadow of pine trees in a field in a small hut thatched with miscanthus if in the east there’s a sick child going and nursing him if in the west there’s a tired mother going and carrying for her bundles of rice if in the south there’s someone dying going and saying you don’t have to be afraid if in the north there’s a quarrel or a lawsuit saying it’s not worth it stop it in a drought shedding tears in a cold summer pacing back and forth lost called

Groups and individuals at primary school 79 a good-for-nothing by everyone neither praised nor thought a pain someone like that is what I want to be (Miyazawa, 1989: 215–16)22 Usually referred to by his first name, perhaps an indication of the feeling for him in Japan, Kenji is the author not only of poems but of children’s stories, which are part of the canon of modern adult literature as well. A number of his stories are included in kokugo (Japanese) textbooks, including Yukiwatari (Crossing the Snow) and Yamanashi (Mountain Pear). His self-sacrificing life, love for his sister, and early death are as famous as his works, and, as with authors such as Keats, Wilde, or Wilfred Owen, knowledge of the life adds to the power of the works. Significantly, Ame nimo makezu was one of two poems given to the sixth years at Morikawa as the final exercise in their calligraphy lessons, to be written out as beautifully as possible on specially marbled paper and perhaps kept as a memento of primary school.23 The viceprincipal, who taught the sixth years calligraphy, clearly felt that it was a text that deserved especially memorable treatment. The poem was also performed as a choral recitation (ro¯ doku) by class 6–2 at Nakamachi in the graduation show, in which each sixth year class did various dramatic and musical performances for their assembled parents. According to class teacher Fujitanisensei, the poem was the class’s own choice, suggesting that it had made a significant impression upon them.

Developing moral autonomy Willpower and self-discipline were not the only aspects of the individual that teachers wished to see develop, however. They also wanted their pupils to think for themselves and to be able to act independently of others – in other words, to develop moral autonomy. Teachers particularly expressed their desire that children develop moral autonomy in terms of their fear of its opposite – that children would just be swept along (nagasareru) by others. This concern was frequently expressed by Yoshioka-sensei and Sanada-sensei at Nakamachi, and I also heard it from other teachers. Murata-sensei, a Nakamachi teacher in her early forties, told me that she was happy with children who became absorbed in tackling activities they themselves wanted to do (muchu¯ ni natte torikumu). Such children ‘made a self ’ ( jibun o tsukuru) for themselves. In contrast, she worried about children who ‘drifted along’ ( fuwa-fuwa-fuwa to nagasareru ko), without showing much will of their own. It was important when children got to the upper primary years and then

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junior high school that they had a goal (mokuhyo¯ ), that they could ask ‘why?’, that they stopped to think (tachidomaru). A similar point of view was expressed by Morikawa sixth year class teacher Ariyama-sensei during my pilot research. She stressed the importance to self-formation of having a goal that one had decided on for oneself: You have your original self (saisho no jibun), and then after a certain period and certain experiences, you have your later self (ato no jibun). . . . There’s a part of you which is changing, and I think it’s a question of that change being the kind where you think, I’ll do this, and then giving your attention to it, or where you think, I’d like to become like that, and then acting accordingly – not change where you’re swept along or just influenced by others (nagasarete kawatta toka, hito no eikyo¯ bakka o ukete kawatta toka). Developing moral autonomy was not seen as in conflict with an emphasis on cooperation and solidarity within the class group. Rather, the two were perceived as complementary. Such a perception was apparent in Yoshiokasensei’s account of the development of 6–3 during the 18 months the class had been together before I started observations. According to her account, the ten girls in the class had been forming cliques amongst themselves. Teachers said that such forming of deliberately exclusive cliques was common among girls in the upper primary years (and in junior high), and it caused them great concern, since forming such cliques went against the inclusive spirit of class unity that they wanted to foster. In the case of 6–3, the ten girls split completely into two cliques. Yoshioka-sensei told me that she tackled the problem in the second and third (autumn and winter) terms of the fifth year, making the whole class discuss the problem, as it involved all of the girls in the class. In the class discussion, children said clearly who and what had hurt them. For the girls, Yoshioka-sensei said, it had been very painful. She believed it was the first time they had realized that somebody had been hurt by what they had said or done, and some had cried. She had had them think about what had happened over the winter vacation – a good time, in her view, because children spend time with their families, and are usually separated from their friends for a while. Then at the start of the sixth year in April she had formed new seikatsu-han, choosing the members herself, and putting two girls together in each han, one from each of the two cliques. As a result, each set of two girls had to talk together and be together continually, whether doing class work, eating lunch, or planning for the two-day school trip to the historical sites of Nara and Ise on which children again carried out their activities in han. Through this, the girls discovered that they actually got on well. They were finally and decisively pulled together, she thought, by the experience of making human pyramids for the sports day. By the time that I began observing the class in the second term of the sixth year, she believed that problems among the girls had disappeared and they had become a genuine nakama – but it had taken 18 months.

Groups and individuals at primary school 81 For Yoshioka-sensei, this whole process was part of developing the children’s ability to think. She wanted them to think about what friends they wanted, how they should choose friends, and what it meant to be friends, rather than simply acting according to their feelings – their likes and dislikes. Yet in working towards this aim of trying to develop individual moral autonomy, Yoshioka-sensei did not resort primarily to individual counselling of pupils or appeals to their individual moral sense. Rather, she employed activities such as class meetings, small-group activities, and school events as a crucial part of the process. When I asked her whether individual counselling would not have been better, she answered that she didn’t think its impact would have been deep enough. Her point, I believe, was that since these were problems of human relationship, the most effective educative process was one that confronted pupils with one another and with one another’s feelings. Moreover, this had to be done within the context of the class as a whole (hence the need for class meetings), because the class was not only a set of individuals, but a group whose members shared a mutual responsibility for one another. Developing individuals’ moral autonomy and developing consciousness of mutual responsibility were complementary, since children who could not think and act independently were unlikely to be able to form a cohesive class. Rather, they were likely to drift with their feelings and be too much influenced by others. Making cliques with some children, they would exclude others. In this context, it is important to note teachers’ common use of the verbs matomaru and katamaru to contrast desirable and undesirable group behaviour. Katamaru means to make a hard lump, and was often used by teachers at Nakamachi and Morikawa to refer to children’s forming of cliques which excluded other class members – highly undesirable behaviour. Yoshioka-sensei explained that she did not let close friends become members of the same seikatsu-han, because it would result in their sticking closely together (katamatte shimau), and they wouldn’t be able to grow (nobite ikenai) through finding out what was good about other children. The children too agreed with this approach, she said. Matomaru, on the other hand, means to be coherent, collected, in order, or united. Unlike katamaru, it carries no implication that a group is exclusive or hostile to others; indeed, nothing at all is implied about the group’s attitude to outsiders. The term refers only to the group’s state in itself, settled, orderly, and cohesive. It is this that teachers want in their class. The two types of behaviour are incompatible, because a class full of exclusive cliques is not cohesive and united. Yoshioka-sensei herself made clear that she would not necessarily use a whole-class discussion approach for every problem. With later problems involving some of the boys who she felt spent time exclusively with one another, without thinking about what being friends really meant, she told me that she had talked to the boys individually. This was partly because the problem only involved a few boys rather than all, and partly because the boys had already heard the discussion about the girls. She and other teachers also

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emphasized to me that they had no rigid rules for dealing with situations; they dealt with problems on their own merits, taking into account the particular child or children, and the particular class, that were involved. Teachers used various methods, including class discussions and individual talks after school, as they judged appropriate to a particular problem.

Individuality and ‘deviant’ behaviour Policies favouring individuality do not spell out what exactly ‘individuality’ means in relation to primary school children, nor do they specify its limits. This presents teachers with a dilemma about what to do when children behave in ways of which the school or the wider society disapprove. This question came to a head during a staff meeting at Morikawa, when teachers were confronted with the case of a fourth year girl who had had her ears pierced by her mother, a beautician. In addition to this specific case, the discussion dealt more broadly with other types of body adornment, such as dyed hair, nail-varnish, and sticking seals on fingernails. A wide range of views were expressed, in three broad categories: teachers who felt that such behaviour should be accepted, teachers who did not, and teachers who felt that the more important issue was to look more deeply at the child as a developing person, understand the situation and feelings that lay behind the actions, and try to deal with the child at that level. The discussion showed that teachers were clearly aware of the significance that discourses on individuality held for the case. The head of academic administration (kyo¯ mu shunin) reminded the meeting of the school’s Student Guidance Committee’s (seito shido¯ iinkai) view that it was important to have children think about what ‘furthering one’s individuality’ (kosei o nobasu) really meant. They had to remember, she went on, that if they allowed a child to do something like pierce their ears, there was a danger that the child would be viewed askance by other children because she stuck out in the wrong way (uite shimau). It wasn’t a case of making children stop such personal adornment, but rather of letting them judge for themselves through a discussion process over time. Also, one had to deal not only with the child herself, but also with the parents, and with children around her. There was the question of why the child was doing it – as a way of relieving unfulfilled needs, perhaps (yokkyu¯ fuman o kaisho¯ suru). In some cases, it might be appropriate to discuss it in the class group. The argument for accepting pierced ears was put with most force and feeling by Takamatsu-sensei, a male teacher in his mid-thirties who was also the representative of the school chapter of the teachers’ union, as well as the school’s head of anti-discrimination (do¯ wa shunin). In two quite passionate speeches that seemed to veil suppressed anger, he argued that personal adornment such as pierced ears or nail-varnish weren’t bad; they were one choice the child had. In that sense, they were like not attending school ( futo¯ ko¯ ). ‘If you say that it’s bad when people are different from you, isn’t

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83

that a human rights issue ( jinken mondai)? I’ve come to feel that the feeling “that person is different from me” is at the bottom of discrimination, including buraku discrimination.’24 Few teachers seemed to want to tell the child decisively to stop piercing her ears, either because of the qualms they themselves held, or out of a desire to avoid confrontation. Even one of the more outspoken, who frankly said that in terms of common sense ( jo¯ shiki) he thought it was out of line (okashii) for primary school children to pierce their ears, said that it was necessary to ‘teach’ (oshieru) children this, rather than ‘forcing it on them’ (oshitsukeru). Tachibanaki-sensei, an experienced woman teacher who exuded care and competence, emphasized that it wasn’t a question of ‘this is no good’, but a question of ‘why?’ In her view, children didn’t act in such ways unless something was amiss – because they were lonely and didn’t see much of their parents, perhaps. It was left to the principal and vice-principal to come down decisively in favour of saying no to personal adornment. Called on to give the final word once the discussion had reached an end, the principal stated flatly that children should be given guidance (shido¯ ) so that they stopped the personal adornment. If teachers accepted pierced ears, he said, they would end up accepting everything. All in all, the debate seemed like a miniature version of wider debates about individuality in Japanese society, and education in particular. It included implicit criticism of Japanese education for its conformism, which some blame for problems such as school non-attendance ( futo¯ ko¯ ) and bullying (Yoneyama, 1999; Yoneyama and Naito, 2003), and, like Takamatsu-sensei, link to wider issues of discrimination, such as that against the burakumin minority. Liberal points of view among teachers tend to favour ideas of individuality as encouraging choice, diversity, and autonomy. The debate also included more conservative points of view, which considered that primary school children were too young to go in for personal adornment such as piercing ears, dying hair, or varnishing nails, and which were probably also fearful of the consequences for the school’s discipline and public reputation if such personal adornment were allowed. The debate was not, however, a simple one, as an older male teacher pointed out during an after-school gathering at a local coffee shop a week later: where was the ‘individuality’ in wanting to go along with the latest fashion in personal adornment? Most teachers, moreover, either refrained from voicing a view either way, or seemed to occupy a middle position; they might not be ready to embrace the freedom of children to pierce their ears, but nor did they think the school should just brusquely forbid them to do so. Rather, the most important thing was for the teacher to pay attention to the child, understand what lay behind her actions, and help the child herself to think about what she should do and why. In the end, the principal’s intervention ensured that personal adornment was not legitimated as an expression of individuality at the school. Yet exactly how teachers were to ‘guide’ the child so that she stopped the ear-piercing remained unclear. The Morikawa situation closely resembles a case reported

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by Tsuneyoshi (2001: 111), when teachers at a Tokyo primary school were divided about what to do about a child with dyed hair. Such incidents well demonstrate the conflicts that face teachers as they strive to deal with demands for the development of individuality and autonomy, at the same time as socializing children who can integrate with the rest of society.

Conclusion As discussed in Chapter 1, writers on Japanese schooling have generally found an emphasis upon interdependence and group cohesion, although Cummings (1980: 177–8, 192–7) has argued that Japanese primary schooling successfully aims to develop the individual. At Nakamachi and Morikawa, both emphases could be seen. As I have shown, teachers at the two schools strongly emphasized interdependence. In some cases, such as that of Yoshiokasensei, this was expressed in terms of the class group as nakama. This concept implied that members of the class group should support one another and share a special feeling of class warmth, not on a voluntaristic basis, such as individual likings for one another, but on the basis of being members of the same class. According to this concept, the demands made by the nakama, as group of primary membership, went beyond general ethical demands, such as showing kindness to others. However, even teachers who did not seem to articulate this concept explicitly, such as Sanada-sensei, nonetheless emphasized interdependence and mutual support. Moreover, the experience of school was organized in such a way as to make this understanding of the class group plausible. This was done through techniques such as the organization of the class into small groups, the use of big school events as foci for class endeavours, class meetings, class newsletters, and class singing. Both embodied activity and the verbal discourse in terms of which this activity was understood were crucial in creating experience which might exercise a lasting influence on children. However, the discourse of interdependence was not the only major discourse of selfhood at the two schools. The individual was also emphasized, both through the encouragement of perseverance and individual willpower, and through emphasis on moral autonomy. These emphases were less prominent within the type of non-academic activities described in this chapter, but they were nonetheless present. Educational reform appeared to have had little impact upon the organization of non-academic activities at the two schools. It might be expected, however, that the impact of reform would be felt more strongly in the sphere of academic activities. These are therefore examined in the next two chapters, concentrating on the subjects of kokugo (Japanese) and mathematics. In addition, academic activities are a major part of school life, and therefore can be expected to have important implications for the development of understandings of selfhood.

Groups and individuals at primary school 85

Notes 1 There were different levels of research lesson. Some were carried out on a year (gakunen) level: that is, the individual teacher’s lesson would be preceded and followed by meetings of the teachers of the classes in that year, to discuss the plans for the lesson or the lesson itself. Others were carried out on a departmental (gakubu) level, there being three departments, comprised of teachers of first and second year, third and fourth year, and fifth and sixth year classes respectively. In such cases, pre- and post-lesson meetings would involve all the teachers in a department. In these two cases, the research lessons would be open to any teacher within the school. The most elaborate type of research lesson was open to teachers from outside the school; these lessons were usually part of a presentation (happyo¯ ) of the results of research which the school had been directed to carry out over a two-year period by the City or Prefectural Boards of Education, or even by the Ministry of Education itself. In the last-named case, a hundred or more teachers, educators, and administrators could be expected to come from all over the country to see the lessons and hear the rest of the presentation. I had witnessed such an event at Morikawa in 1994. Schools nominated to do such research are called shitei-ko¯ . 2 That is, a shitei-ko¯ (see previous note). 3 Teachers and other school staff may be transferred between schools before the beginning of the new school year in April. Details of transfers are decided by the Personnel Department in the Prefectural Board of Education. Teachers can apply for a transfer to another school, but their wish is not necessarily granted. In short, transfer between schools is not under teachers’ own control. 4 A plethora of such journals are published in Japan. Targeted at school teachers, they are usually monthlies, and contain a variety of articles and lesson plans, mostly written by practising teachers, and therefore very practical. Besides general journals with titles such as Kyo¯ iku gijutsu (Education Techniques), there are also journals focused on specific year-groups, or on particular subjects, such as Jissen kokugo kenkyu¯ (Practical Research in Japanese) or Atarashii sansu¯ kenkyu¯ (Elementary Mathematics Teaching Today). 5 Privately organized research groups, where a small group of individuals met regularly to discuss a common interest, must be distinguished from the city-wide or prefecture-wide research groups of which almost all teachers were members, but in which few teachers were actively involved. In Sakura, membership of a privately organized research group was likely to show an unusually high level of commitment to professional self-development. 6 After being President of Tohoku and Kyoto Imperial Universities, Sawayanagi founded and became principal of Seijo¯ Primary School, a private school in Tokyo, where he became a leader of the progressive education movement. See Nakano (1968), Mizuuchi (1989), and Hirahara and Terasaki (1998: 126). 7 According to a television programme on the subject, Kinyo¯ fo¯ ramu: terebi dorama ga egaku kyo¯ shi to kodomotachi (Friday Forum: Depictions of Teachers and Children in Television Dramas), broadcast by the public broadcasting channel NHKSo¯ go¯ on 18 October 1996. 8 Kinpachi is the teacher’s given name (his surname is Sakamoto). In my own experience in Japanese schools, it is unusual, but by no means extraordinary, for teachers to be known informally by their given names. This usually happens when two teachers have the same surname, or when the teacher in question has a rather unusual given name. In Kinpachi-sensei’s case, it is also a symbol of the warm feelings between the teacher and his class. 9 The standard form of the noun is atatakasa, but Yoshioka-sensei emphasized to me that she meant attakasa, the more informal variant. Unfortunately, she was

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10

11

12 13 14 15 16 17

18

19 20

21

22 23

Groups and individuals at primary school unable to explain what exactly the difference was. Possibly the informality of attakasa suggests closer (and thus ‘warmer’) relations between class members. Although I have supplied the subject ‘I’ as most appropriate in English translation, neither this sentence nor the two following (where I have supplied the subject ‘we’) contain a grammatical subject in the original Japanese. As I suggested in Chapter 1, the fact that subjects are often unnecessary in Japanese means that (as here) no clear distinction is made between ‘I’ and ‘we’. I would suggest that this helps to make consciousness of such distinctions between self and others weaker than it would be in a language where subjects are always clearly distinguished. In human pyramids (kumi taiso¯ ), children work in teams of two, three, or more, two children lifting a third off the ground while she strikes a pose, for example. The importance of reliable mutual support is thus learned through physical experience. The importance of enactment is also strongly emphasized by Clifford Geertz’s famous essay on the Balinese cockfight. Geertz argues that participation in cockfights is, for the Balinese, ‘a kind of sentimental education’ (1993: 449). Children at Japanese schools spend about 20 minutes every day in school cleaning. Kakari simply means ‘person/people responsible’. Katsudo¯ means ‘activities’. Japanese pupils stand and bow to the teacher at the beginning and end of the lesson, at the beginning with a formulaic expression of humble request, and at the end with an expression of thanks. Similar class meetings at primary schools in other parts of Japan have been described by Tsuneyoshi (1990: 132–7) and Lewis (1995: 111–13). Most teachers I observed had all their class members write a diary (nikki) every day. The main purpose of this practice is to allow better communication between teacher and pupils, since, with up to 40 children in a class, teachers usually have less time than they would like to talk with children individually, and it is particularly easy for quieter children to be overlooked. Teachers hope that through the diary they will be able to detect when a child is unhappy or having some problems. Teachers often have children write diaries for ten minutes or so during the afternoon going-home meeting (kaeri no kai). The topic is usually free, but occasionally teachers may ask children to write about a particular subject. Besides ichimai bunshu¯ , which are mainly made up of extracts from pupils’ own writings, some teachers make gakkyu¯ tsu¯ shin, which are class newsletters mainly written by the teacher and directed primarily at parents of class members, to keep them up to date about recent and forthcoming class events. See Nagata (1996). The morning and going-home meetings were held at the start and end of each day respectively, and lasted for fifteen minutes each. Such meetings are standard practice in Japanese primary school (Lewis, 1995: 104–5; Tsuneyoshi, 2001: 21, 31–2). Both Sanada-sensei and Yoshioka-sensei sometimes had their pupils write reflections on the lesson immediately afterwards. Pupils assessed how well they had understood and how satisfied they were with their own performance during the lesson. The teacher would read the reflections and sometimes respond with a written comment. As with the previous graduation album composition, the sentences where I have inserted the subject [I/we] have no grammatical subject in the original Japanese. In this case, it does not seem possible to make clear decision about which first person subject is most appropriate. In the collection of Miyazawa’s poems translated by Hiroaki Sato, from which this translation is taken, the poem bears the title November 3rd. The translation will soon be re-published in a forthcoming collection (Miyazawa, 2007). The other poem was Takamura Ko¯ taro¯ ’s Do¯ tei (Journey), which I also encountered in schools several times.

Groups and individuals at primary school 87 24 Buraku discrimination refers to Japanese people known as burakumin, who have faced long-standing discrimination within Japan as supposed carriers of ritual pollution, partly based on their professions (leather-working, therefore involving contact with dead animals), and partly as a result of stigmatization by the Tokugawa Shogunate as an outcaste group (Neary, 1989).

3

Stories of the self

This chapter examines texts and activities in which children at Nakamachi and Morikawa engaged during their study of kokugo (Japanese language and literature).1 Kokugo is a key subject when considering discourses about self and practices of personal formation in Japan’s primary schools, both because of the curriculum time it commands, and because of the significance of its content. Language and literacy are central to the Japanese primary curriculum, as in most countries, and kokugo takes up more hours than any other subject. Between 1992 and 2002 the curriculum in effect set 210 hours for sixth year kokugo – 20 per cent of the 1,015 hours allocated for the entire sixth year curriculum (Monbusho¯ , 1989: 158).2 Moreover, ideas about self and personal identity were often central to sixth year kokugo texts. In the texts used at Nakamachi and Morikawa, the predominating discourses were ones that represented individuals and their identities as intrinsically linked to the larger worlds – social and natural – of which they were a part. As important as texts were the activities in which children engaged during kokugo lessons. Such activities revealed the kinds of personal development at which teachers were aiming for their pupils. More than that, they were practices through participation in which children acquired an embodied understanding of what was expected of them as persons in the school context. Through the class activities, the children could learn that both individual work and work that helped others were valued, and they had a chance to discover through experience what kinds of activities they themselves enjoyed. In the kokugo lessons, Yoshioka-sensei and her colleagues at Nakamachi attempted to balance individuality and self-direction on the one hand with mutual help and interconnected learning on the other. They tried to give children opportunities to think for themselves and direct their own studies, while still ensuring that individual activities eventually connected with and strengthened the learning of the entire class. In all, therefore, kokugo lessons at Nakamachi gave children the message that they were interdependent beings, yet also emphazised the importance of self-directed, individual activity. Texts and activities in kokugo were thus imbued with a range of discourses of self, from interdependence and self-discipline to autonomy and individuality.

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The practices of the kokugo classroom at Nakamachi can also be understood as a form of dialogic inquiry, as explained by Wells (1999). Such inquiry focuses on increasing knowledge or improving understanding through a dialogue between participants in what Wells calls a ‘community of inquiry’ (1999: 121–4). Wells has argued that dialogic inquiry requires open-ended tasks and a classroom ethos that encourages the sharing of and engagement with different perspectives (1999: 126). I shall argue that the kokugo classroom at Nakamachi could be at least partially characterized as a community of inquiry in which children were able to share and engage with each others’ perspectives. This was in no small part thanks to the role played by the teacher in creating a classroom situation conducive to such inquiry.

Kokugo: the explicit and the hidden curriculum According to Japan’s primary curriculum, kokugo is intended to develop children’s minds, attitudes and emotions. Among the many attributes that the sixth year curriculum aims to cultivate are thinking ability, sympathy for others, and love and understanding of Japanese culture and traditions (Monbusho¯ 1989: 5–23). Alongside this explicit curriculum, kokugo, like other subjects, has a ‘hidden curriculum’ – implicit messages that are conveyed by curriculum content and the organization of study, but of which not only pupils but also teachers may be partly or even entirely unconscious (Meighan and Siraj-Blatchford, 2003: 65–76). Textbooks are one important agent in the creation and mediation of the hidden curriculum, particularly in a country such as Japan where textbooks carry considerable authority (Rohlen, 1983: 243, 247). The hidden curriculum embedded in Japan’s primary kokugo textbooks has been partly elucidated by Elaine Gerbert (1993) through a sensitive comparison with readers in the United States. Gerbert argues convincingly that leading Japanese primary kokugo textbooks of the 1980s and early 1990s portrayed children as contemplative, feeling, not especially active beings, who resembled one another and were largely free from the struggles with strong desires that engaged their American counterparts. In contrast, children in American readers were ‘depicted as highly goal-oriented individuals’ who actively assumed responsibilities, intervened in the world around them, and ‘gain[ed] mastery over themselves by facing new challenges’ (Gerbert, 1993: 158). Japanese textbooks encouraged identification with the feelings of their characters, while American readers adjured readers to step back and analyse character and action in their stories. Gerbert concludes that the kokugo textbooks foster a view of self as passive, contemplative, empathetic, sensitive to nature, and similar to others. However, she also argues that the textbooks introduced in 1992 make limited moves towards depicting protagonists who are less passive, and more selfconfident and creative, and points out that this is in line with the educational reform programme and the 1989 curriculum. Gerbert’s analysis shows how much can be learned through careful

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examination of textbooks. Yet though textbooks are powerful disseminators of discourse, and set the framework for study in the Japanese primary classroom, they are nonetheless only one part of the entire teaching and learning process. Teachers in the schools observed used the textbooks with some freedom, modifying their proposed activities according to their perceptions of the children’s needs. Moreover, children learn selfhood not only through the discourses they encounter in texts, but also through the classroom practices they experience. Therefore, this chapter first examines the content of sixth year kokugo textbooks, and then goes on to look at teaching and learning practices in sixth year classrooms.

Self and personal identity in the sixth year kokugo textbooks The sixth year kokugo textbooks used at Nakamachi and Morikawa contained several pieces of poetry or fiction that dealt with the subject of self and personal identity either directly or obliquely.3 Among these were three poems, the very last texts in the sixth year textbook, which the children studied just before graduation. The theme that united the poems was ‘life’ (inochi) – existence or being, in its most fundamental and comprehensive sense. As Morioka has explained in his important article on this subject, the Japanese word inochi refers to ‘the state of being alive’ as well as ‘the mysterious power or energy that keeps creatures and humans alive’, and it can also refer to ‘eternal life’ (Morioka, 1991: 87–8). Morioka’s surveys and interviews among contemporary Japanese show how pervasive within Japan is a conception of ‘life’ as flowing through the entire natural world, and maintained in each individual thanks to the unending mutual support received from the rest of nature (1991: 90). He points out that these understandings ultimately draw on Buddhist and Neo-Confucian thought (1991: 87, 99, 109). Such cosmological conceptions are an important constituent part of the discourse of the self as interdependent. In its notes on this unit of the textbook, the teachers’ manual described the differing emphases of the three poems as follows: In To Live, we gaze upon the ‘life’ (inochi) that is living now; in Yuzuriha, we talk about the ‘life’ that parents are handing over, while Ezo Pines relates the harsh conditions within which new ‘life’ is born. (Mitsumura Tosho Shuppan Kabushiki Kaisha, 1992: 254) First came Tanikawa Shuntaro¯ ’s poem, To Live (Ikiru). This powerfully rhythmic poem represented what it meant ‘to live’ by a series of vivid sense-images:4 生きているということ いま生きているということ それはのどがかわくということ

To be living To be living now Is for the throat to be dry

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木もれ陽がまぶしいということ

To be dazzled by sunlight through trees ふっと或るメロデｲを思い出すこと To suddenly remember some melody くしゃみすること To sneeze あなたと手をつなぐこと To hold your hand *** 生きているということ To be living いま生きているということ To be living now 泣けるということ To be able to weep 笑えるということ To be able to laugh 怒れるということ To be able to be angry 自由ということ To be free *** 生きているということ To be living いま生きているということ To be living now 鳥ははばたくということ Is for birds to take flight 海はとどろくということ For the sea to roar かたつむりははうということ For snails to glide 人は愛するということ For people to love あなたの手のぬくみ The living warmth of your hand いのちということ Life (Kurihara, 1994a: 94–7)

In this extraordinary poem, living is presented as feelings and sensuous experiences that are shared by all natural things. To live is to be able to weep, laugh, and be angry – to feel, more than to think (thinking is not mentioned). Humans are presented as part of nature, and just as all other natural things spontaneously act in characteristic ways (birds flap their wings, snails crawl, and so on), so too do humans, whose most significant actions are presented as loving, trusting relationships with other humans, symbolized by the simple yet profoundly meaningful act of joining hands. In this poem the individual is hardly visible, dispersed in a general human consciousness whose commonality with the rest of nature is stressed. The main features that distinguish humans in the poem are not cognitive features such as language or thought, but instead love and relationship, expressed in elemental gestures common to humans from the youngest infant on.5 There is not a single individual human actor specified in the whole poem, and of the 12 grammatical subjects in the poem’s 39 lines, only three are human at all.6 The poem culminates with the summation, inochi to iu koto (the thing called life). This is entirely in tune with a view of life as encompassing the entirety of nature, connoting the ‘energy or power that keeps us alive’, and existing ‘by virtue of the surrounding mutual support networks of inochi [i.e. living] beings’, the view that Morioka has shown to be pervasive in Japan (Morioka, 1991: 90). In the second and third poems that the children read, humans continued to be seen as participants in the natural world’s cycle of life, and discourses of

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mutual obligation and interdependence again predominated. The penultimate poem, Kawai Suimei’s Yuzuriha, was about a species of evergreen bush whose old leaves drop once the new leaves emerge (hence the Japanese name, yuzuriha, which translates as ‘leaf that gives up its place’).7 The poet8 addresses the children, telling them that just as the old leaves of the yuzuriha, no matter how large or thick, must ‘yield their lives to the new leaves’ (atarashii ha ni inochi o yuzutte), so everything in this world will be handed over to them, regardless of their desires in the matter: 今、お前たちは気が付かないけれど ひとりでにいのちは延びる。 鳥のようにうたい、 花のように笑っている間に 気が付いてきます。

You don’t realize it now But life (inochi) goes on of its own accord. As you are singing like birds and laughing like flowers You will come to realize. (Kurihara, 1994a: 100–1)

As with the previous poem, the emphasis is on the children’s being part of the natural, unstoppable cycle of life, which they cannot control but must simply accept. They belong to the natural world as much as the yuzuriha, an idea that is reinforced by the similes that describe them as ‘singing like birds and laughing like flowers’. The poem is also about the process whereby one generation (parents) hands over the world to the next (children). In one class at Morikawa where I watched this poem being taught, the teacher tried to focus attention on how much the children owed to their parents. The lesson fell rather flat, however, with students showing few signs of engagement. This might have been because there was too little time to dwell on the poem, or else because the teacher was too directive and did not focus on the children’s own interpretations of the poem. In another class, the teacher eschewed such didacticism and concentrated on eliciting the ideas of the children, confining her own comments largely to a few observations at the end of the lesson. This teacher gave the children time to write out their thoughts, and was more successful in engaging them in thinking about the poem and its meaning. Finally, the children read Kanzawa Toshiko’s poem, Ezo Pines (Ezomatsu).9 The poem explains how pine seeds are able to take root and grow, despite the heavy rains and harsh winds of northern Japan, because they often alight upon the rotting, moss-covered trunks of old pines that have fallen in strong winds. The seeds can then thrive thanks to the shelter and nutrients that their forebears’ rotting trunks provide. The poem foresees the time when these new trees will themselves grow old and fall, as part of an endless cycle of death and birth: 夜の森。えぞまつたちは、星をあおいで立っている。 小さな種だったとき落ちた所に、立っている。 百年 ——— 二百年 ———三百年、立ち続けている。 そうして、この木たちもまた、ある日たおれる。

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その上に種が落ち、新しい命が育ってゆくだろう。 年取ったものから次のものへ、命は受けつがれてゆくのだ。 この世のある限り。 Night in the forest. The Ezo pines stand gazing up at the stars. They stand, where they fell as small seeds. A hundred – two hundred – three hundred years, they continue to stand. And then one day, these trees too will topple. Upon them seeds will fall, and new life (inochi) grow up. From those that have grown old to their successors, life is passed on. While the world remains. (Kurihara, 1994a: 107) Again in this poem, humans are seen as essentially part of nature, and their similarities with other living things are emphasized. The emphasis is on the cycle of life, life that continues unendingly in a constant stream, even while individuals appear and vanish. The seeds are dependent for survival and growth on what has been provided by those that have gone before. As noted in chapter 1, Ruth Benedict argued that the Japanese see themselves as ‘debtors to the ages’ (1974 [1946]: 98), a notion that is powerfully expressed by this poem, with its implicit parallel between the natural and human worlds. This parallel was pointed out by several children at Morikawa, who compared the old falling trees to parents (oya), and connected this theme of the parent-child link with the similar theme of Yuzuriha. While it is clear that interdependence is the dominant way of thinking about self in all three of these poems, it is also possible to see echoes of the discourse of seishin independence in Ezo Pines. Several Morikawa children saw this poem as being partly about growing up as a battle through hardship (kuro¯ shite sodatsu), in which the seeds that survive have to overcome trials that ultimately help them grow (seicho¯ suru tame no shiren). This was not without foundation in the text, which stated that weak saplings died and only strong ones survived, but it could not be called an obvious interpretation. That the children could make this interpretation suggested that they had already thoroughly absorbed discourses about the inevitable need to overcome hardship in order to achieve personal growth. Identity, dedication and maturity in textbook fiction Interdependence and the need for effort were also major themes in two stories that appeared in the sixth year kokugo textbook. The first of these was Ishiusu no uta (The Song of the Mortar), by the well-known female author Tsuboi Sakae. The story is set during the hard times at the end of the Asia-Pacific War in Japan, and the main character is a girl named Chieko. At the beginning of the story, Chieko hates the dull, soporific sound the mortar makes during grinding, and it is only very unwillingly that she helps her

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grandmother in this task. However, by the end of the story she has willingly taken her grandmother’s place, helped by her young cousin Mizue, whose parents have been killed by the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. The story ends like this: ‘Study, study, endure what’s hard,’ (benkyo¯ se¯, benkyo¯ se¯, tsurai koto demo gaman shite) the mortar began to sing. On the brows of Chieko and Mizue, sweat gathered moistly. (Kurihara, 1994b: 68) The message of the story is that life requires dedication and effort, and a willingness to buckle down to quotidian yet essential tasks. By showing this willingness, the two girls demonstrate that they have achieved maturity. The story also associates this maturity with a willingness to take over roles and responsibilities from the older generation (as in the poem Yuzuriha). It is praiseworthy to show selfless dedication to the group of which one is a member. This, the story implies, is where true heroism is to be found, and also true satisfaction, for we are told at the outset that Chieko had once hated the song of the mortar, but had come to love it. In terms of the ways of thinking about selfhood discussed in the opening chapter, the model of mature selfhood in this story is clearly derived from the discourses of interdependence and seishin self-discipline. We should also bear in mind Rohlen’s suggestion (Rohlen, 1986: 332) that in Japan, conformity to roles and responsibilities is often viewed as a sign of maturity and inner strength. Thus, Chieko’s change of attitude might be seen not as unthinking submission to the demands of a social role, but as determined self-direction resulting from new understanding, thus reconciling the self-discipline discourse of selfhood with the discourse of selfhood as autonomy (shutaisei). Yoshioka-sensei herself strongly believed in such a combination of autonomous self-direction and self-discipline. She once told me that she wanted the children to realize that ‘within things that are hard, there’s something that sparkles’ (kibishisa no naka ni kira-kira shiteiru mono ga aru), meaning that doing things whole-heartedly led to a sense of reward, and also to personal growth. This philosophy was connected to her desire for the children to be self-directed and say what they really wanted, even if that meant reacting strongly to others. She preferred this to drifting through life without what she called a sense of crisis (kikikan). Children in modern Japan were to be pitied for their lack of such a sense of crisis, she thought, because as a result, few felt impelled to make decisions about what they had to do. The second textbook story to deal with the theme of selfhood was by the songwriter Aku Yu¯ , and was entitled Garasu no kobin (The Little Glass Bottle). In this first-person story, selfhood and personal identity were more complex and problematic matters than in the texts discussed so far. The narrator explains that he has an empty glass bottle which he has kept ‘like a part of my body’ since he was a sixth year at primary school (the same age as

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the children reading the text). The bottle is nothing special to look at, and he has often thought of discarding it, but has never quite been able to do so. Occasionally he has even deliberately left it somewhere and then retrieved it. The empty bottle used to belong to the narrator’s father, and at that time was full of earth from Ko¯ shien stadium, where his father had competed in the National High School Baseball Championships – the acme of sporting glory for Japanese youth.10 His father had been extremely proud of having played at Ko¯ shien and had talked about it often – too often for his son, who felt slight resistance (hanpatsu) at those times. The father seemed almost to feel that the earth had magical powers, even though his adult life had not been tremendously successful. Finally, one day the son had an explosion of resentment after a severe scolding by his father, and threw the earth away into the garden – only to be overcome with horror at the thought of his father’s reaction. In the event, however, his father didn’t get angry, but seemed almost cheerful. Giving his son the empty bottle, he said to him, ‘You’re to fill this with something in place of my earth from Ko¯ shien.’ The now-adult narrator ends by saying that the bottle is still empty, and he hasn’t decided what he should put in it. The story had clearly been included in the textbook because it was perceived to be appropriate for sixth year primary children. Yoshioka-sensei told me that it was meant as material for children who were just starting to feel a sense of separation from and resistance (hanpatsu) towards their parents. It is also fascinating for its exploration of selfhood and personal identity. It expresses the sense that a person’s self is unique and that he must create it himself, and yet also the sense that one’s life is irrevocably linked with that of one’s parents, and that one has an obligation to them to use one’s life as well as possible. All this is suggested by the symbolism of the glass bottle. The receptacle itself comes from the narrator’s father, with an injunction to fill it with something. The boy is technically free to fill the bottle with anything he likes, or even to ignore his father’s words, yet it is clear that he cannot escape a sense of obligation to fill the bottle with something that his father would see as evidence of a life well-lived. Like The Song of the Mortar, and the songs discussed in the previous chapter, this story strongly suggests that life should be lived with dedication; dedication is what the Ko¯ shien earth symbolizes, and the son clearly feels the obligation to fill the bottle with a symbol of his own dedication, as the story’s final sentence shows: What I with pride am going to fill it with – moon rock or Antarctic lichen, or else drops of my sweat (watashi no ase no shizuku) – I can’t yet decide. (Kurihara, 1994a: 69) One girl at Nakamachi described this mission as a trial (shiren), the same word as was used by children at Morikawa to describe the obstacles faced by the growing saplings of Ezo Pines. This once again shows how children’s

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familiarity with the discourse of seishin self-reliance led them to readily interpret texts in its terms. By accepting his father’s mission, the son is also implicitly accepting his attitude to life. Though the story expresses ambivalence about the binding up of identity with filial obligation, it seems clear that the narrator has accepted this obligation, albeit precariously. It is probably no exaggeration to say that the story encapsulates the conflicting feelings of many Japanese, torn between desire for individual freedom and autonomy on the one hand, and acceptance of obligations to others, and especially to parents, on the other. By accepting the bottle and by continuing to keep it despite his impulses to throw it away, the narrator embraces a view of selfhood that accepts that ties to others, especially parents, can never be completely broken. Even as an adult, one cannot pretend to complete independence. Even so, the transmission of identity from the older generation to the younger is much more problematic in this story than in The Song of the Mortar. The ambivalence of the younger generation towards the older, and its desire to be independent and autonomous, are more clearly present. Even in the narrator’s present, there remains conflict, and the possibility that the bottle might be discarded.

Self-direction and learning from others in the classroom community From the analysis above, it is clear that texts in the sixth year kokugo textbooks tended to emphasize interdependence and self-discipline over other discourses of personal identity, despite the acute problematization of identity in one story. Children were clearly familiar with discourses of growth through self-discipline, and readily interpreted texts in these terms. However, children’s selfhood develops not only through exposure to textual discourses, but also through the activities in which they participate. Kokugo at Nakamachi and Morikawa was not just a question of the unmediated absorption of texts, but involved an entire organized experience of learning. Some teachers’ pedagogical practices in kokugo placed much more stress on autonomy and individuality than did the textbooks, complicating the issue of how selfhood was being shaped during these lessons. The way Yoshioka-sensei’s pupils studied The Little Glass Bottle provides a good example. The practices Yoshioka-sensei used while teaching this unit were a variation on a well-established pattern for teaching fictional texts in primary kokugo. Such standard patterns can be observed in kokugo classrooms, were described in interviews by teachers, and are also evident in teachers’ action research publications.11 The class studies a text together, and teachers normally strive to ensure that as part of this process, children have opportunities both to engage with the text individually and also learn from one another’s insights. Study of The Little Glass Bottle began with a first reading of the entire story together. The children then individually wrote short accounts of their initial thoughts and feelings (kanso¯ bun); what parts of the story impressed them,

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what puzzled them, and what they would like to explore more deeply. This was a standard practice, used by teachers to learn the concerns of the children and focus their whole-class teaching accordingly.12 After the first kanso¯ bun, children usually study the text individually, using an approach prescribed by the teacher.13 Having followed standard practice so far, however, Yoshioka-sensei next acted more innovatively. Rather than instructing children on the method they should use for their individual study, she allowed the children to spend a lesson planning how they themselves wanted to study the text. She showed them their earlier work in kokugo to give them ideas, allowed them 20 minutes to make plans individually, and then had a whole-class session where she asked several children what they planned to do and how. The next four kokugo lessons (which were spread over about a week) were then devoted to individual work (hitori-gakushu¯ ). A few children chose to look at the story’s language, but most decided to explore changes in the protagonists’ feelings ( jinbutsu no kimochi no henka) during the story. The most common method used for this was to draw a table with several columns, in the first of which was written one paragraph of the text, in the second, an analysis of the feelings shown by the son in that paragraph, and in the third, a similar analysis of the father’s feelings. Some children included other columns; one boy made a column headed ‘queries’ ( gimon), in which he wrote what puzzled him in the text. Another method used was to pose a series of questions about the story and then try to answer them. Some children also illustrated their work with depictions of scenes from the story. During this stage of the work, Yoshioka-sensei intervened hardly at all; she walked around and looked at the children’s work with a few expressions of interest, but without making more than a very rare suggestion. On the other hand, once or twice she did tell the children to get up, walk around, and look at one another’s work, partly just to see and appreciate what others were doing, and partly to get ideas from others. In fact, the children were in the habit of doing this in any case, as this kind of interchange (ko¯ ryu¯ ) was generally encouraged by Yoshioka-sensei. It was not acceptable, however, for children to get up simply to go and chat with friends, nor did they do so. Immediately after one of these lessons, Yoshioka-sensei and I went to attend a Research Presentation Meeting (kenkyu¯ happyo¯ kai) at another public primary school in Sakura. Large numbers of teachers wandered from classroom to classroom, watching the various research lessons (kenkyu¯ jugyo¯ ) that were taking place. Yoshioka-sensei and I spent some time watching a fifth year kokugo class about the story, Daizo¯ -jı¯san to gan (Old Man Daizo¯ and the Geese). It looked a lively and successful lesson, employing typical practices; the teacher asked questions about the way the characters’ feelings developed during the story, the children enthusiastically raised their hands to give ideas, and the teacher then wrote their comments on a large sheet of paper stuck to the blackboard. Yoshioka-sensei agreed that it was typical; ‘it was the usual pattern’, she said to a colleague later. But her approval of it was qualified. ‘I’ve done that kind of lesson myself,’ she explained as we returned to Nakamachi.

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Figure 3.1 Painting a picture to illustrate a story from the kokugo textbook in 6–3 at Nakamachi, 1996.

‘In fact, children feel at ease (anshin suru) with that kind of lesson. They know what to do, they are happy to raise their hands and speak. Maybe that kind of kokugo lesson is more fun. But I don’t think that is the ultimate purpose. What I want to do is to have the children develop the power of choosing their own way of studying, judging for themselves what they want to do and how. That’s what I’m trying to do in the present unit, with The Little Glass Bottle. But it’s difficult! There are quite a lot of children who prefer to be told what to do, and don’t enjoy having to decide for themselves, or who just decide to do what their friend is doing. In a sense my class is unfortunate in having started school before the current [1989] curriculum came in and the way of teaching changed. The new emphasis on having children choose, nurturing their ability to do things themselves, came in then; before that, it was just a question of pouring knowledge in (oshiekomi).’ A few days later, 6–3’s first whole-class lesson on The Little Glass Bottle took place. Yoshioka-sensei had the children move their desks closer to the front and centre of the classroom, so that everyone was physically very close to one another, with almost no space between the desks. (She told me later that the purpose of this was to bring the experience of whole-class discussion closer to that of ordinary conversation, thus encouraging children to speak out and share their thoughts.) She started the discussion herself by posing some simple but fundamental questions about the first section of the story. Compare how ordinary people see the bottle, and how the narrator sees it.

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What points are the same? What points are different? From this, the lesson developed into a discussion of the meaning of the bottle for the narrator. While Yoshioka-sensei gave no opinion of her own, she exercised some control over the discussion by choosing those who were to speak and by asking questions to develop the discussion at various points; for example, ‘If the bottle is so important to the narrator, why has he often tried to throw it away and then gone back to get it?’ However, the discussion also developed in response to ideas introduced by children, including the idea, mentioned above, that there was a trial (shiren) connected with the bottle. Finally, Yoshioka-sensei asked the class what they wanted to make the centre of attention for the next lesson, when they would look at the second part of the story. Six children made (very similar) suggestions, focusing on the differences between how the father and son saw the earth in the bottle. After a brief discussion, one boy dictated the heading for the next lesson: ‘Differences and similarities between the son’s and father’s perceptions of the earth’. Yoshioka-sensei wrote this on a large sheet of paper. The next lesson therefore concentrated on the father’s and son’s different views of the earth in the bottle. As in the previous lesson, the children raised their hands and gave their ideas. Yoshioka-sensei wrote their ideas up on the sheet of paper on the blackboard, and then after twenty minutes she asked two key questions. What is the son resisting? (Nani ni hanpatsu shiteiru?) Why is he resisting? This spurred the children to further thought and discussion which occupied the rest of the lesson. Two further lessons along similar lines concluded the class’s study of the text.

Figure 3.2 Whole-class session on The Little Glass Bottle in 6–3 at Nakamachi, 1995.

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How did Yoshioka-sensei’s approach differ from that of the research lesson at the other school? Both were based on a pattern whereby children spent several lessons working individually, followed by one or more lessons of teachermoderated class discussion. The difference lay in Yoshioka-sensei’s desire to give the children more autonomy than usual, first in deciding how to study the text as individuals, and then in determining the focus of discussion in the whole-class lessons.14 She exercised little overt control over class discussion, responding to the children’s ideas with expressions of interest or requests for clarification, but almost never disagreeing and rarely even asking a question.15 Rather, she exercised a broad control by more subtle means – by sometimes calling on children from whom she anticipated particularly perceptive remarks, and by herself asking a very searching question perhaps once in the lesson, a question which would direct the discussion towards an issue she regarded as fundamental to understanding the text. Yoshioka-sensei saw whole-class in-depth discussion as very important, not only for the cognitive development of individuals, but also for the social and emotional development of the class as a group. In terms of cognitive development, she believed that listening to others’ opinions was very useful for children whose understanding of the text up to that point had been insufficient (yometeinai ko). Like other teachers I encountered, she considered that children often found it easier to understand the explanations of their peers than those of the teacher. Thus, intensive whole-class discussion of a text allowed slower children to learn from the insights of the more able; they were not left to do their best on their own. Yoshioka-sensei was representative of other primary teachers I met in making it a primary goal to have all her pupils achieve acceptable and roughly equal academic progress, and in seeing such whole-class discussion lessons as an essential tool to this end. Besides being a key instrument of cognitive development, these kokugo discussions were also vital for Yoshioka-sensei’s approach to class management (gakkyu¯ keiei). She explained that kokugo helped the teacher to ‘form the class group’ because it enabled the development of the children’s mental and emotional selves (kokoro o sodateru) as they expressed their thoughts and feelings ( jibun no omoi o shaberu). Her ultimate aim, she said, was a class that could talk to one another about what they thought and felt (katariaeru kurasu). Since kokugo was so concerned with deepening understanding of thoughts and feelings, she saw it not just as an academic subject, but as a locus for emotional growth. It was one means of creating a class whose members were sensitive, open, and trusting of one another. Whole-class discussion was essential for this end. In its focus on increasing understanding through constructive discussion, and its emphasis on the need to create a classroom community, Yoshiokasensei’s class displayed features of the kind of group that Wells has described as a ‘community of inquiry’ (Wells, 1999: 121–4). Kokugo lessons were not didactic or teacher-dominated. Rather, the teacher took on the role of a facilitator, who structured the lessons in the way she felt would best promote

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inquiry, and then responded to the children’s initiatives when necessary, in order to guide discussion into deeper and more productive directions (Wells, 1999: 300, 308). One structuring move was the practice of having children write an initial kanso¯ bun, which allowed them to initiate dialogue about the story. Another structuring move was the ‘practice of recording ideas that emerged in whole-class discussion on large sheets of chart paper’, which, as Wells writes of the same technique in a Canadian primary classroom, ‘helped the children to focus on what was happening’ and ‘provided a collective record of [the class’s] emerging understanding’ (1999: 309). Yoshioka-sensei’s interventions were also facilitative rather than didactic. She made relatively few interventions in the whole-class discussions, mostly confining herself to the role of moderator and recorder, and allowing the children to speak at enough length to explain and justify their views, in a way similar to that advocated by Mercer (1995: 28) and Wells (1999: 156–7). On the relatively rare occasions when she did pose a question, it was an open-ended and challenging one to which there was no clear answer – a question designed to stimulate the children to a deeper level of thought and engagement. In this way, the teacher’s interventions worked to focus the children’s activity without dominating or directing them, thus ‘scaffolding’ the children’s progress to a higher level of understanding (Wood, 1998: 99–100; Wells, 1999: 127, 222) – what Mercer describes as ‘doing the job [teachers] are expected to do, of guiding the construction of knowledge’ (Mercer, 1995: 114). In Vygotskian terms, Yoshiokasensei was helping the children move forward within the ‘zone of proximal development’, defined as what they would be capable of alone, and what they can become capable of with appropriate guidance (Wells, 1999: 313). As Wells has noted, however, the creation of a ‘community of inquiry’ involves more than merely the implementation of a set of teaching techniques, or even the adoption of an open, inquiring stance towards experience and ideas. It requires the kind of interpersonal relations that can only flourish in an ethos where children are encouraged ‘to engage with and share the perspectives of others in order to understand them’ (Wells, 1999: 126). Wells argues that ‘interaction in the [zone of proximal development] necessarily involves all facets of the personality’, and in this sense, the zone of proximal development is ‘a site of identity formation’ (1999: 327). Children are learning to become collaborative inquirers, at least to some extent, or they are learning to become something different. We can therefore see that Yoshioka-sensei’s emphasis on the class as nakama and her approach to kokugo teaching were intimately interlinked. The creation of the classroom community helped to create the sense of safety within which children would be willing to speak out; and as they did so, sharing their ideas and feelings, the sense of trust and mutual understanding was further deepened, in a virtuous circle. Academic lessons were thus not a separate issue to that of the class as a community, but, as Sanada-sensei also told me, an integral means for the creation of that community. Other teachers at Nakamachi were also trying to increase children’s

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autonomy in kokugo, with varying success. One fifth year teacher, Fukushimasensei, gave a research lesson about the story Old Man Daizo¯ and the Geese, explaining at a research meeting with fifth and sixth year teachers before the lesson that she wanted to get away from ‘the old kokugo’ (mukashi no kokugo). According to Fukushima-sensei, this involved children studying themes decided by the teacher, whereas in ‘new kokugo’, the children’s studies were determined by their own interests.16 Accordingly, she allowed the children in her class to choose their own themes for study, with those who had chosen the same subject sitting in small groups which alternated between individual work and group discussion. After finishing the unit, however, Fukushimasensei admitted to regaining some respect for ‘the old kokugo’. She felt that the children’s self-chosen study themes had been of a disappointingly low level, and reflected that though the older approach might not be so good for encouraging independent study, it was effective for deepening children’s understanding. Fukushima-sensei’s experience indicates the difficulties that teachers may encounter in their attempts to implement educational reform and increase learner autonomy. Conflicts may arise between goals (such as autonomy and increased understanding) that are not only educational ideals but also aims written into the curriculum. Such conflicts can only be resolved through ongoing development of the practices of inquiry within schools. It is also possible that instead of a resolution, one aim will be abandoned or de-emphasized. Both Yoshioka-sensei and Fukushima-sensei modified their teaching practices in order to increase the children’s autonomy. In both cases, the catalyst for their innovations was the imperative to encourage independent learning, in line with the 1989 curricular reforms and the ongoing educational reform programme. The results were varied, and seemed to satisfy Yoshioka-sensei more than Fukushima-sensei. Yet the increased emphasis on the children’s individual learning autonomy did not radically change established practices of teaching and learning in kokugo, partly because these already incorporated considerable scope for individual interpretation of texts. Pedagogical practice continued to involve the whole class studying the same text or texts17 together, with individually-oriented lessons being followed by whole-class lessons in which the texts were discussed by all. In short, Nakamachi teachers were not abandoning the discourse of interdependence, but modifying their practices to allow more emphasis upon autonomy and individual difference. Their practices continued to be based on the view that interdependence in learning and life was fundamental for the children’s intellectual and social development.

Developing expression in the kokugo textbooks Besides reading-based units, the sixth year kokugo textbooks contained units intended to develop pupils’ powers of oral or written expression (hyo¯ gen). Many expression assignments were clearly intended to connect with school activities, and to encourage the formation of attitudes and feelings perceived

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as desirable, a feature of Japanese primary education to which Lewis (1995: 173) has drawn attention. For one assignment, pupils were told to write about something they were doing to make school life more fun or more friendly for everyone (minna ga nakayoku gakko¯ seikatsu o okureru). The example provided in the textbook was ‘Spending Time with the First Years’ (ichinensei to no ko¯ ryu¯ ) and was easily linked to the mixed-age activities that went on at primary schools like Nakamachi and Morikawa. Another example of the attempt to shape feelings was provided by the final composition unit in the textbook, entitled ‘Let’s Make a Scroll of Memories’ (omoide o ‘makimono’ ni). This suggested that pupils work in small groups to make scrolls that would remind them of their memories of the past year at school. The textbook example singled out certain events, such as sports day and the school trip, as particularly worth remembering. It was notable that in this attempt to shape what Connerton (1989) calls social memory, events that the textbook identified as worth recalling were limited to those organized by the school itself. The exercise thus privileged the recollection and commemoration of shared memories, not private or idiosyncratic ones. No time or season was to be remembered for purely private events, unconnected with the school; in the textbook example, even the school holidays were to be remembered for vacation homework! The exercise thus implied that the self was not a purely private matter, but was formed together with others through memories of shared moments.18 Besides units focused on group activities or shared memories, the sixth year textbook also contained six units for individual expression activities. Almost all of these assignments were for non-fiction compositions, with the exception of one, for which the children were asked to write poems. The first composition exercise in the textbook, for example, instructed pupils to make a daily record of ‘things in your daily life that stayed in your heart (kokoro ni nokotta koto) or made you think’ (Kurihara, 1994b: 18). The contemplative, impressionistic nature of this task bears out Gerbert’s analysis that kokugo textbooks’ implicit ideal is of a contemplative rather than an analytical child (Gerbert, 1993: 160–7). It should also be noted that the type of composition called for is one that could be categorized as belonging to either of two longestablished Japanese literary genres, those of the nikki (diary) or zuihitsu (miscellany), whose origin goes back to the Heian Period (794–1185). I was surprised how few units encouraged children to write imaginative fiction or poetry. This formed a strong contrast to my own memories of education in British state primary schools in the 1970s. Developing this form of imagination and the writing skills that go along with imaginative poetry or fiction are clearly not priorities for decision-makers in the Japanese education system. This is not necessarily a matter for criticism, for ethnographers have clearly demonstrated that pedagogical preferences for any form of literacy (including imaginative writing) are inevitably imbued with ideological assumptions about the kinds of writing, and the kinds of attitude to reality, that are desirable. Moreover, these assumptions often conflict with those that

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children bring to school from their families and local communities; even approaches to writing that are intended to be liberal and liberating can fail in their objectives because their implicit or explicit attitudes to reality are unrecognized or rejected by children (Heath, 1983; Finders, 1997). Yet it might nonetheless be suggested that an educational reform programme that aimed at encouraging individuality might want to explore the possibilities that imaginative writing may provide to this end. As Wells suggests, ‘extended written texts are particularly suited to activities involving individual reflection’ that takes place when people are alone (Wells, 1999: 142ff.). If taught sensitively, imaginative writing may offer at least some children the opportunity to develop ways of thinking, imagining and expressing that are individual or idiosyncratic, less constrained or at least operating under different constraints from those normally imposed on their acts of thinking and expression.

Debate and presentation at Nakamachi Not all expression units in the sixth year textbooks emphasized empathy, shared feelings, and sensitivity. One of the new features introduced in the sixth year textbooks used from 1992 to 1996 was a unit entitled, ‘Let’s Stage a Debate (to¯ ronkai)’. This section was unusual in its focus on making persuasive arguments. While debating has a long extra-curricular history in Japanese schools, debating clubs in the elite Higher Schools having been formed around the turn of the century (Roden, 1980),19 there has generally been very little emphasis on debate or argument in the Japanese curriculum and classroom. The introduction of the unit into the textbook was therefore in tune with the educational reform programme’s emphasis on thinking for oneself. The debate was the first of two expression units that Yoshioka-sensei’s class tackled during my observations at Nakamachi. The textbook proposed a highly formal debate structure between two groups of three, allowing each of the six speakers three minutes to speak. Yoshioka-sensei revised this by allowing a free debate section after the first four speeches. During this free exchange of arguments, the children used notes they had prepared beforehand, but even so, it demanded improvisation and gave more opportunity for individuals to display their debating skills. This was the liveliest part of the debate, and elicited from some children considerable argumentative powers and ingenuity. The subject ‘Which is a better place to go to enjoy yourself, the mountains or the sea?’ resulted in a debate whose development was summarized in my notes as follows: Mountains team (M): The sea is dirty, whereas the air in the mountains is clean and good for the health. Sea team (S): You can eat good things at the sea; in the mountains, you might be injured. M: You might drown at sea. S: You won’t drown at sea if you follow the rules.

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Babies might drown. You don’t let babies swim in the sea; on the other hand, young children go walking in the mountains. People rarely die at sea if they wear a rubber ring. M: There is less litter in the mountains, because they are notices against it. S: There are notices at the sea too, and there are people and machines to pick up any litter. You can eat lots of good things at the sea. M: In the mountains, you can camp, so you can have various experiences, you don’t have to stay at a ryokan [a Japanese-style inn]. S: You can camp and cook for yourself around the beach too, so you can enjoy yourself in two ways [staying in an inn, or camping]. M: That’s true of the mountains too. In the mountains, you can eat matsudake [a gourmet mushroom]. S: You can’t get matsudake so easily; it’s not always available, and it’s expensive. M: The scenery in the mountains is fine, there’s so much green; it’s a feast for the eyes and good for the health. S: People are destroying nature in the mountains. M: It’s better to cut down the trees than it is to make the sea dirty, because trees are made into paper. S: But then there’s more carbon dioxide, and it takes time for new trees to grow. M: One shouldn’t cut down trees, true, but it is useful to do so. Also, paper is recycled, so tree-cutting is decreasing. Yoshioka-sensei (interjecting): The debate seems to be going in the direction of pollution; can we get back to enjoying ourselves? M: In the mountains, the scenery enters into your heart, and you can relax. It stinks of fish at the sea; in the mountains, it’s a nice smell, not a harsh one. M: S:

Each side could ask for a time-out to hold a brief discussion about strategy. After this free debate session, a concluding speaker on each side made a speech. The rest of the class then voted on the winner, and Yoshioka-sensei asked some of the listeners to give an assessment of the two teams’ efforts. The debates encouraged analytical thinking, individual oral skills, and independent research to find supporting evidence for arguments. At the same time, they also encouraged teamwork and careful listening to others’ arguments. As she directed the activity, Yoshioka-sensei maintained a balance between independence and individuality on the one hand, and cooperation and mutual responsibility on the other. Children did not work individually but in han (the small groups they sat, worked, and did chores in), cooperating to make an effective presentation. Moreover, Yoshioka-sensei emphasized the role of the children listening, trying to ensure that the debates involved the entire class, not just the two groups debating at the time. Listeners were to take

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careful notes, and at the end of a debate Yoshioka-sensei asked some of them for an assessment of the presentations. She emphasized that this was useful for the debaters, as usual stressing that everyone in the class had a responsibility to be helping everyone else. As she presented it, listening and commenting was not a passive, uninvolved role, but an active and important one. I talked to another Nakamachi teacher about how he had taught the debate unit, and also to a teacher at the adjacent primary school, Ishida. In both cases, the teachers had modified the textbook plan, with the Ishida teacher combining kokugo with social studies (shakai) to stage debates about historical issues. I found this willingness to modify the textbook to be characteristic of Japanese primary teachers. Meanwhile, one sixth year teacher at Morikawa told me that since she couldn’t remember the unit, she suspected she may have skipped or rushed through it (tobidashita) because of lack of time. The variety of ways of treating the textbook suggests that schooling in Japan is not as standardized as has sometimes been thought. Different teachers can vary dramatically in the amount of time they spend on a unit, depending on their personal interests and their perceptions of their needs of their particular class. The second expression unit that I observed at Nakamachi was entitled ‘Research Presentations’ (kenkyu¯ happyo¯ kai), and involved children’s researching a self-chosen topic and then writing a report about it. Again 6–3’s lessons departed significantly from the textbook, which recommended that children work in groups, suggested the use of questionnaire surveys, and proposed uncontroversial research topics, such as ‘How people spend breaktimes’, ‘Slogans around the school’, ‘Play in the past, play today’; ‘Places of historical and cultural interest (bunka isan) around the school’, and ‘Our school’s history’. Such topics were certainly consistent with some of the attitudes that were aims of the kokugo curriculum, especially ‘love and understanding of Japanese culture and traditions’ (Monbusho¯ , 1989: 23). Underlying both curricular aims and textbook topics seemed to be an implicit view that children should find out about an officially approved version of culture and history, and there was no mention of encouraging a critical, questioning stance. In fact, the research report given as an example by the textbook was a model of conformity, the imaginary writers criticising their classmates for not using breaks to prepare for the next lesson, and urging them to ‘use break times effectively’ (yasumi jikan o yu¯ ko¯ ni katsuyo¯ suru). Yoshioka-sensei had children read out the textbook for reference (sanko¯ ), but she also modified the unit to allow the children more individual freedom and initiative. Children were to work individually, rather than in groups, and Yoshioka-sensei encouraged them to think of topics that interested them, not just the textbook examples. She also encouraged them to think more broadly than just questionnaire surveys. She told them that graphs and tables were good because they were easy to understand, but when asked by one girl about pictures, she agreed that they were okay too, saying, ‘I leave that kind of thing up to you’ ( jiyu¯ ni shimasu). After doing the research and writing the report, each child made a presen-

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tation to the class, using tables, graphs, and pictures as appropriate. Most reports were in fact based upon questionnaire surveys, on topics ranging from favourite television programmes or brands of pot noodle to what people ate for breakfast, where they would like to travel, what kind of pet they would like, or what they would like to be reincarnated as. However, some of the most interesting presentations were not based on questionnaires. One boy, a fishing enthusiast, explained the relation between pollution and the decline of the black bass, using pictures and tables to show how pollution affected insects and micro-organisms at different levels of lakes and rivers, and thus eventually affected the fish too. One girl investigated what kinds of goods were recycled, and which were not, and another made a presentation about hot spring resorts (onsen) and why people went to them. As with the debate unit, more room for individual initiative and freedom was balanced by emphasis on the class group. Children did not simply do their research, write their reports, and hand them in to the teacher; they made a presentation to the whole class. Yoshioka-sensei again emphasized the role of the listeners; the children had to make brief notes on the presentations and assess them for clarity, interest, persuasiveness, and thoroughness of research. The presentation of individual work to the whole class made it clear that the work was not of concern to that individual alone. (The extensive use of questionnaires among the class also encouraged class interaction and probably led to children learning more about one another, although I doubt this was intended by Yoshioka-sensei.) Thus the encouragement of individual initiative was once again reconciled with an emphasis on the whole class.

Conclusion During kokugo lessons at Nakamachi, children encountered various discourses of selfhood, together with learning practices that were important for personal formation. The texts that they read mostly presented models of selfhood and identity as interdependent – either with other human beings, or even, beyond this, with all of life (inochi) and nature. However, a minority of texts problematized these models, or else drew children’s attention to their self-consciousness of themselves as individuals. Children certainly cannot be assumed to have completely and unproblematically accepted the models presented in these texts. Nevertheless, the texts contributed to the ideas about self that children were absorbing, and they also indicated what kinds of discourses about these issues the educational authorities, in the form of textbook writers, found of primary importance. In comparison with texts such as stories and poems, expression assignments provided more scope for individuality and independence, giving some encouragement for doing research and developing articulacy in arguments. Even so, some assignments also placed heavy emphasis on developing a sociallyoriented and even socially shared consciousness, and others focused on becoming an empathetically sensitive, impressionistic writer, rather than an

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analytical, detached one. There was no attempt to develop children’s ability as writers of imaginative fiction. All in all, therefore, the sixth year kokugo textbook only made limited attempts to encourage the development of independence, autonomy, and individuality. In the organization of learning by the teachers studied at Nakamachi and Morikawa, on the other hand, there was more of a balance between interdependence and individuality. The standard approach to fictional texts divided time between individual and whole-class work, so that individual insights could be developed independently, then shared in order to deepen the understanding of all. Some teachers took this further by increasing children’s autonomy to decide what and how to study. When teaching the debate and research presentation units, Yoshioka-sensei modified them to allow not only greater autonomy for the children but also greater interaction between them. There was no doubt that the learning practices observed gave more emphasis to autonomy and individuality than did the texts that children encountered. This indicates the danger of relying too heavily upon the analysis of school texts for understanding the relationship between education and the development of selfhood. It also suggests that insofar as the development of individuality and autonomy has made progress in Japanese primary schools, this is to a significant extent due to the initiatives taken by classroom teachers – though we should also recognize that textbooks have also made limited moves in the same direction, as in the introduction of the debate unit. Such a shift in emphasis is more likely to be successful when its initiation comes not only from teachers, but also the educational authorities. The evidence of practices at Nakamachi and Morikawa also shows how Japanese teachers are creative initiators of educational change, although it needs to be recognized that teachers’ power to initiate change is not limitless, but remains constrained by institutions such as textbooks, as well as by the degree to which the school and the broader educational climates are friendly to innovation. It is certainly true that the mid-1990s was a period when innovation was encouraged, and that Nakamachi in particular was an innovationfriendly school. Yet there is plenty of evidence in the work of earlier researchers on Japan’s long and impressive record of pedagogical action research (Inagaki and Yoshimura, 1993; Inagaki, Yoshimura and Horie, 1994; Sato and Asanuma, 2000: 115–17; Fernandez and Yoshida, 2004) to indicate that teacherled innovation is by no means merely a recent phenomenon. This analysis of the teaching of kokugo also indicates ways in which learning in Japanese primary schools can be understood as taking place in a ‘community of inquiry’, to use terms derived from neo-Vygotskian and practice theories of learning. This is achieved through teaching and learning practices that focus on open-ended tasks, cast the teacher in the role of constructive facilitator, and encourage children to share and engage with one another’s perspectives. Also crucial to its success is a classroom ethos within which children feel safe to share and engage in this way – the kind of ethos that Japanese primary teachers in general aspire to create. It may well be that such

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forms of learning are more prominent in Japanese primary education than in other countries, such as England, if the research of British scholars such as Edwards and Mercer (1987) and Galton and Williamson (1992) gives a representative picture. Given the widespread international interest in such approaches among educators today, this suggests that what goes on in the kokugo lessons of Japan’s primary schools may be important not only because it gives us insight into the development of selfhood in Japan, but because it may contribute to the inquiry that is continually going on worldwide in search of effective and humane education.

Notes 1 Kokugo literally means ‘language of the country/nation’, and is sometimes translated as ‘National Language’ (Gerbert, 1993). 2 The curriculum figure is a standard that teachers are expected to approximate rather than meet exactly. For example, fifth year teachers at Nakamachi actually spent between 208 and 227 hours on kokugo lessons in 1994, and Morikawa fifth year teachers taught between 196 and 217 hours, even though the fifth year curriculum stipulated 210 hours. Since 2002, both the number of kokugo lessons and the total curriculum hours for the sixth year have been reduced, to 175 and 945 respectively (Monbusho¯ , 1998b), and kokugo now takes up 18 per cent of the sixth year curriculum. 3 The Sakura City Board of Education had decided that primary schools in the city should use the kokugo textbooks published by Mitsumura Tosho during the three years from 1993 to 1996. Mitsumura textbooks were also being used by Sakura primary schools when I did a follow-up study in 2004. According to Gerbert (1993: 154), the kokugo textbooks published by Mitsumura are the most popular in Japan. 4 Three of the poem’s five stanzas are quoted here in full, including the first and last. 5 In another stanza, the poet says that to live is ‘miniskirts’, ‘planetariums’, ‘Johan Strauss’, ‘Picasso’, ‘the Alps’, ‘to encounter all beautiful things, and to resist hidden evil with care’. Human culture and moral action is present in this stanza, but there are no defined human actors; Johan Strauss and Picasso are not being seen as individual actors but are synecdoches for the cultural objects they produced. 6 The generalized subject ‘people’ in ‘For people to love’, the soldier in the line ‘For a soldier to be wounded at this moment somewhere’, and presumably the ‘newborn’s cry’ (ubugoe) in the line, ‘For a newborn’s cry to rise at this moment somewhere’. 7 There appears to be no common English name. The plant’s Latin name is Daphniphyllum macrolobum. 8 Yokota (2002: 79) suggests that it is the yuzuriha bush itself that is addressing the children. This is another possible interpretation, though one that was explicitly rejected by the teacher in one kokugo lesson at Morikawa, who suggested that the author is addressing the children, trying to convey the feelings of their parents. 9 The English name of this tree is Jezo Spruce (Latin, Picea jezoensis), but since matsu refers to both pine and spruce trees, and ‘pine’ summons up a more impressive image for me than ‘spruce’, I have translated ezomatsu as ‘Ezo Pine’. Ezo was the pre-Meiji name of the island now known as Hokkaido; Yezo or Jezo was a variant spelling in the Meiji period. 10 Moeran (1989: 59–64) sees these Championships as emblematic of the seishin discourse of self-discipline and dedication. Members of losing teams are permitted to take away a little earth from the baseball ground as a memento.

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11 There is a voluminous literature in Japanese on pedagogical practices in kokugo (as for other subjects), much of it written by teachers. Examples can be found in Ishii (1995) and Ishii, Ushiyama, and Maejima (1996), in monthly educational journals for teachers, such as Kokugo Kyo¯ iku (Kokugo Education) and Jissen Kokugo Kenkyu¯ (Kokugo Lesson Study), and in the publications of pedagogical associations run by and for teachers, such as the To¯ kai Kokugo Kyo¯ iku o Manabu Kai (To¯ kai Region Association for the Study of Kokugo Education), whose 1996 conference I attended. 12 See note 15 below. 13 In fifth year and sixth year lessons I watched at Morikawa in 1994, the teachers directed all children to do individual kakikomi – meaning to read the text carefully and annotate it with their thoughts and questions. After one or two lessons during which children worked individually on a section of the story, there were some whole-class lessons for sharing thoughts and feelings about the text. This approach did allow children to develop individual readings of the text, and in one class, the teacher allowed the children to choose which characters in the text they chose to focus on. However, the children did not get to choose the approach itself. 14 Though Yoshioka-sensei allowed children the freedom to choose their own study topic, not every topic could become the subject of focus in whole-class discussion lessons. Discussion tended to focus on issues pursued by the majority, with minority interests receiving little whole-class attention, since limited time made it hard to discuss more than one or two issues in depth during a lesson. 15 Tsuchida and Lewis (1996: 207) and Benjamin (1997: 44–8) have recorded similar teaching approaches by Japanese primary teachers. 16 Fukushima-sensei’s research lesson was followed by a school research meeting attended by a prefectural expert on kokugo teaching, formerly in charge of kokugo research at the Prefectural Education Centre. This teacher commented that hitherto, the normal style of kokugo teaching had been to pick up four or five themes (kadai) for whole-class discussion from the initial kanso¯ bun. However, he saw this approach as problematic in that it tended to result in themes that were given to the children (ataerareta kadai) and not close to their hearts. 17 Fukushima-sensei had her class read and study not only Old Man Daizo¯ and the Geese, but also two other stories by the same author which were not in the textbook. 18 In one class at Morikawa, children did a related exercise in art and craft (zuko¯ ) and skipped the kokugo unit – another example of primary teachers’ flexibility. 19 According to Roden, however, the institution of a debating club at the First Higher school in the 1890s caused controversy among the students, as debate was seen as ‘dangerous to the collective ethos’ (Roden, 1980: 115).

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Mathematical relationships

This chapter examines how teachers at Nakamachi tackled the teaching of mathematics (sansu¯ ), a subject that takes up more hours in the Japanese primary curriculum than any subject other than Japanese (kokugo). In particular, the chapter looks at how this fitted into the teachers’ attempts to teach in a way that was in tune with the educational reform agenda – developing students’ ability to identify and solve problems by themselves – while also satisfying the long-standing objective of enabling as many children as possible to understand the maths they were learning. Nakamachi teachers gave children significant control over the direction and content of maths lessons, and many of the problems that the classes explored were created by the children themselves. Individuals had the chance to put forward ideas and explanations, but within the context of a class group whose members could learn from one another. Autonomy and self-direction were thus developed without sacrificing opportunities for mutual learning. The analysis also considers the lessons observed in relation to theoretical debates about how learning takes place, with particular attention to mathematical practices and school settings. Over the last twenty years there has been considerable interest in how mathematics is studied in Japan, stimulated by the good performance of Japanese students in successive international tests (Husen, 1967; Garden and Robitaille, 1989; Mullis et al., 1997; OECD, 2004a; 2004b) and the widespread belief that performance in mathematics is connected to economic growth. As a result, this area of Japanese education has been studied quite extensively. A valuable overview is provided by Schümer (1999), who comments that according to many mathematics educators, maths teaching in Japanese primary schools ‘often seems to accord with instructional and methodological ideas long propagated in Germany or in the US, but rarely realized’ (1999: 401). She continues: Thus, Western observers notice, and note, how lively and clear Japanese instruction is, and how often the students are given the opportunity to become active, i.e. to undertake practical operations, to develop their own ideas, to articulate them, and to introduce them into discussion. (Schümer, 1999: 401)

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Schümer goes on to note other apparently widespread features of the Japanese primary maths classroom that are attractive to many maths educators, such as the centrality of vividly presented problems, the thorough discussion of various methods for solving problems, and the focus on mathematical understanding rather than simply obtaining a correct solution (1999: 402–3). Particularly important studies of Japanese primary mathematics practices have been done by Stevenson and Stigler (Stigler and Perry, 1990; Stevenson and Stigler, 1992; Stigler, et al., 1996), Lewis (1995), and Whitburn (1999a; 1999b; 2000), with valuable smaller-scale studies by Hendry (1997; 2000), and it is important to note that the research by Stevenson and Stigler, as well as some of that by Lewis, was carried out during the 1980s – in other words, before the stress on ‘individuality’ and ‘diversity’ introduced by the Rinkyo¯ shin. It seems clear that emphasis on problem-solving, explanation, and discussion in primary maths education goes back a good deal further than the last 15 years or so, though unfortunately we do not yet have any historical studies of Japanese maths education, at least in English. Despite the range of illuminating studies that have been made of maths teaching in Japanese primary schools, research has not taken serious note of the fact that Japanese maths textbooks are divided into textbook units (tangen), nor has it been shown how teachers tackle the teaching of an entire unit. Attention to the textbook unit is important, since the series of lessons that makes up a unit on a particular subject is designed to be taught as a unified whole, progressing through introduction and development stages to a conclusion. This chapter shows how Yoshioka-sensei and Sanada-sensei taught one entire textbook unit from start to finish, allowing greater insight into their teaching processes that could be gained from a single lesson. Looking at how two experienced teachers taught the same material also illuminates the extent to which different teachers exercise autonomy in using varying approaches, while exchanging ideas with each other.

The teaching and learning of mathematics: questioning theory and practice The teaching and learning of mathematics is an area that has attracted considerable interest during the last 20 years. In the second edition of a leading textbook on children’s cognitive development, Wood (1998: xiii) notes that he rewrote the chapter on mathematics at much increased length on account of his ‘sense of excitement about the advances that have been made in this area’ in recent years. A series of writers have challenged the effectiveness of widespread practices in the teaching of mathematics in English-speaking countries, as well as questioning some of the cognitive theories that undergird such practices. Others are less critical of theories of mathematical learning than of classroom practice, pointing out that the oft-criticized approaches to teaching and learning maths used in the schools of the English-speaking world are frequently very different from those recommended by leading theorists.

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Still other writers argue that while many primary teachers in a country like Britain may sincerely perceive that their practices help children to investigate and discover for themselves, as recommended by the theories of Piaget in particular, these perceptions may well be badly mistaken. One key issue that recurs in much of the literature on teaching and learning, not only in maths but also in other subjects such as science, is the distinction between what Edwards and Mercer (1987: 92–127) call ‘principled’ and ‘procedural’ knowledge. In their words, ‘Principled knowledge is . . . essentially explanatory, oriented towards an understanding of how procedures and processes work, of why certain conclusions are necessary and valid (1987: 97, italics in original). ‘Procedural knowledge’, on the other hand, simply entails knowing how to carry out procedures, and may or may not be accompanied by ‘principled knowledge’ about the rationale for the procedures and how and why they work as they do. Edwards and Mercer point out that procedural knowledge is valuable, even essential, in any number of situations, but argue that without understanding of the principles behind procedures, a person will have difficulties making judgements about when procedures are applicable or inapplicable, when they need to be modified, and how that might best be done (1987: 98). A similar distinction runs through Boaler’s (1997) study of maths teaching at two British secondary schools, Amber Hill and Phoenix Park. Boaler argues that children at Amber Hill were taught ‘procedural’ knowledge and rules, but never encouraged to think about their methods or how to relate them to different situations; without any principled understanding of the rules, they were unable to interpret unfamiliar mathematical situations and think intelligently about what rules could be applied to them. Their knowledge was ‘inert’, and not truly conceptual. In contrast, maths teaching at Phoenix Park encouraged students to think about mathematical principles, relationships, strategies and methods, while placing relatively little stress on knowledge of procedures. As a result, the Phoenix Park students developed greater abilities to think flexibly and creatively about mathematical problems and how to use mathematics (1997: 58–81, 90–5, 99–103). The distinction between ‘principled’ and ‘procedural’ knowledge is closely related to questions of knowledge transfer – the extent to which it is possible for learned knowledge to be transferred to different situations, and what kinds of learning facilitate such knowledge transfer. Jean Lave’s major work Cognition in Practice (1988) mounts a thoroughgoing attack on transfer theories, and in particular the view that making knowledge more abstract, explicit, and conscious increases its transferability. As Lave points out, this view has dominated twentieth-century schooling (indeed, it is a major reason for the existence of schools as institutions), yet there is considerable evidence against it. She argues that it is in fact misleading to think of the activity of arithmetic as ‘relatively uniform in different settings’ (1988: 46), since her studies of Californians’ everyday mathematical practices suggested that these were informal, ‘homemade’ procedures, developed in specific situations to meet specific demands, and involving invention and the transformation of

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problems. They did not involve the ‘explicit intentional application of correct knowledge’ (1988: 39), as transfer theory would lead one to expect. Consequently, Lave argues against the idea that learning performance can be improved by more teaching of conscious, verbally explicit strategies, arguing instead for learning through direct experience, ‘the more basic condition for learning’ (1988: 183). She also argues that it is important that those who are learning to use maths should experience themselves as subjects who are in control of their activities, rather than as ‘objects, with no control over problems or choice about problem-solving processes’ (1988: 70). Barbara Jaworski (1994) sets out constructivist arguments that children will best learn by constructing their own understandings through mathematical projects and questions that they themselves choose and control, but notes that though such views are widespread, even dominant, among theoreticians of mathematical learning, their translation into classroom practice seems much less common, at least in Britain and the United States (1994: 8). Jaworski also notes that implementing maths education that stresses understanding and self-direction can be very difficult, since children often resist tasks with the ‘high levels of risk and ambiguity’ that go along with ‘higher-level cognitive demands’; yet some studies of classrooms using ‘small-group interactions and whole-class discussions’ have shown success (1994: 9–10). This suggests the importance of a supportive classroom ethos that reduces children’s sense of risk and fear of failure. Jaworski draws attention to what she and others have called the ‘teacher’s dilemma’, the fact that (‘progressive’) teachers want children to learn for themselves, yet also have to try to ensure that they finally learn what the curriculum lays down. This creates a ‘didactic tension’ (1994: 180) in which teachers are torn between ‘enquiry’ or ‘discovery’ models of education, which enable children to learn for themselves, and ‘transmission’ models, which explicitly teach children what they are supposed to learn. As Jaworski notes, ‘finding appropriate places to be in this continuum constitutes a major issue’ for many teachers (1994: 32), as she goes on to show through accounts of three teachers in English secondary schools, each of whom was successful in getting students to think and explore maths problems for themselves, yet felt themselves too didactic at times. The writings of authors such as Edwards and Mercer, Lave, Jaworski and Boaler have important implications for research on Japanese primary maths teaching. Their findings suggest that ‘principled knowledge’ is more likely to be acquired when children are given significant control over their own learning, and take up opportunities to create their own problems to explore. Jaworski emphasizes the importance of interaction and discussion in the classroom community in promoting the development of individuals’ understanding, and Boaler describes how one of the Phoenix Park teachers ‘created an arena for discussion and negotiation’ (Boaler, 1997: 45). Sociocultural perspectives, outlined in Chapter 1, support the value of interaction and discussion between learners. Research on Japanese maths education to date would suggest that teachers do promote thinking and classroom discussion,

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but it is less clear to what extent children can exercise control over their own learning. At Nakamachi, however, the sixth year teachers were explicitly attempting to develop children’s ability to learn for themselves. Through an examination of their teaching, we can see how they attempted to do this, and whether promoting self-directed learning led to a smaller role for interaction, discussion, and learning from one another in the class group.

Studying proportion at Nakamachi Soon after I began observations at Nakamachi, I learned that Sanada-sensei was planning a research lesson as part of a mathematics unit on proportion (hirei). I therefore decided to observe lessons on this unit in both classes 6–3 and 6–1, as far as the timetables allowed. Yoshioka-sensei discussed the teaching of the unit with Sanada-sensei, whom she considered a greater expert than herself on maths teaching (it was his personal research area, and he subscribed to a journal on primary maths teaching). The two teachers ended up teaching the unit with a broadly similar approach, but many differences in the detail of content and organization – not surprising considering that they were both experienced and confident practitioners. Space does not allow that both sets of lessons be described at similar length, so I give a detailed account of lessons in 6–3, followed by a briefer account of Sanada-sensei’s teaching of the unit in 6–1.1 Studying proportion in 6–3 Lesson 1 (Tuesday 14 November 1995, 10.55–11.45 a.m: 50 minutes) In this introductory lesson, Yoshioka-sensei invited the class to make observations about the movement of water between two tanks, pointed out a generalizing principle, and told the children first to think of ideas as individuals and then to share and explain them. Most of the lesson was whole-class discussion, with a short period of individual work. Before the lesson started, Yoshioka-sensei had set up two water tanks at the front of the classroom; the higher one was full of water coloured with red dye, while the lower one was empty. She set an agenda for the lesson (and the unit) by writing ‘changes’ and ‘doesn’t change’ (kawaru/kawaranai) on the front blackboard, telling the children that this was today’s theme. She then used a tube to allow the red water to flow from the higher to the lower tank, while the children watched, some standing on chairs or tables in order to see better. She did this twice, asking the children if they had found things that changed and didn’t change, and then telling them to write down what they had found. Once the demonstration had finished and the children were sitting at their desks again, Yoshioka-sensei asked them what had changed. Lots of children raised their hands to offer suggestions, which Yoshioka-sensei wrote on the

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blackboard: ‘weight’; ‘the quantity of water in the top tank went down’; ‘the water in the bottom tank increased’; ‘the volume of water increased’; ‘the volume in the top tank went down’; ‘the area of the sides’; ‘the depth’; ‘the time’. In response to her next question, ‘what didn’t change?’ children came up with fewer ideas, including ‘the area of the base’ and ‘the total volume of water’. Yoshioka-sensei then told the children she would give them a hint by asking if they had noticed anything about how things had increased ( fuekata). The children responded with ideas such as, ‘the water at the bottom increased to the extent that the water at the top decreased’ and ‘the amount of water displaced in one minute doesn’t change’. Yoshioka-sensei then connected these particular observations at a more generalizing level of analysis, by writing on the blackboard: When 䊊䊊 changes, . . . 䊊䊊 changes doesn’t change The children copied this into their books, and one said, ‘so, you can do anything’. ‘Right,’ agreed Yoshioka-sensei, and asked the children for similar statements. They came up with several, including: ‘When the volume below changes, the volume above changes too.’ ‘As time changes, the volume changes.’ ‘When the depth of the water below changes, the depth of the water above changes.’ ‘Even when the depth changes, the area of the base doesn’t change.’ ‘When the depth changes, the volume changes.’ Yoshioka-sensei then wrote on the blackboard, ‘change together with each other’ (tomonatte kawaru), and said to the children, ‘let’s think of things that change together with each other – in silence! Don’t look at your neighbour’s work.’ After a few minutes’ work – which was not in fact conducted very quietly, and prompted a comment from the teacher, ‘when playing time increases, studying time decreases’ – Yoshioka-sensei told the children they could consult others, and then asked for ideas. After one boy suggested, ‘When pocket money increases, savings increase,’ another came up with, ‘When speed changes, time changes.’ Yoshioka-sensei wrote this on the blackboard, and asked, ‘What exactly does that mean? Who can explain?’ A boy and two girls offered explanations, and Yoshioka-sensei illustrated these by diagrams on the blackboard (Figure 4.1).

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Figure 4.1 Illustrating things that change together.

She paraphrased the last girl’s explanation as ‘when speed changes, distance changes’, before moving on and allowing two more children to offer ideas: ‘When the time you sleep changes, the time you wake up changes too.’ ‘When the area of the base changes, the volume also changes.’ Yoshioka-sensei then told the children that they would continue with the topic in the next lesson, and asked them to hand in their exercise books. Lesson 2 (Wednesday 15 November 1995, 11.30–12.15 a.m.: 45 minutes) The second lesson of the unit began with children writing down their individual ideas about things that changed together, and then sharing these with the class, which then discussed how to group the ideas into categories. Children’s own ideas and categories were used as the basis for the activities. Onethird of the lesson was individual work, and two-thirds were whole-class work. After asking the children to tell her what the class had done in the first lesson, Yoshioka-sensei began the second lesson by telling them that today they were going to see how many things they could find that changed together with one another. She gave out large pieces of scrap paper and thick marker pens, and the children wrote their ideas and then fixed them to the blackboard with magnets. There was plenty of talking, with a few children writing several ideas and a few none. Once all the ideas had been put on

118 Mathematical relationships the blackboard, Yoshioka-sensei said to the class, ‘Now, we’ll divide these into family groups (nakama).2 How can we divide them up?’ The children suggested the categories ‘increasing’, ‘decreasing’, and ‘not mathematical’ (sansu¯ -teki de nai mono), and after Yoshioka-sensei had checked that they felt confident about the meaning of ‘not mathematical’, a noisy debate ensued about which category to assign each idea to. Ideas that were deemed ‘not mathematical’ included: ‘As time passes, one’s weight increases.’ and ‘As the seasons change, the temperature changes too.’ Three ideas about which there was a particularly big debate and no clear consensus were assigned by Yoshioka-sensei to a special category of ‘extras’ (bangaihen), including: ‘As the amount of rain increases, the weight of one’s clothes increases.’ With all the ideas categorized, Yoshioka-sensei told the children that she wanted next to investigate those in the ‘increasing’ category, to see if the way they changed (kawarikata) was the same. Lesson 3 (Thursday 16 November 2003, 9.00–9.53 a.m.: 53 minutes) In the third lesson, the class first discussed how to investigate the categorization of one of the statements about change they had made, and phrased the statement as a maths problem. The children then used tables or graphs to investigate the problem individually, and shared some of the results with the whole class. After the class had discussed and categorized one further problem, the children divided into small groups, each of which chose two problems to investigate. Most of the lesson was whole-class work, with five minutes of individual work and five minutes of small-group work. Yoshioka-sensei began by reminding the children that they had categorized their ideas the previous day, and telling them that today she wanted to look at the way things increased ( fuete iku kawarikata). She then fixed to the blackboard two of the ideas from the ‘extras’ category, telling the children that, like them, she had been uncertain (nayanda) about how to categorize these problems. She started with a statement about a videotape produced by a boy named Teramoto-kun: ‘As a videotape plays, time increases.’ She said to the class that she’d like to investigate this, and how did they

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think they should do it? Teramoto-kun and a girl called Mizutani-san then suggested a wording for a written problem: ‘There is a videotape 10 metres long, rewound to the start on the left. One minute after “play” has been pressed, it has advanced one metre to the right. If it is examined at the end of each minute elapsed, how far will the right side have increased?’ Yoshioka-sensei then asked the class, ‘How shall we investigate this?’ Some children said, ‘a table’, others ‘a bar graph’. Yoshioka-sensei told them they could use either. She herself started drawing a table on the blackboard and asked the children, ‘What kind of table shall we make?’ Teramoto-kun suggested that she draw a table with two rows, one each for the left and right sides of the videotape, but then Yoshioka-sensei asked another girl, Koide-san, what she thought, and Koide-san suggested that there should be another row for the number of minutes elapsed, to which Yoshioka-sensei said, ‘Yes, I think so too.’ She went on to ask how the other two rows should be labelled, and after Teramoto-kun had suggested ‘length’ or ‘metres’, Yoshioka-sensei accepted another boy’s suggestion of ‘right’ and ‘left’. Mizutani-san, meanwhile, called out that she was going to use a line graph. After the children had spent about five minutes working on their tables or graphs, Yoshioka-sensei chose two boys from several volunteers to describe their tables. She filled in tables drawn on the blackboard according to their directions, drew a line graph like that of Mizutani-san, and finally held up another boy’s bar graph and pointed out to the class how it showed the same information in a different way – thus drawing the children’s attention to different ways of investigating the same problem. There remained a second problem in the ‘extras’ category, this one thought up by a girl named Murata-san: ‘When one year passes, one’s age increases by one.’ Yoshioka-sensei asked Murata-san to express this as a problem, and, helped by contributions from Mizutani-san and a boy, Sakaguchi-kun, Murata-san came up with this wording: ‘Masako-san and her younger sister are two years apart in age. Masakosan is now 12 years old. As each year passes, how will the two girls’ ages change?’ The children agreed that this problem should be put in the ‘increasing’ category. Finally, Yoshioka-sensei told the children that each han should choose two problems to investigate, emphasizing that they must write out the problems in a way similar to the two that the class had looked at in that day’s lesson. She

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checked that the groups had not all chosen the same problems to investigate, and then ended the lesson.3 Lesson 4 (Friday 17 November 1995) In this lesson, the children worked in han.4 Each group had prepared two problems, and in the first part of the lesson they wrote these out on large pieces of paper and discussed which they wanted to investigate first. Yoshiokasensei then collected the problems and fixed them to the blackboard, rewriting one problem which she found awkward. She then asked the children how they intended to tackle the problems, and all the groups opted to use tables. This was therefore set as the task for the next lesson. Lesson 5 (Monday 20 November 1995, 8.56–9.59 a.m.: 63 minutes) In this lesson, the children first worked in small groups to express their group’s chosen problem in a table, which a representative from each group then explained to the class. The teacher singled out group seven’s table, and the children then made observations and offered ideas about this table in a whole-class session. One of their ideas was taken up for expansion and further investigation by the teacher. Just over a quarter of the lesson was small-group work, with the rest whole-class work. At the start of lesson 5, the problems the children had made were fixed to the blackboard. Yoshioka-sensei explained that today the class was only going to look at problems of the type in which two things were increasing together, and they would use tables, leaving graphs until later. She wrote on the blackboard, ‘When 䊊䊊 increases 䊊䊊 increases too’ and said, ‘I wonder if the way things increase will be the same in each group’s problem? That’s what we’ll need to find out. Okay, first of all try doing it on your own, and if you get stuck, ask someone in your group. I’ll give you 15 minutes.’ The children in the same han pushed their desks together and started working, each person copying out their group’s problem and then making a table to express it. As they conferred, Yoshioka-sensei walked around looking at their work and helping where necessary. She changed the values in one group’s problem to make it easier for them. Once the children had finished making tables individually, each of the eight groups drew a table on a large piece of paper. They then fixed the problems and tables to the blackboard. For three of the eight problems, a child from that group stood to explain the table, while Yoshioka-sensei herself explained one table, and no explanation was thought necessary for the remaining four problems. Yoshioka-sensei then asked the children what they noticed about the way

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the values in the tables increased,5 in particular directing them to look at the table made by group seven (Table 4.1), and saying that there should be two things to notice. Group seven’s problem went as follows: ‘There is a pool whose capacity is 30 litres. Three litres of water enters the pool in one minute. How will it change in one minute?’ Yoshioka-sensei also told the children they could look at the textbook for help if they wished, and said that the values in the upper row of a table could be called x, and those in the lower row, y. (This was the first time the textbook had been mentioned since the unit began.) ‘Please start by saying things that are simple and obvious.’ About six children raised their hands, and Yoshiokasensei then asked, ‘Who doesn’t feel confident about their ideas?’ More children then raised their hands, and from these Yoshioka-sensei chose one boy to say what he had noticed about group seven’s table. Several other children then added their ideas: ‘When x increases by 1, y increases by 3.’ ‘If you multiply x by 3, you get y.’ ‘If you divide y by 3, you get x.’ ‘x and y increase in proportion.’ ‘x × 3 = y, y ÷ 3 = x.’ This last statement was offered by a boy named Fukao-kun, who was among the better and more confident pupils at maths, and Yoshioka-sensei asked him and then another able pupil, Mizutani-san, to explain to the class what this equation meant. She next asked the class, ‘Who understands?’ and most (though not all) raised their hands. Yoshioka-sensei then expanded on the pupil insight that ‘x and y increase in proportion’, writing on the blackboard: ‘When x increases 3 (4) times, y also increases 3 (4) times.’ She told the class that in the next lesson, she wanted each group to look at the problem it had made, and see if this statement applied to that problem. Finally, the teacher handed out to the children a piece of paper on which Table 4.1 Group seven’s table Time (minutes) Volume of water (litres)

0 0

1 3

2 6

3 9

4 12

5 15

6 18

7 21

8 24

9 27

10 30

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they could record their reflections (furikaeri)6 about each lesson, including what they had understood in the lesson and what they had learned from others. On it they also evaluated their level of satisfaction (manzokudo) with a number from 1 (low) to 5 (high). ‘If you didn’t understand something, write that honestly,’ she told them. Most children evaluated the lesson with a 4. Lesson 6 (Tuesday 21 November 1995: 56 minutes) At the start of lesson 6, members of the class tried to explain the relationship between increases and decreases in x and y, with limited success. The children then worked in groups, examining whether their findings about group seven’s table could be applied to their own group’s table, after which the teacher brought them together for a whole-class discussion about group two’s table. This discussion focused on the differences and similarities between group seven’s and group two’s tables, after which the teacher moved the discussion to the tables of group three and then group eight, which were different from those of other groups. Finally, the class decided to use graphs to continue the investigation of the similarities and differences of the problems. There were 45 minutes of whole-class work and ten minutes of small-group work. At the start of the lesson, the eight groups’ problems and tables were fixed to the blackboard, and the four points the children had come up with about group seven’s table were also written on the blackboard: ‘1. When x increases by 1, y increases by 3.’ ‘2. If you multiply x by 3, you get y. x × 3 = y.’ ‘3. If you divide y by 3, you get x. y ÷ 3 = x.’ ‘4. When x increases 3 (4) times, y also increases 3 (4) times.’ Yoshioka-sensei began by briefly reviewing the previous lesson, with particular attention to explaining once again the four points about group seven’s table. Noting that the children had pointed out not only that multiplying x by 3 gave y, but also the reverse, that dividing y by 3 gave x, she wondered if they couldn’t similarly reverse the insight that when x increased three or four times, y also did so. Several children raised their hands, and a boy called Funada-kun suggested that when x decreased to one-third or one-quarter of its value, y also did so. Yoshioka-sensei added this point to the four already written on the blackboard: ‘When x decreases to ¹⁄³ (¼), y also decreases to ¹⁄³ (¼).’ However, when she asked Funada-kun to explain with some concrete examples of what he meant, as she thought some of the class were unsure

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about what he was saying, he was unable to do so. Teramoto-kun came to the blackboard and, using a pointer to indicate concrete examples on group seven’s table, explained that if one multiplied x by ¹⁄³ or ¼, then y would also be multiplied by the same amount. Another child suggested that it would be better to express this as dividing by 3 or 4. Yoshioka-sensei herself tried explaining the point by reference to group seven’s table, pointing out that division was the opposite procedure to multiplication, but some of the class still seemed to find it hard to grasp, with children saying ‘difficult!’ She then erased the point from the blackboard, saying, ‘Okay, let’s leave it at these four points we already have. People who understand that there’s one more “phantom” point here, please investigate that in your group.’ She went on to suggest that the pattern of changes seen in group seven’s table could be labelled pattern A, and that today the children could examine whether their group’s problem showed the same pattern of changes as this. ‘If you find different things, go ahead and do so, that’s fine.’ The children then took their problems and tables down from the blackboard and spent just over ten minutes working in their groups. Yoshiokasensei gave out large sheets of paper on which each group could write what they had noticed. Not all the children worked equally hard during this group work; in some cases, most of the work in a group appeared to be done by one or two members, with the others relatively inactive. At the end of the time, Yoshioka-sensei decided to start class discussion about the table made by group two (Table 4.2), which she stuck to the blackboard along with the sheet on which group two’s members had written what they had noticed: ‘What we noticed: • When x increases by 1, y also increases by 1. • If you multiply x by 1, you get y. • If you divide y by 1, you get x. • When x increases 3 (4) times, y increases 3 (4) times. • When x decreases by 1, y also decreases by 1. • When x decreases to ¹⁄³ (¼), y also decreases to ¹⁄³ (¼).’ Table 4.2 Group two’s table Time (minutes) 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 Volume of water (litres) 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16

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Yoshioka-sensei asked one of the boys in group two, Yamada-kun, to come to the front and talk the class through these points. After the first point, ‘When x increases by 1, y also increases by 1’, she asked, ‘Is it right to think that that’s the same as the first point about group seven’s table (“when x increases by 1, y increases by 3”)?’ Many children called out, ‘Yes!’ and raised their hands when Yoshioka-sensei asked who understood the meaning of her question. However, then she went on, ‘But in group seven’s case, when x increases by 1, y increases by 3, and in group two’s case, when x increases by 1, y increases by 1.’ The children were temporarily reduced to puzzled silence, one saying, ‘They’re not the same’, and Yoshioka-sensei also saying, ‘They’re not the same, are they?’ ‘I don’t understand how this problem gets to be like it is,’ said one child. ‘We’re trying to investigate how things change,’ Yoshiokasensei reminded the class. ‘3 and 1 are different. Are we saying that the first point about group seven’s table [“when x increases by 1, y increases by 3”] doesn’t apply here? Is that what we’re saying? Really, is that true? Well, Koide-san, what do you think? Does it apply?’ Koide-san insisted it did, but couldn’t adequately explain why. Nor could Teramoto-kun when he tried. Murata-san, the next to try, emphasized that the two tables were the same because each was increasing ‘per go’ (zutsu). ‘Can you elaborate that a bit?’ asked Yoshioka-sensei. ‘What does this “per go” thing mean?’ She took group five’s problem and table and fixed them to the blackboard, pointing out that in this problem, y increased by 50 for every 1 that x increased. ‘It’s totally different! Are you saying that this and this and this (pointing to the three tables on the blackboard) are the same?’ ‘Right!’ replied a number of children. ‘The numbers are totally different! What’s the same?’ Yoshiokasensei persisted. Teramoto-kun pointed out that the tables were increasing ‘in the same way’, and another boy, Okinaka-kun, said that ‘the top row and the bottom row move together’. After three more boys had tried to explain, Yoshioka-sensei said again, ‘You admit that these numbers are different.’ ‘Yes,’ said many children. ‘So who thinks they understand that the meaning is the same?’ A number of children raised their hands, but by no means all. ‘Maybe we need to go on a bit before we can understand,’ said Yoshioka-sensei. ‘Let’s go on to point two.’ Yamada-kun read the second point: ‘If you multiply x by 1, you get y.’ ‘Well, this one’s different from the other groups’ tables, too!’ Yoshioka-sensei said. Many children called out in protest, insisting that they were the same. Yamada-kun continued reading the points. At the fourth point, ‘When x increases 3 (4) times, y also increases 3 (4) times.’ Yoshioka-sensei said, ‘Ah, this one’s the same for all the tables. At last!’ And when Yamada-kun reached the sixth point,

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‘When x decreases to ¹⁄³ (¼), y also decreases to ¹⁄³ (¼),’ it was also agreed to be true of both group two’s and group seven’s tables. Yoshioka-sensei then asked all the groups to stick their problems, tables, and points they had noticed to the blackboard. She drew the children’s attention to group three’s work, which had produced results quite different from those of the other groups. Group three’s problem concerned two brothers, originally aged 13 and 11, whose ages would change as they got older (Table 4.3). Group three had noted that the points found by group seven did not apply at all to their table. Rather, when the age of the older brother was taken to be x and that of the younger brother y, they found the following points: 1. When you subtract 2 from x, you get y. x − 2 = y. 2. When you add 2 to y, you get x. y + 2 = x. 3. Division and multiplication do not work, but addition and subtraction do. Yoshioka-sensei pointed out that group three’s problem did have one point in common with that of group two – in both cases, it was true that ‘when x increases by 1, y also increases by 1’. Otherwise, she confirmed what group three had noted, comparing their table with the four points written on the blackboard. She noted, for example, that in this case, it was not true that ‘when x increases 3 (4) times, y also increases 3 (4) times’. Whereas the other problems they had looked at had been similar (niteiru), this one was quite different. Next Yoshioka-sensei took group eight’s problem and table (Table 4.4), which read as follows: ‘A car runs at a speed of 50 km per hour. If it increases its speed by 5 km, how will the distance it advances in an hour change?’ Table 4.3 Group three’s table Age of older brother 13 Age of younger brother 11

14 12

15 13

16 14

17 15

18 16

19 17

20 18

21 19

22 20

23 21

24 22

Table 4.4 Group eight’s table Speed (kph) Distance (km)

50 50

55 55

60 60

65 65

70 70

75 75

80 80

85 85

90 90

95 95

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It is clear that this problem is really a non-problem, since the distance is actually included in the definition of the speed, but Yoshioka-sensei did not point this out. One boy in group eight stood up and explained that some of the rules found in other groups applied to this problem, but others did not. ‘This one has some features that are close to other problems, but some different features too,’ Yoshioka-sensei commented. She allowed the last two groups to bring up their problems, pointing out that their results were very similar to those of group seven, and then had the class consider all the problems as a whole. Were they the same, similar, different? As before, many children insisted that most of the problems were ‘the same’ (issho), but Yoshioka-sensei insisted in turn that she still didn’t know what they meant by ‘the same’. She suggested that in any case, group three’s problem was quite different to the others, while group eight’s was close to the majority though a little different. ‘How shall we investigate next?’ she went on. ‘With graphs,’ many children called out. ‘So, if the shape of the graph is the same, the problems are similar?’ Yoshioka-sensei suggested. ‘You have all been saying that the problems are the same – so shall we accept that they are the same if they have the same kind of shape?’ ‘Right!’ several children called out. ‘Okay, next lesson we’ll do graphs,’ Yoshioka-sensei agreed, and brought the lesson to an end. Lesson 7 (Friday 24 November 1995, 11.45–12.43 a.m.: 58 minutes) At the start of lesson 7, the teacher asked several children to explain to the class once more the rules they had worked out about group seven’s table. The children then discussed among themselves why the problems chosen by groups three and eight were different from other groups’ problems, after which the differences were explained and discussed in a whole-class session. The four rules that the class had come up with about group seven’s table were written up on the blackboard at the start of the lesson: ‘1. When x increases by 1, y increases by 3.’ ‘2. When you multiply x by 3, you get y. x × 3 = y.’ ‘3. When you divide y by 3, you get x. y ÷ 3 = x.’ ‘4. When x increases 3 (4) times, y also increases 3 (4) times.’ After reading the children’s reflections on the previous lesson, Yoshiokasensei had decided to delay going on to work with graphs. She told the class, ‘When I looked at your reflections, lots of people were really uncertain about things (nayandeiru). We’ll go over things once more, using group seven’s table.’ She read out the problem and then said, ‘Everyone understands this table, right? Who thinks they understand it?’ Almost all of the children

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raised their hands. Yoshioka-sensei then invited four volunteers to explain each of the four rules on the blackboard. In some cases, the children’s explanations included reference to group seven’s table. Before and after each pupil explanation, Yoshioka-sensei asked the class to raise their hands if they understood the rule in question, and in each case, the number of hands increased substantially after the class had listened to the explanation. She also pointed out that the table not only increased in a regular way, as described by rule four, but it also decreased in a similar way – both values would decrease by the same amount, be it one half, one quarter, or one tenth. The children still seemed quite uncertain about this point, so Yoshioka-sensei asked first Murata-san and then Koide-san to explain, with reference to group two’s table. Yoshioka-sensei then asked the children why the problems made by groups one, two, four, five and seven (which she labelled with red chalk) went together, while those made by groups three and eight (labelled with yellow chalk) were different. The children spent some time discussing this amongst themselves, with those who thought they understood trying to explain to those who did not. Many got up and went to the front of the classroom to look at the problems. One girl sitting at the front of the classroom called out an explanation to another at the back. Finally Yoshiokasensei had the class sit down again and asked who could explain. From the many volunteers, she chose a boy called Sato-kun whose maths was usually weak, and then wrote what he said on a separate blackboard on wheels,

Figure 4.2 Children explaining to the class in 6–3’s maths lesson at Nakamachi, 24 November 1995.

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which she had brought into the classroom because the main blackboard no longer had space left on it. Sato-kun explained that in the case of the problems made by the majority of groups, y would result if you multiplied x by something. ‘Why did you say “something” (nanika)?’ Yoshioka-sensei asked. Sato-kun explained that the exact number was different in various problems. In the case of the problems made by groups three and eight, however, he went on, even if you multiplied x by something, y would not result. ‘Wonderful,’ Yoshioka-sensei said. She recapitulated, and then asked who had understood. This time almost all the children raised their hands. The teacher then asked if they could say anything else about the differences. Various children volunteered answers, pointing out that in the ‘red problems’, y would increase by the same multiple as x, whereas this was not true of the ‘yellow problems’, and that the ‘red problems’ could be explained by multiplication and division, whereas the ‘yellow problems’ were explained by addition and subtraction. Yoshioka-sensei wrote this on the blackboard and told the children to write down in their lesson reflections what they had understood. Lesson 8 (Saturday 25 November 1995, 10.54–11.49 a.m.: 55 minutes) Lesson 8 started with children working individually (though in consultation with one another) on up to four new problems given by the teacher. After this, there was a whole-class session in which children explained how they did

Figure 4.3 Sato-kun at the blackboard in 6–3’s maths lesson at Nakamachi, 24 November 1995.

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each problem and what they understood. About one-third of the lesson was individual work, and about two-thirds was whole-class work. Yoshioka-sensei had prepared four handouts, each with a different problem on it: ‘1. A rectangle with a height of 8 cm has a length of x cm and an area of y cm2.’ ‘2. When you buy x apples costing 100 yen each, the price is y yen.’ ‘3. When you share 5 dl of juice between your older sister and your younger brother, your sister’s share is x dl and your brother’s is y dl.’ ‘4. The radius of a circle is x cm and the circumference is y cm.’ She told the children to choose two problems and investigate whether the five rules they had discovered about group seven’s problem applied, and whether the problems they chose belonged to the ‘red group’ or the ‘yellow group’. If they had enough time, they could do three problems, and it was all right to do just one, but important to do it thoroughly right to the end. She then fixed the four new problems to the blackboard and had the students read them aloud before letting them choose the two they wanted to do. Most chose problems 1 and 2, with few choosing 3 and 4. Some – especially Mizutani-san and Fukao-kun – completed problems very quickly and seemed to enjoy doing so. When they went to collect their fourth problem after spending about four minutes apiece on the first three, Yoshioka-sensei commented to the class that the aim was not to do lots of problems, but to do the problems carefully. Pupils freely consulted one another as they worked. After twenty minutes, Yoshioka-sensei stopped the children for a wholeclass session. Each problem was projected on to a screen, and Yoshiokasensei asked for volunteers to come to the front and explain how they did it and what they understood (wakatta koto). They also gave the appropriate equations to express the mathematical relationships involved. It was agreed that all of the problems could be explained by multiplication and division and thus belonged to the ‘red’ group, with the exception of No. 3, which used addition and subtraction. Teramoto-kun pointed out that No. 3 resembled the videotape problem they had examined in the third lesson, with x increasing as y decreased. The two girls who explained No. 4 had used decimals in their answers, and Yoshioka-sensei pointed out that it was okay to use decimals in other problems when appropriate, though there could be practical considerations – apples were not usually sold in halves, for example. She then had the children write their lesson reflections.

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Lesson 9 (Monday 27 November 1995, 8.59–9.28 a.m.: 29 minutes) Lesson 9 began with a whole-class session during which the teacher checked that the children remembered how to draw graphs. After a session of individual work, during which children drew graphs to investigate their group problems, there was a short whole-class session to share what could be understood from the graphs. One-quarter of the lesson was individual work, and three-quarters was whole-class work. Yoshioka-sensei told the class that today they would do graphs, investigating their group problems further. She asked what kind of graphs there were, and what kind the children thought would be best for investigating how things changed. Several children suggested that line graphs would be best, and Yoshioka-sensei agreed. ‘Let’s check you remember how to make one,’ she went on, drawing the x and y axes for the swimming pool problem on the blackboard and then asking the children what numbers they would put in along the axes. When Funada-kun suggested numbering both axes 1, 2, 3, 4 and so on, Yoshioka-sensei pointed out that since the numbers had to go up to 30, there would be insufficient room. Mizutani-san then suggested numbering the axis 3, 6, 9 and so on, which the teacher accepted, though pointing out that it was unusual to count in threes. The children then worked on graphs individually for about seven or eight minutes, after which Yoshioka-sensei stopped them and asked them to tell the class something they could see from looking at the graph. ‘Something really simple and obvious is fine.’ A boy named Iwata-kun volunteered that his graph went up in a diagonal straight line starting from 0. Yoshioka-sensei asked if everyone else had found the same, and other children agreed they had. The teacher then concluded the lesson, saying that they would continue finding points next time. Lesson 10 (Wednesday 29 November 1995: 47 minutes) Lesson 10 started with group work, during which the children drew their graphs on large pieces of paper. After this, the whole class discussed the graphs’ features, including the differences between group three’s graph and the others. The teacher then had children explain how further information could be read from a graph. About 35 minutes were taken up by whole-class work, and about ten minutes by small-group work. At the start of the lesson, the large pieces of paper on which each group had written its problem, table and points noticed had been fixed to the blackboard, covering most of it. On the portable blackboard, Yoshiokasensei had drawn the axes of a line graph, and she began the lesson by asking the three members of group seven to come and draw their graph on this blackboard. While they were doing this, the other groups were each drawing their own graphs on large pieces of drawing paper. Many children went to look at other groups’ work, and there was a lot of pupil

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movement and talk. Yoshioka-sensei also walked around looking at the children’s work. Group seven only took about five minutes to draw their graph on the portable blackboard, and after just under 15 minutes, the other groups fixed their graphs to the main blackboard. Yoshioka-sensei then asked group seven to explain their graph (Figure 4.4), and Fukao-kun stood up and did so, including (when asked by the teacher) exactly how the group drew its graph. Yoshioka-sensei picked up his comment that they stopped at a value of x = 10 (because the capacity of the pool placed a limit on the amount of water it could take), and pointed out that in the case of some other groups, the line could and really should continue without ending. She then suggested that they summarize the features of the graphs the class had drawn. ‘Going up to the right,’ said one child, and Yoshioka-sensei wrote this on the portable blackboard. ‘The points are where x and y meet,’ said another child. Yoshioka-sensei elaborated this point further for the class, and said, ‘There are about four more points I’d like you to say.’ Fukao-kun volunteered, ‘The graph goes up to the right in a diagonal straight line centred on 0.’ ‘Going up in a straight line is important,’ agreed Yoshioka-sensei, ‘The line doesn’t wander up and down, does it?’ Teramoto-kun again pointed out that in the case of some problems, the line of the graph had to stop because of, for example, the limit of the capacity of a pool, but in other cases, the line should really continue if there were enough paper. Yoshioka-sensei asked what other differences there were between the graphs different groups had made. ‘The direction the line goes is different,’ said one child, with Mizutani-san then rephrasing this as ‘the angle is different’. Another child pointed out that the values on the y axis varied from graph to graph, but those on the x axis were the same in all cases. Summing this up, Yoshioka-sensei agreed that the direction of the line and the values on the y axis varied, but what didn’t vary were the facts that the line went up to the right and that it went in a straight line. She placed special emphasis on the last point; as there was no change in the way the graph increased, there was no reason for it to curve up or down. At this point, group four, which had been late finishing its graph, handed it to the teacher, who asked the class what was different about this graph (Figure 4.5).

Figure 4.4 Group seven’s graph.

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Figure 4.5 Group four’s graph.

Okinaka-kun pointed out that the line did not start at 0 (it started at x = 1, y = 3). Mizutani-san further pointed out that there was no 0 on the group’s table either. The children voiced some dissatisfaction with the graph’s not starting from 0, and Yoshioka-sensei asked them whether they thought this graph was all right, pointing out that in all the other graphs, the line passed through 0. ‘Do you think it needs to go through 0 or not?’ Opinions were given both ways. Fukuda-kun, whose group had drawn the graph, suggested that while their graph might need to go through 0, there might be graphs where the line didn’t need to go through 0. ‘I wonder what kind of graphs might not need it,’ Yoshioka-sensei said. ‘So, you forgot to have it start from 0, did you? What do you say, Murata-san?’ Murata-san, one of Fukuda-kun’s fellow group members, said that the group had decided they did need to start the line from 0, since a little water would enter the receptacle in the problem even in the first minute. ‘Who understands what she’s saying? She expressed that well, didn’t she?’ said Yoshioka-sensei. ‘Who can say the same thing?’ Another girl raised her hand and expressed the same point in a slightly different way. Yoshioka-sensei agreed that the water was not going to suddenly start building up from a level of 3 cm once the tap was turned on. She pointed out that though they had only plotted points at one-minute intervals, in reality one could think of there being other points at smaller intervals along the line. ‘So after all, we want the line to go through 0,’ she concluded. Next Yoshioka-sensei showed the class the graph drawn by group three (Figure 4.6), the group whose problem, about two brothers with different ages, had not yielded equations of multiplication and division, but of addition and subtraction. ‘Look for the difference,’ she told the class, holding up the graph together with that made by another group, and giving the students some time to look at the two. ‘Who understands the difference?’ she asked, and a number of children enthusiastically raised their hands and called out that they did. ‘Differences are important, you know, even really simple things,’ Yoshiokasensei emphasized, continuing to show the two graphs to the class. Once

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Figure 4.6 Group three’s graph.

quite a lot of students had raised their hands, she chose Funada-kun to answer, and he pointed out that group three’s graph about the two brothers ‘started from 2’. ‘Eh? It starts from 0,’ Yoshioka-sensei said. ‘From 0 and 2,’ Funada-kun corrected himself. Yoshioka-sensei asked Yamada-kun to try to say the same point, but he was unable to improve on Funada-kun’s wording, which Yoshioka-sensei obviously felt was not completely adequate. She pointed out that one really had to look at the point before the younger brother was born, to which Mizutani-san’s response was, ‘minus 2’. ‘Great,’ said Yoshioka-sensei, ‘That you’ll study at junior high school. If we knew about the world of minuses, then it would become minus 1, minus 2. We don’t touch on the world of minuses in primary school.’ She pointed out that looking at both group three’s table and their graph showed that their problem belonged in a different group to the problems the other groups had made, and that in the next lesson she’d have them learn the name for the way things changed in these problems. Yoshioka-sensei then returned to the graph, saying that just as one could make a graph from a table, so one should be able to do the reverse and look for a table or for numbers from a graph. ‘For example,’ she said, ‘if you had no table, and you wanted to know how much y was when x was 3, how would you look for it? In other words, in terms of group seven’s problem, if you wanted to know how much water had entered the pool after 3 minutes?’ A few children raised their hands, and Yoshioka-sensei asked Shimura-kun to come to the front and explain. However, he could not actually use the graph to get his answer, so Yoshioka-sensei asked another volunteer, Fujisaki-kun, to try instead. Fujisaki-kun showed how the correct answer (9) could be derived from the graph by drawing a vertical line from the x axis to the line of the graph (marked in red) and then a horizontal line across from the line of the graph to the y axis. Protests from some other children that ‘that red line isn’t in the graph originally, so how can you use it?’ alerted Yoshioka-sensei to the fact that a number of children – including some of the more able ones – mistakenly thought that the word ‘graph’ (gurafu) referred to graph paper, rather than to the mathematical graph itself, and there was a minor

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uproar when the children discovered their mistake. To check that they now understood properly, Yoshioka-sensei asked what the value of y would be when x was 4.5, a number not in the table that group seven had made. Pointing at the table that group seven had made, she showed the class how one could estimate the answer from the table, since it showed that when x was 4, y was 12, and when x was 5, y was 15. Only a few children raised their hands offering to find the answer from the graph, however, and Yoshioka-sensei chose Murata-san, who came to the front and used the graph on the blackboard to show how one could trace a line up from 4.5 on the x axis to the graph line, and then from that line across to the y axis. Yoshioka-sensei then drew lines in with chalk, and some students called out the answer (13.5). Soon after this Yoshioka-sensei ended the lesson. Lesson 11 (Thursday 30 November 1995, 9.05–9.55 a.m.: 50 minutes) At the start of lesson 11, the children worked individually, summarizing the nature of a proportional relationship in their exercise books. There was then a whole-class session, during which children volunteered statements from what they had written. Finally, the children worked individually on a new problem given them by the teacher. In all, 28 minutes were taken up in wholeclass work, and 22 minutes in individual work. Yoshioka-sensei started by briefly reviewing what had been learned the previous day, and then told the children that today she was finally going to tell them the name for the problems in the ‘red’ group. The relation between x and y in those problems was called a proportional relation (hirei no kankei), she explained, and they were said to be proportional (hirei shiteiru). The ‘yellow’ problems were said to be non-proportional (hirei shiteinai). She wrote these terms on the blackboard and asked the children to summarize in their exercise books what kind of relation a proportional relation was, saying that there was a big hint on the blackboard – and then erasing that hint, the rules about group seven’s problem, which had been left there for the previous ten days. She also told the class to write down what they did not understand as well as what they did. After about six minutes, Yoshioka-sensei told the children to stop writing. This time, she rolled two dice to decide who would be called on to say what they had found (each pupil had a number in the register). She did this nine times, and all the children called on were able to add something, with one exception. She then asked if there were any other volunteers, and several more children raised their hands to add points. ‘When you connect x and y, you find the position of the point on the graph.’ ‘When you go up from the position of x axis to the graph line and then go across to the y axis, you find the value of y.’

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‘The rules don’t change, the only things that change are certain numbers.’ ‘x/y is always the same.’ Yoshioka-sensei reminded the children that they had learned this before when studying ratio (hi). She then gave the class a further problem: ‘A hose costs 150 yen for 1 metre. Express the relationship of the length of the hose and its cost with an equation and a graph.’ She suggested that they would need to write the equation first, and then make a table before drawing the graph. The class spent the last ten minutes working on this problem, while Yoshioka-sensei walked around looking at their work and helping them where necessary. Few seemed to be having problems. Later, Yoshioka-sensei assigned two pages of the textbook as homework. Lesson 12 (Friday 1 December 1995) Lesson 12 began with a whole-class session reviewing homework problems, and continued with a further whole-class session, thinking about how to tackle a new problem given by the teacher. In the first few minutes of the lesson, the class went through the homework set two days before. In several cases, Yoshioka-sensei asked the child who gave the answer to explain the reason for the answer as well. Most children managed to get most or all answers correct. Yoshioka-sensei then told the children that they would do some problems that would show when proportion could be useful. She wrote a problem and two illustrative diagrams on the blackboard: ‘There are two iron sheets of the same thickness but different shapes. One is rectangular, with sides of 6 cm and 10 cm, and weighs 120 grams. The other is an irregular shape and weighs 300 grams.’ ‘We want to find the area of the second sheet,’ said Yoshioka-sensei. ‘How can we do that? Here’s a hint – the thickness is the same, and the two iron sheets are of the same type.’ The children started thinking, with some discussion. Yoshioka-sensei told them that Okinaka-kun had said something useful – that one could put the smaller sheet inside the bigger sheet. ‘I understand!’ said Mizutani-san and a few others. As Iwata-kun and Mizutani-san bounced up and down with excitement, Yoshioka-sensei asked what ways the class had thought of for tackling the problem. Iwata-kun pointed out that 300 g × 2 = 600 g, and 120 g × 5 = 600 g; from this, one could work out the area of the second sheet. Koide-san pointed out that the first sheet’s ratio of weight to area was 120 : 60, or 2 : 1, and since the two sheets had the same ratio of weight to area, one could use that information to work out the area of the

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second sheet. Teramoto-kun expressed the same idea in the form of an equation: x/300 = 1/2. Another boy, Shimura-kun, pointed out that the areas of the two sheets should be in the same proportion as their weights: 300 ÷ 120 = 2.5. ‘Ah, so there are various ways of doing the problem,’ commented Yoshioka-sensei, suggesting that Shimura-kun’s way might be the easiest to understand. She then brought the lesson to an end. Lesson 13 (4 December 1995, 9.00–10.15 a.m.: 75 minutes) Lesson 13 began with a long whole-class session, with further discussion of the problem tackled in the previous lesson, along with a similar problem made by the teacher, and then a third problem, also given by the teacher. Children then worked individually on a problem from the textbook, assigned by the teacher. Its working was briefly reviewed in a whole-class session at the end of the lesson. Nine minutes in total were spent on individual work, and the rest on whole-class work. Yoshioka-sensei began by returning to the problem of the two iron sheets. After going over the problem, she said that some pupils might not realize that the problem had to do with proportion (hirei), and raised the question of what ratio and proportion were. Koide-san suggested that the reason the problem had to do with ratio and proportion was that one could compare the two iron sheets. Yoshioka-sensei then asked what the children would think if one of the sheets was made of paper and the other made of iron. Could they still work out the area in the same way as in the problem they had looked at? Several children said they thought it would be difficult to compare the two, but they did not seem very sure. Yoshioka-sensei then went over the problem again and explained that one could only solve the problem if the two sheets were made of the same materials. To demonstrate, she took a sheet of paper and tore about a quarter out of it. She then labelled the smaller piece ‘2 grams (100 cm2)’ and the larger piece, ‘10 grams’, and asked the children how much the area of the larger piece would be. ‘Who knows?’ About two-thirds of the children raised their hands. Yoshioka-sensei asked Yamada-kun for the answer, which he gave correctly as 500 cm2, and also asked him to explain his answer, which he did. Yoshioka-sensei then asked Mizutani-san how she did this problem, and she answered that she compared how many times bigger the larger piece of paper was than the smaller one. ‘Who understands that?’ asked Yoshioka-sensei, and almost all the children raised their hands. ‘Are there any other ways of getting the answer?’ asked the teacher, and two other boys offered alternative methods. Yoshioka-sensei wrote the three different ways of solving the problem on the blackboard: 1. 10 ÷ 2 = 5 100 × 5 = 500

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2. Multiples of 2 2g

×2

100 cm2

×3 ×4 ×5 10

× 5 times 500

3. 2 : 10 = 1 : 5 → 1/5

10 : 2 = 5 : 1 → 5/1 = 5

↓ 100 : x 100

100 × 5 = 500

She then reiterated that if the materials – the conditions – were the same, it would possible to compare, and asked, ‘Who found proportion in this problem?’ Five children raised their hands. Yoshioka-sensei then asked the children to think of characteristics of proportion that they could find in the problem. She then asked what the area of the paper would be if its weight was 1 gram. Eight children raised their hands. Yoshioka-sensei then removed the piece of paper labelled 10 grams, leaving the one labelled 2 grams – at which most though not all children raised their hands. The boy whom Yoshiokasensei chose to answer said, ‘50 cm2,’ and she then asked, ‘Okay, where did you find proportion?’ choosing another boy from the volunteers to answer. He explained that if x increases twice or three times, then y also increases twice or three times, and in this case, if you multiply 1 gram by 10, you get 10 grams, while if you multiply 50 grams by 10, you get 500 grams. ‘Right,’ said Yoshioka-sensei. ‘So with this, you could make a table, a graph, and an equation. This time, I’d just like you to produce an equation.’ After a little while, she wrote on the blackboard: y=䊊×x However, a little while later she commented that since a lot of people seemed to be having trouble with the equation, they would try making a table. She drew one on the blackboard and then asked Fukao-kun to fill in the figures (Table 4.5). ‘It will be good if we can write the equation,’ she commented. ‘How many have done one?’ About ten children raised their hands, which rather dismayed Yoshioka-sensei, who remarked, ‘Where has all that study of proportion gone?’ However, when she walked around the class she discovered that in fact

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1 50

2 100

3 150

4 200

most children had written the correct equation (y = 50 × x), though only about ten had had enough confidence in its correctness to admit to it. Reiterating again that one could only do this comparison if the conditions were the same – for example, if one had two pieces of the same kind of paper – Yoshioka-sensei then gave the children another problem, which she said was usually in the textbook (though not that year). Writing the problem on the blackboard, she explained that there is a big tree whose height you want to know. How do you work it out? Teramoto-kun suggested, ‘The shadow.’ Yoshioka-sensei then drew the tree on the blackboard and explained that if at 12 noon you were to measure the shadow of a rod whose height you knew, and then measured the shadow of the tree, you would be able to work out the height of the tree. She then had Funada-kun explain the reason to the class, and when she asked at the end of the explanation how many people understand it, almost all the children raised their hands. No doubt prompted by the diagrams of the tree and the rod on the blackboard, Yoshioka-sensei pointed out to the children that making a reduced drawing (shukuzu) was the same idea as ratio and proportion. Next Yoshioka-sensei returned to the problem of the two iron sheets, which was still written up on the main blackboard, and said, ‘Okay, let’s get the answer to this problem.’ She asked the four children who had suggested different methods of solving the problem in the previous lesson to each work out the problem using their own method. First was Shimura-kun: 300 ÷ 120 = 2.5 60 × 2.5 = 150

Answer: 150 cm2

Next was Koide-san: 300 : x = 2 : 1 300 ÷ 2 = 150

Answer: 150 cm2

Next came Iwata-kun, whose method was comparatively complicated and difficult to express in the form of equations. Nonetheless, Yoshioka-sensei persevered with it, writing out the whole working on the blackboard in accordance with what Iwata-kun said. However, at the end she commented, ‘Better not use that one.’ Finally came Teramoto-kun’s method, which was also comparatively complicated.7 Iwata-kun remarked that it was basically

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the same as that used by Shimura-kun. Yoshioka-sensei told the children that one could use any of these methods – all of them gave the answer to the problem. (She later told me that many children had written in their postlesson reflections that they found Shimura-kun’s method the easiest to understand, yet it was not the one used in the textbook.) She then told them to turn to page 36 of the textbook, copy Question 3 into their exercise books and do the problem. The children handed in their book to the teacher once they had finished the problem, and then wrote their reflection sheets. After a few minutes, when many children had already handed in their exercise books, Yoshioka-sensei wrote two ways of tackling the problem on the blackboard: 980 ÷ 140 = 7

1 g how much?

7 × 700 = 4,900 700 ÷ 140 = 5 ¥980 × 5 = 4,900 She asked who had used each method; most children had used the second method, with one or two using the first, and Teramoto-kun yet another method. This was the end of the lesson and the unit. Studying proportion in 6–1 Space does not allow such a detailed account of the way that Sanada-sensei tackled the unit on proportion in class 6–1. I will give a summary and then make a comparison what was done in 6–3. Sanada-sensei began the unit before Yoshioka-sensei, and his first lesson also demonstrated the flow of water between two tanks and elicited ideas from the children about what was changing. In addition, he made two electric toys run around the classroom while holding a stopwatch, afterwards eliciting ideas from the children about the relationship of electricity bills or batteries with distance. He also had them think of and write down other ideas about things that changed together. In the second lesson, he had the children examine a series of problems and divide them into two types suggested by the children themselves – namely, problems in which two values both increased or decreased, and problems in which one value increased while the other decreased. (This was a contrast with 6–3, where Yoshioka-sensei ensured that all the children worked on problems in which both values increased.) Children were unsure about which category one particular problem belonged to, and when Sanada-sensei asked them what they thought they should do in order to investigate the issue, they decided to use tables. The third lesson started with the class working individually on tables. They had studied tables previously, but many still had difficulty and made mistakes. Sanada-sensei

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told me he deliberately refrained from giving them instructions about how to make the tables beforehand, in order to make them think. Instead, he followed the individual work with a whole-class session in which problems that had emerged were discussed and various solutions were suggested by himself and the children. In the fourth and fifth lessons, the children made graphs. Sanada-sensei gave them two problems to investigate, but again did not give them preliminary guidance about making graphs. He told me later that this was out of a belief in the value of discovery learning (hakken gakushu¯ ), which he saw as basic to learning maths; if he had taught the children what to do at the start or corrected what they did immediately, then their sense of fulfillment (manzokukan) and their level of understanding would have been low, and it would simply have amounted to a repeat of what they had done in the fourth year – which many of them had in fact forgotten. As the children had not made graphs for a long time, many of them made mistakes, and again Sanada-sensei followed the individual work session with a whole-class session in which the children were able to discuss the different graphs they had made and why some were better than others. After that he reviewed how to make graphs with the whole class himself. At the end of the fifth lesson, Sanada-sensei had the children choose three problems that they anticipated would show different relationships between the values, with the purpose of investigating their patterns of change further using tables and graphs. He also gave them the choice of working on these

Figure 4.7 Children in 6–1 at Nakamachi looking at graphs made by different small groups.

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problems in groups or individually, and the children preferred individual work. This took up the sixth lesson. In the seventh, eighth and ninth lessons, there were whole-class sessions in which the children reported the rules they had found and discussed the results, with Sanada-sensei introducing and defining the term ‘proportion’ in lesson eight, and discussion of whether the problems displayed proportion or not in lesson nine. At the end of lesson nine, Sanada-sensei told the class that while all the problems they had been investigating over four lessons displayed proportion, there were differences between them too. In lessons ten and eleven, therefore, the class used the graphs and tables they had made to try to work out these differences. These lessons were divided between group work and whole-class work. The children worked out for themselves that one can use decimals in some problems but only integers in others, while Sanada-sensei had to draw to their attention that in some problems, such as those involving containers of limited capacity, there was a necessary limit to the values involved that needed to be shown in a graph, whereas other problems had no necessary limit. In lesson thirteen, Sanada-sensei introduced the problem of the two metal sheets that 6–3 had also examined. The class then spent the best part of four lessons investigating this problem in groups, using tables or graphs, and then, as a whole class, discussing various ways of tackling it. In total, 16 lessons over almost a month were devoted to the unit. Comparison of teaching in 6–1 and 6–3 There were many differences in the details of the ways that Yoshioka-sensei and Sanada-sensei organized their teaching of the unit on proportion. In 6–1, the children investigated problems in which one of two values increased and the other decreased, as well as problems in which both values increased. In 6–3, however, only the latter type of problem was investigated; on the other hand, the class examined one problem that did not display proportion, which did not happen in 6–1. In 6–3, during the first part of the unit the children investigated only problems they had thought up themselves, whereas in 6–1, some problems came from the children and some from the teacher. Class 6–3 spent more time at the beginning of the unit making problems and discussing the differences between them using various methods, before moving on to a more systematic comparison in which the entire class used first tables and then graphs. Class 6–1, on the other hand, spent little time at the start of the unit making problems; instead, during the first few lessons more time was spent on working out how to do investigations using tables and graphs, and only after that did the children choose three problems to investigate. In 6–3, the eight groups each investigated a different problem, and the whole class then looked at all eight problems (even though some received more attention than others). In 6–1, on the other hand, the number of problems investigated was fewer. My own feeling was that Sanada-sensei took a stronger role in

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controlling the organization of the lessons than did Yoshioka-sensei. In 6–3, the teaching and learning process seemed more fluid and unpredictable, less determined in advance and more open to change, than in 6–1. One reason for this may have been Sanada-sensei’s awareness that lesson seven of the unit would be a research lesson attended by other teachers in the school. This required him to prepare a plan of the unit and an explanation of his approach in it. However, the differences between the two approaches were probably also influenced by the particular personalities of the two teachers, as well as what they felt was appropriate for the particular group of children they were teaching at the time. At the same time, there were also important commonalities of approach between the two classes. In both cases, it was fundamental that the entire class should be studying the same topic at one time, and that there should be enough commonality among the problems examined to allow whole-class sessions in which meaningful discussion and exchange of ideas could take place. Both teachers began by presenting the children with an observable physical change (the water flowing between the tanks) and eliciting ideas about it from them. Both organized the lessons so that there was an alternation between individual work or group work and whole-class work, helping to ensure that individuals thought about problems themselves before sharing ideas and learning from others in the whole-class context. Neither gave children detailed instructions about what to do at the outset of their investigations. Both stressed thinking about how to tackle problems, welcomed various approaches to the same problem, and placed great importance on having students themselves explain their ideas and reasoning. Both gave the children some choice about the problems they investigated. This combination of similarity and difference supports the idea that there are some similarities of approach in the teaching of maths that are shared by many Japanese teachers – a set of basic ideas and practices with which teachers usually operate, while varying their particular approach to suit their individual situations at a certain time. Research on Japanese primary maths teaching to date has mainly focused on approaches common to many teachers (Stevenson and Stigler, 1992: 174–99; Lewis, 1995: 149–77; Whitburn, 2000), but given the lively culture of pedagogical action research in Japan (Sato and Asanuma, 2000; Fernandez and Yoshida, 2004), it is hardly surprising to find variation and innovation within a broadly shared paradigm.

Mathematics lessons at Nakamachi as sociocultural learning Sixth year maths lessons at Nakamachi can be described as what I have called sociocultural learning – learning that takes place in and through a ‘community of inquiry’ in which the teacher facilitates learners’ engagement with one another’s perspectives (Wells, 1999: 126, 300, 308). The teacher’s role was that of a ‘manager of learning’, maintaining control of the overall learning

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agenda, yet giving children a significant role in deciding the problems to be investigated and the means of investigation. While teachers such as Yoshiokasensei and Sanada-sensei were able to draw on their experience to mitigate the ‘teacher’s dilemma’, the demands of the dilemma also forced them into some compromises. The lessons encouraged learner autonomy, and also responded to the children’s individuality to some extent. However, the emphasis on learning from one another during whole-class sessions did seem to limit the degree to which children could pursue their own interests in creating and exploring problems. Learner autonomy and the teacher’s role As we have seen, Yoshioka-sensei and Sanada-sensei were trying to teach the unit on proportion with a view to developing the children’s motivation and ability to study independently. They gave the children a significant role in determining what problems would be tackled, and the direction the study would take. In 6–3, the children spent most of the unit investigating problems they had thought of and formulated themselves; it was not until the eighth lesson that the teacher gave them any other problems to tackle. In 6–1, the children initially chose three problems to investigate from a larger number, some drawn from their own ideas, and some provided by the teacher. In both classes, the children were able to decide what means they wanted to use to investigate the problems (e.g. tables or graphs). This approach demanded openness and a flexible responsiveness from the teachers, since it was impossible to predict exactly what problems the children would make or choose. The resulting problems did not necessarily fall into neat categories, but this could be turned to advantage – the teachers used it as an opportunity to have the children think about why problems should be assigned to one category rather than another. In 6–1, children had difficulty actually using some of the investigative techniques they had chosen, such as tables or graphs, usually because they had forgotten how, but Sanada-sensei refrained from teaching them what to do himself, and instead dealt with the problem by a whole-class discussion, during which the children themselves put forward their ideas about what to do. However, both teachers maintained overall control over the learning process, using the kind of techniques detailed by Edwards and Mercer (1987: 138–59) and Mercer (1995: 21–41). They set the agenda for the unit as a whole, and at the start of each lesson, as well as on occasion during lessons. They also retained control through their ability to make certain basic choices, including who would make the next major spoken contribution, and which contributions by children would be picked up for elaboration and discussion (cf. Edwards and Mercer, 1987: 131). The Nakamachi teachers were very skilful at eliciting and developing contributions that would pinpoint problems or develop understanding. Other techniques used for controlling the classroom discourse included reformulation of what children had said, and

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recapitulation of part of the lesson (cf. Mercer, 1995: 32–3). Jaworski (1994: 90–185) describes part of the teacher’s job as ‘management of learning’, which can include setting the agenda and laying down ground rules about the way classroom activities proceed. She quotes fellow maths educationalist Paul Cobb as saying that even using a constructivist approach, therefore, ‘The teacher is still an authority in the classroom. The teacher still teaches.’ (1994: 181) The term ‘management of learning’ applies very well to the role assumed by Yoshioka-sensei and Sanada-sensei during this unit. Although the Nakamachi teachers managed learning in their classes, it was notable that they avoided the kind of fine-grained control described both by Edwards and Mercer (1987) at the British primary school they studied, and by Boaler at Amber Hill secondary school. Edwards and Mercer (1987: 142) described the pervasive use of a technique they called ‘cued elicitation’ which they defined as ‘types of discourse in which the teacher asks questions while simultaneously providing heavy clues to the information required’. They criticized this technique for involving children in a guessing game in which they try to work out what the teacher wants them to say, rather than trying to actually achieve understanding. At Boaler’s Amber Hill, meanwhile, teachers would lead the students through mathematical problems by asking them a series of ‘closed questions with short factual answers that [did] not require any interpretation or reasoning’ (Boaler, 1997: 21), questions which broke down the problems into isolated fragments. Both techniques involved very close management of discourse by the teacher, and seemed actually to hinder children’s development of understanding and reasoning. In contrast, the Nakamachi teachers encouraged children to speak at length when giving their ideas and explanations. Their approach resembled more closely the British secondary maths classrooms studied by Jaworski (1994: 171), whose features included ‘inviting enquiry, raising questions, encouraging conjectures and requiring justification’. A further strategy used by Yoshioka-sensei in particular was the adoption of a non-expert role (cf. Mercer, 1995: 57). Rather than assuming the role of an expert who knew all the answers beforehand, she tended to adopt the position of someone who might be more expert than the children, but who still had room to learn more and could thus be engaged with them in a joint exploratory study. One of the best examples of this came during the categorization of problems during the second and third lessons of the proportional change unit. In the second lesson, two problems were placed in the category of ‘extras’ (bangaihen) and deferred for later discussion, and at the beginning of lesson three, Yoshioka-sensei told the children that she herself had wondered about how to categorize these problems. More generally, she adopted a style of speech that dissociated her from an expert role. When asking questions, for example, her intonation often suggested that she herself was not completely certain about the answer – a rhetorical strategy akin to that used by British primary teacher Irene Shantry, who changed the form of her questions from ‘How would . . .?’ to ‘I wonder how . . .?’ to diminish the sense that

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she as teacher already knew the answer, and found that adopting ‘the role of “non-expert” ’ created ‘relationships of trust and cooperation’ and encouraged children to speak and take the initiative (Brierley et al., 1992). It was also rare for Yoshioka-sensei to answer her own questions to the children. Frequently, she would wait for a child to come up with a convincing answer to a question she posed and then ask the class whether they understood this or found it convincing, thus dissociating herself from the role of arbiter. In some cases, her refusal to supply an answer and her unwillingness to accept answers that she found inadequate could stimulate long discussions. This was notably so in lesson six, when she refused either to accept the children’s explanations about why two equations with different figures were ‘the same’, or to provide an answer herself. The discussion continued for several minutes and was finally left unresolved until a later lesson. During the discussion, Yoshiokasensei used a number of techniques labelled as ‘innovative’ within a British context by Mercer (1995: 32), including the use of declarative statements to invite rejoinder or disagreement, ‘inviting elaboration’, and ‘admitting perplexity’. There were marked similarities with a discussion between teacher and pupils recorded by Jaworski (1994: 98–100), which also centred on thinking through the relationship between different mathematical objects, working out what was meant by ‘the same’. As Jaworski (1994: 100) notes, such a discussion involves ‘a high degree of mathematical challenge’ and ‘considerable risk’ (of being wrong) for the pupils involved. For it to have a successful result, the ethos of the classroom must be supportive, with good relationships between the teacher and the pupils, as well as between the pupils themselves. There must be ‘an effective balance between challenge and sensitivity’ (1994: 101). This point is importantly related to the issue of building a class group, to which we shall return. Learning from one another: individuality and the community of inquiry As in the kokugo lessons discussed in the last chapter, enabling children to learn from one another was a key feature of the maths lessons in 6–1 and 6–3. This was the reason why so much lesson time was spent in either whole-class work or small-group work, with whole-class work usually taking up twothirds or more of the lesson. Even when children did individual work, they were normally allowed to consult one another. Whole-class work did not centre on exposition by the teacher or series of short, closed questions; it usually centred on open questions posed to the whole class, so that all the children could listen to their classmates’ reasoned answers, as well as their queries and puzzlement. Meanwhile, the periods of individual or group work that often preceded whole-class work allowed children the chance to think about problems for themselves before sharing ideas with the rest of the class. Having the children write reflections about what they had understood or not understood at the end of each lesson also allowed the teachers to know better

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about the mathematical progress of individuals and take this into account as they planned the next lesson. The predominant use of whole-class work did place limits on the freedom of individual children to pursue their own interests. In this way, the maths teaching at Nakamachi differed from the investigative teaching described by Jaworski (1994) and Boaler (1997). Boaler records that children at progressive Phoenix Park had a great deal of freedom to develop and explore problems individually or in small groups, with the result that ‘as time went by and more lessons were spent on the theme, the students began to diverge more and more, both in the amount of work they did and the topics they worked on (Boaler, 1997: 45). Jaworski too records that in the investigatively-oriented maths classrooms she studied, ‘there was a sense of freedom to explore situations and students followed diverse directions according to their own abilities and interests’, though she also notes that ‘organization of the classrooms flexibly in groups enabled sharing and cooperation’ and that ‘students usually moved freely about the room and spoke freely to each other’ (Jaworski, 1994: 177). In the classes at Nakamachi there were more constraints on the pupils, many of which arose from the concern that they should be able to share insights, learn from one another, and make progress together. While the teachers did allow a significant degree of choice and self-direction, this remained within the bounds of the concept of the whole class as the basic community of learners. On the other hand, the Nakamachi teachers were very willing to accept a diversity of ways to solve a given problem. There were several occasions in Yoshioka-sensei’s lessons when two, three, or four children suggested different ways of solving a problem, and on each occasion, her response was to point out this diversity to the children, and tell them to use whichever way suited them best – although she would sometimes suggest one way as most efficient. Yoshioka-sensei and other teachers saw this as one way of responding to children’s individuality, since different individuals would find different approaches helpful. Principled knowledge and mathematics as experience As the description of the lessons in the proportional change unit makes clear, Yoshioka-sensei and Sanada-sensei were far from teaching conscious, explicit strategies for learning abstract knowledge, in the manner criticized by Lave (1988). They did not use the type of ‘exposition and practice’ approach (also known as ‘direct instruction’) that Jaworski (1994: 8) describes as the most common way of teaching maths at secondary schools in Britain and the United States, at least up to the mid-1980s, that Boaler (1997: 46) refers to as ‘standard’ in British schools, and that Stigler and Hiebert (1999: 27) present as normal in the United States. Instead, their approach was far closer to allowing children to experience and investigate inherently mathematical situations, and what they primarily wanted their pupils to learn was a principled

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understanding of mathematical relationships, rather than procedures that could be followed in order to solve certain types of problems. This was why so much time was spent investigating so few problems. In 6–3’s fifth to seventh lessons, for example, the focus was on analysing and comparing the mathematical relationships within the problems the children had made. Yoshiokasensei did not tell the children how to do this. At first, in lesson five, she simply had them look at the problem and table made by group seven, and asked them what they noticed about it. She then had each group carry out an analysis of its own problem – after which the relationships the children had found within the different problems were compared in a key whole-class discussion. Focusing on the relationships identified in the problems chosen by group two (‘when x increases by 1, y increases by 1’) and group seven (‘when x increases by 1, y increases by 3’), Yoshioka-sensei asked whether these relationships were the same or not. She pointed out that the numbers involved were different – so if the two relationships were ‘the same’, as many children insisted, what did that mean? At this point, none of the children succeeded in explaining this to her satisfaction, and instead of explaining herself, she suggested returning to the issue later, after further investigation. By the next lesson, Sato-kun succeeded in explaining that what the two problems (as well as several others) had in common was that ‘y would result if you multiplied x by something’ even though the exact numbers involved might differ – thus showing his understanding of the mathematical relationship involved. By the end of the lesson, members of the class could differentiate the problems they had made according to the mathematical relationships within them, and could also distinguish between trivial differences (numbers) and significant differences (relationships). In later lessons, too, the focus continued to be on mathematical relationships and on thinking about processes by which one could tackle problems, rather than on learning procedures for finding the right answer. In lesson eight, for example, Yoshioka-sensei provided the class with four problems, but rather than telling them to solve the problems and find the answers, she told them to investigate whether the rules they had discovered applied to these problems, and what kind of problems they were. She also emphasized doing the problems carefully rather than doing them fast. Again, in lessons twelve and thirteen Yoshioka-sensei gave the class a problem (that of the two iron sheets) and instead of just telling them to solve it, asked them to think about how they could tackle it. These two lessons were then spent discussing the different ways in which this and similar problems could be tackled, and why these methods worked. Though Yoshioka-sensei did suggested that some of the methods proposed might be easier to use than others, she did not place much emphasis on the issue of learning efficient procedures. Instead, stress was placed on thinking about how problems might be tackled, or in other words, how principled knowledge could be applied to generate procedures. Looking back on the lessons, Sanada-sensei said that from a mathematical point of view, he had wanted the children to become accustomed to looking

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at things in terms of mathematical functions (kansu¯ -teki na mikata), and had wanted them to become interested in this kind of change, whereby two values changed together. While giving children lots of problems to do was a way to improve their ability to solve problems (mondai o toku), he had been aiming at improving their ability to study in a self-directed way (gakushu¯ o susumeru), not just their ability to solve problems. Because of the investigative approach, there had been some parts of the textbook that had not been stressed much, with the result that these parts had remained vague and the children had not been able to answer the questions about them in the test at the end of the unit. After the test, he had tried to deal with the issue of their problem-solving ability to some extent by explaining how to solve such problems, and then having them do the same test again. Another way of tackling this ‘teacher’s dilemma’ was to treat the boundaries of textbook units with flexibility. In discussing how her maths teaching had changed with experience, Yoshioka-sensei explained that instead of teaching units separately, nowadays she tended to let them flow into one another, linking them through the children’s interests. Indeed, both Yoshioka-sensei and Sanada-sensei spent longer than the ten lessons recommended in the teacher’s manual on the ‘proportional change’ unit (13 and 16 lessons respectively). However, both took much less time than the manual recommended for the closely related unit, ‘inverse proportion’ (hanpirei), as they had already covered much of its content during the lessons on the earlier, closely related unit. The ‘teacher’s dilemma’, whereby investigation does not necessarily lead children to learn all that the curriculum dictates, was thus present at Nakamachi, as at the British schools studied by Jaworski and Boaler, and like their British counterparts, Sanada-sensei and Yoshioka-sensei found themselves dealing with it in various ways, including compromises they did not regard as ideal.

Conclusion Sixth year teachers at Nakamachi approached the teaching of mathematics with a combination of long-standing aims, and newer aims that have arisen in the context of the educational reform programme. They wanted children in their classes to understand the mathematics they studied, but they also wanted them to develop the ability to study in an independent, self-directed way. In the terms of Edwards and Mercer (1987), the understanding they aimed at was not ‘procedural’ but ‘principled’. To that end, they acted as ‘learning managers’, avoiding closed, factual questions, fragmentation of learning, and close teacher control, in favour of larger, more challenging questions and investigation and discussion by pupils. In this, they were teaching in a way that has previously been observed in Japanese public primary classrooms from the mid-1980s on by Stevenson and Stigler (1992), Lewis (1995), and Whitburn (2000). The accumulation of studies at different times and in different parts of Japan gives confidence that this mode of mathematics

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teaching is widespread and long-standing in Japanese primary education; there is every indication that it represents the mainstream mode. In order to promote independent, self-directed learning, Yoshioka-sensei and Saneda-sensei let children in their classes devise their own problems for mathematical investigation, and also allowed them a significant role in deciding how to investigate the problems. Besides achieving the aim of developing children’s autonomy for its own sake, these practices are also consistent with the approaches to maths learning advocated by situated learning theorists such as Lave (1988), and constructivists such as Jaworski (1994). Teachers also recognized individual differences in children’s learning by encouraging them to share a variety of approaches to solving the same problem, so that children could appreciate this diversity and feel comfortable about using whichever method suited them best. In this sense, the Nakamachi maths lessons promoted individuality as well as autonomy. However, the basic teaching approach, whereby the whole class came together to think about and discuss problems, did place some limits on the degree to which individuality and autonomy could be developed. Had children pursued their own mathematical interests without regard for what their classmates were doing, it would probably have become difficult to hold meaningful whole-class sessions. The importance attached by Nakamachi teachers to children’s learning from one another meant that this was not a practical option. The value that teachers place on children’s learning from one another is connected to pedagogical conceptualizations of the nature of learning. There is nothing intrinsically ‘Japanese’ about these conceptualizations; however, the common Japanese disposition to see humans as interdependent, and the view of the class group as a small community whose members help one another, are certainly likely to make Japanese primary teachers receptive to such ideas. In this sense, we can see a link between Japanese understandings of selfhood, and the pedagogical approaches adopted in primary classrooms, including mathematics classrooms. At the same time, Japanese understandings of selfhood are multifaceted and various, as pointed out in Chapter 1, and autonomy, individuality, and self-reliance are also valued alongside interdependence. This makes possible the kind of shift towards greater emphasis on individual self-direction seen at Nakamachi, and also means that larger moves in this direction are possible. It needs to be remembered that the importance of learning from one another diminishes greatly in Japanese secondary classrooms, whose dominant pedagogy is much closer to an individually-oriented transmission model (Rohlen, 1983; Fukuzawa, 1994).8 I would argue that Japanese primary teachers do not only value children’s learning from one another because of dispositions towards certain understandings of selfhood, but also because this pedagogical approach has become strongly entrenched within the primary education system – an system that is, for practical purposes, an almost entirely separate institution from the secondary education system in terms of both teaching and personnel. Even more than culturally significant views of selfhood, institutionally dominant

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understandings of pedagogy and human development create significant resistance to pedagogical approaches that assign little or no role to learning from one another. The implications of this are that while culturally specific dispositions in the understanding of human selfhood may make Japanese primary teachers more receptive to sociocultural pedagogy, such dispositions are themselves not sufficient to determine whether this or any other type of pedagogy will become established in schools. In other words, sociocultural pedagogy is not culturally specific, though its reception may be affected to some degree by local understandings of human selfhood. In fact, the studies of researchers such as Jaworski and Boaler show striking resemblances between the approaches to maths teaching in some British schools and that of Japanese schools such as Nakamachi. That the British schools appear to prefer an approach focused on small groups, with more freedom for individual exploration, while the teachers at Nakamachi remained committed to the value of learning as a whole class, probably does stem in part from different views of human selfhood in the two societies at this historical moment. Yet, given that within both societies there is appreciation both of the value of the individual and of the significance of human interdependence, it is not difficult to envisage the justification of future pedagogical shifts through a change in the emphasis given to one part of the society’s understanding of selfhood over another. Indeed, it can be argued that the kind of shift in approach seen at Nakamachi is an example of just such a process.

Notes 1 A number of time clashes between lessons that I was observing in 6–3, and maths lessons in 6–1, made it impossible to watch all the 6–1 lessons. However, there was also an advantage to watching a sequence of lessons that were not planned with a research lesson in view, since such a sequence is inevitably given special attention by the teacher and is, in this sense, uncharacteristic. 2 As noted in Chapter 2, nakama does not literally mean a ‘family group’, but a ‘group whose members belong together’. ‘Family group’ is used here as an idiomatic English equivalent. 3 In a later interview on 22 December 1995, Yoshioka-sensei told me that she also told the students just to make problems in which both values were increasing, so that the whole class would have this in common. I did not realize this at the time of the lesson. Yoshioka-sensei also noted in this interview that she had dealt with other types of problem (e.g. with both values decreasing, or one increasing and one decreasing) in the following unit on inverse proportion (hanpirei). 4 I missed all but the final 20 minutes of this lesson, as I had agreed to a request from the principal to help with interpretation for some American exchange students who were visiting the school. The first part of the lesson is therefore as described afterwards by Yoshioka-sensei; also, timings for the lesson cannot be given. 5 This translation makes Yoshioka-sensei’s question sound more precise and technical than it actually was. In Japanese, she merely asked the students what they noticed about the ‘way of increasing’ (fuekata) without specifying what was increasing.

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6 Furikaeri literally means ‘looking back’ or ‘reflecting’. 7 Unfortunately I did not manage to copy down the working for these last two methods while I was taking notes on the lesson. 8 According to the research of Stigler and Hiebert (1999), students at junior high do continue to learn from one another in maths lessons, as the teacher will often ask several students to present different solutions to a problem. Their focus on maths lessons may have enabled them to observe practices missed by Fukuzawa. However, my own observation of junior high maths lessons in Japan indicates that while students may continue to learn from one another’s presentations, they volunteer comments and take an active part in class discussion much less than in primary school.

5

Learning gender

Gender cannot be overlooked in any discussion of selfhood. As anthropological and other research has repeatedly shown, gender categories and identity exercise a deep and often determining influence on role, status, language, and behaviour; and this process begins from the very earliest age. Gender has certainly been of great social and cultural significance in Japan during the 150 years since the country opened its doors to the Western world, with changes or threats to dominant gender statuses, roles and identities often leading to debate and controversy. Education has perennially been one of the central means used to try to reshape or maintain such gender identities, and it is therefore important to examine the ways in which Japanese children learn to become gendered selves within the school environment. Japanese leaders in the Meiji period (1868–1912) inherited social and intellectual traditions that tended to see women as inferior in ability to men, and assigned them a lower rank in society (Niwa, 1993; Imai, 1994; Yamakawa, 2001: 142). In the Meiji period itself and thereafter, there were shifts in views of women, significantly influenced by contemporary Western thinking; in particular, women were seen as peculiarly fitted for the role of ‘good wife and wise mother’ (ryo¯ sai kenbo), a doctrine promulgated in girls’ schools by the Ministry of Education from the 1890s onwards (Fukuya, 1998). These views about the place of women were dominant until the end of the Asia-Pacific War in 1945, and continued to exercise a considerable influence in postwar Japan, despite major reforms introducing constitutional equality of the sexes, co-education, and political representation of women (Kaneko, 1995: 10–11; Hara, 1995). There is no shortage of evidence that gender stereotyping and discrimination have been and often continue to be pervasive in Japanese society. As many authors over decades have described, dominant postwar ideologies and institutional arrangements encouraged a strictly gendered division of labour within the family (Brinton, 1993; Yoda, 2000). Women were to devote themselves to the roles of wife and mother, on the basis of a belief that it was this for which they were naturally fitted (Rohlen, 1974: 242; Vogel, 1978; Lebra, 1984; Allison, 1996; Long, 1996; Borovoy, 2005: 67–85). This also allowed companies to demand that men give their primary devotion to their work, leaving many with little free time for their families (Rohlen, 1974:

Learning gender 153 248–53; Allison, 1994: 94–110). Until the passage of the Equal Employment Opportunity Law (EEOL) in 1986, opportunities for management careers were rare for women, and even after the EEOL (and its revision in 1997), change has been limited; moreover, many women have been deterred from seeking management positions by companies’ reluctance to make it easier for their workers (female or male) to combine work and family roles (Lam, 1992; Creighton, 1996; Roberts, 2002; White, 2002: 122–30; Gelb, 2003: 49–63). Firms still largely seem to prefer the longstanding postwar pattern whereby men are expected to be totally committed ‘corporate warriors’, while women work full-time until marriage, and then part-time, for lower wages and benefits, once their children are in school – work which is itself often seen as for the sake of the family (Smith, 1987: 16; Kondo, 1990: 274–85). This situation may have been strengthened by the recognition given to the importance of the role of the housewife and mother in modern Japan, so that women do not necessarily see such a role as inferior to that of men, merely as different (Iwao, 1993: 80–93). Certainly, ethnographers in the first few postwar decades found that male white-collar workers and their wives rarely expressed strong dissatisfaction with the gendered division of labour they experienced (Vogel, 1963; Rohlen, 1974: 248–51; Allison, 1994: 102–10). Yet as Robert Smith (1987) pointed out, this cannot disguise the real gender inequality in Japan; and it has become increasingly clear in recent years that significant numbers of women in particular are no longer prepared to be limited by the gendered expectations and practices that have dominated the postwar period, and are looking for a wider variety of ways towards self-fulfilment (Kelsky, 2001: 85–132; Rosenberger, 2001: 125–213). One of the most conspicuous results has been the increasing numbers of women who get married later, or not at all (Tokuhiro, 2004), and a birthrate plummeting to an all-time low of 1.25 in 2005 (Asahi Shinbun, 2006), as women refuse the unattractive choice between giving up their careers, or else assuming the double burden of a job and most of the care of the home and children (Jolivet, 1997). Indeed, it is probably no exaggeration to say that Japan is in the throes of a crisis of gender identity and role. What roles does Japanese schooling play in the shaping of gender identity today? Does it contribute to gender stereotyping, or does it help to break down stereotyped identities and behaviour patterns? Surprisingly, there has been relatively little research on the role played by education in the gender socialization process in Japan – certainly nowhere near as much as in Britain or the United States – and so the answers to such questions remain partial and unclear. This chapter delineates perceptions and practices of gender at Nakamachi and Morikawa. Gender identity is a key element of selfhood. How, then, were children learning gender at these Sakura primary schools? And how was what they learned affected by the discourses of selfhood manifested in the practices of the schools and of individual teachers? I find that gender stereotyping and discrimination were far less evident in these primary schools than they are in Japanese society more generally, judging by previous

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above-mentioned research. Significantly, many of the most clearly gendered features observed in the schools were generated by children themselves, or brought into school by them. This casts doubt on the arguments of those who might see primary schools as bearing a large degree of blame for socializing Japanese children into conforming to gender stereotypes. On the contrary, I would suggest the opposite; that we should consider the possibility that the relative lack of gender stereotyping in primary schools (and possibly in later stages of education) may prepare children and young people to expect a similar situation in adulthood – an expectation that is often not fulfilled – and thus may provide them with an experiential ideal against which they can measure adult social reality and find it wanting.1 This would certainly help to explain the rising expectations of gender equality witnessed among younger Japanese in recent decades, as well as the increasing dissatisfaction that Japanese women seem to feel towards gender stereotyping and discrimination.2

Approaches to gender and schooling Much research on gender and schooling stresses the socializing role of the school, and sees modern educational institutions as playing a very important role in shaping gender identity. Sara Delamont’s well-known book Sex Roles and the School (1990) is representative of much of this research in arguing that schools impose or strengthen gender identity and stereotyping. The means through which this is seen as taking place include school architecture (e.g. separate toilets for boys and girls), institutional practices (e.g. separate lists of girls and boys in the register, differentiated uniforms and curricula), discursive practices (e.g. the frequent use of the terms ‘boys’ and ‘girls’), and the pedagogical and management practices of individual teachers (e.g. calling on boys to speak more often than girls, organizing competitions on gender lines, giving boys more attention than girls, encouraging girls to do certain subjects and boys others). However, in recent years a number of writers have argued that this socialization model is too simple. One important critique has come from authors influenced by post-structuralist theory, such as Walkerdine (1981) and Davies (2003). They argue that children are not ‘unitary subjects’ with identity and behaviour that is consistent across all situations. Rather, the way that children act changes according to the situation they are in and who they are with (Davies, 2003: 2–4). They can seem to be different people in different contexts. These authors and others, such as Thorne (1993), also suggest that the socialization model tends to see children as more passive and less powerful than they actually are. Davies (2003: 6) points out that children do not just passively accept everything that adults say or do as the norm, and that any adult who has tried to ‘socialize’ a child knows how far from straightforward such a process is. Thorne (1993: 3) comments on ‘the ways in which children act, resist, rework, and create; they influence adults as well as being influenced by them’. She has detailed the many ways in which children at school

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spontaneously interact in ways that draw attention to and strengthen gender categories (1993: 63–88) and has pointed out that while school structures and practices may also have this effect, there are also many occasions when teachers encourage gender mixing and challenge gendered boundaries (1993: 55–6). But although it may be too simple to see children as passively socialized into unitary gender identities by those more powerful than they, it is also implausible to ignore the forces that do make it imperative for children in most, if not all, societies to take up a gender identity. Davies (2003: 13–22) argues that the male–female binary is so deeply embedded in the structures and practices of most societies that children cannot avoid positioning themselves in gender terms. To be ‘a competent member of society’, one must be able, and be seen to be able, to ‘competently [construct] the gendered world’ (Davies, 2003: 21). Since it is a deep and proper wish of children to become, and be seen as, competent members of society, they must and will take up a gender identity, even in the absence of some of the more blatant socializing practices criticized by Delamont and others. The enormous importance of the binary gender categories also means that children find it necessary to engage in constant ‘category-maintenance work . . . aimed at maintaining the category as a meaningful category in the face of the individual deviation that is threatening it’ (2003: 31). Writers such as Davies and Thorne thus acknowledge the power of the structures and practices that effectively compel children to take up a gender identity. However, neither believes that this situation is immutable or unchallengeable. For Thorne, the dichotomous categories are filled with ‘complicated, shifting, and sometimes contradictory gender meanings . . . there are many ways of being a boy or girl’ and ‘at the level of social situations, gender has a fluid quality’ (1993: 158–9, italics in original). She recommends that schools and teachers work to challenge structures and practices that promote polarized gender identity and behaviour. They should also encourage children to see that there are various ways of being a girl or a boy. Davies agrees, but for her, this does not go far enough. She argues that it is also necessary to work towards eliminating the male–female binary as it relates to everything beyond biological reproduction, by stopping ‘doing the work that maintains the difference’ and working ‘towards discursive and interactive practices in which genital sex and identity in the everyday world are separated’ (Davies, 2003: 141) – though accepting that this is a difficult task, unlikely to be accomplished quickly. Despite their criticisms of cruder versions of the socialization model, then, these writers do believe that school structures and practices should be changed where necessary. However, neither believes that changing what schools do will be enough, because of the wide and deep influence of gendered structures and practices in language and society.

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Japanese education and gender Most of the scant available writing on Japanese education and gender has worked upon the assumptions of socialization models such as those of Delamont. Much of this literature has been critical of Japanese education for reinforcing gender stereotypes and thus contributing to the subordination of women in society. Kameda (1995), for example, criticizes gender stereotyping in textbooks, gender segregatory practices such as separate lists of boys’ and girls’ names on the class register, and the low number of teachers in school senior management positions, especially principal and vice-principal. Even in 2006, the proportion of school principals who were women was only 18 per cent at primary level, and 5 per cent at both junior high and high school levels, with the figures for vice-principal at 22, 8, and 6 per cent respectively (Monbukagakusho¯ , 2006).3 McVeigh (1997) has depicted attempts to shape approved forms of femininity at a junior college (tanki daigaku), particularly by mandating conservative, ‘ladylike’ dress on campus, and giving guidance about conventionally polite speech and behaviour in the workplace. Ushiyama (2005a; 2005b) points out that only a minority of the stories in Japanese (kokugo) textbooks feature leading female characters, and even fewer present an image of women that transcends gender stereotypes (though she concedes that this is not just a problem of school education, but also of Japanese children’s literature in general). A small amount of research has documented the ways that Japanese children themselves participate in the gendering process inside and outside educational institutions. Davies and Kasama (2004: 75–117) describe how children at preschools in Hokkaido worked to maintain gender hierarchies in their activities, with some boys vigorously dissociating themselves from girls and femininity in general. Miyazaki (2004) has also shown how girls and boys in a junior high school near Tokyo shifted their usage of first-person pronouns in attempts to negotiate gender identities.

Institutional structures and practices at Nakamachi and Morikawa Educational practices can be analysed on several levels: systemic (stemming from the education system itself), institutional (stemming from a particular institution, such as a school), communal (referring to practices that are common to and broadly accepted as normal by many teachers, but are not institutionally mandated), and individual (referring to practices of a particular teacher). At the systemic level, there are no gender distinctions made within the Japanese public primary curriculum, which is the same for all children. Also, all public primary schools are co-educational. However, research on school textbooks has found a persistent tendency towards a conventional and stereotyped portrayal of gender identity and role (Kameda, 1995; Ushiyama,

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2005a, 2005b).4 As my analysis is ethnographic, I focus on institutional, communal, and individual practices. On the institutional level, there was some gender differentiation at both Nakamachi and Morikawa. Gender differentiation by appearance was limited, as neither school asked children to wear a uniform, and many children, both boys and girls, came to school in unisex clothing consisting of trousers combined with some sort of top. In this respect, the primary schools contrasted both with the city’s junior high schools and at least one of its private kindergartens, which enforced the wearing of uniforms that differed for girls and boys.5 However, children did wear yellow ‘safety hats’ to and from school, and boys’ and girls’ hats differed in style. Also, the schools required children to wear indoor shoes (uwagutsu), and these had a red toecap for girls and a blue toecap for boys.6 In fact, when I was observing classes at Morikawa for two weeks in 2004, I often found that looking at the toecap was the only way I could tell a child’s gender without asking about it. Besides hats and shoes, there was also institutionalized gender differentiation in various other ways, such as on the class registers (a boys’ list followed by a girls’ list),7 lining up for most school ceremonies by gender, and use of separate girls’ and boys’ toilets.8 On ceremonial occasions, such as during the graduation ceremony (see Chapter 6), boys invariably preceded girls, with conventionalized use of gendered first person pronouns (boku for boys and watashi for girls). These practices contributed to gender differentiation, the basic precondition for gender inequity (Kimura, 1999: 43) and for restrictive gendered categories to which children and adults feel and often are forced to conform (Davies, 2003: 115–41). Moreover, all children had a health record entitled a ‘Mother and Child Health Diary’ (boshi kenko¯ techo¯ ), institutionalizing an assumption that it was the mother that would take most care of the health of her children. At Nakamachi, the class teacher’s termly individual consultation with parent and child (sansha kondankai), was held during the day.9 This made it much more likely to be attended by mothers than fathers, since fathers were more likely to be working full-time as the main family wage-earner. The practice thus reinforced the stereotypical notion that a child’s upbringing and education is more the concern of the mother than the father.

Classroom practices and gender Most observed classroom practices that had a bearing on gender were not mandated by the school, but were decided by the class teacher. In some cases, such as seating, the practices seemed to be common among Japanese primary teachers. There were also practices that involved the teacher in dilemmas over priorities, most notably when it came to establishing conventions about speaking up and gaining attention in class.

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Seating In most classrooms observed at Nakamachi and Morikawa, children sat in pairs, with a boy next to a girl, though there were occasional exceptions.10 Members of the same small group (han) sat near one another. Children were rarely free to decide exactly where they would sit. One obvious reason for seating in mixed-gender pairs is to minimize noise and off-task behaviour. However, this was not always dictated by the teacher. In one of the sixth year classes I observed at Morikawa in June 2004, the class teacher told me that the children themselves had decided on this arrangement at a class meeting, after the original arrangement of sitting next to friends had resulted in a noise level that bothered the children themselves. One of the fifth year teachers at Nakamachi told me that he sat children in mixed-gender pairs because otherwise, boys and girls would never sit together. This was borne out by my observations. Children at Nakamachi usually sat in the mixed-gender han to eat lunch, but when they could choose an alternative seating arrangement, they almost invariably formed samegender groups. The same was true of seating choices on other occasions, such as a coach trip to a museum. In 6–3 at Morikawa, mixed-gender seating was not insisted on, and as a result, it had disappeared. Though seating children in mixed-gender pairs reinforces gender categories, therefore, the same would almost certainly be true, in a different way, if children were allowed to sit where they liked. Indeed, in her ethnographic study of gender and sexual relations in upper primary education in England, conducted in the mid1990s, Renold (2005: 83–4) describes exactly this phenomenon. Teachers at Nakamachi and Morikawa usually preferred to mix the genders, as did some of the US teachers studied by Thorne (1993: 55). The promotion of choice among children did not necessarily result in any breakdown of gender categories, therefore. In fact, it seemed to be in 6–3 at Nakamachi, where Yoshioka-sensei emphasized both self-direction and an understanding of the class group as nakama, that children were most capable of overcoming gender categories in their classroom life. There was a striking contrast between social studies lessons in this class and in 6–2 at Morikawa, in both of which children formed their own small groups to study a theme that interested them. In the Morikawa class, all the groups that formed were single-gender, whereas in the Nakamachi class, there were five mixed-gender and only three single-gender groups. Yoshioka-sensei’s insistence that her class members should think for themselves and value everyone in the class seemed to help the children to make decisions that genuinely reflected their own study interests, and not just their gendered friendships. Speaking out and gaining attention Much has been written about how teachers in Britain and the United States have given more attention to boys than to girls (Wilkinson and Marrett, 1985;

Learning gender 159 Windass, 1989: 43–4; Delamont, 1990: 31). It has also been noted that the reasons for this are complex, and are partly because boys receive more negative, disciplinary attention. In my observations at Nakamachi and Morikawa, I concentrated on positive, instructional attention, particularly the frequency with which children spoke out and were called upon to answer in lessons. However, it was not easy to measure the amount of such attention, partly because in the two Nakamachi classes where I spent most time observing in 1995–96, the teachers allowed children to speak out in class without raising their hands, in order to encourage them to speak voluntarily. In both 6–1 and 6–3, the resulting atmosphere was lively, though not disorderly, with plenty of speaking out by children. Though it was often difficult to identify the child who was speaking, it was nonetheless clear that in most classes boys tended to speak out more than girls. The disparity varied between classes; at Nakamachi, it was smaller in 6–3 than in 6–1. In 6–3, I observed 39 classes in which I recorded pupils speaking out, and in these, boys spoke out roughly twice as often as girls. In 6–1, I observed 24 such classes, in which boys spoke out between three and four times as often as girls.11 It has to be borne in mind that in both 6–1 and 6–3, there were 16 boys and only 10 girls (in 6–2, there were 17 boys and 11 girls, resulting in a total of 49 boys and only 31 girls in the entire year). In the small number of lessons observed at Morikawa in June 2004, the number of girls and boys called on to speak was almost the same in five of six lessons, with more boys than girls called on in the sixth lesson. The Nakamachi teachers themselves attributed the disparity between their classes mainly to the qualities of the individual children who made up the class. In particular, they believed that in 6–3, there were more girls who were willing to speak out – which, as a matter of observation, was correct. In 6–3, there was one girl, Mizutani-san, who spoke out very frequently (more frequently than most of the boys), and three others who quite often spoke out spontaneously and were happy to answer if called on by the teacher. There were two more girls who would occasionally volunteer, and four who rarely if ever did so. Moreover, while many of the boys in 6–3 were willing to speak out, there were only two who were as vocal as Mizutani-san. In 6–1, on the other hand, there were no girls as willing to speak out as the four most vocal in 6–3; most volunteered occasionally, rarely, or never. There were also four boys who spoke out very frequently, often without raising their hands, as well as several others who would frequently volunteer. The four most vocal boys in particular exercised a major influence on 6–1’s cheerful class atmosphere, with two frequently playing the role of class entertainer. Thus it was not that boys were invariably readier to speak out than girls, for some girls were more vocal than some boys. In one or two exceptional cases, such as Mizutani-san in 6–3 or a girl called Sekiguchi-san in 5–1 at Nakamachi, girls were among the most vocal pupils in the class. However, there were fewer vocal girls than vocal boys, and there were more quiet girls than quiet boys. The Nakamachi teachers felt that there were limits to what they could do

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to encourage children to speak out. They called less often on children whom they seemed to feel disliked this or might find it embarrassing. This included some boys (especially less academically able ones) as well as some girls. Sanada-sensei told me that some children didn’t like speaking out and found it difficult, yet they produced good written work or did well on tests – while others were the reverse. When assessing pupils, therefore, he took into account speaking out as well as written work and tests, to give every child a chance to be assessed on their individual strengths. Yoshioka-sensei told me that she had changed her approach to calling on pupils over the years. At one time, she said, she had insisted that children raise their hands before speaking, but she had found that this tended to discourage them from speaking at all. So she now usually allowed them to speak without raising their hands, provided they were to say something that contributed to the topic the class was dealing with. She told me that she wanted a class that talked to one another about things (katariau). On another occasion she noted that some children rarely raised their hands, but you could often tell when they had something to say, either by their demeanour or by the way they would mutter to other children. As an example, she mentioned Koide-san, an academically able girl who would sometimes raise her hand but at other times would just whisper her ideas to those next to her. Yoshiokasensei said she found it best to allow this kind of talk and pick out such children so that they could then speak to the whole class. This approach seemed to be successful in giving some girls a greater voice. Sanada-sensei felt that how the teacher should call on pupils depended on the situational context (bamen) and the stage the children were at. He told me that he had tried to get his current class to raise their hands to speak out when they were in the fifth year, but they had not been keen to do so. He himself didn’t think it was so very important either. Because few of the class wanted to speak out, he preferred to emphasize writing rather than endeavour with a lesson style that he felt was inappropriate for the children. It was difficult to ascertain exactly why so many girls were reluctant to speak out. Though I did not ask the primary school pupils about the issue, questions to girls who were a year older (in the first year of junior high school) did not elicit any reasons other than being hazukashii (‘shy’ or ‘embarrassed’), on which they were unwilling or unable to elaborate. One female friend in Sakura suggested that girls were afraid of being seen as ‘trying to look better than others’ by other girls. However, shyness or other reasons did not affect all girls equally. Girls who were academically abler tended to be readier to speak out, though not necessarily to the extent of volunteering. Sanada-sensei believed that the most able pupil in his class was a girl named Endo-san, but though she would readily give clear and full answers to questions when called on, Endo-san rarely if ever spoke out spontaneously. The considerable variation in children’s willingness to speak out spontaneously posed a dilemma to teachers who were trying to encourage such

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behaviour. They seemed to be faced by a choice between encouraging spontaneous participation, with the result that some children’s voices would be heard more than others, or calling on children equally and thus discouraging spontaneous participation. Moreover, this dilemma had a strong gender dimension, as more boys than girls were willing to speak out spontaneously. The difficulties facing teachers in trying to change such a situation should not be underestimated, given that it seems often to be partly the outcome of children’s own preferences (including those of girls), preferences which are the result of gender identity formation that starts at a very early age (Davies, 2003; Tannen, 1992: 245–79). Very similar conclusions have been reached by Kimura (1999: 79–81, 99–103) in a study of sixth grade classrooms in an Osaka primary school, coincidentally carried out at the same time as my own 1995–96 study. Like the seating issue, the question of speaking out in class showed the problems involved in trying to encourage children to act according to their own initiative and choice. Giving children’s own agency a large role did give a greater voice to some girls, such as Mizutanisan. Overall, however, it resulted in some children speaking more than others, and most often it was boys’ voices that were heard. Such experiences may accustom children to the predominance of male voices and lead them to accept such predominance more readily in adult workplace settings.

Gender, behaviour and material culture in school Thorne (1993: 90–1) has pointed out that exclusive attention to gendered differences in behaviour can result in a distorted portrayal of ‘static and exaggerated dualisms’ that overlooks commonalities and complexities. I took account of this in my observations. In many situations at Nakamachi and Morikawa, there were no obvious significant differences between the behaviour of boys and girls as groups, and the more significant differences were between individuals, whether boys or girls. At other times, tendencies to difference between gender groups could be discerned, but were equalled or exceeded in significance by individual differences. Finally, there were times when clear differences related to gender group did emerge. Lessons: home economics and physical education In most of the lessons that I observed, the obvious gender difference lay in the greater readiness of many boys to speak up voluntarily. As I did not examine children’s written work carefully, it was not possible to analyse the content of the work done by girls and boys in subjects like Japanese, maths, or social studies, but obvious differences in what children said in class were seldom apparent. An exception was one social studies lesson on contemporary China in 6–2 at Morikawa, where presentations about trade and industry were exclusively made by boys, while presentations about children’s lives were exclusively made by girls. In other subjects, it was in physical education

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that the most striking gender differences were apparent. On the other hand, in home economics, gender difference was less noticeable in some classes than might have been expected given dominant gender role divisions in Japan. The small number of physical education (taiiku) lessons I watched at Nakamachi included three sixth year classes in which the children played soccer outside. In two cases, boys and girls played together, but the girls generally tried to avoid the ball, huddling together in clusters. Only two girls – each, as it happened, physically the smallest girl in her class – took part actively. In the third case, boys and girls played separately, and the girls then participated somewhat more actively, though still with much less enthusiasm or skill than the boys. Such differences were also reflected in children’s spontaneous play during break times, to be discussed later. On the other hand, it took careful observation to discern gendered differences in behaviour in home economics (katei) classes at Nakamachi. The classes I watched involved cooking and machine sewing, with children working in mixed-gender small groups. Both boys and girls generally participated with enthusiasm, though close observation showed that girls were more likely than boys to take leadership positions in an activity. Individual variation among girls and among boys was very evident. In 6–3, for example, there were some small groups in which two girls sat opposite each other in the middle of the group and took a strong lead. These girls were also the ones who were least keen on physical activities such as throwing and chasing, and they were also very reluctant to speak out in class. Conventional femininity seemed to be particularly important for them. Conversely, there was one boy in particular, Teramoto-kun, who readily took the lead, as he often did in other subjects. During one lesson in 6–1 at Morikawa, some boys were much more enthusiastic participants than others; but in another lesson I observed in this class, both boys and girls took part with equal enthusiasm. This was a class in which cross-gender mixing and friendship were much less in evidence than in 6–3 at Nakamachi, and the attitude of some boys may have been affected by the expectations of their class teacher, who mostly talked to girls during the first home economics lesson that I observed, as if this subject mainly concerned them. In this subject, therefore, differences between classes and between individual boys and individual girls seemed to be at least as important as gender differences, if not more so. Children’s play During breaks between lessons, children at Nakamachi and Morikawa could be seen playing all sorts of games, either outside in the playground, in the gym, or in the classrooms and corridors. Some of these games, especially skipping and chasing games, seemed very popular with boys and girls alike; there was usually a tendency for such games to be more popular among one gender than the other, but individual preferences seemed to play at least as

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Figure 5.1 Children in 6–3 at Nakamachi in a home economics lesson.

important a role. In other games, there was a clear predominance of one gender over the other: this was particularly true of throwing games. Skipping games were popular among all ages, both girls and boys. Younger girls (especially) and boys could often be seen skipping in the playground or gym using individual skipping ropes (which were available to be borrowed). Jump rope (o¯nawa), for which two children turned a large rope, while others lined up to jump in and out, was also popular among both girls and boys. It was common in the sixth year classes at both Nakamachi and Morikawa for most or all of the class to go to the gym to play jump rope together in midmorning break or lunch break. Sometimes this was organized by a kakari group in charge of organizing play within the class; the organization of play by such groups, and the general feeling that the whole class (as nakama) should do things together from time to time, encouraged the playing of games suited to large groups. Other such games I witnessed were dodgeball,12 cops and robbers (keidoro or tandoro)13 and (less often) daruma-san ga koronda.14 I also took part in two snowball fights in 6–3, organized by the play kakari group when there was a heavy snowfall. The popularity of a chasing game like cops and robbers seemed to be more equally distributed among both boys and girls than that of a throwing game like dodgeball. Most of the time, both girls and boys participated in cops and robbers with similar enthusiasm, though there were times when some of the girls showed little interest in the chasing, preferring just to get together in a group. Dodgeball was a popular game at both schools, though less so among

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the sixth year classes than among younger children. Though both boys and girls participated in it, boys were more likely to catch and throw the ball skilfully and aggressively. On one occasion at Nakamachi, I watched a group of 6–3 children playing dodgeball with some first years during mixed-age activities. On discovering that the first year girls either didn’t want to play the game or were very poor at it, two of the 6–3 girls played an extremely gentle kind of dodgeball with them, rolling rather than throwing the ball. It seemed likely that these first year girls’ aversion to throwing games predated primary school.15 Drawing on research by Young, Davies (2003: 18–19) has pointed out that such differing physical abilities have been seen even in young children, and analysed as the result of children’s learning ‘body comportment and movement’ (Young, 1980: 153) appropriate to the gender identity they take up. It has also been argued by researchers in North America that boys there are more likely than girls to play team games, while girls are more likely to play turn-taking activities such as skipping or bar gymnastics (Lever, 1976; 1978; Thorne, 1993: 91–5). Lever has suggested that this may be because of boys’ preference for activities that are competitive, involve larger groups with many independent positions, and have many explicit rules. She suggests that girls, in contrast, tend to prefer cooperative activities in pairs or small groups. However, Thorne (1993: 96–105) has drawn on a variety of studies to argue that this interpretation is too simple, since there are times when boys also interact in small groups and take turns, and when girls play in large groups. She argues that quantitative studies suggest that ‘within-gender variation is greater than differences between boys and girls taken as groups’ (1993: 104).

Figure 5.2 Children playing dodgeball at Morikawa.

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My observations at Nakamachi and Morikawa suggested that by and large, boys did show a greater preference than girls both for throwing games (especially) and for games in larger groups. Moreover, I only ever saw younger girls doing gymnastics on the bars around the edge of the playground, never boys. However, it was also clear that individual preferences did play a large part in what children decided to play, as did the atmosphere of a particular class. In 6–3 at Nakamachi, arm-wrestling was more popular with boys, but quite a few girls would also take part. In 6–1, I once saw a game of cat’s cradle (ayatori) played by a group of boys and one girl. Classes at Morikawa in 1996 exhibited more strongly dichotomous gender behaviour than at Nakamachi, and girls and boys could be seen engaging in quite different activities, such as games of sho¯ gi (a Japanese variant of chess) among the boys, and games of cards or exchange of pretty objects among the girls. A vivid illustration of the ways that both individual preference and gender influenced children’s activities was provided at Morikawa when I saw a game of dodgeball that was unusual in that most of the players were fourth or fifth year girls, with just a couple of boys. One girl in particular seemed to be a proficient player. Clearly, these children were happy to play dodgeball, even though it was a relatively rare choice for girls. Just afterwards, another set of girls started to play dodgeball, but then changed their minds, switching to a kind of netless volleyball in which everyone tried to keep the ball in the air. In abandoning a competitive, aggressive throwing game in favour of a non-throwing game in which cooperation was more important than competition, these girls demonstrated a preference that may have been gender-related (though I several times saw a mixed group of 6–2 boys and one girl playing this game at Morikawa, too). The contrast between these two groups of children showed the fluid relationship between gender and kinds of play. Despite the gender-related preferences for some kinds of play, I saw no evidence of the kind of gender dichotomy and gender-exclusionary practices that Renold (2005: 57–61, 83–5) has described in upper primary children’s play in two English schools in the mid-1990s, where boys refused to allow girls to join playground games of football. Indeed, Renold’s graphic portrayal of the extreme concern of the English boys to define and prove their masculinity by disassociating themselves from girls provides a stark contrast with the readiness of boys and girls in most classes at Nakamachi and Morikawa to play together. In comparative context, it seemed that the Japanese schools had achieved some limited success in the area of gender relations. This is a counter-intuitive finding, given the pervasiveness of gender discrimination and gender role stereotyping in Japanese society, discussed at the start of this chapter. It suggests that more recognition should be given to the success of some Japanese schools in creating environments that discourage the polarization of gender identity.

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Figure 5.3 Children at Morikawa playing at keeping the volleyball in the air.

Art and material culture During my observations at Nakamachi and Morikawa, the children made more than one wooden construction in art and craft (zuko¯ ) lessons. Generally, there were noticeable differences between the work of girls and boys, though there were also individuals whose work did not conform to the common gender pattern. In late October 1995, for example, the pupils in 6–1 at Nakamachi finished making wooden boxes to keep small things in. The girls’ work tended to be simpler in design (many had made rectangular wooden boxes), more carefully made and finished, and painted in bright colours such as yellow, light green, and red. The boys’ designs, meanwhile, tended to be more complicated (they included a steam locomotive and a pineapple), often incorporating extra elements such as doors and wheels. Almost all the boys painted the boxes with darker colours, such as dark green, dark blue, and black. However, there were one or two exceptions to this pattern: one girl had made a box with wheels, painted dark green and dark blue, and one boy had made a simple rectangular box, painted yellow, light green, and pink. During the final term, children at both schools sculpted and painted lowrelief designs on craft works to commemorate their graduation (at Nakamachi, the craft work was a musical box, while at Morikawa, it was a clock – both were made from kits). At Morikawa, children seemed to have considerable freedom to choose their designs, whereas at Nakamachi, Yoshioka-sensei advised the children to create designs that were ‘individually theirs’ (jibunrashii) and

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had ‘lasting meaning’, and to avoid designs that were ‘close to comics’. At Nakamachi, the children’s designs tended to evoke memories of school, and it was hard to tell whether a particular musical box belonged to a boy or a girl. At Morikawa, on the other hand, it was almost always easy to tell. Most boys’ designs featured either sport or characters from comics, cartoons, or computer games, while most girls’ designs centred on the cute, cuddly, or domestic (flowers were very popular, and fruit, houses, and cute animals also appeared). Girls were also much more inclined to designs that were small, delicate, and intricately patterned. There were, however, a couple of boys who had produced designs that were not conventionally masculine, one featuring a large butterfly. The material objects that children brought to school from home also tended to be strongly gendered. One girl in 6–1 at Nakamachi brought a large number of stickers with which to decorate her craftwork; the stickers depicted little bears, pandas, household objects, and strawberries, which she informed me were ‘cute’ (kawaii). One boy in 6–1 had a pencil-case displaying the crest and colours of a Japanese football team, along with a ruler decorated with characters from the combat cartoon Yu¯ yu hakusho. Observations of pencil-cases and gym-shoe bags at Morikawa in 2004 showed that while sports and cartoon characters were the dominant designs on boys’ goods, on the girls’ goods it was cute motifs (animals, foodstuffs, and little hearts) that tended to feature. On the other hand, the cushions that the children had on their chairs were more likely to lean towards conventionally feminine than masculine designs: in 6–1 at Nakamachi, for example, one boy’s cushion was made of cloth with images of the Dick Bruna rabbit Miffy. This was probably because the children had been using the same cushions since they were several years younger; it was nonetheless interesting that boys whose cushions’ designs were not conventionally masculine did not seem to show any embarrassment or suffer any teasing. Observations of sixth years’ clothes at Morikawa in 2004 indicated that gender was often subtly marked by colour, or by small details such as the decorative motifs on socks. Both boys and girls tended to wear the same kinds of clothes – usually trousers or shorts with some kind of top (relatively few skirts were in evidence, even in June). However, boys mostly wore dark or subdued colours such as black, dark blue, or grey, though a few wore red or yellow; girls were mostly dressed in light colours such as white, light blue, pink, light grey, or light mauve, with a few wearing black, navy, or khaki. Many children wore plain socks, but whereas girls’ socks, when decorative, carried motifs such as stars, teddy bears, or dogs, boys’ socks featured sporting motifs or brand names. Finally, one of the most immediately obvious gender markers is the Japanese primary school satchel (randoseru). Boys have traditionally had a black satchel, and girls a red one. The primary schools I studied did not stipulate the colour of the satchel, but almost all children had one in the traditional colours (at Morikawa in both 1996 and 2004, I also saw one or two that were

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other colours, such as dark blue, brown, maroon, or amber). Most of the satchels I saw sold in shops were in the traditional colours, and it is likely that only households that are very liberal or conscious of gender issues would buy a non-traditional version of this expensive and iconic item. Benjamin (1997: 12) states that satchels are often a present from grandparents, which might make the choice of traditional colours even more likely. Attention to clothes, bags, pencil-cases and other items of material culture is a reminder that most of the personal objects observed at school are actually brought by the children from outside. By this means, the ways that gender identity is marked in the wider society enter the classroom. By acting as a gathering point in this way, schools function in practice as places where dominant expressions of gender identity become even more widely dispersed, and perhaps strengthen their hold through processes of surveillance and teasing that go on when, as Thorne (1993: 52–3) has argued, the assembly of large numbers of children in itself leads to a strengthening of gender boundaries. There is also evidence to suggest that strong gendered identities and markings of the type discussed above predate entry to primary school, in Japan as elsewhere. On one occasion, a friend in Sakura showed me drawings made by all her daughter’s kindergarten classmates, and it was striking how closely the gendered preferences for the content of the pictures and the colours used matched those of the sixth year pupils at Nakamachi and Morikawa (as usual, there were a few individual exceptions – in one case, a girl had drawn fighting machines in dark colours, perhaps influenced by the preferences of her two brothers). The early expression of gender identity through art is not surprising, given the strongly gendered nature of much of the material culture available for contemporary children in Japan, as elsewhere (Hendry, 1986: 162); the preschool-age daughters of two friends of mine were both fans of the conventionally beautiful female comic and cartoon character Sailor Moon, for example. More broadly, Davies and Kasama (2004) have recently given detailed descriptions of the early development of strong gender identity and behaviour in Japanese preschool children. Obviously, the primary school is far from the only influence upon the development of children’s gender identity.

Dealing with gender in the classroom and beyond Teachers at Nakamachi and Morikawa rarely referred to gender issues spontaneously, inside or outside the classroom. They saw themselves as trying to deal with all the children equally and as individuals, regardless of gender. When asked, they expressed perceptions of clear gender differences in children’s behaviour. Some of their actions reinforced gender categories, but others muted them. Several teachers were also observed to challenge inappropriate use of gender categories, or oppose gender hierarchy.

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Teachers’ perceptions of gender difference Teachers consistently perceived significant gender differences in children’s behaviour. They generally saw girls as more problematic and harder to handle than boys, because of their tendencies to form tight friendship cliques which had the potential to damage relationships within the class severely. This was a particular concern because of the emphasis on creating a well-integrated class whose members could all get along well together. According to Yoshioka-sensei, girls’ tendencies to form cliques intensified in the second half of primary school. If the teacher didn’t tackle this tendency in the second half of the fourth year, she said, then the last two years would be difficult. Boys were less of a problem, as they were generally less intense about friendships, and didn’t bear grudges so easily. If girls had a quarrel, however, they tended to hold on to the feelings. She cited the problems that had arisen in her class during their fifth year (described in Chapter 2) as an example. Similar comparisons of boys’ and girls’ relationships have been made by teachers in the US (Thorne, 1993: 195). Fujitani-sensei, the class teacher of 6–2 at Nakamachi, felt that girls’ clique-making behaviour was caused by anxiety (fuan). They tended to fit in with others around them, in order to feel secure in the little worlds they created. Sanada-sensei also agreed that the girls in his class didn’t want to be apart from others and were very conscious of how others were looking at them, lacking the courage to do something different. He also saw differences between girls and boys in the way they wrote in their diaries (kokoro no no¯ to).16 Boys mainly wrote about things that had happened, and rarely about their worries, while girls tended to write about their thoughts and feelings (kokoro no naka). For Sanada-sensei, the diary was a good way to get girls to think again about their feelings and prejudices (omoikomi) about other girls, since he could respond to what they wrote with a doubt or a query. Strengthening and challenging gender categories Some practices I observed in classrooms at Nakamachi and Morikawa strengthened gender categories. A notable example was the common practice of having one girl and one boy as monitor (nitchoku to¯ ban) each day. Similarly, boys’ and girls’ names were often written in different colours on classroom notices (girls’ names usually being written in either red or pink, while the colour used for boys’ names varied). Occasionally, a teacher displayed conventional gendered expectations, as with the class teacher of 6–1 at Morikawa when she addressed herself mainly to girls in a home economics lesson. On the other hand, other practices tended to mute gender categories. Research in Britain and the United States has noted that teachers there have often grouped children by gender for academic activities and have referred to them in gender-binary terms as ‘the boys’ and ‘the girls’ (e.g. Delamont, 1990: 28–30; Thorne, 1993: 34–41). Murao (2003) reports that some research in

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Japan has yielded similar findings. In my experience, however, teachers at Nakamachi and Morikawa rarely used these practices. When they did refer specifically to gender, it was sometimes in order to challenge gender stereotypes. For example, Yoshioka-sensei told 6–3 not to think that being in charge of organizing essays for the graduation album was a job for girls. During a class discussion in a morals lesson (do¯ toku), Sanada-sensei told one boy that he should not make general criticisms of ‘the girls’ unless all the girls were at fault, that he was too quick to talk in terms of ‘the boys’ and ‘the girls’, and that he needed to apologize for this and change his way of thinking. These were among the relatively rare occasions when teachers raised gender issues with students. Another occurred when Yoshioka-sensei’s class was evaluating Japan’s Meiji period (1868–1912), and she specifically asked some of the girls in the class what they thought about the Meiji idea that education for girls was harmful. Not surprisingly, perhaps, the girls said they thought it was a bad idea, and Yoshioka-sensei followed up by saying, ‘So there was gender discrimination (danjo sabetsu) in the school system and the society in general. One should think about whether the Meiji period was really good!’ A striking example of conflict over gender hierarchy, though probably one that was not clear to the children, occurred during the teachers’ farewell ceremony (rininshiki) at Morikawa on 1 April. This was a ceremony at which the teachers who were to be transferred to different schools made a formal farewell to the children. Male teachers came before female teachers, regardless of age. One woman teacher had already criticized this practice in the staff meeting held before the ceremony. During the ceremony itself, Takamatsu-sensei (the third most senior male teacher, but not the third most senior teacher leaving the school) told the assembled children that he wanted to make the most of what he had learned from being in charge of anti-discrimination education (do¯ wa shunin), saying that the fact that he was third to speak showed that discrimination was still going on. Though it may be doubted how many children understood what he meant, it was nonetheless a bold statement to make during a formal school ceremony, and strongly contrasted with the message being sent by the organization of the ceremony itself.

Conclusion Practices at Nakamachi and Morikawa helped to maintain or strengthen gender categories in significant ways. On the institutional level, boys and girls were differentiated by the use of separate toilets, separate lists on the class register, and certain items of clothing, such as indoor shoes and safety hats. Differentiated gender roles were also reinforced by holding consultations between teachers and parents during the day, when many fathers were at work. The schools were also obliged to use textbooks that other research (Kameda, 1995; Ushiyama, 2005a; 2005b) has shown perpetuate conventional gender representations. Classroom practices revealed the difficulties that teachers faced in dealing

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with questions of gender, especially in relation to issues of individuality, choice, and the encouragement of autonomy in children. Teachers at both schools were keen to encourage children to develop the ability to act autonomously and make their own decisions. They also wanted them to participate actively in lessons. However, in practice, giving children choice about issues such as seating tended to result in greater gender segregation, while encouraging children to speak out in class spontaneously resulted in more boys’ than girls’ voices being heard. Teachers dealt with these dilemmas in various ways; in most cases, they ensured that boys and girls were seated in mixedgender pairs, avoiding gender segregation, but on the other hand, they generally preferred to let children speak out freely in class, even when this resulted in a preponderance of boys’ voices. It seemed that giving children more choice and more freedom of action actually resulted in the strengthening of gender categories: as Davies and Kasama (2004: 99, 102) have pointed out, discourses that emphasize the individual can work to advantage those who are strong, dominant, or even oppressive. In the class within which gender relations were best, 6–3 at Nakamachi, there were strong emphases on thinking for oneself (not just being swayed by others), as well as on the idea of the whole class being nakama, and this dual emphasis may well have contributed to the relatively good gender relations within the class. Indeed, girls and boys were ready to play together at least some of the time in many classes observed at both schools, and this may also indicate that the emphasis on the whole class group that is normal in Japanese primary schools went some way to combating gender segregation.17 As I noted at the start of this chapter, most writing on gender and education in Japan has been critical of Japanese schooling practices. Based on observations at Nakamachi and Morikawa, I would agree that Japanese primary schools could do more to reduce gender differentiation, and to free children from those aspects of gender that are oppressive. At the same time, I would argue strongly that in many respects, primary schools like Nakamachi and Morikawa do already provide an environment with far less emphasis on differentiated gender identity than is apparent in the wider Japanese society.18 Teachers at the schools did genuinely strive to treat children equally, and refrained from many practices that reinforce gender, such as customary use of gender discourse or the reservation of large parts of the playground for games dominated by boys. Moreover, as I have described, many of the practices and identity markers that differentiated boys and girls came from the children themselves, in the form of the games they chose to play, the material culture they brought to school, and the choices they made about speaking or not speaking in class. Stepping outside the school gates quickly brought an acute appreciation of how strongly gendered the world beyond the school was, with items such as clothes, toys, and comics explicitly marked as for girls or boys, and with all sorts of material culture items, such as stationery, designed to be conventionally masculine or feminine. As many authors have shown, the development of gender identity dates from children’s earliest

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years. All this indicates that Japanese primary schools face a complex and difficult task if they are to make serious headway in further reducing gender differentiation and weakening gender identity and its effects. In the meantime, however, we should consider whether, rather than inculcating conventional gender identities, Japan’s primary schools largely offer children an alternative experience, of a life in which gender is relatively unimportant in determining what people do and become.

Notes 1 In a personal communication, Glenda Roberts has told me of encountering expectations among female university students that there would be relative gender equality in the workplace. 2 2005 was the first time when Cabinet Office survey respondents opposing the statement ‘men should work outside, and women look after the home’ outnumbered those who agreed, by 48.9 per cent to 45.2 per cent (Asahi Shinbun, 2005). 3 It is true that the percentages of female principals at each level have roughly doubled compared to ten years before (Monbusho¯ , 1996a), but the figures are still not impressive, considering that the proportion of teachers who are women is 65 per cent at primary level, 41 per cent at junior high level, and 26 per cent at high school level. 4 Textbooks are produced by commercial publishers, though inspected and approved for school use by the Ministry of Education. 5 I am not aware of any statistics about the prevalence of school uniforms in Japan, but my own impression from literature, school visits, casual observation and the media is that nationwide, uniforms are much less commonly worn at primary school than at junior high or kindergarten. Uniforms were not worn at any of the six Sakura primary schools that I have visited since 1994. 6 However, at the adjacent primary school, Ishida, all children wore indoor shoes with a yellow trim, without any gender distinction. On my 2004 visit to Morikawa, the Head of Academic Administration, Imai-sensei, showed some embarrassment about the distinction at his school, commenting that it was not really appropriate. 7 According to Kimura (1999: 34), a 1993 survey by the Japan Teachers’ Union indicated that only 20 per cent of primary schools and 8 per cent of junior high schools used non-gendered class registers at that time. However, since then the issue has been the subject of significant initiatives and agitation, as seen from the websites of both local governments and right-wing pressure groups (the latter concerned about the spread of non-gendered registers). There are a number of areas where the use of non-gendered registers is reported to have become widespread, often, it seems, resulting from efforts by prefectural and local boards of education (Murao, 2003): such areas include Kochi Prefecture, where usage was reported at 100 per cent in 2005 (Kochi-ken, 2005), Niigata Prefecture, where usage was 98 per cent at primary schools and 69 per cent at junior high schools in 2005 (Niigata-ken, 2006), Chiba Prefecture, where usage was 87 per cent in primary schools and 64 per cent in junior high schools in 2005 (Chiba-ken, 2005), and Saitama Prefecture, where 79 per cent of primary schools and 69 per cent of junior high schools were using non-gendered registers in 2004 (Saitama-ken, 2004). It may be, however, that only prefectures that have promoted non-gendered registers report such figures, in which case the national figure might be significantly lower. 8 However, it was interesting to see that in class 6–3 at Nakamachi, which had 16 boys and only 10 girls, the last three boys in the register joined the end of the ‘girls’

Learning gender

9 10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

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line’ on ceremonial occasions in order to make two lines of equal length (13 children each). No such consultation took place while I was at Morikawa. In her study of a Saitama primary school during 1989–90, Benjamin (1997: 41) notes that some classes seated boys and girls in pairs, while others did not. In the Tokyo primary schools studied by Whitburn in 1995–96, first and second year children were seated in mixed-gender pairs as far as possible (Whitburn, 2000: 173). At Nakamachi and Morikawa, children were divided into different small groups for science lessons; these were also mixed-gender. In some classes observed, no pupils were recorded as speaking out to the whole class, because the lesson was comprised of individual work or group work. It must also be remembered that most of the classes observed were in the three subjects of Japanese, maths, and social studies, with one or two classes of home economics (katei) ethics (do¯ toku) and class activities (gakkyu¯ katsudo¯ or gakkatsu). Dodgeball is a familiar game in some but not all parts of the world. It involves two teams of any number of players, each of which is confined to half of a rectangular pitch. Players throw a volleyball at members of the opposite team; if you are hit by the ball, and fail to hold on to it, you are out. The team that eliminates all members of the opposition wins. The game called ‘cops and robbers’ by Sakura children has similarities to ‘Relievo’, as described by the Opies (1969: 172–4). Children are divided into two teams, the ‘cops’ (keisatsu or tantei) and the ‘robbers’ (dorobo¯ ). The cops chase the robbers; if a cop touches a robber, the robber must go to the ‘prison’, a marked-off area, guarded by one of the cops. A robber in the prison can be released if another robber who is still on the loose manages to touch him or her. The cops win if they manage to get all the robbers into the prison. In this game, the person who is ‘it’ hides his eyes, and the others have to get as close to him as they can during the time it takes him to say ‘daruma-san ga koronda’ (the daruma doll fell over). Immediately he finishes saying this, he looks up, and anyone he sees moving has to go and link hands with him or with someone else already caught. This is repeated until someone gets close enough to touch him or one of those linking hands with him, at which point everyone runs away while the person who is ‘it’ counts to 10 and then shouts ‘stop!’ He can then take as many paces as there are syllables in a person’s name (e.g. four for ‘Ki-ta-ga-wa’) to try to touch that person and make them ‘it’. During the two class snowball fights, the 6–3 girls also participated less actively than the boys. The class was organized into two teams (not on gender lines), and it was noticeable on the first occasion that all the girls stood in a line, rather apart from the boys and from the main scene of the action. The boys were much more mobile and took part much more enthusiastically. The next day the girls took part more actively, though still less enthusiastically than the boys. Kokoro no no¯ to literally means ‘notebook of the heart’. It is common for Japanese primary teachers, at least in the upper years, to give each child an exercise book in which they can write about what is going on in their lives for the teacher to read. This is a way for the teacher to understand them and communicate with them better. Kokoro no no¯ to is a common term for such books. Davies and Kasama (2004: 90–4) have also argued that showing dominance and leadership in a responsible way that involves caring for others is seen as more legitimate in Japanese than Australian education, and they suggest that this may make it easier for boys in Japan to take on an identity that combines strength and dominance with the role of good citizen. Gender differentiation may increase to some extent at junior high and high school levels; for example, most junior high and high schools in Japan enforce the wearing of gendered uniforms, and many school sports clubs are also divided along gender

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lines, with some reinforcing traditional gender stereotypes (Blackwood, 2003, 2007). Junior high and high school teachers are subject specialists, and this may lead to some subjects becoming associated mainly with male teachers, and others with female teachers (Kimura, 1999: 33). Gendered class registers are more common at junior high than at primary level (see note 7 above). Moreover, at high school level, 30 per cent of students attend private schools (Monbukagakusho¯ , 2006), many of which are single-sex. According to Kimura (1999: 44), about 20 per cent of high school students attend single-sex schools. However, even at these levels there are no gendered differences in the design of the national curriculum. More research is needed on gender in Japanese secondary education.

6

Ceremonial creations

By the time I moved from Nakamachi to Morikawa at the beginning of February 1996, there were just seven weeks of the school year remaining, and the attention of teachers and children was starting to be focused on the sixth years’ approaching graduation. For the sixth years, the graduation ceremony and the associated events that preceded it were the climax, not only of the year, but of their entire six years at primary school. Both primary schools and their teachers put considerable efforts into trying to make these weeks a memorable and significant experience. What went on during this time represented an attempt to give shape to self and social reality, shape that would retain significance into the future through memory. The events of these weeks spotlighted certain social and cultural values; moreover, the effort and orchestration that went into this rite of passage communicated not only the end of one life-stage, but also the intrinsic importance of ritual itself. The graduation ceremony and the associated activities and events that preceded it affirmed a moral order through their organization of space, time, and symbol, and they performed many of the functions that anthropologists have seen rituals as playing (Moore and Myerhoff, 1977). They emphasized the reality and importance of the boundary that separated those with the status of members of the school from non-members, and ensured that children were given a safe and clear symbolic passage across the boundary by ceremonial means. They also expressed some of the centrally approved values of Japanese society, in particular affirming the importance of interdependence, and the need for younger persons to be grateful to older ones for their help and guidance. To achieve this in a memorable and impressive way, they used a variety of means, particularly the staging of unusual events, and the use of stylized symbolic expressions in the form of music, rhetorical structures, and visual transformation. By the very fact of the time and care that went into the elaboration of this series of events and activities, moreover, they sent to the children a powerful message about the significance of ritual itself in constituting reality. The events surrounding graduation included at least one that could clearly be categorized as a secular ritual, the graduation ceremony itself. Other events also contained features of ritual, notably special acts undertaken to

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express and reinforce solidarity just before separation. Yet many of the events mixed not only ritual, but also educational and recreational aspects (in this sense resembling other Japanese educational programmes, such as the training programme for new bank employees described by Rohlen (1986), or the club activities of junior high and high schools (Cave, 2004)). In particular, there was a clear attempt to use these events to help children learn certain key values and practices, and to shape experience and memory through a combination of discursive and embodied activities. Such an approach, experienced by the children through their school careers in daily activities such as class singing and extraordinary ones such as sports day, was the culmination of the primary schools’ education of the self.

Ritual and socialization in school events By the time they approached their graduation, the sixth years at Morikawa and Nakamachi had a great deal of experience of school events (gakko¯ gyo¯ ji), which were and are an official part of the school curriculum (Monbusho¯ , 1989: 111–12). These not only gave the school year an order, as intended by the curriculum, but were also used by teachers as arenas and catalysts for particular aspects of the children’s human development. They included a series of school trips that lasted longer and departed to more distant destinations as the children moved up the school, culminating in a two-day trip (shu¯ gaku ryoko¯ ) to the historical sites of Nara and Ise in the first term of the sixth year. As mentioned in Chapter 2, Yoshioka-sensei had used the experience of planning for the trip to Nara and Ise to break down barriers between the cliquish girls in her class. Another major annual event was the school sports day (undo¯ kai), which took place every September. At Nakamachi, the sports day featured not only races, but also a variety of performative elements, each of which was seen as having an educational purpose.1 There was an entrance procession and an opening ceremony, in which children were expected to learn to walk and behave in an age-appropriate way – small children walking energetically (genki-yoku), older ones with dignity (do¯ do¯ -to). There was a cheering contest (o¯ en gassen), in which each group of children competed to cheer loudest for their team, and there was a whole-school dance (zenko¯ dansu), which was devised by the sixth years – to give them the opportunity to exercise creativity, I was told. Finally, the sports day was the stage for the sixth years to perform team gymnastics in the form of human pyramids of larger children supporting smaller children. This exercise was a particularly good way for children to learn the importance of interdependence through experience, as it demanded mutual trust, support and cooperation in the most physical form. Yoshioka-sensei believed that it had done a great deal to help bring her class together. However, she did not just see school events as arenas for developing a sense of interdependence or solidarity; they also provided opportunities for different children to develop their own individual potential (kosei or sono ko-rashisa) – by taking a

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particular important role in part of an event, for example. Teachers should avoid always giving the lively, active children these opportunities, she told me, as that just turned them into bigheads, and they got too far ahead of the others. Children who weren’t obviously outstanding also needed the chance to shine; then they would gain confidence, and they would change and grow. School events such as these have a ritual aspect in ‘imparting order and change to school life, and deepening the sense of belonging to a group’ (Monbusho¯ , 1989: 111), as the curriculum expresses it. Moreover, they happen every year, at roughly the same time and with content that changes only slowly, and have often done so for generations, giving a sense of tradition and predictability. Many school events, such as the sports day, also include explicitly ceremonious aspects. However, these events are not pure rituals; correct order and symbolic performance are not all they are concerned with. They combine ritual, educational, and recreational elements, sometimes overlapping, and sometimes in turn. Such an analysis applies also to graduation and its surrounding events.

Last term: preparing for graduation The events that led up to and marked graduation differed at Nakamachi and Morikawa. Nakamachi staged not only a graduation ceremony, but also a graduation show (sotsugyo¯ happyo¯ kai) which took place two weeks before the graduation ceremony proper. Morikawa, on the other hand, only held a graduation ceremony, though its ceremony incorporated a children’s performance, which Nakamachi’s did not. Both schools also held a separate inschool event called Send-off for the Sixth Years (rokunensei o okuru kai), which was organized by the fifth years, and in which the entire school took part. These large-scale events required considerable preparation time, not only for performance practice and rehearsals, but also because the events involved material objects made by the children themselves. For the teachers, one of the purposes served by the events was to provide occasions for the children to learn and develop. In the case of the graduation show and the Send-off event, there were opportunities for the children to get involved in the planning themselves. The graduation show and the graduation ceremonies were staged before invited audiences from outside the school, and so also demanded that the children execute their performances with discipline. In some cases, these and other preparations for graduation started even before the final term had begun. All the sixth years wrote an individual composition to be printed in the graduation album, and at Nakamachi, the children were writing this in November, four months before graduation. In December, the children of 6–3 at Nakamachi began practicing the orchestral piece they would play at the graduation show. Other graduation activities, such as carving commemorative craftworks, began in January. While the content of the graduation ceremonies themselves were decided

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entirely by teachers, children themselves participated in shaping what happened in other activities. Individual creations such as the graduation album composition and the commemorative craft works gave the greatest scope to children’s individuality. In both cases, Yoshioka-sensei encouraged her class to make something that came from themselves – though with limitations. After reading some of their graduation compositions, she told them that she had given up halfway through because they were all so similar (so many children having written about the sports day). Either write about a different subject, or else make sure you don’t just write things we all know, she told them: ‘Write something that only you can write’ ( jibun ni shika nai yo¯ na kakikata ni kaeyo¯ ). When she came to give the children their musical box kits a few weeks later, she told them that they should carve pictures and motifs that were individually theirs ( jibunrashii). However, in this case she also told them not to carve pictures that were ‘close to comics’ (manga ni chikai), such as Godzilla, but instead something that would have lasting meaning; her reference to images such as Mt Fuji, birds, and flowers reflected an aesthetic drawn from traditional Japanese high culture. In the end, there were striking differences between the reliefs made by Yoshioka-sensei’s class, and by the sixth years in the two sixth year classes at Morikawa whose designs I saw. Many children in Yoshioka-sensei’s class carved motifs connected to the school and their experiences there, such as the sports day, or the trip to Nara and Ise; examples included the school crest, motto, or song, pictures of the rising sun over the hills of Ise, or a deer signifying Nara. Other children carved musical motifs, and only a few made carvings with no connection to the school, such as a baseball player or a Lamborghini car. In contrast, most sixth years in the Morikawa classes carved designs that were strongly gendered and had no connection with the school. Girls carved conventionally feminine, cute, or domestic motifs such as flowers, cute animals, fruit, or houses, while boys tended to carve cartoon characters, especially warriors or monsters. School experiences may have been more important to the children of Yoshioka-sensei’s class than to the children at Morikawa; alternatively, Yoshioka-sensei may have influenced the way her class made their material commemoration of graduation, by steering them away from cartoon-style motifs and towards designs with ‘lasting meaning’. The children participated in the commemoration of graduation in other ways too – some directed or encouraged by teachers, and some not. In two of the sixth year classes at Morikawa, children hung up a B4-sized card in the classroom every day, counting off the number of days left until graduation day. Each child was responsible for designing and drawing one or two cards, on each of which was recorded one of that child’s good memories of his or her days at the school. Some cards were quite plain, while others showed considerably artistic talent. While allowing individual self-expression, the cards were also public artifacts with a clear implicit agenda – to commemorate good memories of the children’s schooldays – which inevitably placed boundaries on what children would produce. The overall effect was to create a

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selective public record of children’s memories that resulted in an overwhelmingly positive collective memory. The children themselves also organized class farewell parties and other fun events to mark the end of their primary school careers. At Morikawa, class 6–4 made party food, decorated the school’s multipurpose hall with flowers and banners, and sang lots of karaoke in groups, using songs from the ‘Young Song’ section of the Myo¯ jo¯ magazine for young teenagers. While some children were karaoke enthusiasts who joined their friends at the microphone again and again, others were shy and spent most of the time watching. Class 6–2 also held a karaoke party, which went less well than they had hoped because of the reluctance of many children to get up and sing, even in the groups that had been arranged beforehand. More successful was the basketball tournament that they organized. Class 6–3 organized a tournament of kick-base, a game similar to rounders, but in which one kicks instead of hits the ball, while 6–1 used home economics lessons to prepare a special lunch for themselves. The most popular graduation-associated activity amongst the Morikawa children, however, was getting their friends to fill in sain-cho¯ – commercially produced file cards with spaces to write contact and personal details (including star sign, blood type, ‘future dream’, ‘secret’, and favourite music, colour, entertainer, and so on).2 Whereas I had never seen children exchanging sain-cho¯ at Nakamachi, they were already all the rage when I arrived at Morikawa – suggesting that Morikawa children may have been more absorbed in commercial culture than their Nakamachi counterparts.

Figure 6.1 Cards recording memories and the number of days remaining until graduation, hung in the classroom of 6–2 at Morikawa.

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However, in a later interview, Yoshioka-sensei told me that she had banned sain-cho¯ in her class, on the grounds that some children would receive a lot and others very few. Instead, each child in the class wrote a letter to each other child, so that all children received an equal number of letters. This approach was clearly more in harmony with Yoshioka-sensei’s approach to the class as nakama. The difference between her class and the Morikawa classes in this regard illustrated the variation in teachers’ practices within a common paradigm. Yoshioka-sensei’s approach diminished the children’s autonomy in one sense, but arguably forced them to think more carefully about the other children in the class; and by substituting a letter, whose content was decided by each individual, for the formulaic sain-cho¯ , it potentially gave more scope for children’s individuality to emerge. The Send-off for the Sixth Years In terms of formality and organization, the Send-off for the Sixth Years lay somewhere between the graduation ceremony and the farewell parties organized by individual classes.3 At both Nakamachi and Morikawa, it was divided into two parts. The children first divided into their mixed-age groups for farewell gatherings whose central feature was the presentation to the sixth years of gifts made by the younger children – a pendant and a colourfully decorated cardboard crown, together with a box to hold pens (at Morikawa) and a cape (at Nakamachi). The second period was held in the gym, which had been arrayed on all sides with decorations made by the children. Once all the younger children had sat down around the sides of the gym, the sixth years processed in to take their seats at the front, smiling and still wearing their crowns – accompanied at Morikawa by applause, and at Nakamachi also by the waving of flags and the playing of drums and trumpets by the fifth years. Each year then performed a song, a piece of instrumental music, a recital, or a skit, addressing the sixth years in fictive kinship terms as ‘big brothers and big sisters’ (onı¯san, one¯san), and thanking them for looking after them and helping them while they were at the school. The sixth years then responded with performances that their spokesperson at Morikawa called ‘presents’ (purezento) offered in return (o-kaeshi ni), recapitulating their memories of the school by singing or playing music from each year they had spent there. They ended with a recorder performance of part of Elgar’s Pomp and Circumstance March No. 1 (Ifu¯ do¯ do¯ ), and then sang the wistful song, Sayonara tomo yo (Goodbye my friends), before making a presentation of a further token of thanks – floorcloths (zo¯ kin) which they had made for each of the first year pupils.4 The climax came when a square box suspended from the roof of the gym was made to open, scattering the sixth years with confetti-like sparkly paper before they processed from the gym ahead of the other children. The Send-off was an event that was explicitly intended to express approved feelings and develop approved values and abilities in the children. As for other school events, the teachers in charge produced a plan that stated the

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event’s aims, content, scheduling, and organization. At Morikawa, one major aim was to enable the fifth years to gain experience and confidence in organizing and running a major gathering; another was to have the younger children think about the feelings of the sixth years (aite o omoiyatte) and try to give them an enjoyable experience. A third aim was to have the sixth years recall their time at the school and be thankful to the people they had interacted with during that time. The event was thus intended to highlight some of the values central to Japanese primary education – thinking of others (omoiyari) and thankfulness (kansha) – both of which are integrally linked to a view of humans as fundamentally interdependent beings. Indeed, as other studies have shown (Kondo, 1990: 76–115; Reader, 1995; McVeigh, 1997: 155–8), the promulgation and inculcation of such values is undertaken with vigour by other institutions in Japanese society too. The Send-off also expressed the importance of gift exchange, another key practice in Japan (Rupp, 2003): the sixth years’ presentations (as well as the floorcloths they gave to the first years) were explicitly articulated as a return for the presentations made by the younger children (which, in their turn, had been presented as a return for the kindness and guidance of the sixth years over the years). Moreover, the event worked along with other graduation events and activities in an apparent attempt to create an affectionate collective memory (omoide) of the children’s days at primary school. As during the recitations at the Nakamachi graduation show and the Morikawa graduation ceremony, so during this event the sixth years recalled and recapitulated moments from their entire career at primary school from beginning to end. Finally, the Send-off was also the occasion when positions of leadership passed from the sixth years to the fifth years. By giving the lead role to the fifth years, who both undertook the main organization and acted as masters of ceremonies, the event affirmed the practice of allocating roles according to seniority, with each age-cohort expected to take on the responsibility of leadership as the climax of their school career. It was also a ceremony that marked the sixth years’ passage into a state of liminality. No longer the leaders of the school’s children, yet still at the school, the sixth years now had no clear place in the school hierarchy; all that remained for them was to prepare for their graduation, two-and-a-half weeks later. The graduation show at Nakamachi Three days after Nakamachi’s send-off event, the school staged its graduation show in the gym. The audience for the show was the sixth years’ parents – mainly mothers, but in some cases fathers as well. Some of the children’s school work – especially in art and craft – was on display to one side of the gym. Each of the three classes in the sixth year staged performances on the stage at one end of the gym, culminating in each case with orchestral music. Sanada-sensei’s class, 6–1, began with a short play entitled ‘Hang in there, Tsuji-kun!’ about a boy in a wheelchair and how his classmates learn to

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appreciate his difficulties and help him in various ways. I was told that the children had written the script based on a book they had chosen from the school library, after which it had been revised by Sanada-sensei. Fujimotosensei’s class, 6–2, began with a recital by the whole class of Miyazawa Kenji’s famous poem Neither Yielding to Rain (Ame nimo makezu) (see Chapter 2). Some parts of the poem were spoken by small groups of children, while others were given extra power by being spoken by the whole class. This was followed by a song, Tsubasa o daite (Embracing my wings). The performances by Yoshioka-sensei’s class, 6–3, centred on the theme ‘to live’, and were accompanied by the projection of slide pictures. They began with pictures from the Kobe earthquake of January 1995, saying how it had made them realize the importance of living. This was followed by the recitation of two stories, the second of which, entitled ‘I wanted to live too’, was about a child who dies in Hiroshima from leukemia in the 1960s, as a result of radiation from the atomic bomb. This was followed by a recitation by the whole class of the poem To Live (Ikiru), which had featured at the end of the sixth year Japanese textbook (see Chapter 3), accompanied by slides of the children themselves playing outside, which very effectively captured the spirit of the poem. All three recitations gave roles to individual children, each of whom read a few lines. The performances were followed by a light meal, with party food that the children had prepared in home economics classes, after which the teachers who had taught the children during the sixth year sang the song, Yume o akiramenaide (Don’t give up on your dreams) as a send-off present to the children, and were themselves presented with bouquets of flowers by the parents.5 The culmination of the show was a long recitation (yobikake), written and performed by the entire sixth year. Each child had two or three lines to recite, with some parts spoken by all the children. While the recitation was being performed, a slideshow projected pictures of the children engaging in various activities during their six years at the school. The opening lines set a tone of upbeat resolve for the future and fond recollection of the past: Seki-kun: Okabe-kun: Kimoto-kun: Inada-kun: Minami-kun: Yamada-kun: Ogi-san: Machida-san: Teramoto-kun: All:

The long time we have lived at primary school will soon end We who will advance to the new path called junior high school Our dreams become bigger with each day that passes The power with which we tackled this year as leaders We want to show at junior high school too And the rucksacks on our backs are packed full of memories The sports day, the school trip, the mixed-age activities So many memories. And The days we passed looking at the figures of our friends (nakama) come floating to our minds Come floating to our minds

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The recital then moved on to recollections of each year the children had spent at school, with many references to the love shown by their parents – though mothers received more mentions than fathers – and culminating in thanks to them: Takamori-san:

Ichiri-kun: All boys: All girls: Sato-kun: All: Fujii-san: All:

There were many times when we said selfish things We caused you worry any number of times There were times when we were cheeky to you But you always watched over us warmly Thanks to that We have grown so much We are full of feelings of gratitude Thank you so much Thank you For twelve years of love Thank you

The next section was entitled ‘Thank you to our friends (nakama)’, and spoke of how they had helped one another during their school life, with the longest mention going to the human pyramids at the sports day: Sakata-san: Ando-kun: Shimada-kun: Yuya-san: Takamori-san:

The fact that we succeeded at the human pyramids Was because our friends (nakama) were there We practised together Again and again until the day before When it came to the real thing everyone came together as one (minna ga hitotsu ni narimashita)

Finally, each teacher with whom the children had interacted, as well as the janitor and the cooks, were individually thanked by name for specific teaching, help and support they had given, before the recitation ended by recapitulating thanks to all who had supported the children during their time at the school. The graduation show at Nakamachi gave the children themselves an important role in deciding what to perform and in executing the performances. It was the children themselves who chose the themes and who wrote the lines for some of the plays and recitations, thus exercising a degree of autonomy. On the other hand, the show was also about working together and giving everyone recognition. Every performance involved the whole class and gave each child a role. It was also clear that the show had a definite unwritten script that embodied clear expectations about the kind of things that should and should not be said, and that had guided the children in their preparations. The values and sentiments that pervaded 6–1’s play about a disabled boy, 6–2’s recitation of Neither Yielding to Rain, or 6–3’s series of presentations on the theme ‘to live’ – thoughtfulness, kindness, perseverance,

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selflessness, and valuing life – were exactly the kind that the school had been trying to develop in them; indeed, as we have seen in earlier chapters, they had encountered more than one of the poems and songs they presented at the school itself. The final recitation followed a basic framework provided by the sixth year teachers (beginning with recollections of school and thanks to parents, then to classmates, and finally to each teacher), with the children writing the specific words for most of the text.6 Its focus on thanks for the support and love received from others followed a clear cultural imperative to acknowledge one’s dependence on others and to express gratitude to those who gave necessary support (Kondo, 1990: 76–115; Reader, 1995: 233). This had indeed also been evident in the Send-off, a few days before (there expressed by the younger children to the sixth years themselves). It was not only towards people that the children expressed gratitude. A week before the graduation ceremony, the sixth years at Morikawa spent two periods in an expression of gratitude to the school building itself – by cleaning some of the stairwell walls. The action was mainly symbolic, since only a limited part of the building was affected, but was no less significant for that, not least in its representation of the importance of symbolic ritual action itself. As Reader (1995) has pointed out, cleaning is frequently a symbolic act in Japan, used to express cleansing and burnishing the self, gratitude, and the imposition of order on the environment. The graduation ceremony Meanwhile, practice for the graduation ceremony itself went on at Morikawa, for at least one period every day during the fortnight before the ceremony itself. The extensive time spent in practice, and the seriousness with which the teachers approached the practice, constituted in themselves a lesson to the children about the importance of public ritual and the need for it to be performed with appropriate formality and precision. Different parts of the ceremony were practiced separately; in the first practice I observed, on 5 February, the children first practiced standing, sitting, and bowing in unison. At two points in the ceremony, they needed to stand up together, pick up their chairs, turn them around, and sit down again, and so they first practiced doing this rapidly (ensuring that they all turned the same way and avoided collisions), and then as quietly as possible. The graduation ceremony, like other school events, was allocated curriculum time in the category ‘special activities’ (tokubetsu katsudo¯ ), but as the number of periods in this category was too few to accommodate as much practice as the teachers felt they needed, periods officially intended for physical education and music were also used for the purpose. On 15 March, four days before the ceremony itself, the sixth years rehearsed the entire event in the school gym; then, the day before, there was a second rehearsal, this time with the whole school present. All actions were prescribed and choreographed in minute detail. For example, in order to

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Figure 6.2 Sixth years at Morikawa cleaning the school walls, a week before their graduation in 1996.

ensure an orderly entrance by the sixth years, the teachers instructed them to step up to a yellow line on the floor of the gym once the preceding children had taken three steps beyond it. The procedure for receiving the graduation certificate was also minutely prescribed. After leaving their seats, children proceeded through a series of intermediate wait points before reaching the second step up to the centre of the stage, at which point the class teacher read his or her name, and the child replied ‘Hai!’ (yes) in a loud voice, stepping up to the stage alongside the previous child, who had just stepped back after receiving the certificate from the principal. Both children then bowed, and while one walked off the stage to the left, the newcomer received the graduation certificate from the principal with both hands. After descending from the stage, the child would then walk to a table at the side of the gym and hand the certificate over to a teacher with a bow. Returning the bow, the teacher rolled up the certificate, inserted it in a long box, and handed it back

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to the child with another bow, holding the box with both hands, one at each end; the child received the box with upturned palms before returning to his or her seat. The morning of the day before the graduation ceremony was taken up by the final rehearsal. After lunch, the sixth years cleaned up their classrooms for the last time. Gradually, over the preceding days, the posters and artwork that normally covered the classroom walls had been stripped away, and the children’s school gear taken home, until by the end of this penultimate day, the classrooms were virtually bare – a state that symbolically echoed the inbetween, liminal state into which the children were entering (Turner, 1967: 98–9, 109–10). All of those things that made the classrooms ‘their places’ had been taken away; they had been ‘divested of trappings of their social selves’ (Kondo, 1990: 89). Over the previous week, they had engaged in a series of events that had symbolically bound them together for a final time as a class, events that would be memorable precisely because they were unusual – lunch prepared for themselves in 6–1, a joint artwork in 6–2, a kick-base tournament in 6–3, the karaoke party in 6–4. Now, with their classrooms bare and featureless, the children were ready for the final event, the reality-defining ceremony that would declare their primary school lives over. The final two periods of the day were devoted to class activities. The children received their graduation albums, which included not only many photographs taken by the school photographer during their six years at the school, but also the compositions that each one of them had written. The children were soon writing messages to one another on the blank pages at the end of each album. The class activities over, they left for home. Meanwhile, the other teachers and the fifth year pupils had been preparing the school, decorating the gym and the corridors. Just after five o’clock, there was a short meeting (uchiawase) in the staffroom. Normally, such meetings were held at the start of the day, not the end, and this deviation from the normal pattern marked the day as extraordinary. The principal made a speech, thanking all the teachers for the work in preparation for the graduation ceremony. The four sixth year class teachers then left their seats to stand in a line at the end of the staffroom. The head of year, Kotani-sensei, made a speech thanking all the teachers for their help, and expressing her hope and confidence that the children would give of their best next day. Then the sixth year teachers went to their classrooms, to make the final preparations for the morning. On each child’s desk, they laid the pink bunches of ribbon that the children would pin to their breasts, and they prepared the blackboard by writing on it a poem, or the children’s names, along with decorative flourishes in coloured chalk. Once Satoyama-sensei had taken down the poster that expressed the year-group goal from over 6–2’s blackboard, all the classrooms were completely bare except for vases of flowers on the teachers’ desks, which stood out all the more because all other objects had been removed. In 6–1’s classroom, the vase was full of lilies brought by one of the children, sending out a delicious fragrance. Other teachers gradually left for home, but three of

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the sixth year teachers were still at the school by the time I departed at 6.30 p.m. The next day dawned bright and clear. Both teachers and children started arriving quite early, around 8 a.m. All three of the female sixth year teachers were wearing traditional Japanese dress (kimono and hakama), while Teraokasensei wore a black suit and white tie, and the principal was in morning dress. The sixth years were also smartly dressed, some wearing all or part of their school uniforms, which had otherwise hardly been in evidence during my time at the school. The children had each written a letter to their parents, and these were laid out on tables outside each of the sixth year classrooms, for the parents to find when they arrived a little later. Once all the parents had come, group photos of parents and children were taken in the gym, after which the sixth years returned to their classrooms while the younger pupils filed into the gym. Finally, the moment came for Kotani-sensei to lead the sixth years into the decorated gymnasium, amid solemn music and much applause. Once each class was assembled, they bowed as one to the stage, adorned with a banner with the words ‘Congratulations on your graduation’ above the national and city flags, and then sat down as one. When all were seated, the ceremony was declared open. After the singing of the national anthem came the presentation of certificates, each child going up to the stage and back in the prescribed fashion, as each name was read by the class teacher to the accompaniment of wistful, uplifting music. As each child received the certificate, video allowed his or her face to be seen in close-up on a huge screen. The presentation of certificates was followed by speeches from the principal and the chairman of the Parent–Teacher Association, then the introduction of VIPs and the reading of telegrams of congratulation. Now the sixth years, who had been facing the stage up to this point, turned their chairs around to face the audience. They sang Yuzuriha no uta (Yuzuriha song), which echoed the yuzuriha poem they had read a few weeks earlier with its reference to the growth of a new generation; then all except ten children sat down, while those who remained standing began a recitation whose first part recounted the main events of their collective life at the school, beginning with their entrance ceremony six years before:7 Child 1: All: Child 2: Child 3: Child 4: All: All boys: All girls: Child 5: Child 6:

Spring, overflowing with hope Spring Heisei year 8 March 19th Now Now We We8 Who will graduate The time for 125 children to set off on our journey

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Child 7: All: Child 8: Child 9: Child 10: Child 11:

Graduation ceremony Graduation ceremony (Background music) 1,389 days That we came to school, even in rain and snow Now, when we graduate Many, many memories revive

Each child had a line to speak out in a loud voice, with some lines spoken by all; as they spoke, sentimental background music played softly, becoming louder at transition points. After the first ten children had spoken, they took their seats again, and the next ten stood to continue. After the first part of the recitation, dealing with memories of schooldays, all present sang the school song: it was then the turn of the younger pupils to respond with their own recitation, congratulating their ‘big brothers and big sisters’ and thanking them for their help and their example: Child 20: Child 21: Child 22: Child 23: Child 24:

Going to school in a group every day ‘Be careful not to run out in the road’ ‘Be careful when a car comes’ Always, for our sakes You took care

Child 31: Child 32: Child 33: Child 34:

Sports Day in the autumn You taught us How to do cheering Till your voices were hoarse

Child 40: Child 41: Child 42: Child 43: Child 44:

The club activities that were so much fun When we were at a loss When we didn’t understand You always kindly Taught us

The younger pupils then sang a song entitled, ‘Congratulations on your Graduation’, at which the sixth years then resumed their recitation, first thanking the younger children and urging them to ‘build an even more wonderful Morikawa Primary School’, and then expressing thanks to their fathers, their mothers, and their teachers for all their care and support, before singing ‘with feelings full of gratitude’ the song Sudachi no uta (‘Leaving the nest’). After they had risen and bowed to the stage once more, the ceremony was declared to be at an end, and the sixth years processed out to applause and the upbeat music of Okamoto Mayo’s hit pop song, Tomorrow. From the gym, the sixth years returned to their classrooms, where they were joined by their parents and the class teachers. One of the previous year’s

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sixth year teachers told me that she expected that the teachers would now be talking to the children about life (jinsei), with the children sitting as still as stone. Teraoka-sensei had prepared for each child a yosegaki (a square, goldedged card, used for farewell messages), with a picture of himself with the child, and an individual message to each child. He had also put a second photo of himself with each child into what he called a ‘time capsule’, and during his talk after the ceremony, he planned to tell the children that he would keep the ‘time capsule’ and open it in 20 years. By then, their real faces would have changed – would they be sad, or smiling? He hoped they would be smiling. Meanwhile, the younger pupils were being assembled along the path from the main door to the school gate, over which there was a banner: ‘Graduates, go powerfully into a new world’. As the sixth years and their parents emerged and walked down the path and out the gate, applause surrounded them, while the signature tune of the television drama ‘Kinpachi-sensei of Class 3-B’ wafted above. The graduation ceremony as a rite of passage The graduation ceremony was considerably more formal than any of the associated events that had preceded it. This was not surprising, given its function as a classic rite de passage, intended to perform a clear and decisive change of status. In van Gennep’s terms (1960 [1908]), the entire ceremony can be understood as a rite of separation. Acts prior to the ceremony itself, such as the Send-off and the cleaning of the school walls, also participate in this separating ritual; like the stripping of the classrooms, the cleaning of the walls is particularly suitable in this respect, since, on an unconscious level, it symbolically represents the removal of the physical traces of the children’s presence during their time at the school.9 On the day of the ceremony itself, the sixth years enter classrooms transformed into spaces quite unlike a normal classroom; they enter the gym separately from the other children, and are seated separately. The recitation that they perform emphasizes the separation, by its recapitulation of the children’s entire primary school life, by its declaration that this stage of life is at an end, and by its parting exchange of thanks to significant others for their help during this period. After the ceremony, the children return to the special spaces that their classrooms have become, and from there they exit the school directly, with no further contact with the other children. Their liminal state will continue until they are admitted to junior high school in a few weeks’ time, at an entrance ceremony which acts as an act of incorporation into their new status and institution.10 The structure of the recitation during the graduation ceremony at Morikawa was fundamentally similar to that during the graduation show at Nakamachi, with memories of schooldays being succeeded by thanks to parents, other pupils, and teachers. The formal similarity indicated that both recitations shared the ritual function of elaborating the basic rite of separation, though

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at Nakamachi, this particular elaboration was carried out before the graduation ceremony itself. The ritual function of the recitation not surprisingly limited the extent to which the children themselves were able to shape its content; even at Nakamachi, where the children did write a large proportion of the actual words spoken, their freedom of expression was severely limited by the framework they were given by teachers. Moreover, it is significant that even this limited autonomy of expression was separated from the graduation ceremony itself, taking place in an earlier and less formal event.

Ritual and other narratives Interdependence, individuality and autonomy received varying degrees of emphasis in the series of actions and ceremonies that led up to and culminated in the graduation ceremonies at Morikawa and Nakamachi. Interdependence was stressed most strongly, particularly on occasions such as the Send-off for the sixth years, the graduation show at Nakamachi, and the graduation ceremony at Morikawa, when expressions of thanks for others’ support became a central message. Cooperation, not competition, was encouraged; teachers were careful to ensure that all children were able to participate actively in events, and there were few opportunities for some individuals to stand out more prominently than others. At Nakamachi’s graduation show, for example, most of the activities involved all children more or less equally, whether preparing food to eat, making a group recitation, or singing a song or playing an orchestral piece as a class. In cases where some children had a larger role (for example, in writing a script), this was mainly behind the scenes. The only exception to this general rule came in 6–1’s short play, ‘Hang in there, Tsuji-kun!’ which gave some children larger roles than others. When there were opportunities for individuality and autonomy, they were often subject to a strong implicit script that carried easily decipherable expectations about what kinds of expression were desirable. This was the case with the ‘X days until graduation’ cards hung in the classroom, on which children in 6–2 and 6–3 at Morikawa wrote their memories of school, as well as the performances at Nakamachi’s graduation show. Though this did not necessarily make what the children created in these contexts unreflective of their thoughts and feelings, it did impose conventional limits on what could be produced. There were times, especially at Morikawa, when children were subject to less guidance, particularly when decorating their commemorative craftworks, and when organizing their own graduation-associated rituals, either in the form of parties or the exchange of sain-cho¯ . In these cases, children very often turned to commercial culture for a means of expression, in the form of pop songs for karaoke, cartoon images of warriors or cute characters, or the mass-produced sain-cho¯ . In their use of these popular culture artifacts, they tended to produce alternative identities and constructions of self to those

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that the school sought to develop. In particular, whereas the school held up as an ideal the class group as nakama, with each child caring for each other child, karaoke parties and sain-cho¯ resulted in some children standing out, as a result of popularity and an outgoing character, while others were marginalized. Yet despite the formality of the graduation ceremony, and the tendency of the ceremony and associated graduation activities to emphasize interdependence over individuality or autonomy, there were indications that graduation placed more emphasis on individual children than in the past – at least in the eyes of the teachers. More than one teacher at Morikawa told me that graduation ceremonies of the past had been more formal than they were currently. I was told that the children all used to bow when the principal reached the foot of the steps up the stage, and again when he reached the top step; while only a few representatives of the children used to speak during the ceremony. Indeed, during a Morikawa staff meeting a month before the graduation ceremony, it was suggested that the plan drawn up by the sixth year teachers also be simplified in this fashion, to reduce the number of children who would speak. The original plan was strongly defended, however, by the head of year, Kotani-sensei, who argued that it was very meaningful for each child and for his or her parents that each child speak, and that each child’s face be seen. Takamatsu-sensei, who was in charge of anti-discrimination (as well as being the teachers’ union representative), further argued that there was no need for all children to do things together in perfect unison, as in the old days – a school graduation ceremony was not the army. In the end, every child did stand and speak, and every child’s face was shown on a huge video screen as she or he was accepting the graduation certificate. Thus, while the Morikawa graduation ceremony continued to emphasize formality and interdependence, it did so in a way that allowed each of the graduating children a degree of active participation as an individual.

Conclusion The graduation ceremony and its associated events and activities create a ritualized context by taking certain motifs and values familiar to primary children (interdependence, friendship, gratitude, the significance of age-roles, the importance of memory) and presenting them in an increasingly formalized and systematic way, a way that strips away potential distractions to allow what remains an unhindered prominence. As Kondo (1990: 110) has pointed out, both familiarity and formalization can contribute to making ritual contexts emotionally persuasive. The considerable elaboration of the basic ritual of graduation is certainly intended to carry emotional power, and this in itself is significant. Ritual is not always designed to have emotional effect; as Bell (1992: 186) has noted, it is often enough for participants simply to assent to going through the motions. Moreover, from a ritual point of view, the graduation ceremony in itself is quite adequate to perform the function of

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symbolically moving children out of the status of ‘primary school pupil’; events and activities such as the Send-off for the Sixth Years and the graduation show are unnecessary, as indeed are the recitations and songs that formed part of the Morikawa graduation ceremony. Indeed, in my personal experience, graduations at junior high school and high school in Japan become progressively more austere, with fewer and fewer elements intended to move the participants emotionally. The comments of teachers about the gradual elaboration of primary school graduations suggest that at this stage of schooling, efforts to make these events emotionally meaningful to the children have increased over the years. The complex of events and activities that surrounds graduation from primary school indicates that these rituals are not intended only to perform a rite of passage, but also to impress upon participants certain values, and create in them shared memories. It is worth remembering that children participate in events such as the Send-off for the sixth years and the graduation ceremony six times in their school career, albeit only once as graduating pupils. Such events are thus educationally as well as ritually significant. Rohlen (1989: 27) has written that in Japan, much more ritual attention is paid to entrance to than exit from a state or institution. This may often be true, but not in the case of primary school, where graduation undergoes as much ritual elaboration as entrance, if not more. This may be explained by the fact that the whole of the primary school experience is equivalent to the kind of initiatory training that new employees undergo when they first enter a company – primary school being the first (compulsory) stage of initiatory training for life as a whole. The primary school graduation ceremony and its associated activities are thus in one sense situated part-way through the longdrawn-out educational process that forms the entrance to modern life. When one considers again that children experience the graduation events repeatedly throughout their school career, it can be seen that while ritually they may be ‘exit’ ceremonies, educationally they can be understood as ‘entrance’ ceremonies. Yet in a more profound sense, they do indeed represent an end. In pre-Meiji Japan, boys underwent the genpuku ceremony to make them men from the age of 12 onwards. In today’s Japan, it is only up to the end of primary school that children are eligible for child fares on public transport – as the sixth year teachers sometimes reminded their pupils, to impress on them the significance of their graduation. With entry to junior high school, children enter a more ambiguous phase of life, where they are still seen as children, yet children with a qualification – children in a kind of pupa state, undergoing the difficult process of transformation into adults. As they went out from the school gates after their primary school graduation ceremony, the pupils of Morikawa and Nakamachi were indeed entering a new world – and bidding farewell to unambiguous childhood.

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Notes 1 Benjamin (1997: 97–104) gives a detailed description of a primary school sports day in Saitama in 1989, including features found in the Nakamachi sports day, such as a whole school dance, cheering, and human pyramids. Cheering and dancing also feature in Hendry’s description of a kindergarten sports day in 1981 (Hendry, 1986: 142–3). 2 In 1996, mobile phones were not yet widespread enough to be given a space on the cards, but some cards did have a space for a pager (pokeberu) number. 3 Tsuneyoshi (2001: 75–6) gives an outline of a similar event at a Tokyo primary school, with some differences in details. 4 At Nakamachi, the sixth years concluded with the upbeat pop hit Tomorrow (also played on recorders by the fourth years at Morikawa). 5 This included not only the three class teachers, but also three other teachers who had each taught a subject to one of the classes. 6 The first two sections excerpted above were provided by teachers, while the third was written by the children. 7 Tsuneyoshi (2001: 75–6) describes a very similar recitation at a Tokyo primary school, and points out that the format is ‘suggested in some teachers’ guidebooks’. 8 Boys said ‘bokutachi’ a first-person pronoun conventionally used by boys and men, while girls said ‘watashitachi’, a pronoun conventionally used by girls. 9 Van Gennep (1960 [1908]: 35–6) notes that rites of separation often take place in stages, and surmises that the intent is ‘to make the break gradual’. 10 Nonetheless, Morikawa teachers were told at a staff meeting that their school continued to have responsibility for giving guidance (shido¯ ) to the sixth years even after the graduation ceremony, until they formally entered junior high school. Moreover, the sixth year teachers were required by the school to make patrols in the locality during the spring vacation, to help ensure that the newly graduated children did not get into any trouble – despite the fact that at least one of the teachers told me that she thought such patrols were a waste of time. This demonstrates once again the extraordinary expectations that are made of Japanese schools; it might well be thought that supervision of the children during these three weeks could fairly be left to their families.

7

The next stage – 2002 and all that

As described in Chapter 1, the 1998 revision of Japan’s national curriculum involved a significant cut in the hours that primary schools devoted to traditional school subjects. In part, this was inevitable because of the implementation of a five-day school week, which meant that fewer school hours were available for lessons. However, it was also necessary because of the introduction of the new curricular area of so¯ go¯ -teki na gakushu¯ (Integrated Studies), which was allotted as many as 105–110 hours a year in the third to sixth years of primary school – more than any subject except Japanese (kokugo) and maths.1 Usually referred to more briefly as so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ , this new area was the centrepiece of the reform programme at the primary level, and key to the attempt to solve the problem of how to develop children’s individuality at the same time as making them better socially integrated. As the first chapter of this book has explained, the new curriculum came under sustained attack not long after it was published, forcing the government to introduce measures designed to reassure the public that ‘academic attainment’ (gakuryoku) as traditionally understood would be upheld. This, however, did not involve a retreat from the emphasis on the individual. In fact, one of the main measures intended to ensure the maintenance of standards was encouragement for schools to tailor their teaching more clearly to the needs of individual students, by organising teaching according to children’s academic performance. On the face of it, this was a striking departure from the avoidance of streaming or setting that had dominated Japanese primary teaching since the end of the Second World War. In this chapter, I will examine how the 2002 curriculum and subsequent changes were implemented at Morikawa and other primary schools in Sakura. The main basis for the account is a two-week visit to Morikawa during June 2004, during which I observed classes, interviewed teachers, and collected school documents. In addition, I draw on observations of single lessons at Morikawa and Ishida primary schools in October 2002 (along with documents from both schools), interviews with the headteachers of Nakamachi and Taira primary schools in October 2003 (again accompanied by documents), and periodic conversations and interviews with primary school teachers in Sakura over several years. I argue that curricular changes have

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been implemented in ways that show considerable continuity with practices before 2002. Teachers continue to focus on developing both interdependence and autonomy in children, with a particular emphasis on improving children’s socialization through experiential interaction with their local community and environment. The implementation of small-group teaching, meanwhile, seems to have concentrated on meeting children’s individual needs and promoting self-directed learning, without abandoning teaching in the class group or introducing performance-based teaching wholesale. Changes since 2002 thus amount to evolution and not revolution.

The 2002 curriculum and its aftermath: so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ and smallgroup teaching According to the curriculum published in 1998 and implemented in 2002, schools were to use the time allocated to so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ for ‘creative educational activities such as cross-curricular and integrated studies, and studies based on the interests of children’ (Monbusho¯ , 1998b: 2). The curriculum stated two main sets of aims for the new area. The first was ‘to develop [children’s] abilities in the areas of identifying key questions, learning, and thinking by oneself, judging autonomously, and becoming better at problemsolving’ (1998b). The second set of aims was ‘to have children learn how to learn and how to think, to develop [in children] an attitude that tackles problem-solving and exploratory activities autonomously and creatively, and to enable them to think about their own ways of living’ (1998b: 3). In December 2003, following the furore about allegedly falling academic standards, a third aim was added: ‘to interconnect and integrate the knowledge and skills acquired in other curricular areas and subjects, making use of them in study and in life’ (Monbukagakusho¯ , 2007). The curriculum suggested international understanding, information technology, the environment, and health and welfare as examples of specific areas that could be the focus of study in so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ , and it noted a number of points for schools to bear in mind. First, they should incorporate experiential (taiken-teki) study and problemsolving, such as experience of nature, volunteer activities, studies that used observation, experiments and surveys, presentations and debates, and making things. Second, schools should try to use diverse modes of study, such as groupwork and mixed-age activities, and should make active use of study materials and environments provided by the local area (chiiki), with the cooperation of local people. Third, schools should ensure that where children learned conversational foreign languages as part of education for international understanding, these studies should be experiential and appropriate for primary school level (Monbukagakusho¯ , 2007). As noted earlier, what was remarkable about these stipulations was their brevity and the amount of freedom they gave schools in developing their own curriculum content. They also represented a clear response to the two key issues identified by the reports issued by the Chu¯ kyo¯ shin, the government’s

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main advisory body, in the mid-1990s: first, the need to encourage creativity, initiative, and independent problem-solving ability, and second, the need to provide children with better socialization, especially by connecting them more adequately with the natural and social environment of their localities. The wording of the curriculum made it clear that so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ time should not be used for the formal, text-centred teaching of English. Between the publication of the curriculum in December 1998, and its implementation in April 2002, there were just over three years for schools to ready themselves to teach so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ . Their primary means of preparation was through the continuous in-school research programmes (ko¯ nai kenshu¯ ) in which all public primary schools in Japan engage as a matter of course (Fernandez and Yoshida, 2004), and which involve, among other things, open lessons followed by discussion seminars. When I interviewed Imai-sensei, the head of academic administration (kyo¯ mu shunin) at Morikawa in June 2004, he told me that following the publication of the first drafts of the new curriculum, Morikawa had made so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ the main theme of its in-school research for a full five years. This approach is likely to have been typical of schools throughout Japan, faced as they were with a major new curricular area to teach. They were also helped in their preparations by a flood of writing about how to teach the new area. In December 2001, for instance, I counted 160 different books about how to teach so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ on sale at a major Tokyo bookstore – 23 written by teachers themselves about their schools’ pilot programmes (Cave, 2003: 96). Using these means and resources, schools prepared themselves for the new challenge. The introduction of small-group teaching was a very different story. Whereas so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ had been introduced with a long lead time, as is normal for curriculum revisions in Japan, small-group teaching was a measure that the Ministry of Education had not expected to take, one that it was forced into by the furore over supposed ‘falling standards’ that erupted from 1999 onwards. From 2001, the Ministry announced that prefectures should allocate extra teachers to schools for the purpose of implementing small-group teaching (sho¯ ninzu¯ shido¯ ). Such teaching also went under the title of ‘teaching adapted to the individual’ (ko ni o¯ jita shido¯ ) and ‘teaching according to degree of learning mastery’ (shu¯ jukudobetsu shido¯ ). Terms such as ‘ability grouping’ (no¯ ryokubetsu shido¯ ) were scrupulously avoided, given the opposition they would have been likely to arouse among teachers and parents who believed in the egalitarian treatment of children. The Ministry also designated 1,692 primary and junior high schools as ‘frontier schools for the improvement of academic attainment’ (gakuryoku ko¯ jo¯ furontia-ko¯ ) by means of ‘teaching adapted to the individual’ (Asahi Shinbun, 2002). By 2003, a Ministry survey found that 63 per cent of public primary schools were implementing ‘smallgroup teaching according to degree of learning mastery’, though this was very largely confined to the subject of maths (Monbukagakusho¯ , 2003). In contrast to so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ , small-group teaching was implemented with little or no lead time. However, whereas so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ was mandatory for all

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schools, small-group teaching was not. Even by 2003, 37 per cent of primary schools had not introduced small-group teaching in any subject, and overall, the approach remained confined to a small minority of schools (11 per cent or less) in all subjects except maths, for which it was being used by about 40 per cent of schools from the third year of primary school onwards (Monbukagakusho¯ , 2003).

So ¯ go¯ gakushu¯ at Morikawa and other Sakura primary schools During my visits to Morikawa in 2002 and 2004, I observed so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ activities for the fifth and sixth year pupils, and discussed these with teachers. The fifth and sixth years’ activities were part of the school’s comprehensive plan for so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ , which covered the third to sixth year children. Imai-sensei, the school’s head of academic administration, explained to me that activities in one year were intended to form a basis for subsequent years. There were two major aims that ran through all four years: ‘connecting with other people’ (hito to no kakawari) and ‘thinking about the way one lives’ ( jibun no ikikata o kangaeru). The exact content of the activities varied from year to year, and even to some extent in the course of the year, since the teachers’ ideas developed, teaching personnel themselves changed, and each year’s plans were developed in consultation with the children. There was nonetheless a broad framework that had continued over several years. The third year was mainly devoted to raising children’s awareness of the local environment, so that they noticed more about it. In 2002, for example, 40 hours were devoted to activities to do with the river that ran in front of the school – exploration, play, and cleaning up rubbish. In the fourth year, the focus moved from noticing to acting. Most of the year was divided into three blocks: 30 hours focusing on ‘rubbish’ (gomi), 30 looking at the river, and 30 thinking about making the local area a better place for everyone to live. During each block, the children explored the local area and decided on the problems they wanted to tackle with a view to improving the locality, with input from local people involved in areas such as recycling, river management, or welfare. There was a decided focus on what the children themselves could do, resulting in activities such as cleaning up rubbish and greeting others loudly – long-standing concerns in Japanese primary schools (Lewis, 1995: 47–8; Tsuneyoshi, 2001: 29–30, 82). The fifth years’ activities centred on the theme of ‘getting to know others’ ( fureai). The vast majority of the year (80 hours) was spent on activities with children in the local kindergarten and day-care centre, during which the fifth years played with and helped take care of the preschoolers at a series of gatherings. Finally, the sixth years again focused on the local area (chiiki). In 2002, almost the entire year (96 hours) was devoted to learning about or participating in local volunteer activities, aiming to find out for themselves how they could make a contribution. In 2004, however, activities were more diversified; the children spent the first term learning about nature (shizen) in

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the local area, and during the second term looked at local history, moving on to interaction (ko¯ ryu¯ ) with local people in the third term.2 Fureai with the preschoolers: fifth year activities in so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ The term fureai is not easy to translate into natural English. Sato (1998: 229) explains it as ‘emotionally supportive interpersonal contact’. It refers to informal social contact of all kinds – especially everyday activities that come naturally, such as spending time together chatting and (in the case of children) playing. Of course, this kind of everyday human contact is exactly what is widely felt to be increasingly lacking in the lives of today’s Japanese children, living as they are often said to be in more organized yet narrower and more socially impoverished worlds. A focus on fureai also shows Japanese educators’ continued concern to develop the interdependence that I have argued is a major discourse of selfhood in Japan.3 On my visit to Morikawa in October 2002, I watched the fifth year pupils spend time preparing for a gathering with the preschoolers the following month. This was the second session the children had spent thinking of activities they could do with the preschoolers. The children were assembled in the school gym, receiving directions from Yoshioka-sensei (who had been transferred to Morikawa in 2001). They spent 15 minutes writing down ideas for games and other things to do with the preschoolers, and then 30 minutes in small groups, putting together their ideas into plans for each group, and noting down what they needed to prepare in order to carry the plan out. A final few minutes were spent in reflection ( furikaeri) and self-evaluation. During my 2004 visit, I was able to take part in a fureai event, as well as watch some of the preparations. During the three preparatory periods I observed, children worked in small groups, planning games to play, making colourful name labels, and making presents to give the preschoolers. In many cases, the presents were origami of various kinds – coasters, jumping frogs, cranes, and a star-shaped ninja throwing weapon called a shuriken. One group used cardboard to make boxes, which were covered in coloured paper and decorated, while another group prepared boxes full of translucent, coloured ‘stones’ (made of plastic), bought at a video game centre. The most interesting presents were inflatable toy ‘balloons’, made from plastic bags, paper cups, and drinking straws (an idea the children told me they got from the television). On the day of the fureai event, those fifth years visiting the day-care centre (hoikuen) assembled outside at about 9.15 a.m. They first listened to Yoshiokasensei remind them that the important thing was to help the preschoolers enjoy themselves. They should remember to smile, and shouldn’t worry if things didn’t go exactly according to plan. If they scolded the preschoolers and ordered them around, it would be no fun for the preschoolers, who wouldn’t look forward to the next time the children visited. Also, it was important to say goodbye in a very friendly way, not a perfunctory way.

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The fifth years and their teachers then walked the short distance to the daycare centre, where they divided up into small groups and spent 30–40 minutes playing with the preschoolers. The activities were varied, ranging from chasing games, or the card game, karuta, to making origami, or making ‘swords’ from rolls of paper. Some groups also spent some time reading story books with the preschoolers. Finally, Yoshioka-sensei told the children it was time to give the presents and say goodbye, and the event came to an end with an informal ‘closing ceremony’. As we walked back to the school, I listened to some of the boys talking to each other delightedly about how the preschoolers had played and got involved. I had rarely seen Japanese primary school children so full of spontaneous pleasure and enthusiasm at a school event. Yoshioka-sensei also commented on the children’s reactions as we talked afterwards. ‘The expressions on their faces really change, don’t they?’ she said. ‘Even children who mess about in school are trying to think of the preschoolers and how to interact with them.’ It was clear that she considered the activity to be very worthwhile in its impact on the children. A similar view was expressed by Takamori-sensei, a young woman who was one of the sixth year class teachers, and had also taught the current sixth years when they were fifth years. She told me that because the children usually only played with others their own age, at the start they hadn’t known how to play with the preschoolers. Over the year, their language had become kinder and gentler (kotoba ga yasashiku natta), not only to the preschoolers, but also to their classmates, as they themselves had noticed. She thought that it was probably the first time that they had needed to think about someone other than themselves. They themselves had noticed that they had grown as persons, and they had liked and looked forward to so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ a great deal. Though so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ is a recent addition to the curriculum, it is not difficult to see the continuities between the fifth years’ fureai activities and activities at primary schools before 2002. The most notable similarity is with the mixed-age activities that had been carried out for about a decade prior to 2002 (and which were still going on at Morikawa at the time of my 2004 visit). The fureai and mixed-age activities had similar aims – to have children make plans and think for themselves, and to further their emotional and social development. The activities through which these aims were pursued were fundamentally similar – mixed-age activities organized in small groups – though within the framework of so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ , the activities and their preparation took more time, and went beyond the borders of the school itself (which may well have increased their significance for the children). In fact, the fifth years’ fureai activities were actually designed to connect to the mixed-age activities within the school. Imai-sensei, the head of academic administration, explained to me that one year later, the fifth years would be in the sixth year, while the preschoolers would be entering Morikawa as first year pupils. At that time, the new sixth years would help bring the new first years to the school, welcome them, and help them to settle down, and would continue to

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interact with them during the school’s regular mixed-age activities, fulfilling the traditional, socially approved role of ‘older brothers and sisters’. It is clear, therefore, that the fureai activities are essentially a further development of what primary teachers were already doing before 2002. Experiencing the natural environment: sixth year activities in so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ During June 2004, the sixth years’ so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ activities were focused on exploring nature (shizen) in the local area. I watched some of their activities during a session early in my visit. On this occasion, the children were spending time outside the school, in three separate groups. The aim of the activities, which stretched over three lesson periods, was to make use of nature in playing (shizen o tsukatte asobu). Some of the children were carrying nets and insect cages, presumably for the insects they hoped to catch. As I needed to return to the school after two periods to watch the fifth years’ so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ activities, I joined the group that was to stay nearest the school. Accompanied by one of the sixth year class teachers, the group went to one of the two wooded hills that adjoined the school grounds. After a few instructions from the teacher, and a reminder to assemble when she blew her whistle, the children dispersed and started to play. Gradually they found things to do. Many plucked leaves and started trying to make boats by tearing and folding them. A group of boys made catapults, using sticks they had found, together with sellotape and rubber bands that they had brought with them. They reacted with delight when they found that the catapults worked: ‘Wow! That flew a long way! Let’s have a war!’ Meanwhile, some of the girls were picking up little pine cones and throwing them at each other. After 10 to 15 minutes, most children were busily engaged in a variety of activities. Three boys climbed a tree, while six or seven girls threw pine cones at them. Some girls made catapults. A pine-cone fight ensued, with the boys using their catapults and the girls throwing pine-cones. In another part of the open space below the wooded hill, a small group of boys made boats and mats out of leaves. Three girls searched for a lizard they had seen. There were, however, also three girls who seemed to spend the entire time sitting and chatting, without any effort to ‘play using nature’. After about an hour, the teacher led the children across a road to a second hill, and after resting for some tea, further play ensued. I had to return to the school after about an hour and a half. Later that day and subsequently, I discussed the activities with two of the sixth year teachers, the year head, Kawai-sensei, a man of about 40, and the youngest of the four teachers, Takamori-sensei. They explained that the day’s activities were the culmination of earlier sessions. The children had begun by finding pieces of natural environment near their own homes where they could play, and telling other children who lived in the same neighbourhood about them. Then, children who lived relatively near the school introduced places

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they knew, and these were joined into three ‘courses’ for the children to visit that day. In the next session, the children would talk about what they had played and what they had discovered. Takamori-sensei added that the children had spent about four hours making preparations for that day’s ‘playing with nature’. They began by writing down their own ideas and experiences, but found they could hardly write anything. This was because, according to Takamori-sensei, they never played outside, unless they were playing with balls or on swings, and were quite unused to play that made use of natural objects. Next, they looked for ideas in books and on the internet, but were still unable to write very much. Finally, they asked people they knew, especially older people such as grandparents, and got more ideas that way. Though Takamori-sensei did not so express it, this could be seen as the children getting in closer touch with the local community and its past. Kawai-sensei, meanwhile, identified a number of difficulties that he felt the sixth year so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ faced. The acutest problem was a contradiction between the aims of the so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ activities, and other imperatives that the school had to accommodate – most notably, concern to ensure children’s safety. Concerns about safety meant that there were, in practice, severe limitations to what children could be allowed to do. It was necessary to organize out-of-school activities in larger groups, since there were only a limited number of teachers who could supervise the children. Children were not encouraged to go off in small groups without adult supervision. Yet they were probably more likely to make their own discoveries in these ‘unsafe’ smaller groups, Kawai-sensei thought. Furthermore, while on the one hand the school encouraged the children to discover their local environment, on the other, it also regularly warned them not to go to the local hills or river on their own, because of the possible dangers there. This was in response to the wishes of parents and the local Board of Education. The result was that it was difficult to see how the school could really encourage its children to do much with what they had experienced in so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ . Although in theory the children were being encouraged to explore the local environment and make their own discoveries, in practice, the school was obliged to do its best to prevent such exploration, unless it took place with adult supervision. The same problems came up when the children were looking at local history. Though the teachers wanted to encourage them to pursue their own interests, it wasn’t practical to supervise small numbers who might want to visit more distant sites. There was a perennial tension between the imperative to encourage children to pursue their own interests, and the difficulties involved in coping with the enormous diversity of activities that could arise as a result. A second problem that Kawai-sensei identified was that of the relative anonymity and uniformity of many local neighbourhoods. It was all very well to talk about ‘making the most of the local area’s particular features (tokushoku)’, as the Ministry of Education did, but not all localities had very

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remarkable features, and there could be problems making the most even of those that did exist, such as the ‘dangerous’ river that ran in front of Morikawa. One rural area some distance from Sakura was noted for its many fireflies, so at the local school there, so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ was centred on fireflies – raising their grubs and putting on a firefly festival. Most neighbourhoods did not have such notable features, however. Morikawa was located near an ancient highway, it was true, but the neighbourhood had never been a posting-stop (shukubamachi), so there wasn’t actually much for the children to see there. Kawai-sensei’s comments highlighted some of the practical realities that impeded the so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ ideal. His observations also drew attention to the contradictory desires that many in today’s Japan have for children. On the one hand, there are frequently expressed concerns that children today do not spend enough time interacting with others and with nature, and nostalgia for childhood as it used to be. On the other hand, there are demands that children be kept as safe as possible – demands that were never made in the vanished society that so many idealize. It seems impossible for these contradictory demands to be fully reconciled. Assessing children’s performance in so¯ go¯ gakushu ¯ One of the biggest problems posed by so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ concerns how to assess the performance of individual children in the area. I discussed this issue with several teachers at Morikawa, including two heads of academic administration, Imai-sensei in 2004, and his predecessor Okada-sensei in 2002. On my earlier visit, Okada-sensei expressed her view that the assessment criteria that Morikawa had devised needed further improvement, as they were currently quite subjective (shukan-teki). They needed to develop more objective ways of evaluating what students did. Two years later, Imai-sensei also said that it was difficult to convert children’s performances in so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ into precisely measurable data. The most useful methods they had found involved the assessment of portfolios of work that children produced, including material such as ideas, plans, and reflections that children wrote down. Without some such physical record, Imai-sensei said, it was easy for teachers to become vague in their assessments and write that children had ‘more or less’ achieved the desired level of performance. A further method was for teachers to make notes on children’s observed performance, using record sheets with a space for each child (karute), similar to ones used by preschool teachers. During the Morikawa fifth years’ visit to the day-care centre, teachers used a video camera to make a more permanent record that could be used to help them assess the children. Assessment clearly remains a key issue for so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ ; indeed, Imai-sensei told me that he thought it would disappear from the curriculum unless there were clear measures with which to evaluate it.

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So¯ go¯ gakushu¯ at other Sakura primary schools and beyond Besides Morikawa, I learned about so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ activities at a number of other Sakura primary schools through visits, school documents, and interviews with teachers. The broad themes tended to be similar to those at Morikawa, with particular focus on the local environment, interaction with the local community, and welfare issues. Popular topics included the exploration of local rivers, woods and hills, the investigation of pollution issues, and practical application through involvement in clean-up activities. Two schools that I visited had children learn about rice experientially; with guidance from local people, they planted the rice in the spring, either in buckets or in a small rice field, observed and recorded its growth, and then harvested it in the autumn. Finally, they held a harvest festival, and used the harvested rice in cooking and making traditional material objects.4 Another popular theme was welfare, which sometimes took the form of volunteer activities with local groups such as old people’s groups. I was told that in 2002, the Morikawa sixth years had spent time reading to old people in the locality. As with the Morikawa activities with the preschoolers, welfare topics often built on activities that pre-dated the introduction of so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ . Several schools had children spend some time looking at the problems faced by blind and handicapped people, and studying ways to help them, including environmental design and Braille. This incorporated activities that I had observed at Nakamachi in 1995–96, such as having the children experience wheelchairs and letting them walk around the school ‘blind’ through the use of eye masks. English conversation activities were a relatively minor component of so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ at all the schools I visited, taking up only 13 or 14 hours of each year. This is not particularly surprising, given the practical difficulties faced by most primary schools in this area. Japanese primary teachers are representative of the general population in their very limited English conversation abilities. At Morikawa and other primary schools I visited, English was a matter of becoming familiar with English sounds, words and phrases through games and songs. These hours were taught by peripatetic foreign teachers (usually but not always native speakers of English) employed by the local Board of Education. As noted earlier, many reports by public primary schools or teachers about how they have implemented so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ have been published in books and journals aimed at practitioners. My examination of a selection of these (Kojima et al., 1997; Kato¯ and Sano, 1998; Inagaki, 2001; Sato¯ and Nara-ken Ikaruga-cho¯ ritsu Ikaruga Higashi Sho¯ gakko¯ , 2002; Masaki, 2006; Yamamoto ¯ mura, 2006) suggests that the way so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ has been implemented and O at Morikawa and other Sakura primary schools is not unusual. The local community is a major focus of study in many reports of so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ activities, and themes such as environmental concern, local traditions, volunteering, and the welfare of the local community frequently recur. Rice-growing

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seems to be a popular activity, being reported by schools in Nara (Sato¯ and Nara-ken Ikaruga-cho¯ ritsu Ikaruga Higashi Sho¯ gakko¯ , 2002: 127) and Gifu ¯ mura, 2006) prefectures, for example; but foci also vary (Yamamoto and O with the locality, so that one school in Aichi had its children look at the cast metal workshops that dominated the area (Kato¯ and Sano, 1998: 84–99). At the same time, some schools seem to allow children more opportunities to pursue a diversity of topics than was apparent at Morikawa (e.g. Sato¯ and Nara-ken Ikaruga-cho¯ ritsu Ikaruga Higashi Sho¯ gakko¯ , 2002: 124–64)). Larger-scale research is needed to explore the issue of commonalities and diversity among schools in greater depth.

Assessing so¯ go¯ gakushu ¯ : self, individuality, and community As discussed earlier, so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ represents a response to two different problems, as perceived by the Ministry of Education, its advisory council (Chu¯ kyo¯ shin), and many others in Japan: first, the need for more individuality, creativity, and problem-solving ability in children, and secondly, a desire that children should develop healthily as social persons through interaction with their local environment and community. At this stage, only tentative conclusions can be drawn about the extent to which so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ as implemented in Morikawa and other Sakura primary schools is achieving its ends. However, my observations do suggest that Sakura schools are attempting to develop both children’s autonomy and individuality on the one hand, and also their interdependence on the other, just as did teachers at Nakamachi and Morikawa during the mid-1990s. There are marked continuities between the content of so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ and activities that were undertaken in primary schools before the introduction of the 2002 curriculum. In these senses, so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ does not represent a sharp break with the past, but a development and expansion of previous concerns and practices. During my own observations of so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ in Sakura schools, the accent seemed to be placed more on developing children’s interdependence, social integration, and empathy, than on developing individuality and autonomy, though the latter concern was not absent. The framework of aims and approaches laid out in the national curriculum is broad enough to give schools considerable latitude in interpreting how the curriculum should be implemented. In practice, schools’ central concern seemed to be that children be better socialized through greater experiential integration with their local community and environment. The sense that contemporary children had too little direct experience of nature and an impoverished social experience was very strong – exactly the concern expressed in the Chu¯ kyo¯ shin’s 1996 report, which itself expressed a view that is widely held in contemporary Japan. In this sense, the so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ programmes that schools were implementing seemed to be attempts to repair or recreate what are imagined to be the best features of the Japanese childhood of 30, 40, 50 or more years ago. The dominant concept in these programmes is that of the local area (chiiki). It is

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integration with the natural environment and social community of the local area that are thought to provide a healthy developmental experience for children. It is also thought that the local area should be the first object of children’s concern and action as good citizens. It was hard for me to avoid the feeling that many activities that schools were implementing under so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ were born of nostalgia for an idealized past. The sceptic within me asked whether childhood in the 1950s, say, really was as healthy in its effects as is imagined, or whether contemporary children really are as impoverished in their experience of nature and society as is claimed. It certainly is not true that contemporary Japanese children have no experience whatsoever of their natural environment, for example. I have seen boys playing in Sakura’s rivers, and more than one boy at Nakamachi was a fishing enthusiast. Yet at least one survey does suggest that children’s experiences of nature dropped significantly in the decade from 1984 to 1995.5 Moreover, there are very plausible arguments that childhood in Japan really has changed dramatically over the last few decades, along with the rest of Japanese society. It is very credible that children spend less time playing outside in mixed-aged groups, now that there are so many indoor, sedentary activities to occupy them, along with the many organized activities such as lessons in swimming, piano, English, ballet and so on. There can be little doubt that the spread of roads and motor cars since the 1950s has also contributed to a decline in outdoor play, by making the environment more dangerous for children. One Morikawa teacher in his fifties, who lived close to the school and had graduated from it himself, told me that when he was a child, he only had to go down to the big sandbank on the river to find playmates. It is rare today to see children playing there. Similarly, arguments that children have less social contact with a variety of adults are credible when one considers the decline in social interaction in even rural Japanese communities, as documented by authors such as Dore (1994: 326–7) and Curtis (1999: 221–3). A belief in the educative value of interaction with nature and with local people is longstanding in Japan, as is advocacy of the importance of the local community itself. During fieldwork in a bank during the late 1960s, Rohlen (1986: 322) noted that the bank’s president would ideally have liked to have all new employees spend their first year farming together, on the basis that the ‘agricultural cycle is the best education in persistent effort and due reward’. Robertson (1991: 27) points out that ideas about the value and autonomy of the local community appeal both to the political Right and Left. Indeed, the nostalgia for an idealized past where life was warmer and more genuine has been widespread for many years in Japan, as Robertson (1991) notes in her explication of attempts to create a ‘hometown’ feeling ( furusato-zukuri) in the Tokyo suburbs. Moreover, it is important to remember that concerns over whether the lives of children in modern, affluent, industrial countries are really good for them are by no means confined to Japan: best-selling books with a similar message have been published in the US (Elkind, 1988; Postman,

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1994) and Britain (Palmer, 2006), and in 2006, 110 academics, authors, and teachers wrote a public letter to Britain’s Daily Telegraph newspaper, blaming children’s increasing behavioural and mental health problems in part on the world they grow up in (O’Malley, 2006). Anxieties in Japan are one variant of a concern that is international. Although the heaviest stress in the so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ programmes I observed falls on developing children’s interdependence, empathy, and integration with the locality, the programmes do also encourage children to think for themselves and make their own decisions. Children may take part in helping to decide exactly what subjects should be tackled within the broad frameworks that teachers have set up. In addition, they have to make plans and decisions about how to carry out many activities, such as how to play and interact with the preschoolers in Morikawa’s fifth year programme. Morikawa’s head of academic administration in 2002, Okada-sensei, emphasized that while some activities that were now carried out as part of so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ predated the curriculum reform, what had changed was that the role of children in planning and execution was significantly greater than before. Her own view was that the basic purpose of so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ was to have children do things themselves, rather than being passive and simply learning from the teacher. Her successor, Imai-sensei, explained that by the fifth and sixth years, the school tried to develop children’s ability to plan (keikakuryoku), gradually leaving more and more to the children. He saw the activities as involving problem-solving on both large and small scales: for the fifth years, for example, larger-scale problem-solving included the issues of working out what was important when relating to the preschoolers, or what an individual needed to change about himself in order to relate well with them, while smaller-scale problem-solving involved questions such as what kind of name label would be appropriate to make. Yoshioka-sensei added that they also wanted children to be able to change plans if they were not going well, and respond appropriately to the needs of the people they were dealing with (aite no koto o kangaeru). This suggests that teachers thought that, in practice, the development of problemsolving ability could not be separated from the development of sensitivity to others; individual autonomy and interdependence needed to develop together. It needs to be noted that the creativity and individuality that the programmes encourage are developed within a group context. During the fureai event with the preschoolers, as well as the preparation for the event, the Morikawa children were working in small groups, meaning that the ideas of individuals had to be shared and discussed with the group before decisions were taken. Children thus had autonomy as groups made up of contributing individuals. This approach is not surprising from the point of view of the practical organization of activities. It also represents an attempt to combine the development of individuality, creativity, and thinking for oneself on the one hand, and interdependence and cooperation on the other. Such an attempt echoes the similarly balanced aims and practices of teachers at Nakamachi and Morikawa in the mid-1990s.

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Small-group teaching at Morikawa Morikawa was one of the 1,692 primary and junior high schools designated as ‘frontier schools for the improvement of academic attainment’ by the Ministry of Education in 2002. Whereas the school had spent several years preparing for the introduction of so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ in 2002, the goal of improving academic attainment had been thrust upon it suddenly and unexpectedly, following the public furore over supposedly falling academic standards. The strategy favoured by the Ministry of Education to improve academic attainment was teaching adapted to individuals, with a view to achieving what the Ministry’s slogan expressed as ‘solid academic attainment’ (tashika na gakuryoku). Not surprisingly, the documents Morikawa had produced on the issue by 2004 were full of Ministry catchphrases, from ‘solid academic attainment’ and ‘small-group teaching’ to ‘teaching adapted to the individual’. More significant than the words, however, were the way they were translated into actual practice. ‘Small-group teaching’ at Morikawa was confined to three subjects: maths, science, and Japanese (kokugo). Its implementation in each of these differed. It was only in maths that learning was organized according to children’s academic performance. However, not all textbook units (tangen) were taught in small groups; in any given term, only one or two units would be taught this way – according to Okada-sensei and Yoshioka-sensei, those that caused children more difficulty and were likely to result in a wider range of performance among children. This was partly for practical reasons, small-group teaching being more demanding to organize, and partly because teachers continued to value the relationship-building, nakama feeling, and learning from one another that the regular class group made possible. During my 2004 visit to Morikawa, I was able to observe the start of one fifth year maths unit that was being taught in small groups. There were five groups of children, instead of the four classes in which the fifth years normally studied. One of the five groups was taught by an additional teacher, who was placed in the school specifically for the purpose of facilitating smallgroup teaching. Before beginning the unit, which dealt with division using decimals, the children took a placement test (pure-tesuto).6 This included problems about the unit that they had just studied (multiplication with decimals), as well as problems from a unit they had studied as fourth years (division with whole numbers). At the same time, they chose one of three courses to follow during the unit. The ‘excitement course’ (waku-waku ko¯ su) was described to them as ‘a course whose participants go back to the concept of the meaning of 0.1 in decimal multiplication and to fourth year division with whole numbers, taking time over solving division with decimals’. This was designed as the course for poorly performing children. The ‘smooth movers course’ (suisui ko¯ su) was described as ‘a course whose participants start by thinking about how many units of 0.1 come out of 0.6 ÷ 3, connect this with written calculation (hissan), and solve division with decimals’. This was designed to

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be a course that more or less followed the textbook. Finally, the ‘on and on course’ (don-don ko¯ su) was described as ‘a course whose participants keep in mind the meaning of the concept of 0.1, solve written calculation of division with decimals, and attempt lots of problems’. This was designed as a course for children who performed well in maths. I was told that all the courses would eventually cover the textbook material, but while the ‘excitement course’ started with revision of fourth year work, the ‘on and on course’ covered the fifth year textbook material more quickly than the others, and then moved on to more advanced problems. Perhaps not surprisingly, the largest number of children chose the ‘smooth movers’ middle level course. These children were further divided into two smaller groups, based on the results of the placement tests. The children who had chosen the ‘excitement course’ were also divided into two groups, so that they could be taught in smaller groups of about 15 children each. ‘Smallgroup teaching’ was not an entirely accurate term, in fact, as it was only the slower ‘excitement course’ that was really taught in groups much smaller than the normal class size. Indeed, the teacher who oversaw small-group teaching at Morikawa went so far as to say to me that with able children, the size of the class was unimportant – even large classes were fine. Yoshioka-sensei explained to me that one major aim of the small-group teaching in maths was to have all the children reach a certain level. A second aim was to enable as many children as possible to experience the feeling that maths was fun and that they could do it, at least to some extent. What they had to avoid, however, was a situation where some children felt they were in the ‘good group’, while others were in the group for those who were bad at maths. This was the reason for having children choose their own groups, rather than simply allocating them. It was hoped that as a result, all the children would be able to feel satisfied with what they had achieved. The children were generally realistic in their assessment of their own abilities; if a child chose a group that was too difficult for her, the teacher might talk to her about it, and ask her if she was sure that was the most suitable group, but this was not usually necessary. It was also possible to change courses once the unit had started, though this was not encouraged. In fact, some able children chose slower groups because they wanted to understand the material thoroughly. In science, small-group teaching as implemented at Morikawa was unconnected to children’s academic performance. During my 2004 visit, I observed several sixth year science classes organized as so-called ‘small-group’ teaching. As with maths, the term ‘small-group teaching’ was something of a misnomer; while it was true that the groups were smaller than normal classes, since the children were divided into five rather than four groups, the size difference was not dramatic. In fact, sometimes the groups that resulted were the same size as normal class groups. The children again divided into groups according to their own preferences, but in this case, they all studied the same material, merely rotating around a series of lessons, each of which was taught by one

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teacher who repeated the lesson five times. The advantage to be gained, according to Morikawa teachers, was that the arrangement allowed each teacher to spend more time in lesson preparation – since he or she only had one lesson to teach, instead of five. The result, at least theoretically, was more elaborate and interesting lessons. Unfortunately, no small-group lessons in kokugo were taking place at the time of my 2004 visit. However, according to the accounts I received from Morikawa teachers, small-group teaching in kokugo too was organized more on the basis of children’s interests than their academic performance. In certain textbook units, teachers created a variety of courses that allowed children to work on certain strengths or weaknesses they diagnosed in themselves, or that gave them different levels of support for a certain task. One example was a story-writing unit, for which children could choose one of four groups – one that gave them help with thinking of ideas and images, one that gave support with writing itself, a third that gave both kinds of help, and a fourth group for children who felt confident about writing imaginative fiction with little or no help. It was clear that ‘small-group teaching’, as implemented at Morikawa, was not a simple or monolithic phenomenon. Teachers did not see it as a panacea to be implemented across all subjects, or even during all textbook units in a single subject; rather, it was used in different ways for different subjects, according to what teachers perceived as the needs of the children. Given the value that Japanese primary teachers have long placed upon the class group as a unit where effective learning and human development can take place, it is not surprising that they continue to see teaching in the class group as primary. Nonetheless, their readiness to implement teaching and learning that uses a different framework is also very significant, showing a willingness to acknowledge and respond to the diversity of children’s needs in new ways. What is also interesting is the large degree of choice given to the children themselves in the small-group teaching process. As implemented in science and Japanese, it appeared to be entirely up to children themselves to decide which groups to join, depending on their interests and their own evaluation of their needs. In the case of maths, the use of a placement test meant that choice was not entirely in the hands of the children, but even there, it played a major role. This approach is not entirely surprising, given the long-standing egalitarianism of Japanese primary schools (Cummings, 1980), and teachers’ concerns that parents would complain of discrimination (sabetsu) if their children were obliged to join a slower class. It should also be noted that the approach is not entirely new; in fact, a similar approach was being used for some maths units as long ago as 1994, during my original pilot research at Morikawa. Even so, it is impressive, showing respect for children’s dignity and their ability to make decisions about their own learning. In this sense, Morikawa’s smallgroup teaching seemed genuinely to be responding to children’s individual needs and promoting their autonomy.

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Conclusion The 2002 curriculum revisions amounted to the most significant changes to the content of Japanese primary education for over 40 years. The subsequent introduction of small-group teaching has also attracted much attention, as to organize teaching and learning according to children’s academic performance has been seen as a significant break from the undifferentiated treatment of children that has been the norm in postwar Japanese public education. These measures raised the question of whether Japanese primary education was undergoing rapid and radical change, away from uniformity, egalitarianism, and groupism, and towards increased stress on individuality and diversity. The way so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ and small-group teaching have been implemented at Morikawa and other Sakura primary schools suggests that while the changes since 2002 are significant, they do not amount to a revolution. In so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ , there is evidence that teachers have given children more scope to plan activities and solve problems by themselves. The new curricular area certainly allows teachers and children greater freedom to explore and study their locality and the issues that face it. At the same time, the focus on the local area that dominates so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ at Sakura’s primary schools reflects a conviction among teachers that children today are insufficiently integrated with their local environment and community – that they are insufficiently connected to the webs of interdependence in the natural and social worlds that are thought to make up the essential support of human society. In other words, so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ is not only about developing individuality, autonomy, and initiative; it is also very much about increasing children’s contact with the natural and social worlds, making them aware of the interdependence that is an essential feature of these worlds, and their own roles and responsibilities within them. It is intended to develop children’s sociality, as well as their individuality. In this sense, there are strong continuities between so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ and school practices before 2002. Indeed, as has been seen, some activities in so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ are developments of activities carried out by schools during the 1990s, and some pre-existing activities have been incorporated into the new programme. At the same time, there must be doubts about the extent to which so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ can succeed in helping to recreate the essence of an idealized Japanese childhood. It is hard not to feel that the contradictions in what contemporary Japanese want for their children are difficult or impossible to reconcile. Allowing children the freedom to explore their local environment inevitably involves dangers, yet adult society in Japan, as in other countries, wants to keep its children as safe as possible. As a result, so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ activities could end up as little more than feeble and restricted imitations of the kind of activities that Japanese children of the past engaged in. More optimistically, however, they might encourage localities to develop in ways that take the needs of children into greater account. In small-group teaching, too, the changes that have taken place are significant, but by no means represent a complete abandonment of previous

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practices. Morikawa is representative of the vast majority of Japanese primary schools in confining organization of teaching and learning by academic performance to maths, the subject where disparities in academic performance are clearest. In other subjects, small-group teaching is unconnected to children’s academic performance, and is much more about increasing children’s choices and their learning autonomy. Even in maths, small-group teaching is not always used, because teachers continue to value the pedagogical and developmental benefits that the class group offers. And when small-group teaching is used in maths, it is not simply a matter of dividing children into groups on the basis of a placement test. Children’s own choices play an important role in the organizing process. In this sense, it can be said that small-group teaching, as implemented at schools like Morikawa, allows children to exercise more autonomy in the learning process. It may well be the case that it also enables schools to respond more effectively to differences in the mathematical ability of individual children, though more research is needed into this question. Thus, small-group teaching as organized at Morikawa promotes children’s autonomy, and may represent a more appropriate response to their individuality than previous practices. The continuities between the practices of primary schools before and after 2002 are to be expected. As this book has explained, increasing stress on individuality and autonomy in education has been a gradual process during the 1990s. Teachers have had many years to consider how to change school practices to this end. The question of how to improve the socialization of children has also been a long-standing concern, which schools were tackling even before 2002 through practices such as mixed-age activities. Moreover, teachers rarely change their basic beliefs, attitudes and practices overnight. It was evident in 1995–96 that teachers at Nakamachi and Morikawa were concerned to develop both the individuality and autonomy of their children on the one hand, and also their sociality and ability to act interdependently on the other. These same concerns have remained strong over subsequent years. They embody a desire to bring up children who can think for themselves and yet be sensitive to the community of which they are part – a desire that well represents the complexity of ideals of selfhood in modern Japan.

Notes 1 So¯ go¯ -teki na gakushu¯ no jikan is not a ‘subject’ (kyo¯ ka); it is a separate area of the curriculum, as are moral education and special activities. 2 Tsuneyoshi (Tsuneyoshi, 2001: 114–15) describes experiential activities conducted by a Tokyo primary school during the five years leading up to 2001, which have similarities to some of the so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ activities at Morikawa and other schools in Sakura. 3 Sato (1998: 229–34) has described activities designed to promote fureai at a primary school in northern Japan during the mid-1990s, showing that such initiatives are widely spread in Japan and have been going on for some years. Leng Leng Thang (Thang, 2001) also describes a facility that provides both an old people’s home

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and a preschool, organizing fureai between the old people and children with the aim of benefiting both. Jennifer Robertson (1991: 186–7) notes that fureai is a key quality emphasized by local authorities and others aiming to create a ‘hometown’ feeling in modern suburbs (furusato-zukuri). 4 A rice-growing project in a mini-paddy was central to an episode of the primary school television drama Minikui Ahiru no Ko in 1995, suggesting that such projects predated the introduction of so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ by some years. 5 Cited in a Chu¯ kyo¯ shin report (Chu¯ o¯ Kyo¯ iku Shingikai, 1998: 97), this survey included the findings that between 1984 and 1995 the proportion of children who had ever picked and eaten wild berries, grasses or mushrooms dropped from 49 per cent to 32 per cent, the proportion who had ever gone fishing dropped from 36 per cent to 21 per cent, and the number who had ever caught a butterfly or dragonfly dropped from 15 per cent to 4 per cent. Of the 11 experiences of nature surveyed, only skiing increased. 6 Common sense suggests that the Japanese term ‘pure-tesuto’ derives from the English, ‘placement test’, but teachers at Morikawa did not know what ‘pure’ was short for.

Conclusion

Education in primary school in Japan deals with intellectual development, but goes much further. It involves not only education in subjects such as mathematics or Japanese, but also, and more deeply, education in what it means to be a person. This book’s portrayal of schooling therefore has implications not only for understanding learning, in Japan as well as more generally, but also advances the understanding of Japan’s society and people. In this conclusion, I will summarize these implications and discuss some of the issues raised by the book as a whole.

Educational reform in Japanese primary schools: innovation and continuity First, this study illuminates developments in Japanese primary education over the last fifteen years. At the start of the book, I explained the developments and debates that have gone on since the late 1980s about reform in Japanese education, describing the concerns of Japanese policymakers and commentators about two perceived deficiencies in Japanese children – insufficient individuality, creativity, and independent learning ability on the one hand, and inadequate sociality and social integration on the other. The response of government policy was increased emphasis on developing children’s individuality and ability to learn for themselves, along with more time outside school, and more study of and involvement with the local community. After 1998, this met with a strong backlash from critics, concerned that these policies were leading to falling academic attainment and increased inequality. The government’s response, however, was not to abandon its approach, but to introduce new measures that were again based on an orientation to individuals, this time in the form of small-group teaching. There have been previous, partial accounts of this process of policy debate and development (Cave, 2001, 2003; Tsuneyoshi, 2004; Motani, 2005), but what has not been clear to date is how primary schools and teachers in Japan have been responding to the new demands made upon them, and how they have translated curricular change and pedagogical imperatives into classroom action.

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This study makes clear that while schools have been changing, there is also a substantial measure of continuity in their practices. The indications are that changes in Japanese schools are gradual and measured. Japanese primary teachers are open to innovation, but they are far too competent (and far too confident in their own practices) to discard approaches that they have found to be of value over many years. This finding about the gradualness of change means that the book has more enduring things to say about how Japanese primary teachers organize learning, as well as what Japanese primary schools teach about selfhood and the meaning of being human. Japanese primary schools were by no means inattentive to individual children and their needs even before the publication of the 1989 curriculum. The studies of scholars such as Catherine Lewis (1995) and Nancy Sato (2004) in the 1980s show teachers devising learning activities that give individual children considerable scope to pursue their own ideas and learning strategies in active ways. Responding to government calls for more emphasis on individuality and self-directed learning seems to have entailed a development of existing practice, rather than a radical change, at least for more able teachers; indeed, more than one teacher told me that the government had merely caught up with what many primary teachers had already been doing for some time. At the same time, even teachers at Nakamachi, a school with a deliberate focus on the encouragement of self-directed learning, were far from abandoning teaching and learning strategies that involved the whole class. Instead, they modified their existing practices to allow individuals to make more decisions about what and how they studied, but continued to ensure that children listened to and learned from one another in a whole-class context. Examining the way that children at Nakamachi and Morikawa studied kokugo is particularly revealing of the balance that teachers struck between individual and whole-class work. Children had ample opportunity to engage with texts individually – and at Nakamachi, teachers like Yoshioka-sensei and Fukushima-sensei encouraged this individual engagement further by allowing children to determine how they studied texts and what method they used. However, their study did not end at the individual level; children then shared their insights with one another through class discussion of the text. Similarly, the textbook’s new debate unit encouraged individual children to develop their abilities in formulating and articulating arguments; but, again, this was not just an individual affair – children worked in groups, and so had the opportunity to help and learn from one another. Moreover, Yoshiokasensei emphasized the role of the audience for the debate in listening to and evaluating the arguments of the debaters, so that learning became an interactive experience in which all the children were involved. In maths, as in kokugo, Sanada-sensei and Yoshioka-sensei attempted to encourage both self-directed learning and learning from one another, in this case by first letting individuals think of maths problems, then bringing the children together in small groups to work on the problems together, and

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finally discussing the problems as a whole class. Once the whole class had discussed the problems thoroughly, the teachers then gave the children further problems to tackle as individuals. In some cases, there was then a further round of discussion of certain problems in the whole class. The fundamental teaching pattern was similar in both maths and kokugo, however; the class would begin the textbook unit together, before moving to individual work (whether on a kokugo text or a maths problem), and then back to whole-class discussion (sometimes preceded by small-group work); after which, there was sometimes a further cycle, in some cases ending with individual work, particularly in maths. The combination of emphasis on the individual and engagement with others was also evident at Morikawa in 2004. While so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ gave scope for an increase in self-directed learning on the part of children, many of the activities observed in 2004 also involved children working together in small groups. Moreover, so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ often centred on engagement with the local community, ranging from preschoolers to the elderly. Indeed, it was clear that so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ was at least as much about improving children’s integration with the community and ability to relate to others, as it was about encouraging self-direction. In the case of small-group teaching, engagement with others was less in evidence; in this case, the main emphasis was on meeting the different needs of children in particular subjects. However, one of the significant things about small-group teaching was the limited extent to which it was being used, even in a school like Morikawa which had been chosen to pioneer the approach. Despite acknowledging the value of small-group teaching, teachers continued to see the class (gakkyu¯ ) as the basic teaching unit. This was in no small part because of their conviction that the education in human relationships that went on in the class, through lessons as well as other activities, were a central part of what primary school was about; and, conversely, that the learning from others that could be achieved in the class unit made for more effective academic study. In 2004, as in 1995–96, partial innovation was undertaken on a bedrock of continuity.

Learning and selfhood in Japanese primary education Through both academic and non-academic school activities, children at Nakamachi and Morikawa were learning about self and what it means to be a person. However, what they were learning did not amount to one single discourse of selfhood; rather, they encountered a range of discourses, either in the explicit form of texts, or implicitly, through their experiences in school. Interdependence was one of the major discourses in both schools. It was articulated in the language of the class as nakama, and given practical form in everyday school life, ranging from lessons to class meetings, chores, class play, and mixed-age activities. Previous writers on Japan’s primary schools have rightly emphasized what children can learn about human relationships through the schools’ non-academic activities, but interdependence is also

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learned through the organization (and sometimes also the content) of academic learning. Lessons were organized to make learning from one another a central feature, and this in itself gave an implicit message that people are interdependent, needing others in order to learn. In some subjects, lesson content also taught interdependence. This was most notably so in kokugo, especially in texts such as stories and the poems that were the culmination of the children’s primary school career. The lyrics of the songs that many classes sang were also full of explicit emphasis on interdependence. Finally, the importance of interdependence was learned through experience and articulated in explicit form at special events such as the sports day and the series of events that culminated in the graduation ceremony. Although interdependence was perhaps the most pervasive discourse of self encountered at Nakamachi and Morikawa, other discourses emphasizing the individual were also in evidence – in particular, discourses of individual perseverance and autonomy. Quite a number of texts encountered within the schools could be interpreted as stressing the need for inner strength and perseverance – what I have called the discourse of seishin. Such texts included kokugo stories such as The Song of the Mortar, songs that children sang in class, or poems such as Ezo Pines or Neither Yielding to Rain. Sometimes it was the children themselves who interpreted texts in this way, even when the words themselves did not seem so explicit – suggesting the children’s familiarity with this discourse. Besides texts, there were also school activities that encouraged or demanded perseverance from the children. These were incorporated into the fabric of daily school life, in the form of the daily goals to strive for on the blackboard, the ‘marathon’ running session during morning break, or ‘try-your-best notebooks’, and were also highlighted during some special events, especially in activities such as the cheering contest and the pyramid gymnastics at the sports day. In some cases, notably texts such as Ezo Pines or in the human pyramid gymnastics, the discourses of interdependence and individual perseverance were united, as Moeran (1989) has pointed out can often happen. In other cases, however, such as ‘try-your-best notebooks’, perseverance was very much an individual endeavour. The development of autonomy and self-direction in the children was also a major concern of teachers. However, emphasis on autonomy was more often encountered in school activities, including academic activities, than in texts, whether in kokugo or elsewhere. In addition, teachers saw autonomy as learned as often in a group as in an individual context. Many of the decisions that children had to make, they made as part of a group. One notable example was the issue of cliquishness and friendship among the girls in 6–3 at Nakamachi. This was not resolved by the teacher holding individual discussions with the children involved, nor simply by appeals to their individual moral sense. Yoshioka-sensei felt that such methods would have been ineffective. Though she wanted the girls to learn to make their own decisions about friendships, she felt they needed to experience the pain that their actions were causing others, and to learn that they could be friends without forming

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cliques, again through experience; and this necessitated class discussions and a reshuffling of small groups within the class. Other examples of decisionmaking as part of a group occurred during maths lessons (when children decided which maths problems to focus on), mixed-age activities, and so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ activities. Of course, a major reason why children were called on to make individual decisions relatively rarely was because many academic activities were organized in small groups. Besides some maths and social studies lessons, this was normally true of science and home economics, for example. However, there were some subjects that involved more self-directed individual work, notably kokugo and art and craft, both of which involved imaginative engagement, while in social studies, children usually made individual decisions about which topics to study, and then joined together in groups based on common interests. Of the subjects I observed in depth, it was kokugo where children had the greatest opportunities to make individual decisions about what to study and how. It was also in writing (the compositions for the graduation album) and artistic creation (the graduation craft works) that Yoshioka-sensei most explicitly urged the children towards individuality. Teachers at Nakamachi and Morikawa were more explicitly concerned about developing autonomy and self-direction in children than they were about developing individuality. I suspect that the reason for this was that they felt that ‘individuality’ was something that would emerge naturally and inevitably, once children were truly acting in an autonomous, self-directed fashion. Teachers seemed to understand ‘individuality’ (kosei) primarily as the realization of oneself and one’s positive potential – jibunrashisa (‘being like oneself’) or jibun no yosa (‘one’s own goodness’). This did not always or inevitably carry an imperative to be different from others, though there were times when teachers explicitly encouraged children to be unique, as did Yoshioka-sensei over the compositions for the graduation album. On the other hand, they certainly did not seem to discourage difference. There were several children in the classes I observed who stood out strongly among their peers, especially in their willingness to speak out frequently and in an unusual way in class, and they received very positive treatment from their teachers. Even when children at Morikawa acted in ways that caused concern, dyeing their hair or piercing their ears, there was lengthy and serious discussion among teachers about how to deal with such behaviour, with concerns voiced about the need to respect individual difference. These different discourses of self did not appear to be necessarily in conflict. In fact, it was particularly interesting to note that Yoshioka-sensei’s appeared to be not only the class where the interdependence discourse was strongest, but also the class where there was the strongest emphasis on autonomy and self-direction. Her personal belief that there was no necessary contradiction between caring about and learning from others on the one hand, and knowing one’s own mind and making decisions accordingly on the other, seemed to be validated by the way children in 6–3 went about their daily school life. This outlook seems to have similarities to that which Fujita

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(2000: 54) has called ‘civic symbiosis’, in which ‘all individuals are assumed as being equal, autonomous and independent, but at the same time, as having an orientation to accept different people, ideas and cultures, and to cooperate for improving their welfare’. Gender was a further aspect of self, generated in part by school practices, but at least as much by the practices of the children themselves, along with those of their families. School practices such as institutionalized separation of boys and girls on the school register and on ceremonial occasions helped to reinforce and maintain gender as a category, but on the whole, it was children’s own, spontaneous behaviour, whether during lessons, while playing, or in the realm of material culture, that seemed more powerful as a gendering force. Moreover, it seemed to be classes with a stronger emphasis on a combination of nakama ethos and self-direction that maintained the best gender relations. These findings suggest that the overwhelmingly critical picture that has been drawn of the gendering effects of Japanese education need to be somewhat reassessed, at least at the primary level. They may also provide some useful pointers to issues that need to be considered, and approaches that might be further explored, in attempting to make education an arena where gender has no negative effects. In anthropology, views of selfhood in Japan have sometimes tended towards the stereotypical, in an attempt to capture what is common to the behaviour of all or most Japanese people. At the same time, many writers on self in Japan have been driven by empirical rigour to note the strikingly diverse values and ways of behaving that may be observed among Japanese people. Benedict (1974 [1946]) observed that the Japanese were both deeply aware of others, and acutely concerned with their own responsibilities as individuals. Lebra (1976: 2, 156–68) emphasized the ‘social preoccupation’ of the Japanese, but also argued that they yearned for individual freedom and purity. Kondo’s (1990: 304, 307) observations of the diversities in the lives of her co-workers, friends and neighbours led her to the conclusion that their ‘selves’ were ‘performative assertions’, revealing ‘complicated, shifting, multiple facets’. I would argue that we need to recognize more explicitly the variety of discourses of self that exist in Japan, and that are constantly being appropriated for assertion and for living out, often in combined and modified forms, by individuals and groups. It is this variety that contributes to human diversity and behavioural flux in Japan as elsewhere, allowing arguments for the legitimacy of different worldviews and ways of living to be endlessly debated. The ways people in Japan see the world have too often been oversimplified. The Japanese, like others, deserve the respect that consists in the acknowledgement of complexity, variety, and dynamism.

Sociocultural learning: lessons from Japanese primary schools Scholars who favour a sociocultural model of learning have to date paid relatively little attention to Japan. Similarly, experts on Japanese education

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have engaged little with the writings of authors in the field of sociocultural learning, such as Vygotsky, Lave, Bruner, Mercer, or Wells. The findings of this book suggest that this should change. Through the writings of authors such as Lewis (1995), Manabu Sato (1998), Tsuneyoshi (2001), and Nancy Sato (2004), it has been appreciated for some time that Japanese primary school teachers place considerable emphasis on the development of a classroom community with an atmosphere of mutual support and cooperation. Scholars investigating maths and science education in Japan have also shown how teachers there emphasize inquiry and explanation over procedural learning (Stigler and Perry, 1990; Lewis, 1995; Stigler, et al., 1996; Tsuchida and Lewis, 1996). However, for the most part research written in English has confined itself to examining maths and science education in Japanese primary schools, with little study of other major subjects, such as kokugo or social studies. Thus, it has perhaps not been fully appreciated that features such as inquiry, explanation, and discussion are found across the spectrum of academic subjects in Japanese primary schools, including arts and humanities. Lewis (1995) has made clear the importance of a supportive classroom atmosphere to the kind of inquiry-based learning she describes in early years classes, and the significance of this coupling is enhanced by the theoretical framework offered by sociocultural models of learning. In the lines of thinking originating from the research of writers such as Vygotsky and Lave, what is agreed is that learning is not primarily a solitary experience, where individual children encounter and grapple with the world in splendid cognitive and social isolation. Rather, learning is primarily a social experience. It is aided by interaction with supportive others, who can engage with a dialogue with the learner, by turns clarifying, querying, challenging, and exploring. These supportive others can include both teachers and fellow-learners. Above all, learning is an aspect of a larger experience. It can be the result of what Lave and Wenger (1991) call ‘legitimate peripheral participation’ in a ‘community of practice’ whose main purpose is not actually learning, but something else – the tailoring of clothes, or weight management, for example. But in a school, an institution whose main professed purpose is learning, it may be better conceived of as the result of participation in what Wells (1999) has called a ‘community of inquiry’. This is a term that well describes what many Japanese primary teachers, including those at Nakamachi and Morikawa, are trying to achieve. In successful classrooms, the two elements work together; ‘inquiry’ helps to create ‘community’, as children learn from one another and appreciate others’ contributions, and ‘community’ enables ‘inquiry’, as children feel confident enough in the supportiveness of their teacher and peers to voice ideas, doubts, and arguments. As elsewhere in the world, it cannot be assumed that every primary classroom in Japan is a success. The extent to which classes become genuine communities of inquiry no doubt varies from classroom to classroom. What is in little doubt, however, is that the broad approach that aims to achieve both a classroom community and a spirit and practice of inquiry is the

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mainstream in Japanese primary schools, and has been for some time. This is evident from the research of Sato (1998), Nakano and Oguma (1993) and others on the history of class management in Japan, and from the research of Lewis (1995) on practices of classroom inquiry, not to mention the records of such classroom inquiry found in Japan’s plethora of action research journals. This in itself should draw the attention of those interested in exploring the effectiveness of sociocultural models of learning within public school systems. When coupled with the consistently excellent performance of Japanese children in international scholastic achievement tests, the widespread use of a sociocultural approach to learning in Japanese primary schools should provoke inquiry into the extent to which such an approach may have contributed to learning effectiveness. Like their counterparts elsewhere, Japanese primary schools are under constant pressure to improve their performance. Despite the many indicators that they are doing a very good job, there seems to be no satisfying the Japanese public, and the Japanese media in particular – possibly a result of the perfectionist streak to which Robert Smith (1983) has drawn attention in Japan. Japan’s primary teachers can no doubt become even better at creating and managing inquiry-based learning. This endeavour would probably be aided by studies that make detailed comparisons of how such learning practices are carried out in Japan and other countries. Such studies would need to examine not only learning practices in particular classrooms, but also the ways in which a supportive class atmosphere is created.

Anthropology of education? Anthropology of learning? This book attempts to engage with educational institutions not only as places of socialization, acculturation, or identity formation, but as places of learning, and specifically academic learning. In this, it is unusual for a work of anthropology. On the whole, anthropologists have not been very interested in either educational institutions or academic learning, unlike, say, sociologists or psychologists. This was noted by Audrey Richards in Britain over 30 years ago (Richards, 1970); it was reiterated by Levinson and Holland (1996: 20–1) in the US; and it was recently noted yet again in Britain by Brian Street (2004). Of course, there are exceptions. There have been some very fine studies of education and even academic learning by anthropologists: Shirley Brice Heath’s Ways with Words (1983) is one of the finest. Moreover, there have been outstanding studies of learning, mainly outside educational institutions, by anthropologists – including the immensely influential studies of Jean Lave (who described her groundbreaking work Cognition in Practice as a ‘social anthropology of cognition’) (Lave, 1988: 1). Yet it is hard to say that this constitutes a tradition, or a field, as is constituted by areas such as political anthropology, economic anthropology, or the anthropology of religion, for example. Most of the time, anthropologists seem to see schools as places where things other than academic learning happen: where conflict takes

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place, social behaviour or identity is learned, ethnic boundaries are confirmed or challenged. For anthropologists, most of the time, schools are about everything except what most people think they are about – learning maths, language, history and so on. Studies of cognitive learning, meanwhile, tend to be pushed into a ghetto called ‘cognitive anthropology’, which, like most ghettos, is a place that ‘normal (anthropological) folks’ rarely if ever go.1 As a result, Jean Lave can be referred to in a major anthropological journal as an ‘educationalist’ from whom ‘anthropologists’ can learn, effectively denying her work the status of anthropology (Street, 2004: 2).2 Of course, anthropologists are right to believe that schools are about much more than academic learning, and they are also right to recognize that much, probably most, of children’s learning is not academic, and goes on outside as well as inside school. But even so, anthropology’s near-total lack of interest in academic learning goes too far. If anthropology really is the paramount human science, more comprehensive and profound in its reach than any other, how can it ignore the immense amounts of time that children spend in lessons at school? How can it behave as if they have no social or cultural significance of which anthropology needs to take cognizance? This is a situation that needs to change. It is true that, fortunately, scholars from other disciplines have done excellent work in documenting and analysing what goes on in classrooms, and anthropologists who do write or teach about educational institutions are much in their debt. This does not change the reality that an anthropology that ignores schools and classrooms is ignoring one of the most important institutions of modern society. In this book, I have attempted to deal with academic learning alongside topics of more common interest to anthropologists, such as the self, gender, and ritual. Besides trying to show how what happens in the classroom has significance for issues such as self and gender, I have also tried to show how academic learning itself can be understood in terms of institutions and practices with their own historical and cultural specificity, and with important consequences for societies and their modes of understanding and being. As I have attempted to portray, the educational process is a complex and multilayered one. It encompasses policy formation, curriculum creation, and textbook publication, as well as the actual classroom practices that are constrained to some extent by institutional, curricular, and discursive structures, and that yet, in the hands of teachers and children, also have their own independent power to reshape and even escape outright the supposed ‘givens’ of structure. In-depth anthropological scrutiny can reveal that each level of the educational process is significant for what it shows about the structure, values, and dynamics of a society, although limitations of time and space inevitably mean that attention must be concentrated on one or two levels in any single study. This book will have achieved something if it can convince others that this kind of attention to education and learning is a worthwhile undertaking for anthropologists. Putting any aspect of human action beyond our normal purview only diminishes the revelatory power of this fullest of the human sciences.

222

Conclusion

Notes 1 In their outstanding book, A Cognitive Theory of Cultural Meaning, Strauss and Quinn (1997: 9) recall that ‘one anthropologist in our department, when told the title of this book, suggested we leave out the word “cognitive” if we wanted anybody to read it’. 2 This, of course, is more anthropology’s loss than Jean Lave’s; given the huge influence of her work in other fields, it seems rather surprising that other anthropologists are not keener to recognize her work as part of their domain.

Glossary of Japanese terms

Chu¯ kyo¯ shin Abbreviation of Chu¯ o¯ Kyo¯ iku Shingikai (Central Council on Education), the Minister of Education’s main advisory council. han Small groups of children, formed in primary classes for a variety of academic and non-academic purposes. juku Private tutorial colleges that supplement regular schooling. kakari groups Small groups of children, formed in primary classes mainly for non-academic purposes and chores. kanso¯ bun Short piece of writing expressing one’s thoughts and feelings. kokugo The school subject of Japanese language and literature. kosei Individuality. nakama A term with various meanings, including ‘a group whose members belong together’, and ‘friends’, used by some teachers to express the idea of the class as a group whose members should have a special relationship of warmth and solidarity. Rinkyo¯ shin Abbreviation of Rinji Kyo¯ iku Shingikai (Ad Hoc Council on Education), a supra-cabinet advisory council set up under Prime Minister Nakasone’s office in 1984 and functioning until 1987. seikatsu-han Small groups whose members sit near one another in the classroom, often doing academic work together. seishin ‘Spirit’ or ‘inner strength’. sensei An honorific word meaning ‘teacher’ or ‘master’, used as a suffix after the names of respected persons, notably teachers. so¯ go¯ gakushu¯ A term translated as ‘integrated studies’, and also used as an abbreviation for so¯ go¯ -teki na gakushu¯ no jikan (‘integrated studies hours’), the new area introduced into the school curriculum in 1998 and implemented from 2002. yutori kyo¯ iku A term that can be positively translated as ‘education with room to grow’ or negatively as ‘relaxed education’; in recent years it has usually been used negatively to criticize the slimming down of the Japanese school curriculum.

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Index

ability grouping 26, 194, 196; see also academic performance grouping academic attainment 207; basic attainment (kiso gakuryoku) 22, 29, 50; disparities in 20, 211; international tests of 20, 49–50, 111, 220; national tests of 21; new view of (shingakuryokukan) 17; in postwar Japan 21; seen as falling in Japan 19–21, 23, 196 academic performance grouping 21, 28, 194, 207–9, 211 achievement tests: in Japan 21, 25 action research 142, 196; groups 53, 85; journals 9, 53, 85, 96, 220 Ad Hoc Committee on Education see Rinkyo¯ shin Ame nimo makezu 77–9, 182–3 anthropology: and education 220–2 art and craft 166–7, 177–8, 181, 217 assessment 160, 202 autonomy 22, 26, 28, 31, 33, 36, 42–3, 51, 54, 79–81, 83, 88, 94, 180, 183, 195, 204, 209–11, 216–17; and gender 158, 171, 195; lack of 98, 190; and pedagogical practice 96–8, 100, 102, 106–7, 111–12, 143; see also subject Benedict, Ruth 31, 40–1, 93, 218 Béteille, André 40, 51 Boaler, Jo 113, 144–6, 148, 150 Buddhism: emphasis on interdependence 40, 90; understanding of the self 40 bullying 14–16, 35, 83 burakumin 82–3 Central Council for Education see Chu¯ kyo¯ shin

ceremonies 69, 175–92, 199: and gender 157, 170, 172–3 chiiki 15–16, 18, 74–5, 195–8, 200–5, 210 childhood: changing 204–6; end of 192 children: cognitive development of 44 children in Japan: adults’ desires for 202, 210; antisocial behaviour of 15; body adornment among 82–4; changing lifestyle of 15, 18, 74, 205; development of 16, 32, 100, 199, 205; ideal of, in kokugo textbooks 89, 103; pressures on 14–15; social interaction 15, 198, 205; socialization of 18, 30, 40, 195–6; study habits 20, 24; views of personal development 62–3, 71 choice 82–3; and gender 158–61, 171; of clubs 35; of kakari katsudo¯ ; of schools 25, 50; of school subjects 18–19, 29; of small group 208–9; of way of studying 97–8, 102, 114, 143 Chu¯ kyo¯ shin 14, 18, 28, 195 class group see gakkyu¯ class size 29, 59 classroom organization 34, 65–6; seating 157–8; see also small groups cleaning 34–5, 52, 66, 184–5, 189, 197, 203 cliques 67, 80–1, 169 clubs: age-roles in 76, 188; and gender 173–4; at junior high and high school 35, 176 companies in Japan 18, 40: and gender 153; reluctance to hire permanent staff 37; training programmes of 76–7, 176; welfare systems of 40 competition 41–2, 51; in education 16, 18, 30, 54 composition: kanso¯ bun 96–7; non-fiction 103; lack of imaginative 103 conflict 35, 82–4, 170

240

Index

consumer culture 41, 179, 190 cooperation 18, 30, 43, 50, 65, 71–3, 80, 105, 176, 183, 190 cosmology 40, 73, 90 creativity 14–15, 18–19, 27, 176, 195–6 crime 21, 23 curriculum 176, 184: and gender 156; conflict between curricular aims 102; standard curriculum hours 109, 195; national curriculum of Japan see gakushu¯ shido¯ yo¯ ryo¯ Davies, Bronwyn 154–6, 164, 168, 171 debate 104–6 democracy: and education 26, 29 dependence 32, 40, 184 deviance 82–4 diaries 86, 169 discipline 177: and body adornment 82–4; lack of 15, 23–4; outside family 33; teachers’ avoidance of overt 34; see also self-discipline discrimination 82–3, 170, 209 discussion: in class meetings 66–7, 80, 82; in lessons 98–102, 112, 114–49 Doi, Takeo 32 do¯ toku (morals) 170 economy of Japan 21: changing needs of 18; stagnation of 23, 37 education: ‘progressive’ 21, 24, 53, 146 education in Japan: business leaders’ views of 14–15; dissatisfaction with 14–15, 23; egalitarianism in 15, 21, 54, 69, 100, 190, 196, 209; history of 25; left-wing views of 14, 24, 28–30; uniformity in 14, 20, 22, 26 educational reform in Japan; and Fundamental Law of Education 50; and teaching 98–102, 104–7, 111; attitudes of primary teachers 54–5; debates about 19–24; five-day school week 19, 23, 29, 49, 194; in 1960s– 1970s 28; in 1980s 17; in 1990s 18; kyo¯ iku kaikaku kokumin kaigi (National Commission on Education Reform) 50; programme 16; resourcing 20–1, 29 education system in Japan 4; standardization 9 effort 36, 41, 62–3, 72–3, 76, 93–5, 216 elective subjects 19, 29 elite: elite education 24–5, 29, 50 emotion 180: and embodied activity 64;

and formation of cultural schemas 63; and language 64; and ritual 191–2; and singing 69–70, 73; desire 41; emotional development in Japan 32; feeling in kokugo 97, 102–3; feeling in nakama 62–4; ninjo¯ 41 empathy 43, 89, 204; see also omoiyari English (school subject): 21, 195–6, 203 enquiry see inquiry enrichment activities 15, 74, 205 environment: interaction with 195, 200–1, 203–5; study of 107, 195, 197 equality in Japanese education 15, 21, 54, 69, 100, 190, 196, 209: under threat 20, 29 eugenics 25 examinations 18, 40, 42; emphasis on 14–15 exchange see gift-giving, reciprocity experience: of children 18, 62; articulation as social reality 63; involving action and discourse 64, 70, 176 experiential educational activities 17, 176, 195, 197–205, 211 expression 102–7 family: age-roles in 76; children affected by problems in 83; educational role of 15–16, 18; and gender 152–3; maiho¯ mu-shugi 36; as primary group 61; role in self formation 32; traditional 6 Foucault, Michel 51 Fujita, Hidenori 14, 17, 21, 24–5, 49–50, 217–18 fureai 197–200, 211–12 furikaeri see reflection furusato 205, 212 futo¯ ko¯ (school non-attendance) 14–16, 35, 82–3 gakko¯ gyo¯ ji 35, 52, 63, 68–9, 80–1, 176–7 gakkyu¯ 26, 29, 34, 55–74, 209, 215; class events 68; class goals 35; class meetings 66–8, 80–2; class newsletters (ichimai bunshu¯ ) 68; class problems 67, 80–2; class projects 35, 62, 65; as community 47, 52, 100–1, 145–6, 171, 219; ethos 100–1, 114, 145, 165, 219–20; farewell parties 179; gakkyu¯ keiei (class management) 56, 69, 100, 220; history of 55–7 gakkyu¯ ho¯ kai 15, 23

Index gakuryoku see academic attainment gakushu¯ shido¯ yo¯ ryo¯ : cuts in content of 19, 23; nature of 19, 21; 1989 revision 17, 98; 1998 revision 19, 194–5; 2003 revision 21 gender 32, 81, 152–74, 218; children’s agency in 154, 156, 158–68, 171; discontent about, in Japan 153–4; and division of labour 152–3, 157, 172; girls’ clique-making 67, 80–1, 169; identity formation 154–5, 161, 164; and individual variation 161–8; and material culture 157, 166–8, 171; in school 153–4, 156–72; and school senior management 156, 172; stereotyping 152–4, 156–7; and teachers 155, 157–61, 168–70; voice 158–61; in workplace 152–3, 161, 172 gift-giving 40, 180–1, 198 graduation 71: graduation album 62–3, 73, 170, 178, 186; graduation ceremony 69, 175, 177, 184–91; graduation show (sotsugyo¯ happyo¯ kai) 69, 79, 177, 181–4; and individuals 190–1; planning for 177, 180–1; rokunensei o okuru kai 177, 180–1; sain-cho¯ 179–80 gratitude 181, 183–4, 188 greetings 66, 197 group 34, 42; orientation 51; see also gakkyu¯ , nakama, shu¯ dan seikatsu, small groups han see small groups hardship: instrumental in forming emotional bonds 63; as means to growth 71–3, 93–4 high-growth period 28 high school 35, 192 hikikomori 15 Hiroshima atomic bomb 182 history: local 198, 201 home economics 162–3, 179, 182 homework 135 human nature see person human rights 83 identity 47, 94–6, 190: and learning 46, 101; formation 101; group 35 ikiru chikara 18, 22 individual: counselling of 67, 81–2; in education 28, 104–7, 160, 182–3, 191, 207, 209, 211; in Japan 31, 34–7;

241

perseverance 76–7; understandings of 25–6, 42; in Western society 38–9 individualism 27, 36, 38–9, 51 individuality 16–17, 21–30, 35–7, 42–3, 54, 88, 166, 176–8, 180, 194, 204, 210–11, 217; debated meaning of 24–30, 82–4; and deviance 82–4; and imaginative writing 104; and pedagogical practice 96, 105, 143, 146 inequality 20–1, 37 inochi 90–3, 182 inquiry 219: community of 47, 89, 100–1, 142, 145–6, 219; dialogic 89; as learning model 114 integrity 41–2 interdependence 28, 30–5, 40, 42–3, 47, 50, 54, 62, 69, 71–3, 75–6, 88, 90–102, 175–6, 181, 190, 195, 198, 204, 210, 215–16 interdisciplinary study 18–19, 53, 195 Integrated Studies see so¯ go¯ -teki na gakushu¯ Japanese language and literature see kokugo Jaworski, Barbara 114, 144–6, 148, 150 jibunrashisa see individuality juku 40, 42, 57 junior high school 4, 35, 151, 192 Kageyama, Hideo 23 kakari katsudo¯ 65, 68–9, 163 Kariya, Takehiko 20–3 kejime 32–3, 35 kenkyu¯ jugyo¯ 10, 53, 85, 97, 102, 115, 196 knowledge: construction of 101; in Japanese education 14–15, 17, 22, 98; ‘principled’ versus ‘procedural’ 113–14, 146–8; rapidly outdated 18; transfer 46, 113 kokugo 68, 71, 79, 88–110, 207, 209; curricular aims 89; curricular hours 109; and gakkyu¯ keiei 100; and gender 156; imaginative writing 103–4, 209; and personal development 100; textbooks 89–96 kosei see individuality: koseika 16–17, 21; kosei ju¯ shi 17 ko¯ nai bo¯ ryoku 14–15 kyo¯ yo¯ : kyo¯ tsu¯ kyo¯ yo¯ 29, 50 language: connected to selfhood 33, 40, 86; and gender 157; integral to experiential understanding 64

242

Index

Lave, Jean 45–7, 51, 113–14, 146, 219, 221–2 learning: by rote (cramming) 14, 18; controlled by students 114, 143; of culture 72; independent 17, 22, 26, 54, 102, 105, 111, 114, 143, 146, 148, 195; individual 97, 102, 128–30, 134, 136, 139–41, 145; through experience 46, 53, 114, 146; through hardship 63, 71–3, 93–4; through interaction with others 26, 44, 46–7, 89, 97, 100, 105–7, 111, 114, 145–6, 198, 207, 219 Lebra, Takie S. 31–2, 35, 41, 218 left-wing 205: and interdependence discourse 40; views of education 14, 24, 28–30 life see inochi local community see chiiki lunch (school) 34–5, 52, 65 Makarenko, Anton S. 30, 56 ‘marathon’ 76–7 marketization 25 Maruyama, Masao 51 mathematics 43, 46, 111–49: academic performance grouping in 21, 196–7, 207–8, 211; approaches to teaching 141–9; international tests in 20, 49–50, 111; at junior high school 151; proportion 115–41 matomaru 81 maturity 94 media 37: coverage of educational problems 15, 220 Meiji period 25, 56, 152, 170 memories 103, 176, 178, 180, 182; social memory 103, 179, 181, 188, 192 Mercer, Neil 45, 101, 113, 143–5 Ministry of Education (Japan) 16, 26–7, 53, 152, 196, 207 Miyazawa, Kenji 77–9, 182 mixed-ability groups 34 mixed-age activities 74–6, 103, 180, 182, 195, 199–200 Monbukagakusho¯ see Ministry of Education (Japan) Monbusho¯ see Ministry of Education (Japan) music: in schools 69–74, 177, 180–1, 184; lessons 69 nakama 52, 60–4, 69, 73, 80, 101, 163, 180, 182–3, 207, 215; and gender 158,

171, 218; and lessons 101; deviations from 80–1, 191 nationalism 26–7 nature: educational role 18, 195, 200, 204–5; humans as part of 91–3; sensitivity to 89; study of 197 neighbourhood see chiiki neo-Confucianism 40, 90 neo-liberalism 24, 29, 50 non-academic activities 34, 52 obligation 29–33, 36, 40–1, 95–6 Occupation of Japan 27 o¯ en gassen 176, 188 o-keikogoto see enrichment activities omoiyari 18, 181 parents 201, 209: and children’s identity 94–6; children’s indebtedness to 92–3, 83; and graduation events 181–4, 187 patrols 193 pedagogical practice 9–10, 215–16; history of, in Japan 55–6, 108; in kokugo 96–108; in mathematics 111–49; variation in 11, 106, 112, 141–2 pedagogical theory: discovery models 114, 140; in mathematics 111–14, 140; sociocultural learning 43–7, 100–1, 114, 142–50, 218–20; transmission models 114 person: concept of 27–8, 31–43 personal relationships 36, 62, 67, 80–2 personnel: transfers 53–4, 85 physical education 162, 184 Piaget, Jean 44, 113 play 18, 75, 199; and gender 162–5; in neighbourhood 74–5, 200–1; as whole class 68, 163 popular culture 167–8, 178–9, 190: school dramas 57–9; superhero dramas 50 preschools 32–4, 47, 64–5, 74, 76, 193, 197–200; and gender 156, 168 presentation 106–7 principal (of school) 83, 156 problem-solving 18, 50, 112, 146–9, 195–6 reciprocity 31, 40, 180 reflection 71, 86, 122, 128–9, 139, 145, 198 research lessons see kenkyu¯ jugyo¯ research methods 8

Index research site 5–8, 52–5, 59 rice-growing 203–4, 212 right-wing 205: and interdependence discourse 40; views of education 14, 50 Rinkyo¯ shin 14, 16–17, 24, 28 rites of passage 175, 189–90 ritual 33, 175–7, 184–92; secular 175 role 34, 94, 183; age-roles 75–6, 175–6, 180–1, 188, 200; see also social role routines 33, 35 Sato¯ , Manabu 10, 15, 17, 24–5, 28, 50, 211, 220 school events see gakko¯ gyo¯ ji school refusal see futo¯ ko¯ school trips: shu¯ gaku ryoko¯ 63, 80, 103, 176, 182; gasshuku 63 school violence see ko¯ nai bo¯ ryoku science (school subject) 17, 43, 207–8: international tests in 20 seikatsu-ka 17, 53 seishin 40–2, 72, 76–7, 93–4, 96, 216; and resistance 51 seito shido¯ 82–4, 193 selection 24, 29 self-discipline 30–1, 40, 42, 51, 76–7, 88, 94, 96 selfhood 211: Japanese discourses of 26, 30–43, 215–18; in kokugo textbooks 90–6; mature 94; and pedagogy 150; and personal identity 94–6, 190; and power 43; and self-exploration 37; selfformation 79–80; and self-realization 36, 40; self-reliance 31, 43 shiren 71, 93, 95 shu¯ dan seikatsu 33, 35 shutaisei see autonomy singing: in class 69–74; for graduation events 180, 182, 188; as a means of learning culture 72 small groups 34, 65, 77, 80, 102, 104–5, 114, 118–35, 158, 195, 198–9, 217; small-group teaching (sho¯ ninzu¯ shido¯ ) 195–7, 207–11 social control 31, 35 social role 31, 94, 210 social withdrawal see hikikomori socialization 33, 154–5; see also children in Japan society (Japan): increasing diversity in 30, 36; conflict in 35; social organization in 40; variation in 35, 218 so¯ go¯ -teki na gakushu¯ 19, 23, 29, 194–211;

243

assessment of 202; problems with 201; revision in aims of 21 solidarity 176: in class group 80; in nakama 60; social 27–8, 36 songs see singing So¯ seki, Natsume 42 sport 40; high school baseball championships 95 sports day (undo¯ kai) 63–5, 68, 80, 103, 176, 178, 182–3, 188, 193 staffroom 59 state 26, 43 student guidance see seito shido¯ subject (agentive) 26, 114 symbolic action 175, 184, 186, 189 Taisho¯ jiyu¯ kyo¯ iku (Taisho free education) 25–6 Taisho period 25–6 Tanikawa, Shuntaro¯ 90–1 tatewari katsudo¯ see mixed-age activities teachers: action research 9–10, 53; attitudes to reform 54–5; classroom discourse of 143–5; freedom of 19, 106, 112; and gender 155, 157–62; ideal image of 57–9; as individuals 11, 59, 106, 141–2; as initiators of change 108; pedagogical role of 96–101, 142–5; role of 56, 193; teacher’s dilemma 114, 143, 148; in television dramas 57–9 teachers’ unions 8; reports advocating reform 28–9; views of education 14–16, 28–9; views of union representative 82–3, 191 teaching: accepting of variation 136, 138–9, 146; individualized 23, 207; ‘scaffolding’ 45, 101; speaking out by children 159–61; whole-class 96–101, 115–42, 145–6; see also pedagogical practice television: school dramas 57–9, 189, 212; Shomu-ni (drama) 37 textbooks: and gender 156; kokugo 89–96, 102–6; in maths 121, 135, 139, 148; teachers’ departures from 104–6; units (tangen) 9, 112, 207 thinking: analytical 89, 105; independent/individual 18–19, 22, 54, 81, 104–5, 195, 199; principled 113, 146–7 Thorne, Barrie 154–5, 158, 161, 164, 168 Tokugawa period 41, 56, 77 Tokyo: education in 3–4, 84, 211 Tsuboi, Sakae 93

244

Index

uchi 32, 60–1 uniform 157, 172, 187 United Kingdom: children in 205–6; education in 21, 44, 47, 54, 103, 109; gender at schools in 158, 165, 169; maths education in 113–14, 144–6, 148, 150 United States: education in 20–1, 44, 47; gender at schools in 158, 169; maths education in 114, 146; superheroes 50; view of children in 89, 205

ura 32–3 volunteer activities 37; and schools 75, 195, 197, 203 Vygotsky, Lev S. 44–5 welfare 195, 203 Wells, Gordon 47, 89, 100–1, 104, 219 yutori kyo¯ iku 21–3 zone of proximal development 44–5, 101