Understanding Schooling: An Introductory Sociology of Australian Education

Understanding schooling

Understanding schooling An introductory sociology of Australian education

Miriam Henry John Knight Robert Lingard Sandra Taylor

London and Sydney

First published 1988 by Routledge 11 New Fetter Lane, London EC4P 4EE Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2001. © 1988 Miriam Henry, John Knight, Robert Lingard and Sandra Taylor 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 A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress ISBN 0-415-00895-6 (Print Edition) ISBN 0-203-13599-7 Master e-book ISBN ISBN 0-203-18308-8 (Glassbook Format)

Contents

Preface Introduction Teacher practice and sociological theory 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

vii 1

Being a teacher What makes a classroom? The problem of school knowledge Understanding the system Students in context Schooling processes and educational outcomes School and society Teachers and change Radical teaching and the adaptive school

18 40 59 95 137 166 207 242 264

Bibliography Author index Subject index

289 317 323

v

Preface

Understanding Schooling is an introductory text in the sociology of Australian education. Although intended primarily for both pre-service and in-service teacher education and other students in the sociology of education, it is also directed at a wider audience in the community who seek a more informed understanding of Australian schooling. Drawing upon our experience as classroom teachers and teacher educators, we set schools and classrooms firmly in the framework of sociological theory and the context of present and past (particularly Australian) research. Knowing the concerns of many teachers that ‘theory’ should be relevant and ‘useful’, we have tried to come to terms with the implications of recent work in the sociology of education. In particular, we include a section which evaluates possibilities for improving the practice of teaching. Each chapter concludes with a brief list of suggestions for further reading. Please note that the book is written within the appropriate guidelines for sex neutral language in keeping with our belief that sexist language has been important in helping to maintain gender based inequalities in society. However, where we cite other authors their usage (e.g., ‘man’ and ‘his’ for the generic term ‘human’) has been retained. Similarly, where italics occur in quotations in the text, this simply reflects their usage in the original sources. We are aware of recent debate which questions the usefulness of race as a concept in sociological analysis. However, we have used this term in order to distinguish the particular social and educational experiences of Aborigines and Islanders from those of migrant Australians. vii

Preface The book itself has been a collective enterprise. It is the product of much discussion, debate, and rethinking of positions. There is no seniority in authorship; our names appear alphabetically for convenience. We wish to thank Olga Knight, Ruth Oatridge, Eslynn Mauritz and Di Barnes for their help and patience in typing the many copies of the manuscript. Finally, we offer our appreciation to all those who have helped to shape our understanding of schooling and Australian society. Miriam Henry John Knight Robert Lingard Sandra Taylor

Postscript Since completing the manuscript, there have been significant changes in the structure of education at the federal level which make some of the discussion in this text already out of date (in particular, figure 4.3, p. 100). The Schools Commission and the Commonwealth Tertiary Education Commission have been abolished. Sections of the former Department of Employment and Industrial Relations have been amalgamated with the former Commonwealth Department of Education to form a restructured ‘super’ Department of Employment, Education and Training. There is now an explicitly articulated ‘human capital’ approach to education by the federal government in which education is seen as the key to solving economic ills. While these specific structural changes have not been incorporated into the text, the general trend towards making education more ‘vocational’ and economically productive has certainly received critical attention. All of this emphasises the point made in the text, that educational provision is essentially a political process.

viii

Introduction

Teacher practice and sociological theory

Q.: What’s the one impression you have in mind now that Dip. Ed’s behind you? A: I think of it as a set of hoops to jump through. That’s what it was. Because I know that . . . when I came out I felt like I had walked in off the street. I really felt that. Q: What do you mean by ‘walked in off the street’? A: Well, I felt that the Dip. Ed was theory, all theory, and that in practice, for what I was going to do when I got out into the school and faced the school, that I had very few resources. The assignments that I’d done – I haven’t used any of them. I haven’t used any of the prepared work that I did in what I’d taught in the school, because we just didn’t – no organised practical stuff. . . . (J. Livingston and J. Galligan, ‘First Year Out’, Quest 34, 1982, p. 38)

Theory and practice in teacher education This book seeks to relate sociological theory and research to teachers’ experience of classrooms and students. It grows out of our own experience as classroom teachers and teacher educators. Its primary purpose is as an introductory textbook in the sociology of Australian education for pre-service and in-service education. But while its immediate audience is beginning and continuing teachers and other students of the sociology of education, it is also directed to a wider audience in the Australian community. Here we include parents and others who want a more informed understanding of the complex and often contra dictory claims and 1

Introduction expectations made upon schools and schooling, and an understanding of the sensationalised media reports about contemporary education, supposedly ‘falling standards’, ‘lack of discipline’, and so on. We believe that an adequate sociological understanding of schooling, which sets it firmly in its broader relationship to Australian society, is essential for responding to such allegations and indispensable for the professional development of all teachers. Hence Understanding Schooling is not a ‘state of the art’ review of the sociology of education nor an advanced text in sociological theory. Rather it is shaped by the expressed concerns of many teachers over their ability to ‘cope’ in school, their desires to do ‘something’ to help their students, and their concerns for classroom practices and a system of education which are ‘better’ or ‘fairer’ than those they now know. It is also a reaction against the often-used assertion to beginning teachers that they would do better if they forgot the ‘theory’ of education since they are now in ‘the real world’. That commonplace we reject. Intellectual activity is intrinsically linked with action. People (including teachers) make sense of, justify, act and react in social situations in terms of their stock of knowledge and their beliefs about such situations. Their intentions are refracted through their prior ideological and cultural assumptions. (For example, teachers who believe that Aborigines or working class students are less capable of undertaking advanced studies, are likely to demand little of those students. They are certainly likely to teach them differently from a group of students whose parents are professionals or successful business people.) Useful theory should enable people (including teachers) to reflect on and improve what they do in their daily activities. It should enable teachers to understand better how what they do and know fits into the broader context of the unequal structures and ideological assumptions which underpin society. Indeed, it is important to resolve the apparent dichotomy of educational theory and classroom practice. It is crucial to recognise that every practice has a theoretical underpinning. The issue more properly is that teachers’ theory is typically implicit rather than explicit, and couched at the taken-for-granted level of ‘common sense’ rather than in the more formal jargon of teacher education. There is often also a separation of ‘theory’, developed by ‘experts’ away from the classroom setting, from the knowledge and practice which teachers generate out of actual experience of the immediate demands of the classroom context. Such demands mean that the burning question is, for example: how does one control 10B4 in the last period 2

Introduction before lunch, let alone getting them to do some work? That is, the ‘ought’ of much of the ‘principles’ of education addresses an ‘ideal’ context and practice which rarely match the needs of classroom teachers. There is a similar disjunction between the more detached views of educational policy makers and the ‘close-up’ knowledge and experience of teachers. In consequence, many teachers conclude that theory is not useful and practice has no need for theory. Theory, in short, is for passing examinations and gaining diplomas. It has no value other than this. Clearly, such a view is untenable.

Understanding schooling Such concerns for an adequate understanding of teachers’ practice and the processes of schooling require attention to the wider society within which practice and social institutions such as schools are formed. Here we follow Pollard (1982) in noting the impossibility of an adequate analysis of the classroom context from within the classroom alone. Classrooms are shaped and constrained by institutional biases, curricular prescriptions, teacher and student biographies and roles, and the structural and ‘hegemonic’ (e.g., controlling) features of society in which schools are set. Thus the book moves in turn from an examination of the immediate aspects of teaching, classrooms and the curriculum to the school system in which these are located. The influence of Australian society is then considered in terms of those background features, such as class, gender, ethnicity and race, which shape student biographies and which contribute to the differential effects of schooling upon students. Finally, all this is set against a critical examination of the relationship between schooling and Australian society. We now preview this sequence of development throughout the book in more detail. Understanding Schooling commences with the experiences, problems, challenges and contradictions of teachers’ practice. Teacher experience and action are seen as linked to the custodial, bureaucratic and knowledge-imparting functions of teaching, and the demand for ‘motivation’ and ‘control’ of students which follows from this. This means that teacher and student strategies are presented as understandable responses to the physical, temporal and cultural 3

Introduction settings of classrooms, the formal prescriptions of the curriculum, and the practices and prohibitions of the schools. But it is equally true that curricular prescriptions are themselves social and historical constructions along with the structure of schooling itself. These forces shape the social relations of classrooms, the selection and treatment of knowledge in them, and the ways in which students are treated and progress. Following this examination of the school context, a critical analysis of the relationship between home background, school and outcomes or life-chances is necessary. For schools do not exist in a vacuum. Nor do students come to school with common backgrounds, attitudes, expectations, knowledge and values. Both schools and students are set in, and constrained by, a broader economic and political context. It is therefore necessary for Understanding Schooling to consider how Australian society is constituted, why most people accept the way things are as ‘natural’ or ‘inevitable’, and the question of who gets what and why. That is, it is essential to ask whose interests are being served in the apparently neutral decisions and policies which are developed in and around schooling. In these ways, the school– society couplet is unpacked for more extended analysis, the aims and purposes of mass schooling are clarified in the light of theories of social and cultural production and reproduction, and ideologies of schooling and meritocracy are related to teaching practices and social consequences. For us, however, such description and analysis of the present situation are not enough. It is not enough to understand the way things are. Understanding provides the necessary basis for developing effective strategies for change towards a more progressive schooling and a better society. Here we include concerns for what Fromm (1963) termed a ‘sane society’, that is, the commitment to a society in which human action is directed to the meeting of human needs in an equitable way. And while we acknowledge that in the pursuit of such goals individualistic solutions to social problems are intrinsically limited, we do not believe that teachers are thereby absolved from a commitment to ideals such as equity and full participation by all people in a more democratic school system and society. The book therefore concludes with an evaluation of possibilities within progressive and radical approaches to teaching, schools and the curriculum in the light of pervasive and well-recognised constraints in Australian schools and political and socioeconomic settings. 4

Introduction We turn now to provide a brief but necessary overview of the sociological frameworks used or referred to in this book and to indicate the usefulness of sociology for those who are involved in or affected by the processes of ‘schooling’.

Overviewing sociology Sociology, according to Mills (1970), is concerned to understand the interrelationship through time between individual biography and social structure. In attempting to clarify the relationship between individual experience and social structure, he made a useful distinction between ‘personal troubles’ and ‘public issues’. For instance, if only a small percentage of the population is unemployed, a possible explanation lies in the individual characteristics of those unemployed. However, when faced with very substantial levels of unemployment, as at present, we need to seek a more adequate explanation of this social fact or ‘public issue’ in the operation of the broader social structure. To do otherwise, to attend only to the individual characteristics of the unemployed is, in William Ryan’s (1976) terms, to ‘blame the victim’. More broadly, Ryan argues that the generic form of blaming the victim occurs when social inequality is explained in terms of the alleged faults of the victims of inequality while the underlying (social) causes of inequality are ignored. Of course, individuals may experience ‘public issues’ as ‘personal troubles’, and this may operate to blinker a fuller, sociological analysis. But a sociological understanding ought to avoid a simplistic ‘blaming the victim’ approach to social issues. A concrete example may help to clarify the point. Currently, more than 20 per cent of 15-19 year olds in Australia are unemployed. A sociological analysis of this issue would take account of the pattern of unemployment over time, noting its relationship to changes in the economic structure (for example, the effects of new technology, Australia’s place in the world economic order, and so on) and taking account of pertinent ‘biographical’ details of the young unemployed (for example, educational levels and aspirations, work orientations and so on). The considerable amount of sociological research which has been done along such lines suggests that to argue, as many still do, that young people are unemployed because of their poor attitudes or because they do not want to work is to misunderstand the situation totally. Indeed, the old ‘dole bludger’ myth was a striking example of blaming the 5

Introduction victim. To argue further, at a commonsense level, that the young are unemployed because the schools have failed to teach them appropriate skills, is to deny the evidence that the social structure simply does not provide jobs for all who want them. And sociological research has shown that most young people want jobs more than anything else, for paid work is seen as central to the transition from dependence and teenagehood to independence and adulthood. Thus to blame the schools is again an example of a failure to look at the broader social structure in which schooling is set. Sociology, then, provides an understanding of the social and structural factors involved in individual experience and behaviour. For example, with respect to education, the sorts of understanding sociology can provide should assist teachers to operate in a socially aware manner and should help to evoke a sophisticated understanding of what teachers can and cannot achieve. But schools as social institutions are not independent of other aspects of the social structure, just as teachers are not totally autonomous agents. Hence schools and teachers cannot solve the problem of youth unemployment, for example, but teachers can provide youth with a thorough and critical understanding of their possible futures which may contribute to their having some power over their circumstances. Within sociology itself there is a continuing distinction between theoretical approaches which concentrate upon social structures and how they constrain individual action (structuralist sociology) and those which emphasise the way people in interaction construct their world on a day to day basis (interactionist sociology). We suggest that ‘good’ sociology should take both approaches into account. ‘Structural-functionalism’ is one major approach within structuralist sociology. This approach is concerned with the structural organisation of society and the function which each part plays in perpetuating the social structure. Thus such an approach would ask, ‘What are the functions of education?’ Normally the response would be something like, ‘to socialise individuals into their culture’ and ‘to differentiate fairly between individuals to meet the needs of a differentiated labour market’. This perspective also stresses the interdependence of the parts of the social structure. Thus structural-functionalist sociology of education is concerned with the interrelationship between the economy and education; the way schooling functions to maintain the social order; and the way in which schools and classrooms work as smooth functioning social systems. Schools are seen as centrally important 6

Introduction mediating institutions between the idiosyncrasies of family life and the patterned and impersonal relationships of social life. Structural-functionalists see society as being held together by a value consensus. Thus, schools are very important social institutions because they have the function of socialising all individuals into this supposed value consensus. Some (not all) structural-functionalist sociologists (e.g., Parsons, 1961) tend to regard our society as relatively benign and unproblematic. Shortcomings such as the existence of continuing inequality of educational opportunity, which we document later in this book, are then seen as aberrations or ‘dysfunctions’ which can be ameliorated through social reforms which leave the basic structures of society intact. On the other hand, conflict structuralist accounts, including Marxist accounts, challenge the central assumptions of consensus, cohesion and stability characteristic of much of the structural-functionalist approach. For example, Marxist sociology begins from the central assumption that there is a basic economic conflict of interest between workers (however defined) and owners (however defined) within all capitalist social systems. Now, today there are the proverbial 57 varieties of Marxism which have helped to fill out the dimensions of that basic class conflict, including more contemporary concerns with, for example, the growth and role of the state and of public bureaucracies. In addition, an important cultural component has been incorporated into the analysis, so that class conflict is not seen simply in economic terms. Rather, the way in which people experience the effects of living in a ‘class’ society is also taken into account. We take up some of these issues later in the book. Here it is sufficient to stress that Marxist accounts, in contradistinction to functionalist ones, place emphasis upon the specifically determining role of the economy in structuring power relationships within the total social structure. From this perspective, social life is seen to be permeated by struggle and conflict which, in turn, are seen to stem in large part from an unequal set of economic relations. To return to the structuralist/interactionist dichotomy referred to earlier: interactionist accounts emerged in part as a response to the need to fill out the way in which individual perceptions, beliefs, intentions and actions relate to social structures. The emphasis here is not so much on the continuity of social structures but on the social processes themselves and on individuals’ experiences and interactions in daily life. Here, society is seen as the ongoing product of human 7

Introduction interaction. There are possible ‘bridges’ between interactionist approaches such as these and structuralist positions, perhaps best explicated in Berger and Luckmann’s (1971) The Social Construction of Reality. (See also Taylor, 1982.) The notion of a socially constructed reality sees people as both products and producers of their world: ‘Society is a human product. Society is an objective reality. Man is a social product’ (Berger and Luckmann, 1971, p. 79). This question of the relative importance of human action and choice vis-à-vis structure merits some further attention here. Functionalist perspectives tend to present people as ‘puppets on a stage’ (Berger, 1966) shaped and controlled by factors beyond their reach, or even their recognition. A similar conclusion can be derived from some other structuralist accounts. Interactionist accounts, on the other hand, take a different stance. For them, human agency, choice or intention is crucial in effecting change and shaping society. Here the analogy is that of society as a ‘stage populated with living actors’ (Berger, 1966) where individuals have some say in scripting their roles. While functionalist sociology, including some Marxist accounts, has been criticised for presenting an ‘over-socialised’ conception of human beings (Wrong, 1970), some interactionist accounts have been equally open to criticism for presenting a too ‘voluntaristic’ view of human behaviour. Berger and Luckmann’s (1971) previously cited analysis of the dialectical relationship between people and society to some extent reconciles these positions. In other words, it is acknowledged that social reality is produced continuously by human action but that structures also constrain such action. Giddens’ (1976, 1979) theory of structuration argues similarly that while ‘action is constituted structurally’, equally ‘structures are constituted by action’. Human action therefore is able not only to reproduce but also in varying degrees to transform social structures. All of this in a way reflects Marx’s comment: Men make their own history, but they do not make it just as they please; they do not make it under circumstances chosen by themselves, but under circumstances directly encountered, given and transmitted from the past (Marx, 1950, p. 225). In short, human agency can be operative and effective but remains constrained and shaped by historical, social and economic forces which form the context for 8

Introduction that action. Teacher practice, while having the potential to transform, is at the same time similarly constrained.

The sociology of education: a brief account Sociology of education emerged as an important sub-discipline of sociological theory after the Second World War, particularly in Britain. Here the work of sociologists in identifying the patterned relationships between social class and school achievement was in part responsible for important policy reforms in British education, in particular the gradual eradication of the iniquitous 11 + exam and the moves towards comprehensive schools. Sociology of education of the 1950s and 1960s adopted the prevailing functionalist paradigm. That is, as previously indicated, the focus tended towards an examination of the structure of education (seen pretty much as a ‘system’ of interlocking parts) which ‘functioned’ within a broader social system (hence the term ‘structural-functional’ as used thus far in our discussion). In common with many such functionalist explanations in a wide variety of areas (the family, the law, etc.) the wider social system was not itself brought under a great deal of critical scrutiny. Rather the emphasis tended to be on understanding how the bits fitted together and interrelated with each other. The work of Talcott Parsons, as represented in his article, The School Class as a Social System: some of its functions in American society’ (1961) is perhaps the best-known example of this form of work. (See Musgrave, 1965; Banks, 1968; Dreeben, 1968 and Shipman, 1968 for typical examples of this kind of sociology of education.) These accounts of the functioning of education led to some important insights and the elucidation of a central theoretical and practical problem, namely the existence and nature of the link between social class or family background and school performance. Such statistical studies in ‘political arithmetic’ as those of Floud and Halsey (1961a, 1961b) provided the incentive for programs for greater equality of opportunity. The working through of this ‘social fact’ of unequal opportunities has been a recurring theme within the sociology of education, although over time the explanations and even the very definition of the problem have changed, as we shall see. 9

Introduction In the early 1970s, reflecting general developments within sociological theory, interactionist perspectives began to exert a considerable influence within the sociology of education. (See for example M.F.D. Young, 1971, Knowledge and Control: New Directions for the Sociology of Education.) Such accounts were less concerned with depicting the structures and functioning of schools and education systems than with examining the ways in which schooling was ‘received’ and ‘interpreted’ by its participants (teachers, students, parents and so forth), and the interactions between the participants (for example, how teacher expectations affected student performance, and vice versa). These more ethnographic accounts of schools and classrooms also shed light on the processes of schooling (testing procedures; relationships between students, teachers and administrators; use of language; the nature and impact of the curriculum itself; and so forth) in ways which started to fill out the statistical findings of earlier sociological investigations into the relationship between family background and school performance. In other words, interactionist accounts helped to fill out the educational ‘black box’ by focusing upon the daily experiences and perceptions of those involved in the schooling process. In so doing, these theoretical accounts started to change the very definition of the original problem, in the following manner. The major insight of early sociological investigations into education was, as we have stated, the recognition of the patterned relationships between family background and school achievement. That is, sociological investigations showed consistent correlations between poor school results and students’ ‘working-class’ backgrounds on the one hand, and between superior school achievement and privileged class background on the other hand. Out of this recognition was born the notion that equality of educational opportunity did not exist and was hindered in some way by class or family background. This of course had very practical implications for societies espousing democratic ideals. Given however that functionalist theorising did not always encourage a critical appraisal of the social structure as a whole (that is, the overall social system was taken for granted), solutions were seen to lie in two directions. One solution was seen to lie in improving the access of working-class students to the education system, as seen in the thrust towards comprehensive schools in Britain to replace the specifically class-biased educational structure of schooling, A second approach attempted to remedy those aspects of working-class life which apparently served to block educational success. Hence the evolution of a range of ‘compensatory education’ 10

Introduction programs in countries such as the USA, Britain and Australia designed to give a boost to, or ‘compensate’ students for, their ‘deprived’ or ‘disadvantaged’ backgrounds. Interactionist sociology, however, by focusing on the processes and the ‘lived experience’ of schooling, showed that the problem was not simply one of providing extra access or compensatory education programs. (On this latter point see, for example, N. Keddie, 1973, Tinker, Tailor. . . . The Myth of Cultural Deprivation.) By illuminating the educational black box, these accounts started to reveal some of the deep tensions and contradictions inherent in the educational process and in so doing they started to raise serious questions about education’s taken-for-granted role in socialising youth to ‘fit into’ a questionably consensual social order. Classroom studies, for example, revealed that the values, experiences, language and ‘stock of knowledge’ of the bulk of the students were consistently at odds with, and misrecognised by, the ‘official’ value system of the school and its curriculum. The implication of these findings was not so much that ‘disadvantaged’ students required a bit of cultural ‘topping up’ to allow them to ‘fit into’ the school structures, but rather that such students were disadvantaged by a school system whose processes and curriculum consistently operated to penalise them. As Young (1971, p. 25) argued in Knowledge and Control, structural-functionalist accounts of educational inequality had isolated the class characteristics of individual students from the class content of their experience of education. Interactionist accounts documented the character of the latter. Thus the definition of the problem shifted somewhat from concern with the background of the students per se to a concern with the ways in which the formal structures and processes of schooling and official definitions of what constituted ‘school knowledge’ served to disadvantage large numbers of the school population. Hence during the 1970s there was a growing theoretical preoccupation with the ways in which factors such as streaming, assessment, curricula and the underlying assumptions about ‘proper knowledge’ contributed to educational and ultimately social inequality. One practical implication of these theoretical concerns was seen in the impetus towards the ‘progressive education’ movement. This was a time of ‘open education’ reforms which attempted to break down hierarchical relationships between teachers and students and the rigid knowledge divisions into subjects and grades; it was also a time of curriculum reform, of ‘alternative education’ experiments and so forth. 11

Introduction The mid-1970s saw the onset of recession in Western nations and the continuing need to explain the seeming intransigence of social inequality. In other words, despite a number of important educational reforms since the Second World War, social inequality remained almost untouched. (See, for example, the important American study by Jencks, 1975, Inequality.) Education, it seemed, could not change society. This kind of thinking, built to some extent on interactionist accounts of the tensions and conflicts within education, as well as drawing on the revival of neo-Marxist thought emerging in response to such events as the student revolt in France, the civil liberties movement in the United States and opposition to the Vietnam war, led to new theoretical developments with the emergence of Marxist sociology of education. (For example, see Bowles and Gintis, 1976, Schooling in Capitalist America; or in Britain, Dale et al., 1976, Schooling and Capitalism.) As those titles suggest, such accounts led to a further refining and redefinition of the original problem of the nature of the relationship between school and society. In particular, Marxists theorised or explained educational inequalities more specifically in terms of class based (and later gender- and ethnic-based) factors which were seen to lie deep within the social structure of capitalism itself, rather than within the ‘deficient’ qualities of working-class students or their families, or even within the deficient qualities of schools, teachers and the curriculum. While structural-functionalists attempted to discover the factors impeding equality of educational opportunity, Marxist accounts, in the first instance at least, attempted to explain how schools reproduce and legitimate social inequalities. The theoretical starting point for Marxists, as we indicated earlier, was that society is not held together by value consensus but rather through conflicting interests with one group or class holding dominance over the other through a variety of sometimes coercive but more often persuasive measures (the latter often referred to as ‘hegemonic’ dominance). From this perspective, education turned out to be one of the key hegemonic institutions. It must be understood that the notion of hegemony has quite different connotations from the functionalist notion of education as a ‘socialising’ institution. Thus, viewed from a Marxist perspective, schools serve to mask the essentially inegalitarian nature of capitalist society, while at the same time subtly contributing to the ‘reproduction’ of those very inequalities. For Marxists then, 12

Introduction school and classroom reforms aimed at combating inequality were doomed to failure unless linked to much broader ranging structural reforms within society at large aimed at eradicating class and gender inequalities. Since that time, Marxist analyses of education have moved from what some have termed ‘crude reproduction theory’ to more comprehensive explanations, synthesising a wide range of theoretical concerns which take into account both structural and cultural elements and the linkage between classroom life and practice and the broader social structures. (See for example Michael Apple’s Education and Power, 1982.) In addition, British studies, particularly Willis’s (1977) Learning to Labour and Corrigan’s (1979) Schooling the Smash Street Kids, have indicated that social reproduction via schooling does not occur in a smooth and uncontested manner (a fact of which teachers have long been aware). In theoretical terms, these studies take up the problem of the relationship between human agency and social structure touched on earlier. Those more recent approaches which have developed within the Marxist tradition are usually referred to as neo-Marxist. Within both sociology and the sociology of education contemporary work also attempts to reach a more adequate understanding of the way gender and ethnicity, in conjunction with class, affect social experiences and life chances. Understanding Schooling sits firmly within these most recent developments in the sociology of education. These developments in sociology raise some fundamental problems, not least of which is the question of how effective educational reform can be in the face of inequalities which appear to have their genesis outside the realm of education. This challenge is taken up in more detail in the final two chapters of the book. At this point, two comments are sufficient. First, we consider that neo-Marxist accounts of education have contributed to a greater understanding of the repressive nature of schooling for many students. If such an understanding can assist in humanising an institution in which people spend a significant part of their lives, then that in itself is an important problem addressed. Second, while they acknowledge the deep structural inequalities and conflicts within this society, neo-Marxists do not see the outcome of conflict as inevitably ‘given over’ to the undoubtedly powerful forces which sustain and protect the various forms of capitalist society. Power and domination involve struggle, the outcome of which is never, necessarily, known in advance. 13

Introduction Hence for Marxists at both a theoretical and a practical level (the blend of theory and practice is sometimes referred to as ‘praxis’) it is crucial to have a clear understanding of the totality of the forces which surround any ‘arena’ of action (in this case, education) in order to develop appropriate strategies to resist the hegemonic and at times coercive processes which contribute to class, gender, racial and ethnic inequalities. Thus in educational terms a clear-sighted understanding of the way in which schools and education systems function and interrelate with the broader social structure is seen, from a Marxist perspective, to be a necessary part of developing an adequate educational praxis. In other words, it is our belief that such explanations of the operation of education have immensely practical implications for the ways in which teachers, administrators and policy makers approach their work. For example, the work of Willis and Corrigan on ‘stirrers’ in school cautions us against simplistic, individually focused accounts of disruptive classroom behaviour which suggest that remedies lie simply in the treatment of individual trouble makers. Rather, Willis and Corrigan suggest that opposition to school needs to be seen in a broader social framework, which in turn has quite different implications for classroom practice. Our final point here then, and this relates to the extract with which this introduction began, is that theory and practice are inextricably interwoven in ways which are frequently unrecognised. For example, the variety of ‘classroom control’ mechanisms resorted to by teachers in the name of ‘being practical’ (as distinct from ‘useless theory’) are in fact part of unacknowledged and probably unrecognised theories of classroom management and child development with which we would take great exception, for reasons which will become clear as the book unfolds. We believe that it is crucial within teacher education to provide students with an understanding of the theoretical assumptions on which teacher practice is based. In the absence of such an understanding it is our belief that much of what passes as education in schools tends to be ad hoc, only temporarily workable, and in many instances achieved only at a social and intellectual cost which wastes the talents and aspirations of a great many students (and teachers). It is our hope that this book will contribute to a better understanding and ultimately to a better practice of education.

14

Introduction Specifying our position It is now appropriate to pull together the assumptions and theoretical frameworks which shape this book. We have shown that teaching, schooling and society have to be regarded in a critical way; they cannot be taken for granted. We assert that the way social issues are perceived is as much contingent on attitudes, commitments and moral stance as upon the ‘facticity’ of the ‘real’ world (even though we recognise, of course, that given certain criteria, some practices and forms of relationships are clearly ‘better’ than others). So, what sort of features do we have in mind? First, we do not accept that the way things are is necessarily the way things ought to be. Rather we suggest that social arrangements should be examined by such criteria as the degree of participation in the affairs and management of society which is open to all sectors and groups in the community; the degree of equity or fairness existing between such sectors and groups; and the extent to which a commitment to social justice and the welfare of all permeates our social, political and economic institutions. Here we define the good society in terms of its adequate meeting of human needs beyond the obviously necessary (though not yet equitably available) material provisions such as food, shelter, clothing and water. Because to be human is to be social, people need to be able to relate to one another in mutually beneficial ways. Because they are cultural beings they need ways of relating creatively and constructively to their material and social environments. And so on. Second, we are committed to the concept of a more just and humane society. We see the possibility of developing human potential more fully through a properly democratic and socialist society. In such a society, political practice, social relationships and economic structures should be such as to be more responsive to human needs and interests. This means that our commitment is to the removal or reduction of class and other barriers rather than to greater individual social mobility; for a more equal society rather than for a better chance for some people to get higher incomes, status and more power within a society which continues to be essentially unequal. (See Bennett, 1982, for an elaboration of these distinctions.) A commitment to equality is still a radical stance today, and the reconciling of the present contradictions between ‘liberty’, ‘equality’ and ‘fraternity’ remains a challenge in contemporary Australian society. In asserting this, we recognise that the problems of social inequality in Australian society are part of much greater 15

Introduction global social and economic inequities brought about by such things as the legacy of colonialism and imperialism, the economic (and political) power of the multinational corporations, and the massive social and economic distortions resulting from the arms race. Although the global context of Australian education is not addressed in Understanding Schooling, the assumptions underlying our approach have to be seen as set in such an internationalist perspective. Finally, while we draw upon a range of theoretical frameworks, the discussion thus far clearly evidences our commitment to a critical sociology. That is, we seek to understand social issues and school events by going beneath their surface to uncover those underlying forces which shape them. We try to set human agency in its wider social, historical and economic settings. Our intention for understanding the world is linked to our commitment to change it. In this context, while we recognise the limitations of schooling as the basis for any proposed reconstruction of society, we would agree with Dale: [T]hough schools cannot in themselves change society, they can contribute to the changing of society by inculcating in their students (and, in some versions of this approach, by incorporating in teachers’ own practices) a critical orientation towards society and its institutions. . . . [T]his alternative leads pupils to question and criticise what they see about them, rather than to accept it more happily or to see it as inevitable and seek satisfaction elsewhere (1977a, p. 39).

Further reading Bennett, D. (1982), ‘Education: back to the drawing-board’, in G. Evans and J. Reeves (eds) (1982), Labor Essays 1982, Richmond: Drummond, pp. 161-86. This paper provides a useful critical analysis of differing interpretations of the concept of equality of opportunity and the debate around this within the Australian context. Berger, P. and Luckmann, T. (1971), The Social Construction of Reality, Harmondsworth: Penguin. An excellent presentation of the relationship between humans, knowledge and society. Heavy reading in parts, but worthwhile. Cuff, E.C. and Payne, G.C.F. (eds) (1984), Perspectives in Sociology, 2nd ed., London: Allen & Unwin. Provides a detailed description of the major sociological perspectives briefly outlined in this chapter.

16

Introduction Karabel, J. and Halsey, A. (eds) (1977), Power and Ideology in Education, New York: Oxford University Press. The introduction provides a detailed historical account of the development of the sociology of education from the 1950s to the mid 1970s. Knight, J. (1984), ‘Restoring the basics: a radical necessity’, Social Alternatives, vol. 4, no. 2, pp. 42-4. Meighan, R. (1981), A Sociology of Educating, London: Holt, Rinehart & Winston. Part 4 sets functionalist, interactionist and conflict perspectives in an educational framework. Mills, C. Wright (1970), The Sociological Imagination, Harmondsworth: Penguin. One of the best essays available on the relationship of history, social structure, and biography and the value of a critical sociology in contemporary society.

17

Chapter 1

Being a teacher

Those were the seven hardest years of my life. They were shared with a staff as dedicated as you might ever hope to find. And yet somewhere we failed, and failed miserably. I do not think that we were bad teachers – certainly our inspection reports were never unfavourable, and those that have remained in the service are now in senior positions. On the other hand, I do not think we were lumbered with bad children. It seems to me now that the failure, the miserable failure, was in large part inevitable, being built into the very structure of the situation in a way which I did not understand, and which none of us understood (Kevin Harris, Teachers and Classes, 1982, p. 2).

Teaching: the challenge In the extract cited above, Kevin Harris recounts his experience as a high school teacher dedicated to helping working-class children improve their situation by diligent study leading to matriculation and university. But out of some 700 students whose progress through school he watched, fewer than 50 went on to the senior years and perhaps five graduated from university. Yet Harris himself had come from an impoverished working-class background, and (encouraged by his parents) had matriculated and entered a teaching (and finally a university) career. His story encapsulates some of the major challenges which this book addresses. For example, despite a continued concern at the level of policy for equal opportunities for success in education for all Australians, many working-class 18

Being a teacher children still fail to achieve as well as those from middle-class backgrounds. Reasons for success and failure will be addressed throughout the book, and possibilities for effective schooling are discussed in the concluding section. At this point it is important to note that many teachers share a similar background and commitment to that of Harris. In this chapter we focus on teachers as a group: What is it like being a teacher? What sort of people become teachers? How do they learn to teach? What is their social status? What major challenges face teachers today? Such questions are central to understanding teachers and their tasks. We commence with the experience of teaching.

Teaching: the lived experience The experience of teaching shapes teachers’ attitudes and practice. It encompasses stress, continued challenge, and yet satisfaction and even joy at times. Adrian MacGregor (Weekend Australian, August 21-22, 1982) followed one young Queensland high school teacher through a school day. His description indicates something of the strain and challenge of being a teacher in a working-class state high school. He found noise, vandalism, lack of interest: In this low-stream, low achieving class of grade nines, collars are undone and ties uniformly so loosened that the knots have disappeared below the V of their sweaters. . . . From the moment they jostled into two lines outside the classroom – ‘Would you mind extinguishing that cigarette please’ – their noise level has subsided from cacophony to mere din. . . . For thirty-five minutes there is a constant, nerveabrading background noise like that of an industrial workshop. On top of this comes [Ms. X’s] robot responses: ‘Turn around please. . . . Put your feet under the desk please. . . . Do you put your feet on the furniture at home?. . . .’ Behind [Ms. X], boys crackle knuckles, open windows, shift, tilt and drum upon their desks and chairs, provoke each other with pencil prods and ruler raps, and talk. Vandalism was common. For example, in the science laboratories, students would unscrew the power points, fill the gas taps with liquid paper or chalk, and filch the instruments or gear. 19

Being a teacher Except for the higher-stream classes, few students appeared to want to learn or knew how to study. Many worked sullenly, under constant supervision as the teacher patrolled the room. Lack of motivation and interest by students, coupled with continuing paperwork and preparation that was never complete, added to the strain. MacGregor’s teacher arrived at 7.30 in the morning, working through tea and lunch breaks marking, making stencils, preparing more work and talking with students who needed help. Then on arriving home she had at least two hours further work getting ready for the next day. If she didn’t prepare, she commented, she would be ‘slaughtered’ by her classes. Yet there were moments of satisfaction. A ‘smart bunch of grade eights’ were ‘a dream’. They were quiet, polite and thoughtful. And students who ‘turn over a new leaf, mature, become interested’ helped to make the job worthwhile. Underlying the surface manifestation of student indiscipline, MacGregor argued, were a number of factors external to the school. Here he cited such factors as declining respect for age and authority; problems stemming from an increase in the number of one-parent families and families with two parents working; the lowered influence of the churches; and growing youth unemployment which keeps ‘non-academic’ youth at school longer. He concluded that teachers were being forced to act more and more in matters relating to students’ personal and domestic crises which were once the province of the home and the church. However, while we agree that factors from the wider society shape or influence the conditions of schooling, we consider that such common-sense explanations for the problems of schooling as those offered above are often simplistic and sometimes quite false. Some primary school teachers will protest that things aren’t like that in primary schools. Certainly, by and large, secondary schools do seem to experience much greater tension between students and ‘the system’ for a variety of reasons. Typically, primary schools are seen as nice places in which to be, showing a degree of pastoral care for their students who remain with one teacher (except for transfers or resignations) for at least a year. Secondary schools, by contrast, are more impersonal; they are much larger places; students move from class to class and teacher to teacher. Many teachers teach subjects, not people; students are more anonymous; and to be ‘known’ to staff and administration is often to be notorious. The pressure in schools which builds up in the later years to select ‘appropriate’ students for future tertiary courses and occupations adds to alienation and tension between teachers and students, particularly ‘low achievers’ or those facing unemployment. 20

Being a teacher But primary schools have their own pressures. For example, there are contradictions between progressive prescriptions for child-centred teaching and the reality of large classes, set syllabuses, and parental and principal’s expectations. Also, the pressures to return to an emphasis on basic skills in the context of the current economic situation cannot be ignored. (See Ryan, 1982b.) Moreover, teaching in the way required by the newer syllabuses demands greater preparation, concentration and dedication than more traditional methods. And successful teachers in ‘open’ settings have a more public performance than those in the seclusion of traditional classrooms. Teaching in primary schools may be rewarding but it is hardly easy. Yet there is also what Bob Connell (1985) calls ‘the joy of teaching’. There is the pleasure of teaching a subject one loves; the personal relationships that can develop between teacher and students; the thrill of success with ‘slow learners’ or ‘discipline problems’; the challenge of teaching and keeping up with ‘good’ students; the past students who come up and talk with one in the street or those who have ‘made good’; the satisfaction of knowing a lesson has gone well. Beyond these stresses and pleasures of teaching, there is also the multiplicity of tasks it involves. A teacher is often also a clerk, supervisor, counsellor, keeper of petty cash, entrepreneur, and more. Connell (1985) lists classroom activities from ‘chalk and talk’, supervising and correcting work, marking tests and keeping records, to keeping order, ‘having a joke’, resolving conflict and talking and working with other teachers. Outside the classroom there are sports days, excursions, carnivals, speech nights, plays, concerts, sports matches, workshops, clubs, dances, P and C meetings, playground supervision, counselling students and parents, and so on. And always, staff meetings. As we will see later in this chapter, the diversity of teacher work is one factor which inhibits its claims to professional status. But for now, it is more important to ask what sort of people choose to become teachers and accept all of this, and why do they do it?

Who are teachers? Teachers constitute the largest professional group in Australia (White, 1976). In 1983 there were 187,497 of them. The great majority (78 per cent) taught in state schools; 47 per cent taught in primary schools (Karmel, 1985). In 1978, 56 per cent 21

Being a teacher of all teachers were female, but the distribution of male and female teachers was distinctly skewed in that 68 per cent of primary teachers were female and 57 per cent of secondary teachers were male. Overall, women predominated in preschool, infants, primary and home economics areas while males predominated in academic secondary (particularly science and mathematics) and manual courses. Most teachers were fairly young and inexperienced: 51 per cent were aged 21-30; 75 per cent had taught ten years or fewer; 45 per cent had less than four years’ experience. The very great majority (89 per cent) came from English speaking backgrounds. 85 per cent were born in Australia and 7 per cent came from the UK. Approximately one-third did not belong to any professional organisation, including teachers’ unions (although state school teachers are generally more highly unionised than non-state school teachers, particularly those in the elite schools). Their involvement in community type organisations was much higher than their involvement in political parties or pressure groups. 21 per cent were university trained. Most young teachers, particularly in secondary schools, had at least three years training. 53 per cent had formal qualifications beyond pre-service training; 27 per cent had a bachelors’ degree outside of education while 12 per cent had a degree in education (Schools Commission, 1979; Bassett, 1980). Teachers’ salaries may be relatively low compared with the incomes of selfemployed or entrepreneurial professionals (e.g. doctors, lawyers, dentists). However, by comparison with most wage earners teachers are relatively well-off. The ABS data for May 1983 showed average weekly earnings for male employees of $361 and $244 for adult females. But male teachers averaged $423 and females $359. By comparison, male clerical workers averaged $350, sales workers $298, tradesmen, production and process workers and labourers averaged $337, waiters and bartenders received $187 and caretakers and cleaners averaged $224. For women, with a generally more restricted range of occupations, clerical workers received $248, sales workers $172, women in trades and production-process workers averaged $248, and women in service related industries (e.g., cooks, barmaids, hairdressers, cleaners, etc.) averaged $178. Given the information on class background of teachers to be considered shortly, and the relative paucity of female-related occupations for more educated women, the attraction of the teaching profession to women and upwardly mobile working class people is understandable. 22

Being a teacher Until recently, due in part to factors addressed in the previous section of this chapter, the rate of attrition of teachers from the profession was pretty high. Thus McArthur (1981), in a long-term survey of 800 beginning teachers in Victoria from 1972, found that 279 had resigned by 1978. Considering that he could not trace about 10 per cent of the sample, this represents some 36 per cent in all. However the current economic situation with a ‘tight’ job market has cut the resignation rate substantially. Now while figures may be boring, this evidence suggests some serious problems in teaching in Australia. For instance, there is clearly a need to retain more teachers in the profession. There are too few older or more experienced teachers. There is a gender imbalance by level of schooling, subject area and promotion positions. (See Sampson, 1985.) There is a high degree of Anglo-cultural homogeneity in the group. It looks as if many teachers have little or no experience of life outside schooling. It could also be said that many teachers are relatively conservative (‘safe’ people) showing little concern for political or social activism and not so much for unionism. It also seems that many teachers lack any considerable degree of professional preparation or formal qualification, a fact which bears on their claims for professional status. Compared with say doctors, dentists, architects or lawyers they could be seen as less qualified. Certainly Australian university students in education faculties are more socially conservative than students in engineering, law and medicine (Anderson and Western, 1970). Their social backgrounds also differ from students in the more prestigious professions and this is even more so for student teachers in colleges. Thus Coulter (1975) found that 40 per cent of male Dip. Eds. sampled at Monash University were from low socio-economic status backgrounds. Berdie (1956, cited in Encel, 1970) found that 74 per cent of Victorian Teachers College entrants came from homes where the fathers were unskilled, semi-skilled or skilled workers, in sales or clerical work, or small businessmen and farmers, whereas only 57 per cent of university graduates came from these categories. Bassett, Berdie and Pike (cited in Encel, 1970) all noted the degree to which teachers’ children were likely to become teachers. Clearly, then, teaching provides an avenue of social mobility for children of working-class families, of which more will be said shortly. In his most recent study of Australian teachers, Connell (1985) noted that amongst the sample from whom his case-studies were drawn were ‘the son of rural labourers, the 23

Being a teacher daughter of a coal-miner, the daughter of a cook, the son of a machinist’ and ‘the daughter of a country carpenter’. However, this situation may be undergoing some degree of change. Anderson and Vervoorn (1983) note the effect of the abolition of teacher scholarships which has limited the recruitment of working-class people into teaching. Similarly, Kevin Harris (1982) notes that the increasing respectability and occupational status of teaching has led to a trend to greater recruitment from the middle class. Here the relative status of teaching as an occupation is significant. In her survey of the relative prestige of occupations in Australia, Ann Daniel (1983) found that of 160 occupations, secondary school teachers ranked 58th and primary school teachers ranked 70th. School principals were higher, in 24th position. On a sevenpoint rating scale from highest status (1) to lowest status (7), the figures were 3.5, 3.8 and 2.6 respectively. The list was headed by occupations such as judge, cabinet minister, medical specialist, barrister, church leader and professor. However, GPs, architects, dentists and solicitors also rated higher in the prestige scales than teachers. The list concluded with such poorly esteemed occupations as barmaids, domestic workers, and seasonal labourers. In short, while teaching is lower in status and remuneration than the more prestigious occupations, it has sufficient prestige to make it attractive to those from lower social class backgrounds for whom it is both affordable and reachable. However, restrictions on the availability of higher level occupations consequent on the current economic recession are leading to a greater influx of middle-class people, more particularly males, into teaching. Also, as noted previously, teaching remains attractive to middle-class women and daughters of professional families by reason of the combination of the relatively limited range of ‘respectable’ traditional occupations for women, the relatively low wages of most other female occupations, and the traditional ascription of caring and nurturing roles to women. Lortie’s (1975) survey of American teachers found that they offered similar reasons to those reviewed above for choosing teaching. Many were attracted by the opportunity to work with children or youth: they valued interpersonal relations. Many others upheld the theme of service to society or of helping children and youth. Others wanted to continue in the school context which they had experienced till then as students. Material benefits such as money, prestige and security of employment were attractive as were the relatively fewer working hours and 24

Being a teacher working days. For women he found that teaching was seen as suited to ‘wifehood and motherhood’. Other teachers found it offered time for further study or extra work of other sorts. For males from homes of low social status and economic insecurity, teaching offered security and social mobility. For women, with fewer job opportunities than men, teaching salaries were attractive. Some people ‘second chose’ teaching because socio-economic or other constraints blocked them from the career they really wanted (e.g., wanted to become a doctor but couldn’t afford it); others came to teaching from some other career. Lortie also stressed the status quo supporting, conservative nature of many teachers reflected in many of the reasons they gave for choosing teaching. He pointed out that all of this clearly implies the self-selection of certain types of people to teaching, the consequence of which, we would suggest, is too often a group of people who are reluctant to question much of what goes on in schools.

Becoming a teacher It is a truism that many beginning teachers move from progressive ideals about teaching inculcated by college or university pre-service training to authoritarian, custodial and distrustful practice in classrooms. Why is this so? Typically, explanations focus on the contrast between pre-service socialisation and in-service experience. Pre-service socialisation into the teaching role tends to provide an idealised image of teaching and students which beginning teachers, due to their limited contact with the reality of schooling, cannot adequately test. However, Bartholomew (1976) suggests a further source of confusion for teacher trainees in the disjunction between the liberal rhetoric and the often conservative practices of teacher education. Additionally, discussion, presentation and analysis of teaching methods and styles normally occur in the college setting at some distance in time and setting from schools and classrooms (and here we would assert the essentially artificial and inadequate approach of most so-called microteaching). Too often this preparation tends to be inadequate and ineffective so that the ‘reality shock’ (Whiteside et al., 1969) of the initial teaching experience leads many beginning teachers to reject their college preparation. Certainly, a number of studies show a major shift in the attitudes of beginning teachers so that 25

Being a teacher ‘idealistic, humanistic and progressive attitudes to schools and children are replaced by realism, conservatism, toughmindedness and custodialism’ (McArthur, 1981, p. 3). Such an attitude has been characterised as a ‘pupil control ideology’ (Willower et al., 1967). It involves a rejection of the more humanistic orientation to learning and students and those concepts of a more democratic and open classroom climate which are promoted (at the level of rhetoric any rate) in many college courses and in much of the literature on pedagogy and ‘principles’ of education. (For further discussion, see Smith, 1979, and Atkinson and Delamont, 1985.) Robert Elliott (1980) found that student teachers had considerable difficulties in coming to terms with the transition from college to the realities of their teaching. The disjunction between college preparation and classroom reality, Elliott suggests, means that beginning teachers tend to question all the collegeconstructed ‘network of ideas’ about teaching activities. Consequently they are left with only the ideas and practices of their more experienced colleagues and their past recollections of school and classroom experience prior to their pre-service training. To Lortie (1975) this ‘apprenticeship of observation’ is fundamental in teacher socialisation. Lortie’s analysis saw three ways (often in combination) by which people might be inducted into an occupation. These were the general education of formal schooling up to and including tertiary education where necessary; ‘mediated entry’; and ‘learning-while-doing’. To Lortie, teaching involved a lengthy period of prior education at school and tertiary level but a relatively short period of formal professional education. Its professional preparation did not match the depth, specialised vocabulary or extent of that for doctors, engineers or lawyers. The mediated entry provided by practice teaching he saw as similarly short and relatively casual. For example, the models of teaching that student teachers see are dependent to a great degree on the particular supervising teacher(s) to whom they might be allocated. And after that brief and often idiosyncratic experience, beginning teachers are turned out quite abruptly to take full responsibility for classes. Compared with medical internships or a clerkship in a law office, this is certainly a ‘sink-or-swim’ approach. And where ‘learning-while-doing’ is con cerned, in-service training is sparse, short in extent, very often voluntary and/or 26

Being a teacher done in one’s own time, and (except for formal college or university courses) often lacking any coherent organisation. The natural consequence of all this is what we have discussed already: the dominance of ‘anticipatory socialisation’, acceptance of the models of teaching used by more experienced peers in schools, and an uncritical, unreflective conception of teaching. Moreover, as the introductory chapter indicated, because teachers often reject ‘theory’, they lack the conceptual tools for changing their practice or for adequately resolving problems of the sort outlined earlier in this chapter. This discrediting of theory, together with the anxiety of beginning teachers and the ‘cellular organisation’ of schools in which teachers operate in isolation, reinforces ‘the primacy of personal experience’ and the importance of ‘informal exchange’ with fellow teachers.

What teachers do: a brief analysis Teachers’ work is very much affected by the nature of schooling and the tasks that teachers have to perform. We will say more about this in later chapters. But consider, now, for example, the apparent stereotyped role needed for classroom survival by this beginning teacher: I learned over a period of months that in order to survive in the classroom I had to take on the persona of someone acting as a teacher. That is, I had to shut down spontaneity and candidness on my part and in their place put on a calculated facade of coolness and patience. Gradually I began to sound as if I had memorised a script. When I seemed to be acting as if I really knew what I was doing and where I and the class were going, and when, through the careful articulation of each utterance, accompanied by the slow scanning of the entire classroom, I mesmerised the students into the docility which overcomes alligators whose tummies have been rubbed, then something like order would exist and ideas might possibly have a chance of penetrating the thick shields of dullness which encased their brains. . . . It seemed to me that I became less genuine as an individual. When I had periodic lapses into my actual personality, I felt that these were invariably detrimental to me in my attempt to teach (Cornog, in Ryan, 1970, pp. 14-15). 27

Being a teacher Such experiences indicate the pressures for teachers to accept the custodial approach to teaching discussed previously. That is, the need to achieve order and classroom control takes precedence over teaching and learning. Too often, therefore, the model teacher resembles a circus ringmaster facing the lions, with the classroom as the arena. In such a situation, as Sara Delamont (1976, pp. 61, 62) points out, The pupils must accept what they can and cannot do and what academic work is expected. The teacher, therefore, must decide what her expectations and limits of tolerance are, define them to the class, and get her definitions accepted. Concern with fixing the limits, and getting them accepted, preoccupies the teacher. . . . This need to maintain control is reinforced by the expectations of other teachers in the school and by students’ expectations that the teacher is there to teach and to maintain order. Learning, then, becomes the responsibility of the teacher, not the class. Structural features of schools and classrooms compound this problem for teachers. Here we refer to matters such as the compulsory nature of schooling, the prescribed curriculum, the segmentation of the school day by timetabling and bells, and the limited resources available to teachers and students as reflected in, for example, large class sizes. What this means is that teachers are not necessarily totalitarian, aggressive or repressive, but rather, their behaviour has to be understood in the light of the imperatives of schooling and classroom practice. (These matters are elaborated in Chapters Two and Four.) Dale (1977b, p. 49) makes the point well in relation to the effects of class size: The teacher-pupil ratio currently pertaining makes it almost certain that the basis of order which is taken to be a necessary basis for effective teaching cannot be assumed by the teacher, but has to be achieved, imposed by the teacher on the pupils. . . . (F)urthermore, discipline is necessary not only to facilitate teaching, but also for teachers to survive in a classroom with at least twenty pupils, and usually many more. The teacher-pupil ratio ensures that discipline, the exercise of their authority, is not left to the discretion of teachers, but is a central part of their job. Further, in managing the classroom arena, teachers are forced to act autonomously and instantly, and to accept the consequences. They face decisions 28

Being a teacher over a wide range of issues while alone with a large group of students who, given the adversary nature of the situation, may seize upon any sign of indecision or hesitation. This situation is well described by Waller (1932) as akin to ‘a despotism in a state of perilous equilibrium’. There is little opportunity to reflect or seek second opinions from colleagues except after the event. Thus teachers, in spite of their power, are vulnerable. If they make a serious error they may be accountable to their superiors, to parents, to their employing body, or to the law. Yet all the while the typical relationship of teachers and students is one of inequality. The teacher is the appointed authority, the proclaimed expert, the parental surrogate, the assessor, the disciplinarian, and as such has power not only over legitimate knowledge but on matters of morals, behaviour, dress, speech and so on (Hammersley, 1976). For reasons like these, schools are sometimes compared with such ‘total institutions’ as the army, prison or hospital in which the institution attempts to control every aspect of its inmates’ lives and handles human needs by ‘the bureaucratic organisation of whole blocks of people’ (Goffman, 1968, pp. 17, 18). Even the possibility of rebellion or classroom disorder parallels in lesser degree the illegitimate responses of mutiny in the armed forces or riots in prisons. Any discussion of teachers’ experience must take account of pressures such as those addressed here and the consequent problems of stress and ‘burnout’. Equally it must consider the tension between societal and political demands for teacher accountability and professional demands for teacher autonomy. We attend to these issues in turn, beginning with a consideration of ‘teacher burnout’.

Teacher burnout in context McGregor’s previously mentioned report on teacher stress noted that classroom stress too often leads to teacher ‘burnout’. Cynicism, lateral or upward mobility out of classrooms, taking ‘sickies’ and just plain ‘dropping out’ of teaching are common resolutions of such problems. McGregor cited alarming overseas research showing that over half of all teachers surveyed had been physically ill and some quarter had experienced mental illness from the strains of teaching. Teachers commonly experienced adverse physical or mental effects which are not the consequence of their personal inadequacy but a product of the teaching situation. Otto (1982) found work pressure to be the major stress factor for Victorian teachers, 29

Being a teacher while student behaviour was second in line. Sampson (1982) surveyed 200 teachers at six Queensland high schools and found that the main stress factors in order were managing disruptive children, large classes, too much paper work, and insufficient time for planning and preparation. These factors were exacerbated by the youth and inexperience of most teachers, as noted previously. Large classes are also a significant contributor to teacher stress. For example, Jack Campbell and Margaret Robinson (1983a) found that whereas a class of 21 students would apply nearly 80 per cent of its time to lesson related tasks, one with 32 students would give such tasks only 68 per cent of its time. Over a school year this is a significant loss of teaching time. The extra pressure from the challenge to control the larger group plus the greater difficulty in covering the prescribed work is surely critical. McArthur’s (1981) research on the first five years of teaching which we reviewed earlier in this chapter provides some pretty harsh accounts of teachers’ first year out experiences. Typical reports included: [A]: (T)he first year was horrifying. Suddenly instead of having a partload for just a couple of weeks, which you had at college, you were confronted with a fulltime teaching load: teaching all years 7 and 8 and coping with their demands, their pressure, and you just were not ready for it. I wasn’t anyway. It was a case of jump in and hope you didn’t sink. [B]: The things that made my first year difficult were discipline and hangups with the kids; establishing discipline when you don’t really know that much about it because of inexperience. . . . I remember the first day in my first school. . . . I thought, ‘What am I doing here? Why am I teaching? It’s all wrong – all of a sudden I’m a teacher and I shouldn’t be.’ [C]: My first year of teaching was very hard – it was real hell! I was in a much larger school than I had ever been in before so that even just getting to know the staff and finding my way around was hard. There were a lot of fairly rough classes and I had trouble getting control at the start (pp. 41, 43, 44). Similar concerns with ‘discipline’ and ‘order and control’ are evident in a study by the Queensland Board of Teacher Education (1981) which showed that beginning teachers ranked ‘ability to discipline children’ as their highest priority in qualities expected of them. By contrast, other classroom teachers ranked it fifth, 30

Being a teacher inspectors placed it ninth, and college lecturers ranked it 25th out of 45 items. It looks as if the closer you get to the classroom, the more important discipline appears. And understandably so. Clearly, teacher stress and its consequences are real. Unfortunately, too often analyses and solutions have remained at an essentially psychologistic level. Hence the solutions tend to be predicated more at the level of the individual rather than the structures and system in which the ‘problem’ is essentially located. The point is that such approaches can easily imply either that teachers are to blame for their situation or else that because it is impossible to do anything about that situation, teachers need to be ‘re-engineered’ to cope. We suggest that, for example, strategies such as ‘stress-reduction techniques’ are often inadequate in this regard. As Farber (1984) observes, ‘burnout’ represents ‘a specific set of symptoms that are necessarily embedded in a social-historical-political context’ (p. 334). That is to say, sociological analyses of teacher stress suggest that the causes of such stress are located more in the way schools function and in the broader social system than in the psyches and practices of individual teachers. Moreover, as indicated earlier, the increasing burden of tasks imposed on schools and teachers by the ebb and flow of political decisions also adds to the pressures teachers experience. There is another set of pressures facing teachers which stems from everchanging and frequently contradictory directions at the policy level of education. Thus while teachers are still expected to maintain the traditional functions of order and control, they are equally expected to ensure the achievement of laudable aims such as equal opportunities for girls in science and maths, or the meeting of cultural differences stemming from the ethnic composition of the population. Lampert (1985) has written about the dilemmas she faced as a teacher who was committed to giving girls an equal chance in her maths class, but who at the same time had to maintain order so that anything at all could be achieved. In this case Lampert had to be careful not to give too much attention to the disruptive boys but on the other hand if she neglected them, problems of classroom control arose. Thus Lampert talks of herself as a ‘dilemma manager’ and as such indicates yet another of the many stresses placed upon teachers. Of such challenges she states: When I consider the conflicts that arise in the classroom from my perspective as a teacher, I do not see a choice between abstract social goals such as Excellence versus Equality or Freedom versus Standardisation. What I see are tensions 31

Being a teacher between individual students, or personal confrontations between myself and a particular group of boys or girls. . . . I am responsible for choosing a course of action in circumstances where choices lead to further conflict (p. 181). By and large, however, policy makers have failed to address such problems centred on classroom practice. Too often also sociological analyses of schooling have either ignored this level of inter-personal action or treated it as if the participants were unable to change their situation in any significant way. The consequence is a disjunction between the ‘cool’ knowledge of the ‘experts’ who are comfortably distanced from classroom experience and the ‘hot’ knowledge of immediate experience possessed by classroom practitioners. (See Rein, 1983.) Apart from the work of symbolic interactionists such as Hargreaves et al. (1975), this gap is often filled for teachers by psychologistic programs for classroom management or pastoral care, or even recipes of the sort promoted in courses on instant ‘effective teaching’. While these more immediately attractive approaches may have short-term advantages for teachers, we would argue for reasons we hope this book will make clear, that they are based on only a partial recognition of the complex interrelationship between classrooms and their broader social environment. For this reason, such approaches present no long-term solutions for teachers seriously concerned about more equitable outcomes of schooling or the ‘real education’ of students, in the full sense of that term. (See, for example, Tony Knight’s (1985) critique of pastoral care programs in schools.)

The question of teacher professionalism The nature of teachers’ work, as described thus far, seems not to fit too comfortably with the conventional definitions of professionalism. Indeed, we will argue that, so far as the practice of teaching is concerned, professionalism itself is a curiously ambiguous concept. We commence with an overview of the conventional view of a profession, then attempt a more critical understanding of the term and its implications for teaching. Typical statements about the nature of a profession read something like this: a profession requires specialised knowledge, skill and expertise not generally available in the wider society. Hence it demands long and specialised, advanced 32

Being a teacher training, preferably in a university. It is an occupation whose practice is essential for the good or welfare of the community. It is benevolent in its concerns for society and its ideal is service rather than economic gain. Hence professionals merit not only very superior status but also deserve higher remuneration than the majority of the community. Since they have to accept responsibility for their actions and decisions, they must also have a high degree of autonomy in the performance of their duties. Such trust should allow the relevant professional bodies to judge incompetence and lack of integrity in their members, to control the right of people to practise the profession and hence to maintain a register of suitable practitioners, and to set appropriate standards and a code of ethics for their members. The medical profession is an example of this approach to professionalism. And doctors, in maintaining the right to practise without competition from other approaches to health-care (e.g., alternative medicine), in setting their own fee schedules, and in controlling the numbers actually admitted into their select group, are in a position of considerable power. This linking of professional status with social and economic power provides a useful approach to a sociological critique of professionalism. Such an analysis would examine the historical evolution of groups such as the clergy, lawyers and doctors in the context of the changing social, economic and political context in which their special status developed. It would link this understanding to the degree to which these groups, through their practice, were able to monopolise certain areas of human need. In this context, Johnson (1984) argues that professionalism refers not so much to an occupation in itself as to the means of controlling it. If that is so, then the ‘level’ of professionalism of an occupation relates to the degree to which that occupation has control over the professional-client relationship. Within this framework, Johnson postulates three types or forms of professionalism. The first, or ‘collegiate’ model of professionalism, represents the ‘full professionals’ which typically are the older, established professions such as doctors and lawyers. Such traditional professional groups define the needs of their clients and the manner in which those needs should be met; that is, they control the professional-client relationship. In the second, or ‘patronage’ model of professionalism, it is the client who defines her or his needs while the occupation defines the manner in which those needs are met. Accountants provide a good example of this relationship. 33

Being a teacher It is the third model, that of ‘mediated professionalism’, into which teaching falls. Here a third party (usually in the form of a state bureaucracy) intervenes to define the needs of the clients and how they should be met. Clearly in this position the professional has relatively limited power and status. Garvey (1982) for example concludes that the low level of teacher professionalism is explained by ‘the lack of control the professional community has over its members’ (p. 236). And as Bryan Wilson (1962, p. 28) notes, teachers are far more vulnerable than the traditional professions in that they ‘have less control of the institution in which their role is performed’. They are also more vulnerable to political pressure because their task is more open to public scrutiny, is less esoteric than for example medical or legal work which has its own jargon, and their performance is less dramatic and urgent than that of doctors and lawyers. However, now that increasing numbers of the older professions are being employed in state bureaucracies, they also face many of the same problems of bureaucratic intervention and control. But the notion of teacher professionalism is further confused by a general lack of clarity about the nature of teachers’ work (as discussed previously), their clientele, and their accountability. It is relatively simple to specify the clientele of a doctor, dentist, accountant or solicitor. For teachers however, in addition to students, their clientele may include parents, future employers, and the community. What responsibility do teachers owe each group and how should this be assessed? Furthermore, as Campbell and Robinson (1983b) showed, there is a great diversity of social expectations about what teachers should and should not do. Similarly, it is clear when a surgeon’s work is finished: the patient recovered or the operation was unsuccessful. For a lawyer we know whether the case was won or lost; whether the client received sound advice; whether the contract was properly phrased. But in contrast to all this, teachers’ work is diffuse and diverse. As Connell (1985) noted, it is ‘a labour process without an object’. Historically, the low status and limited professionalism of teaching is associated with the relatively late development of mass schooling and the large numbers and lowly social backgrounds of the teachers involved. Bernard Shaw’s cutting aphorism, ‘Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach’, bears witness to the near contempt in which teachers were then commonly held. It should also be noted that some critical accounts (e.g., Simon, 1960; Bowles, 1976; Karier, 1976; Hogan, 1982; Grace, 1985) of the development of British and US mass schooling stress the 34

Being a teacher degree to which ruling business and political interests sought to control the process, content and particularly the personnel of schooling. Grace (1985) for example, showed the interest of such powerful groups in ensuring that these schools were staffed with ‘trusty teacher(s)’, who should ‘raise a new race of working-class people – respectful, cheerful, hard-working, loyal, pacific and religious’. For such ends, ‘“goodness” was much to be preferred to “cleverness”’. Good teachers were ideologically reliable; they were effective agents of ‘social control and social cohesion’. Having first established control of their classrooms they would then apply ‘principles of effective pedagogic work production’ to their students. Close supervision and closely controlled curriculum during teacher training were followed by continued supervision of teachers in schools by inspectors and school managers. Indeed, ‘payment by results’ was attempted in both England and Australia during the latter part of the nineteenth century. The state was actively involved in the process of teacher control. As Meyers (1985) showed in the case of France in this period, the state expected teachers to be ‘the unquestioning instruments of government policy’ (p. 33). Theirs was to be ‘a mission of uplift as well as political and social consolidation’ (p. 31). It was against such constraints as these that the ethos of teacher professionalism emerged. Over time, claims constructed around professionalism have helped in attaining a more adequate preparation for beginning teachers, proper certification and a better public status for all teachers. Yet, ironically, that same assertion of professionalism which once enabled teachers to confront the bureaucratic, state and business domination of education is now used against teachers to enhance that control or to support a conservative conception of teachers’ tasks and functions. This ambiguity is clearly documented in the Second Interim Report of the Ahern Committee (1979) in Queensland, which expressed its approval of the teaching profession monitoring its own ‘ethical and professional standards’, but against this concession asserted the authority of the employing body in controlling and directing its teachers: We can conceive of no argument which would justify teachers claiming exemption from normal managerial practice. The arguments which we have received appear to be based on an invalid comparison between the position of teachers in schools and that of self-employed professionals (p. 8). 35

Being a teacher The use of the ethos of professionalism against teachers’ own interests is also evident in a letter from the then Queensland Director-General of Education to all state school teachers following their first general strike (1982) in 70 years. He made a clear distinction between those teachers with a professional commitment and ‘a minority of vociferous militants’. This letter clearly played on what Henry (1983, p. 204) described as ‘teachers’ ambivalence about their professional status in a state government bureaucracy’. And in the 1981 NSW teacher strikes over changes in work value and claims for increased salaries, both politicians and the media made a similar comparison in which ‘the teacher’, who is responsible, professional, and puts her/his interests behind that of the greater good of the community, is contrasted with ‘the striker’, who like all militant workers, will not listen to reason and will not accept the (supposedly) rational argument that ‘strikes achieve nothing’ (White, 1984, p. 34). White here highlights the artificial distinction made between a teachers’ union (which is bad) and a professional association (which is good). In other words, the rhetoric of teacher professionalism is mobilised to inhibit industrial action by teachers. In this way, an emphasis upon an idealised role of the teacher displaces attention from their work situation. This ambiguity in the concept of teacher professionalism helps to explain why, despite their increasing ‘militancy’ in recent years, teachers’ responses to attacks on their work still tend to be restricted to assertions of their pedagogical competence or claims for a limited autonomy at the level of the classroom. Seldom do they extend to demands for more democratic forms of school government. However, for some years now, Victorian teacher unions have been involved with curriculum and governance issues, as has the Australian Teachers Federation. It follows that most teachers accept their status as public servants and take for granted the bureaucratic and administrative control of ‘the Department’ over the content and context of their teaching. In return, the bureaucratic system does offer rewards and security to conforming teachers. Rather than mutual antagonism, the system and teachers usually support each other. Thus teachers normally enjoy 36

Being a teacher guaranteed tenure, incremental promotion, state credentials and civil service status from ‘the system’. At the same time teachers, by their practice, legitimate the existence and functions of the bureaucratic structure which supports them. In this context, Bates’s (1983) reference to ‘the symbiosis of professionalism and bureaucracy’ is apposite. (See also Chapter Four.) Further, while the ambiguity inherent in the concept of professionalism allows that notion to be used differently by teachers, their employers and sectors of the community, major changes in teachers’ work are occurring. These changes, during a period of social and economic crisis such as we are now experiencing (and also seen during the 1930s; see Seddon, 1985) accompany the cutting back on social and welfare services, together with a reduction in education expenditure. As a result, under the guise of meeting demands for ‘efficiency’ and ‘economy’ in the delivery of services, the work of teachers intensifies, becoming more onerous and demanding. (See Chapter Three.) In addition to the child-centred goals of progressive education with its concern for personal development, meeting students’ individual needs and so on, teachers must now also take responsibility for producing ‘marketable’ graduates, teaching students how to cope with unemployment, and performing a greater pastoral role in their counselling and social adjustment. Such ‘diverse and diffuse’ purposes of education (Pusey, 1980) compound current pressures on teachers. Added to this are changes in the conditions of work of teachers, which are making teaching more routinised and less professionally autonomous. The effect of all this is perhaps best summed up in Rob White’s words as ‘the proletarianisation of teachers’ (1983a,b). Such a change clearly links with issues of teacher stress and deterioriating working conditions. In short, in this situation of reduced expenditure, larger classes and schools, and more students remaining at school longer, teachers are simultaneously being asked to take on broader tasks as part of their professional role. These contradictions contribute to the less than ideal teacher practices in classrooms discussed previously. To conclude: the particular vulnerability of teachers stems from the complex and diverse range of tasks which they perform, together with the ambiguous nature of professionalism as it relates to teaching. These factors compound to create conflicts and instability for teachers which in part contribute to teacher stress. 37

Being a teacher However, such conflicts, while having negative effects, may also act as a catalyst for alternative practices and thereby offer scope for change. Some of these practices will be discussed in our concluding chapters.

Further reading Acker, S. (1983), ‘Women and teaching: a semi-detached sociology of a semi-profession’, in S. Walker and I. Barton (eds), Gender, Class and Education, Barcombe: Falmer Press, pp. 123-40. A very good account of the sexual division of labour within teaching which focuses upon the subordinate position of most women teachers. Campbell, W.J. and Robinson, N.M. (1983), ‘What Australian society expects of its schools, teachers, and teaching’, in R.K. Browne and L.E. Foster (eds), Sociology of Education, 3rd ed., Melbourne: Macmillan, pp. 85-96. An informative survey of differing viewpoints (industrial, social, fundamentalist, humanistic, academic) on Australian schools and teachers. The current economic situation may mean a hardening of attitudes towards the ‘workforce’ aspects of schooling however. Connell, R. (1985), Teachers’ Work, Sydney: Allen & Unwin. An interesting case-study type analysis of teachers’ lives, work and attitudes to their tasks, covering both private and state schools, male and female teachers, and ‘conservative’ and more ‘radical’ teachers. Highly recommended reading. Farber, B. (1984), Teacher burnout: assumptions, myths and issues’, Teachers College Record, vol. 86, no. 2, pp. 321-38. A critical discussion of the concept and evidence on ‘burnout’, positing ‘structural’ dimensions (as opposed to the more usual psychologistic and individually-based explanations) involved in the problem. Garvey, T. (1982), Teacher professionalism: an alternative explanation’, Unicorn, vol. 8, no. 3, pp. 234-7. A useful summary of teacher professionalism and its limitations, including the effect of bureaucratic control on teacher autonomy, which sets a model of professionalism as a means of controlling an occupation against the more usual orthodox definition of professionalism. Harris, K. (1982), Teachers and Classes: A Marxist Analysis, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. This book addresses a number of issues central to this chapter and to the book as a whole, placing them within a Marxist framework. For this chapter, its discussion of the occupation of teaching, the current proletarianisation of teachers, and the class location of teachers is clearly relevant. Lampert, M. (1985), ‘How do teachers manage to teach? Perspectives on problems in practice’, Harvard Educational Review, vol. 55, no. 2, pp. 178-94. An excellent analysis

38

Being a teacher of the tension between achieving progressive education aims and at the same time ensuring classroom control and effective learning. Lortie, D. (1975), School-Teacher, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. A most useful though somewhat dated analysis of US school teachers, their socialisation into teaching, their attitudes and so on. Chapters Two (‘Recruitment and affirmation’) and Three (‘The limits of socialisation’) are particularly worth attention. Wilson, B. (1962), ‘The teacher’s role – a sociological analysis’, British Journal of Sociology, vol. 13, no. 1, pp. 15-32. An excellent analysis of the complexity and diffuse nature of the teacher’s tasks, and of the ‘role-conflicts’ and insecurities consequent on that.

39

Chapter Two

What makes a classroom?

There were seven long desks and seven long forms of good solid red cedar – soft, even grained, and ideal for carving. Although carving stood foremost among the major crimes, the desks were always scored deeply with names, initials, wells, trenches, and strange crude drawings of man and animal . . . . The faces before him ranged from eager to full, from docile to rebellious. There was infinite variety, fascinating really, although it didn’t pay to be too fascinated by such things. Feet were often bare, though good boots were common enough and frequently depended on the home pride. . . (Brian James, The Advancement of Spencer Button, 1950, pp. 63-4.

What makes a classroom? What makes a classroom? We are likely to visualise a room with tables, chairs and a blackboard, though the extract above reminds us that individual removable furniture has replaced long desks and forms, fixed together, and nailed down in geometrical precision on to the floor. Today, if we’re lucky, there will be carpets, an OHP, a white board, and a video set. Although still too many classrooms are bare and unwelcoming, there will usually be charts on the wall, shelves and cupboards, a teacher’s desk, a number of books and a characteristic smell. We know a classroom by its architecture and furniture, and even by its atmosphere. But a classroom is much more. It is a setting, an arena or stage if you like, for action; a place where teaching and learning are supposed to be going on, but where 40

What makes a classroom? much else occurs as well. The classroom context is certainly physical, but it is also a temporal, organisational and educational setting. (See Delamont, 1976.) And it is the people and the activities which occur within it which make the classroom an ecological setting for social interaction. While it is certainly true that particular teaching styles and kinds of learning are not totally dependent on particular classroom features, nevertheless the nature of the room, its size and shape, the type of furniture, the available resources and the way the classroom is arranged, facilitate certain styles of teaching and inhibit others. For example, it is obviously much easier to teach in an informal way, and to encourage group work and discovery methods, in a modern open-space situation with movable furniture and a carpeted floor. The traditional classroom with fixed seats in rows and a raised platform at one end invokes a particular model of teaching and learning. Bare drab walls and high windows add to an atmosphere which would make informal approaches more difficult to achieve. We will discuss this and other aspects of the classroom setting in more detail later. We first turn to consider the nature and effects of the culture of the classroom.

The culture of the classroom What really makes a classroom a place where teaching and learning are supposed to happen is the conjunction of teacher, student and activities. And here we may have to shake off some of our taken-for-granted preconceptions about what goes on in classrooms. Indeed, some of our ideas from past experiences may actually get in the way of a proper sociological analysis of the classroom. What we have to do is to look at life in the classroom critically; that is, we must ask questions such as ‘What is going on here?’, ‘What social processes are occurring?’, ‘What are the power relationships in the classroom?’. We need to think about the social interaction that occurs as if we had never been inside a classroom before, and preferably without concentrating too much upon the role of the teacher alone. (Not too soon anyway, that is.) Understanding the forces operating in the classroom is a first step in reflecting on the work of teaching and in understanding what is likely to happen to anyone who becomes a teacher in our society. 41

What makes a classroom? In any classroom there is a particular pattern of meanings and ways of behaving which have been learned and constructed over time by its members. That is, there is a culture of the classroom. As Dale suggests, this culture of the schoolroom develops from the ‘complex multilayered series of interactions between teachers and pupils’ (1972, p. 18). Here the emphasis is on the way the participants build up and shape a culture through interaction. The sociological term for this perspective, as noted in the introduction, is ‘symbolic interactionism’ and it is a theoretical approach developed from the work of George Herbert Mead (1934). (See also Blumer, 1977; Foster, 1981; Woods, 1983.) From a symbolic interactionist perspective, classroom culture is constituted and reconstituted through the learning and shared standards, values and acceptable ways of behaving. Students learn the routine of the classroom with each teacher they have, respond to the differences in atmosphere between them and learn to recognise when they are stepping outside the bounds of acceptable behaviour. Thus in one classroom the students may have to line up in sex segregated lines, while in another they may be allowed to go inside as they arrive. And there are other less obvious aspects of classroom culture. For example, students learn to recognise the danger signals from teachers; when one begins to pace the room or another slams down books in a particular way, it is time to ‘toe the line’. A contrasting approach (‘structural-functionalism’) focuses upon the classroom culture as a given pattern which binds participants together in ‘a way of life, which when learnt, defines the situation for all who share it, so they can communicate and respond to one another’ (Shipman, 1968, p. 42). From the structural-functional perspective, teachers and pupils are seen as taking on predetermined or given roles, where a role is the behaviour associated with a particular position in society. The term itself is borrowed from the theatre: teachers and students perform particular roles in the classroom. For the structural-functionalist, these roles are scripted and played out as given or pre-set. Symbolic interactionism also uses the idea of drama. But here the actors are making their roles and playing out the drama with much more scope for creativity. They are ‘workshopping’, or extemporising, rather than using a finished script. Here the idea is that of role making rather than role taking, and culture develops out of the participants’ shared problems and the social interaction of teachers and students. One striking usage of this latter perspective is Goffman’s notion of the presentation of self (Goffman, 1959). Taking Mead’s view of the self as actively constructed through everyday life, Goffman uses dramatic metaphors to analyse 42

What makes a classroom? social situations. Thus he speaks of the setting, appearance, manner and performance of the actor and discusses how people put on a social front. He illustrates his analysis by extracts from several fictional and non-fictional accounts of waiters and waitresses, showing how they ‘play’ at waiting, even to the extent of on-stage and off-stage (back stage) behaviours when they are in the kitchen or out in the dining room. He uses an extract from Orwell to illustrate these behaviours from the perspective of dishwashers: It is an instructive sight to see a waiter going into a hotel dining-room. As he passes the door a sudden change comes over him. The set of his shoulders alters; all the dirt and hurry and irritation have dropped off in an instant. He glides over the carpet, with a solemn priest-like air (Orwell, 1951, pp. 68-9). Certainly Goffman’s approach can be applied to teachers: are they, too, involved in presentation? Is the self they present the same as that which they display at home, in the pub, or at church? They certainly can be said to have on-stage and off-stage behaviour: consider the difference between their classroom and their staffroom presentation. Woods, in discussing staffroom humour, likens the staffroom to a haven in stormy seas: ‘Pupils are often debarred from knocking on the door or even approaching its vicinity, by “out of bounds corridors”’ (1979, p. 211). He comments that the disorder and jovial atmosphere inside often contrast sharply with the system and order outside. Students too are involved in a presentation of self to the teacher and to other pupils. Goffman (1959) (following Sartre) discusses the pupil who is concentrating so hard on looking attentive that the teacher’s question is not heard. The type of presentation depends, of course, on the outcome the pupil seeks. If, for example, the student seeks to please the teacher, the self which is presented will be very different from that in which the approval of school-rejecting peers is sought.

In control? Focus on the teacher Most of the discussions in education textbooks about what goes on in classrooms focus on the teacher, and consideration of the students is cursory, if not absent. However, we suggest that it is impossible for teachers to approach their tasks in 43

What makes a classroom? isolation. Students must be included in any discussion on teaching for any realistic understanding of life in classrooms, or of the way student cultures shape what happens in classrooms. It is, of course, easy to understand why in the past emphasis has been on teachers. Teachers are seen as the key participants because they appear to have the power in the classroom by virtue of their position (being adults as well as teachers), and therefore they apparently control and shape what goes on. Students attend school involuntarily and are temporarily cut off from the outside world, whereas teachers are on their own ground (perhaps?), which adds to the power differential. Teachers appear to control the interaction which goes on in the classroom, generally doing most of the talking and deciding which students are allowed to speak, at least publicly. Research (e.g., Flanders, 1970; Delamont, 1976) shows that teacher talk occupies about 70 per cent of all talk time in the classroom, that teachers initiate most interchange and discussion, and also conclude it. The following extract of classroom talk, where the teacher supplies a predetermined structure, also illustrates a further aspect of the teacher centredness of much ‘classroom interaction’: T: He carried an air supply because. . . .? Why does he need an air supply? P: There isn’t any air. T: Good. There isn’t any air. . . . Where there’s no air . . . come on, complete it . . . well? P: Life. T: If you’ve got no air you’ve got no. . . .? P: Air pressure. T: No air pressure. . . . So what must mountaineers do if they find there’s no air pressure? (Three sentences omitted here) T: The reason why they want to have air cylinders is because. . . .? P: There isn’t any air, sir. T: Good. There isn’t much air. (Barnes et al., 1971, p. 38) This teacher-centredness is particularly important in relation to the controlling functions of schooling. From the structural-functional perspective the centrality of the teacher does not present a problem, for according to that view schooling is to socialise pupils for their future roles in society: schooling is seen as a conservative 44

What makes a classroom? force, binding society together by moulding pupils to conform. The teacher then must be a ‘moral model’ (Meighan 1981, p. 209), handing on societal values through the standards imposed in the classroom, and always maintaining control over the students. From a more critical perspective, as we will see later, ‘teacher centredness’ and the associated control functions present a real problem. Other writers have suggested a range of sub-roles associated with teachers (e.g., Waller 1932; Hoyle 1969). David Hargreaves (1975) attempts to divide the teacher’s role into two major facets: as disciplinarian and as instructor. The disciplinarian maintains order; decides who is to do what, where and when; organises procedures and grouping of students and generally manages the events of the classroom. Hargreaves says that these events may be accomplished autocratically or democratically. It is important, either way, that control is maintained (by a number of control techniques and punishment) or the teacher’s professional status is threatened. As instructor, the teacher has the power to decide what will be learned, and how it will be learned by the students who then have to show evidence of their learning. In practice however, the instructor and disciplinarian roles tend to overlap; for example, seating positions may be decided on academic as well as organisational grounds. As well as these two major facets of the role, a teacher may adopt one of a range of role styles in the classroom which may be idiosyncratic and depend on different interpretations of the teaching role. Meighan (1981) gives the following examples: Representative of society: inculcates moral precepts. Judge: gives marks and ratings. Resource: possesses knowledge and skills. Helper: provides guidance on pupils’ difficulties. Referee: settles disputes among pupils. Detective: discovers rule breakers. Object of identification: possesses traits which pupils may imitate. Ego-supporter: helps pupils to develop confidence in themselves (p. 41). Thus it would appear that the particular approach teachers adopt in the classroom will depend on their own beliefs about teaching and learning. In other words, their personal philosophy will be able to be expressed in their role style. But is this the case? And are teachers really in control of life in the classroom? 45

What makes a classroom? Constraints on teachers A teacher’s performance in the classroom will depend on many other factors. Beginning teachers have their own expectations of the role of the teacher, presumably at least partly shaped by teacher education courses, by teaching practice experiences and by their own prior experiences of schooling (Lortie, 1975). But when entering a new school they become influenced by a number of constraints affecting the role. For this reason Meighan (1981) uses the striking analogy of the teacher as victim. For example, the principal and the rest of the staff have expectations about how teachers should behave in their particular school, and these expectations will be conveyed to the newcomer. Thus, a new teacher may be ‘discouraged’ from continuing to use ‘role-playing’ with the students if they appear disorderly. The discouragement may be by direct means in the staffroom (‘We don’t want that nonsense in our school’), or through subtle disapproval if the class seems too noisy or unruly. Students also have expectations about how teachers should behave, based on their previous experiences. Clearly if they have previously only met autocratic teachers then they are likely to expect a new teacher to fit this mould. In addition, the physical setting previously mentioned will have an effect on life in the classroom and what teachers can do. The general architecture of the school, together with the arrangement of rooms, furniture and display areas, suggests possibilities and opportunities for teaching and learning, places constraints on what can happen, and implies a particular view about what education is about (Meighan, 1981). Consider the layout of some familiar classroom. What can it tell about the power relationships of its members? How much space does each student control? How much space belongs to the teacher? In the traditional classroom, the teacher is free to move around the whole room, while the student is limited to a desk. Can the student move about the room freely, or leave it at will? Further, where the student sits is also important, and Delamont (1976) points to evidence that a pupil’s seating position in the class affects whether teachers interact with her or not, and that teachers interact more with children in a V-shaped wedge in the middle of the room. In MacPherson’s (1983, p. 190) study of a Queensland high school, seating in the classroom was related to the establishment of control among the student groups. Students had to make a choice between ‘intensive academic interaction’ with the 46

What makes a classroom? teacher at the front of the classroom, and ‘the establishment of influence or power in student interaction’ at the rear. Further, students who were academically committed often chose to sit on the periphery, away from the major centre of student interaction, or in the centre, away from outside distractions. It is interesting too that in open classrooms interaction patterns do not seem to change greatly. In a comparison of interaction patterns of eleven open plan with seven conventional primary schools in Western Australia, Angus (1976) found that, regardless of setting, learning experiences were being conducted along relatively traditional lines. Of course, the design of the school buildings does have important consequences for learning (Bycroft 1981, 1983), but there are a number of reasons why old habits die hard and traditional patterns remain (Angus, 1979; Cuban, 1982). (In fact, research by Cuban in the USA shows that schooling patterns have not changed a lot since 1900.) There is another way that time as well as space constrains what goes on in classrooms. Here we are concerned with the past history in which the class is embedded and which provides meaning for present actions. Any classroom encounter is in a sense an intersection of students’ and teacher’s pasts. But not only the past shapes the events of the classroom; the future is also important. How close are the holidays? Are the exams looming? Is there an impending inspection? The tempo and activities of the classroom adjust accordingly. And the natural progression of the school day will have its effects on students and teacher. Thus a class on Monday morning may differ considerably from the same class last period on Friday afternoon. Likewise a class after games or P.E. may well be more restless than a class coming from an indoor subject. Extraneous factors also affect the social interaction of the classroom. Builders or painters outside, or some sporting activity, may hold student attention; constant traffic noise, or a low flying plane or helicopter will distract them. And of course the timetable and the formal curriculum exert considerable constraints on the teacher. If a teacher wishes to carry out some field studies in biology but has only single periods, other approaches may need to be considered. Integrated studies will only be possible given some flexibility in the timetable at the relevant year level. Again, perhaps the greatest conservative force, according to Hargreaves (1975, p. 148), is the previously mentioned expectations and evaluations of teachers’ 47

What makes a classroom? colleagues, which often inhibit educational change and experiment in secondary schools. Add to these constraints the general societal expectations of how teachers should behave, and there is a case for describing teachers as victims. In fact Woods (1979, p. 141) went as far as concluding that his analysis of constraints on teachers showed them to be caught between the two powerful pressures of ‘professional demands’ on the one hand, and ‘recalcitrant material’ in the form of reluctant or resentful students on the other. Pressures on teachers were also evident in Connell’s (1985) recent analysis of teachers and teaching, based on research in state and private schools in Sydney and Adelaide. Connell suggests that in recent decades teaching has become more demanding and more complex. He contends that it also seems likely that teaching has changed due to increasing pressures resulting from ‘a much more varied and much less submissive clientele’ (p. 125). Consequently, it seems that teachers’ practices are often guided by pragmatism. Connell’s research found that these practices sometimes conflict with teachers’ general educational philosophies, but are chosen on the basis of the sorts of approaches which work, and which allow survival as a teacher.

Worlds apart To fully understand what is going on in classrooms and to gain an effective insight into classroom interaction, it is necessary to bring the students back into focus. As both teachers and students are involved in social interaction in the classroom, it is a useless and quite unrealistic exercise to consider the teacher’s role without also considering the students. Each party brings with them their own perspectives developed from their background and experiences which in turn shape their definition of the situation. Teachers define the situation in terms of their expectations for the teacher’s role and will interpret student behaviour from this perspective. But equally, students will have their expectations about what the teacher is and should be, and what students are and how they should act. Where, then, there is a lack of match between teachers and students in defining the situation, and this will often be the case, conflict looms! It is important that teachers understand how the definition of the 48

What makes a classroom? situation influences their classroom behaviour, and that they understand something of the student definition of the situation as well. We see it as crucial that teachers make an attempt to come to grips with, and understand, the very powerful student cultures which shape what goes on in classrooms. It follows from this that, whereas some views of classroom culture (for example the structural-functional perspective) stress the consensus or unity of classroom perspectives, other views (our own included) see the classroom as a conflict situation. Both teachers and students interact from the standpoint of their own definitions of the situation, and these perspectives are often in conflict. As we have said, teachers see themselves as people who are expected to keep order and to teach. Thus Stebbins (1977) studied how teachers define a classroom situation and found similarities in the way teachers define academic performance in the classroom in urban schools in both Jamaica and Newfoundland! Teachers made judgements about students in terms of their academic performance, social behaviour and personal attractiveness. On the other hand, students are more likely to be concerned about how to make life in the classroom as enjoyable as possible and how to best relieve the boredom! The consequent conflict in the classroom is manifested in various ways: from passive resistance and apathy, such as lack of interest and refusal to answer questions, to minor hostility such as breaking pencils, through to more overt forms of disruption and rebellion, perhaps even through to violence. Waller’s comment is appropriate: Teachers and pupils confront each other in the school with an original conflict of desires and however much that conflict may be reduced in amount, or however much it may be hidden, it still remains (Waller, 1932, p. 195). It is indeed clear that teaching is ‘a tension filled chancy process’ (Geer, 1968), and ‘a delicately balanced game between sides that have unconsciously developed a set of rules’ (Shipman, 1968). In one North American study of high school girls the researcher found that the ‘teacher-kid’ conflict shaped the identities of the teachers and students (Davis, 1972). Teachers were defined by their strictness, whether they made sense, and whether they cared about the students. On the other hand, the student groups reflected the roles they played in the teacher-student conflict, for example, ‘trouble-makers’ and ‘goody- goodies’. The main activities of teachers were seen 49

What makes a classroom? by the students as directed against the students themselves. They viewed teachers’ main activities as ‘picking on kids’, ‘catching kids’ and ‘trying to be cool’. Davis concluded that their view that teachers cause conflict seemed to be justified: ‘Teachers – and education – will never change until they start listening to the ways kids think about the institution they share’ (Davis, 1972, p. 119). Similarly, an Australian survey of children’s views about schools commented that the message coming loud and clear was that the children want teachers who are humane and approachable in their ideal school. A 12-year-old girl said, ‘Teachers would be equal to us, they would have no authority but we would respect them’ (Humphreys and Newcombe, 1975, p. 102). Indeed, in reviewing studies on student views of the ideal teacher, Meighan (1981) notes that there seems to be a high degree of consensus among students of all ages about the ideal teacher. In general students seem to want teachers to be ‘nice strict’ as distinct from ‘nasty strict’, and they also seem to want a more consultative relationship. It is significant that children, writing about the ideal teacher, recognised that their ‘new’ kind of teacher might not fit easily into the present context of schooling and that changes would be needed. A number of Australian studies have explored students’ views about teachers. For example, in their survey of Sydney youth, Connell and his colleagues (1975) found strong criticisms of teachers who treated them rudely and brusquely. Similarly, Wright and others found that young people felt that some teachers did not attach enough importance to giving them personal attention: I was just another in 500. You don’t get a chance to grow up, they make you feel like a kid. The teachers didn’t know your name or nothing. . . . The impersonal teachers – the ‘nine-to-five job’ type – they’re usually the hardest to get along with; the hardest markers; they generally have no sympathy with the students they teach – treat them like vegetables (Wright et al., 1978, pp. 51, 54). Again, Meade’s (1981) study of the educational experience of Sydney high school students showed them to be opposed to teachers who are authoritarian or who do not respect students. In this context, consider a typical comment from one high school girl: 50

What makes a classroom? A few of my teachers are really conscientious about their work and are interested in us. . . . However there are a great number of teachers that do not care about us at all. They only teach because it is their occupation and they have to. They are very lazy and some teachers have told us that they hate teaching us (p. 88). It seems then that in many ways teachers and students are worlds apart. What strategies for survival have been developed for such circumstances? How do teachers and students relate in the classroom? To understand this we turn to discuss teacher and student strategies in classroom interaction.

Teacher strategies for survival We have seen that teachers and students hold differing perspectives on the classroom and school tasks, and often have conflicting goals and interests in consequence. It follows that for something more than a stalemate, or interminable guerrilla warfare, some form of negotiation is needed. Typically, teachers and students reach for a ‘working consensus’ over time which enables both to ‘play by ear’. We will deal first with teacher strategies in this ongoing negotiation and construction of a classroom reality. Previously we discussed the constraints under which teachers labour in the classroom situation. Thus Dale (1977b), speaking of the implications of the hidden curriculum for the sociology of teaching, stressed problems facing the teacher as a result of factors such as compulsory attendance, the teacher-student ratio and other structural aspects of the teaching context. Woods (1979) likewise depicted teachers as having to accommodate to the constraints of the school, curriculum and students. Andy Hargreaves (1978) saw teachers as responding not only to institutional constraints such as lack of resources and large classes but to broader societal constraints as well. Pollard (1982, p. 32) conceptualised three layers shaping the classroom interactive process: the macro layer of the social structure, the institutional layer and the micro layer of the classroom. He then classified three sets of factors which affect these layers: the physical and material features of the classroom setting, the biography and personal characteristics of both children and teachers, and the decision-making problems 51

What makes a classroom? which they face. In this context, Denscombe (1982, p. 260) referred to the ‘hidden pedagogy’ of ‘a work situation that imposes severe practical constraints on the degree to which teachers can break with tradition’. In particular, he argued that teachers develop an ethos of privacy, autonomy and individualised practices in order to cope with their working situation. Let us consider such survival strategies, noting that they are indeed, as Hargreaves (1978) stressed, constructive and adaptive responses to less than ideal situations. We noted earlier that Dale (1977b) saw the need to achieve order, control or discipline as the prerequisite for teaching and hence for teacher survival. Denscombe (1980a,b) likewise recognised that ‘Keeping ’em quiet’ became an essential task in closed classrooms because it was seen as an index of effective control and hence of teaching. And Woods (1979) argued that successful survival depends on control via the teacher handling, avoiding, masking, weathering, or neutralising ‘any incident which fractures the teacher’s peace’. Such coping strategies become so closely interrelated with teaching that they blend into the teaching process itself, so that survival comes first and educational considerations second. This is very clear in Woods’ list of well-used teacher survival strategies which he found in his study of a secondary modern school in Britain: socialisation – drilling in correct behaviour fraternisation – joke telling, flirting domination – ‘keeping them down’ negotiation – ‘you play ball with me and I’ll play ball with you’ absence or removal – teacher ‘truanting’ of one form and another ritual and routine – a basis for establishing control occupational therapy – ‘passing the time’ morale boosting – by retrospective rhetoric to justify practice (See Woods, 1979, pp. 149-67.) Andy Hargreaves (1978) also carried out two case studies of teachers’ ‘coping strategies’. These strategies he sees as constructive and adaptive, not only to institutional constraints such as lack of resources and large classes, but also to broader societal constraints. Hargreaves argues that teacher strategies reflect the prevailing unequal structures of society. (We will take up the relationship between 52

What makes a classroom? classroom behaviour and an unequal society in later chapters. See also Pollard, 1982; Woods, 1979; Hargreaves, 1978.) It is clear that much of the conflict which characterises teacher student relationships is in fact exacerbated by teachers. For example, Hargreaves et al. (1975) discuss ‘deviance provocative’ teachers who are unable to defuse difficult situations and who are constantly involved in confrontations with students whom they define as ‘deviant’. Deviance provocative teachers believe these students to be resistant, hostile and thoroughly committed to deviance. They constantly blame the pupils for their misconduct and always expect bad behaviour from them. On the other hand ‘deviance insulative’ teachers believe that these students, like all students, really want to work provided conditions are amenable, and see themselves to be responsible for making changes to meet pupil needs. Such teachers are seen as being ‘firm but fair’, with a clear set of rules consistently applied. Moreover, Whereas the deviance provocative teacher dislikes the deviant pupils and considers himself unfortunate in having to teach them, the deviance insulative teacher claims to like all children and considers it a privilege to work with any pupil. He respects and cares about the deviant pupils and tells them so. He enjoys meeting them informally outside the classroom, where he can joke with them and take an interest in their personal problems. He trusts them (Hargreaves et al., 1975, p. 261).

Student strategies We have indicated that teacher behaviour can be seen as a realistic response to the constraints of the teaching situation. Equally, given the constraints and demands of the classroom context, student behaviour is also rational: it does not develop by chance or haphazardly but as a result of shared student problems. It is therefore important for teachers to understand classroom culture from the perspective of the students and to note what research has to say about the way students react to teachers.

53

What makes a classroom? For example, Denscombe (1980a,b) points out that students use noise as a strategy to control teachers and disrupt the progress of unwanted lessons. Similarly, Woods (1979, p. 120) sees laughter as a central feature of student life in high schools, arising naturally among students and often as a response to boredom and oppressive authority. Given that oppressive authority often predominates in schools, such laughter is often not consensual, contributing to control, but obstructive and rebellious, contributing to conflict. A study of a group of ‘delinquent students’ (Werthman, 1977) showed that they carefully assessed and evaluated the teacher’s claims to authority and this determined the nature of their classroom behaviour. If they did not think the claims to authority were legitimate or fair, they rejected the teacher’s authority. In other words they refused to put up their hands, answer questions or participate in classroom discussion and work. However, they behaved very differently with different teachers and were only ‘delinquent’ for certain teachers. That is, their culture was dynamic, not static. This study is consistent with the research we have discussed in the last section on deviance provocative and deviance insulative teachers, and suggests that so-called delinquent students are ‘constructed’ through schooling and that we should be cautious about labelling and ‘writing off students as ‘delinquent’. It is also consistent with other research studies about schooling and delinquency to which we will refer later (e.g., Reynolds, 1976; Petrie, 1984). The 1982 Australian study of Connell and his colleagues documents aspects of what they call the ‘unending guerrilla-war aspect of classroom life’. They comment that most of the students don’t get on well with teachers who can’t persuade, but instead have to rely on coercion of some kind: The kids resist this by the rather limited techniques at their disposal, such as the wandering-attention method used in Miss Denning’s classes, or the deathlysilence-at-teacher’s-jokes and the go-slow methods used in Mr Andrews’ (p. 102). Like the boys in Werthman’s study, these students resented illegitimate claims to authority by teachers. Conversely, it may well be that in many situations where the teacher seems to be in control in the classroom the students have merely decided to accept them and ‘play along’. Another interesting study is Willis’s research on a group of working-class boys in Britain who called themselves ‘the lads’, in contrast to those who did well at 54

What makes a classroom? school whom they called ‘the ear’oles’. The lads saw the normal classroom situation as one in which knowledge is given in return for submission, and therefore they rejected it: Spanksy: He (father) doesn’t want me to cheek the teachers, but he wouldn’t want me to be a wanker, sitting there working, you know. . . . My old man called me an ear’ole once, in the second years, playing football and comin’ to the school. It upset me, it did. . . . (Willis, 1977, p. 74). Willis’s ‘lads’ also resented the essentially arbitrary nature of authority in the school: Spanksy: What gets me about teachers is when they try and embarrass you in class, like (they did with) Fuzz, for instance. Bill: In front of all your mates (ibid., p. 78). Student interaction does not always develop in response to teachers, however, but may exhibit a degree of autonomy. MacPherson’s (1983) study, referred to earlier, found that often the teacher was irrelevant to student classroom interactions, which developed independently around their own concerns, but nevertheless caused problems for the teachers. In another Australian study, Bronwyn Davies (1980) looked at the implications of primary school children’s culture for the classroom. The children she studied were able to operate within the rules of their own culture, of adult culture, and of adult-child interaction. She documents how a group of primary school children learned to behave appropriately with a series of teachers they had over a school year. Each of the teachers was very different in approach and in the clarity with which they made their expectations clear. Their first teacher (Mr Bell) encouraged the children to speak up about things they didn’t like and to speak to adults as equals. A subsequent teacher (Mr Dance) found their attempts to negotiate with him unacceptable and saw their behaviour as insolent. On the other hand, they found the way he treated them confusing and unacceptable: Pat: Before, he, just when he came here, he was walkin’ over the other side of the school, and Catherine was there and he said ‘I can’t find them’, and Catherine said ‘Find who?’ and he said ‘Come here!’ (giggles) ‘What did you say!’ and, um, Catherine said ‘Hm?’ (they all giggle) and she said ‘Who are you 55

What makes a classroom? looking for?’ and he said ‘You wait ’till you are addressed to before you speak to me, and call me “Sir” thank you.’ (They all giggle) ‘Do that again and you’ll be outside my office!’ (Davies, 1980, p. 270). These children found it unacceptable that he addressed them by their surnames but expected them to address him as Mr Dance. Thus the culture of these primary school children also possesses a rationality, as was seen with the older students in the other studies we have discussed. It is crucial, therefore, that teachers not only understand the power of such student cultures in shaping what goes on in their classrooms, but also their underlying logic.

Concluding comments From time to time throughout this chapter we have made reference to societal influences which impinge on the culture of the classroom. We want to stress at this point that, just as we cannot look at the teacher in isolation apart from the complexity of the culture of the classroom, neither can we look at the classroom apart from these wider influences. The culture of any particular classroom is influenced by the cultural milieux from which the participants have come, and these milieux are shaped in turn by broader structural features such as class and gender. Likewise, the pressures and constraints felt by teachers can be traced to broader power issues in society. We will be following up these links with the social structure in later chapters. But it is important to start thinking about the way that conflicts of power in society are manifested at a number of levels. For example, the relationship between Willis’s ‘ear’oles’ and ‘lads’ is an expression of class conflict in society at the classroom level. Thus to understand many school and classroom problems it is necessary to move to the broader context. In the previous chapter we discussed some of the current problems of schooling: discipline problems, student alienation, teacher ‘stress’. We would contend that these problems need to be looked at in terms of structural issues in society, for example the influence of factors such as the recession and unemployment. We move to these broader issues in later chapters.

56

What makes a classroom? Further reading Cosin, B. et al. (eds) (1977), School and Society, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Some useful articles which use an interactionist approach in the first section, and also articles 6, 7 and 8 in the second section. Dale, R. (1972), The Culture of the School, Milton Keynes: Open University Press. A good general outline of school and classroom culture. It is a course book for the Open University and contains some self assessed exercises. Denscombe, M. (1985), Classroom Control: A Sociological Perspective, London: Allen & Unwin. This book provides an excellent summary of Denscombe’s research on the actual phenomenon of classsroom control. Highly recommended. Educational Review (1976), vol. 30, no. 2, ‘The Learners’ Viewpoint’. A special issue which focuses on student perspectives of schooling. Goffman, E. (1959), The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life, New York: Doubleday. A lively and readable book by a leading interactionist sociologist. Hammersley, M. and Woods, P. (eds) (1976), The Process of Schooling London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. A good collection of research on social interaction in schools with an emphasis on teacher and student perspectives. Hargreaves, A. and Woods, P. (eds) (1984), Classrooms and Staffrooms, Milton Keynes: Open Univesity Press. Probably the best available collection which brings together examples of the most important work which has been done on schools and classrooms. Hargreaves, D. (1975), Interpersonal Relations and Education, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Hargreaves is a social psychologist working in the interactionist tradition and has carried out a good deal of participant observational work in schools in England. Look at the chapter on ‘Teacher-pupil relations – a basic analysis’. Meighan, R. (1981), A Sociology of Educating, London: Holt, Rinehart & Winston. See particularly chapters 3, 4, 6 and 17 (on theoretical aspects of interactionism). Woods, P. (1979), The Divided School, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Woods, P. (ed.) (1980a), Teacher Strategies, London: Croom Helm. Woods, P. (ed.) (1980b), Pupil Strategies, London: Croom Helm. Woods, P. (1983), Sociology and the School, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. These references by Woods mainly focus on student and teacher adaptations to schooling. The 1983 publication is particularly useful as it is an introduction to interactionist work over the past 10-15 years.

57

What makes a classroom? Woods, P. and Hammersley, M. (eds) (1977), School Experience, London: Croom Helm. Most of the articles here deal with school experience (of students and teachers) from an interactionist perspective.

58

Chapter Three

The problem of school knowledge

The poorer school children from the city’s outskirts were promised Minor posts in government service. So they learned the contents of their Tattered second-hand books by heart in the sweat of their brow Learned to lick the teachers’ boots and Despise their mothers. (Bertolt Brecht, ‘Our Poorer Schoolfellows from the City’s Outskirts’, in J. Willett and R. Mannheim (1976), Bertolt Brecht Poems, Part 2, 1929-1938, p. 273.)

Curriculum as problematic In the last chapter we considered the dynamic and complex interrelationships generated by the classroom context between teachers, their students and the ‘outside world’. But such relationships are not formed in an educational vacuum and so in this chapter we consider another key variable in the classroom context: the curriculum, or the ‘what’ it is that teachers teach and students learn. This raises complex issues that take us well beyond the classroom walls. ’Curriculum’ itself is not easy to define. It includes but is certainly more than formal syllabus; it is more than ‘all the planned learning experiences’ often referred to in texts about curriculum studies, for curriculum also includes quite unplanned 59

The problem of school knowledge learning experiences. For the moment we would suggest that curriculum includes: the formal content areas which often, though not necessarily, ‘come down’ to teachers as ‘the syllabus’; the way in which the content is presented (inquiryoriented or ‘chalk and talk’ oriented, for example); and the attitudes and values conveyed by the content or the process of learning, either explicitly or implicitly, the latter sometimes being referred to as the ‘hidden curriculum’. In very general terms, we could perhaps think of curriculum as ‘school knowledge’. Such a formal and rather mechanistic definition of curriculum does little to illuminate why it is that curriculum is a central issue in the sociology of education. In this chapter we try to explore why teachers need to have a clear understanding of the social and educational implications of what and how they teach. That understanding should go some way towards helping to explain some of the problems raised in the first chapter relating to teacher burnout. It should explain some of the difficulties experienced by teachers in their early years of teaching as they leave the apparently protected theoretical cocoon of college or university and face the ‘real world’ of teaching. People often think of school knowledge and school practices as pretty much inevitable, or taken-for-granted. We may be aware, in a general sort of way, of new developments every now and then: for example, the introduction of ‘New Maths’ in the 1960s or, more recently, the introduction of computer awareness courses in schools. We may recognise a shifting emphasis in approaches to subjects, as for example with the ‘Web-of-Life’ biology texts. At times we may even be aware of ‘controversial’ curriculum innovations, for example, the introduction of peace education in some schools. At a more mundane level, we may note that a Home Economics text has changed, or that different novels are prescribed in English year by year. By and large, however, the education system impresses with its essential sameness. The texts may change, but mathematics books are still crammed with page after page of ‘sums’ and calculations; the typeset may be different and the illustrations new and snazzy, but grades 8 and 9 students still ‘do’ the ancient Sumerians and Egyptians and the medieval Lords of the Manor in history, much as their parents did before them. Even the process of schooling seems to have changed little over time, despite the impact of the progressive education movement, particularly on the lower grades of the primary school which undoubtedly have become less constrained. Within most high schools however, we still find 60

The problem of school knowledge traditional educational syllabi and methods thoroughly entrenched: subjectoriented and teacher directed, ruled by the imperatives of space and time, rooms and bells. How is it then that, at its deepest level, school curriculum appears to have survived so relatively unchanged for so long? That seemingly simple question in fact requires a long and complex answer. It involves looking at curriculum in some kind of social and political context in order to understand why it is that particular forms of knowledge and processes of learning come to be considered important and valid, while others are excluded. Here we suggest that school knowledge, or curriculum, far from being a neutral, taken-forgranted commodity which teachers ‘teach’ and students ‘learn’ (some more successfully than others), acts as a kind of social mirror. That is, the way in which school knowledge comes to be defined and structured within the school context tells us something about our social structure. In sociological terms then, a study of curriculum not only reveals which knowledge is and is not publicly valued, but leads to a consideration of why and how the process of differential valuing and legitimation of knowledge comes about, and how this relates to the broader distribution of power and authority in our society (Bernstein, 1971; Young, 1971. For further discussion of this issue see also Harris, 1979, ch. 5; Sharp, 1980, ch. 5; Apple, 1982a, 1982b). Apple, who has written extensively on this area, summarises the sociological issues in this way: I want to argue here that the problem of educational knowledge, of what is taught in schools, has to be considered as a form of the larger distribution of goods and services in a society. It is not merely an analytic problem (what shall be construed as knowledge?), nor simply a technical one (how do we organise and store knowledge so that children may have access to it and ‘master’ it?), nor, finally, is it a purely psychological problem (how do we get students to learn?). Rather, the study of educational knowledge is a study in ideology, the investigation of what is considered legitimate knowledge . . . by specific social groups and classes, in specific institutions, at specific historical moments (1979, p. 45). So what we are doing here is taking curriculum as problematic (that is, something to be explained) rather than as taken-for-granted (that is, something simply to be 61

The problem of school knowledge defined and described). We are also unpacking the taken-for-granted notion (particularly by those who have successfully negotiated the school system, for example, teacher education students) that education benevolently serves some allencompassing, but ill-defined universal clientele. Rather, we suggest that, through the functioning of the curriculum, education is ideologically loaded, serving to systematically discriminate in favour of some students at the expense of others, and to buttress the social status quo. In order to understand how and why this happens, we need to go back in time a bit, to look at how schooling itself has evolved.

Curriculum in historical context If we look at the evolution of curriculum historically, two things stand out: firstly, mass schooling (that is, general public education as distinct from elite schooling for the sons and, later, the daughters, of the upper classes) is a relatively recent phenomenon; secondly, the curriculum has become much more complicated, comprehensive and sophisticated over time. The advent of free, public, compulsory and secular mass schooling in the latter part of the nineteenth century has important implications for considerations of school knowledge, historically and sociologically. What was taught in the early public schools intricately related to the purposes for which such schools were established, reflecting the prevailing social and economic order. (For details, see Bowles and Gintis, 1976, ch. 6; Johnson, 1976, ch. 6; Dale and Esland, 1977, pp. 33-9; Apple, 1979, ch. 4; Sharp, 1980, pp. 118-22.) Not by coincidence, public schooling emerged in the nineteenth century as a particular response to evolving capitalist economies and social formations. The basis and stages of capitalist development differed historically from place to place. For example Australia, unlike Britain, did not fully industrialise until well into the twentieth century, and therefore the social conditions in which questions of schooling and curricula came to be settled also varied. Nevertheless, some generalisations can be made. The development of capitalism, at whatever stage, meant a shift from a family-based economy to a more organised ‘rational’ economic system which operated outside and separate from the family unit, requiring a gendered division of labour. For the first time, on a mass scale, family and work represented distinct economic and social spheres (Bowles, 1976, pp. 32-4). 62

The problem of school knowledge More than that, industrialisation fundamentally changed the nature of work. In an agrarian or craft-based economy, the pace of work and people’s relationship to their work was to a large extent determined by seasonal imperatives or the skill requirements of the job itself. By and large (without wanting to romanticise peasant life), people enjoyed a holistic relationship to work where to a large extent they were able to determine their own work patterns and hours, which of course could be extremely long and arduous at times (Biggins, 1978; Gross, 1985). Thus work then tended to be task, not time, oriented. But, with industrialisation, profitability and productivity determined the work imperatives of the process line or the factory floor. Time clocks, not the seasons, determined men and women’s working hours. Bosses set the time clocks and established productivity levels. Bosses hired management consultants to tell them how to organise space, time and labour even more efficiently to further maximise productivity and profitability. All of which is entirely relevant to our discussion of curriculum, as we shall see. In educational terms, there were two important implications. First, the rapid economic changes which accompanied the shift to a capitalist economy set in train the evolution of more complex work structures, both technologically and administratively. A workforce encompassing a range of skills was required to ensure continued economic expansion. However, given the new separation of family from work, previous arrangements for passing on of skills in an essentially agrarian and craft-based economy, namely within the family or local community context, became less appropriate. Hence the need for schools. At one level then, mass schooling responded to utilitarian demands for a skilled and productive workforce in a changed economy (Bowles and Gintis, 1976, pp. 157-8). This was particularly true of Britain and the United States where industrialisation occurred much earlier than in Australia. In Australia, the impetus for schooling was to some extent more culturally derivative, reflecting Australia’s dependent colonial position (Ely, 1978). For all that, the imported utilitarian messages were presumably seen as relevant to the education of the young pupils subjected to the teachings of the Irish National Readers in the mid-nineteenth century: So you see what a useful thing a clock or a watch is, and how it should remind us of what we have to do. But all the clocks and watches in the world are of no use if we waste the hours and minutes they show us. To waste our hours or minutes is to be idle when it is our duty to be busy. 63

The problem of school knowledge To be idle or inattentive or to play in school, is to waste your hours and minutes, because it is then your duty to be busy (cited in Turney, 1975, p. 208). So that, secondly, as the above quote makes clear, there was an accompanying social purpose for the establishment of schools, for the shift to capitalism also required different social relationships and new attitudes to work. Indeed, Johnson (1976) suggests that social requirements, rather than purely technical requirements for skilled labour, were paramount in the early establishment of schools (see also Bowles and Gintis, 1976, pp. 164-73; Apple, 1979, pp. 75-6). In the Australian context, writing about education in New South Wales, O’Donnell (1984) argues, for example, that cultural considerations about the religious and moral education of the working classes dominated the education debates. Certainly, as Cook, Davey and Vick (1979) and Bessant (1983) have pointed out, changing economic conditions in both rural and city areas had thrown up sufficiently large numbers of ‘street children’ to make their ‘education’ a matter of some urgency for the town fathers. (See also Wimshurst, 1983.) The motivations and purposes then of the proponents for mass schooling were complex and contradictory, reflecting a mixture of demands from different sections of both the ruling and working classes. The provision of mass schooling, enshrined in progressive liberal thought of the nineteenth century, undoubtedly was viewed by many ‘as a means of improving the lives of large parts of the working population and of relieving the economic exploitation of children’ (Dale and Esland, 1977, p. 15). This view of education as a vehicle for personal and social growth has dominated liberal thinking during this century as well. Education as a ‘right’ for working-class people rather than a privilege has also been part of trade union and worker demands, both in Australia at the turn of the century (Sullivan, 1974), and much earlier in Britain (Johnson, 1976). In other words, education has been perceived, and demanded, by a wide range of social groups as a social good. However, state provided education in particular was also resisted by sections of the working class. Indeed, the development of a school system which saw provision by bourgeois philanthropists for working-class people reveals a paradox which in many ways still exists today. Historically, as Johnson (1976) for example argues, ‘provided’ education, in the context of the industrial revolution in England (and the aftermath of the French Revolution) was seen as a means of social control 64

The problem of school knowledge over ‘the obstinately ungovernable behaviour’ of the working classes. Similar sentiments prevailed in the Australian colonies. For example, Bessant’s (1983) study of schooling in Victoria in the nineteenth century shows the mixture of suspicion and paternalism which characterised colonial attitudes towards a ‘reckless and dissolute lower class’ (p. 2). Education was seen by leading men of good faith as providing moral enlightenment and instilling the proper attitudes and habits which would enable the ‘destitute and degraded’ children of the working classes to take their proper place in a politically democratic society. Thus, for example, Melbourne’s first Presbyterian clergyman, the Reverend James Forbes, wrote in 1842: Unless the young are educated, and by this I mean, their intellects are cultivated, and their moral feelings well directed, the community must soon be the scene of commingled ignorance, vice, discontent, and insubordination . . . . (the working classes) require aid, and unless aid is given, their children must grow up uneducated, a generation must arise of understandings uninformed; of hearts unimpressed with a sense of moral and religious obligations habituated to idleness and insubordination. . . (cited in Bessant, 1983, p. 5). Two decades later, as the colony of Victoria moved closer to the provision of ‘free, compulsory and secular’ education (ultimately achieved in the 1872 Education Bill), the Higinbotham Commission’s Report into public education expressed its concern that the lower classes be led from their cultural ignorance in order that they might not abuse their newly won political rights: the wild human animal is capable of some culture. . . . if the human savage, who now, from the ranks of the poor, demands to be placed on a level with his wealthy and, therefore, civilized fellow citizens, (if he) can be subjected to the influence of education; if his manners can be softened; if his character can be raised, and his understanding enlightened; then the danger arising from his admission to equal political rights will not be nearly so great as if he were left destitute of instruction and culture. . . . (ibid., p. 18). For all that, and despite the apparent crudity of the arguments, there was, as Johnson (1976) points out, a certain rationality underlying such perceptions: 65

The problem of school knowledge It was necessary to cut the reproduction of the older popular culture if capitalist development in town and countryside was to be speeded and secured. Modern industry did need new elements in human nature, did require learning of new relations. Early Victorian moralism, then, was not some gratuitous bourgeois aberration. Cultural aggression of this kind was organic to this phase of capitalist development (p. 49). This is an important point, for it depicts education as a kind of cultural battleground, a site of class and cultural conflict rather than as simply something imposed or neutrally benevolent. Sharp (1980) expresses this as ‘a contending battle between different class forces for control over the “hearts and minds” of the people – a battle for hegemony’ (p. 121). Viewed in this way, we can begin to see why, to return to our earlier point, sections of the working class might have resisted the introduction of state-provided compulsory education, preferring rather to make educational arrangements more suited to their own economic circumstances and cultural practices. Essentially this meant an emphasis above all on flexibility and informality, provided by a range of ‘cheap and tolerant’ private schools which, according to Davey and Miller (1981) were much more attuned to the needs and rhythms of working class life than the ‘efficient’ state schools. The education authorities denigrated cheap private schools for their use of ‘outmoded’ individual instruction, their intermixing of children of different ages and abilities and their use, as textbooks, of anything the parents might care to send. However, it was precisely the flexibility of this form of organisation which made it so attractive to working class parents: the tolerance of irregular attendance allowed children to attend as family circumstances allowed without cutting across the ‘needs’ of the school (p. 34). Thus, and this is an important point, it is not that the working class rejected education per se. Rather, working class people rejected the cultural and political imposition of the state provided education system and its heavily didactic curriculum. For during this early period, content and values were quite explicitly intertwined, directed, as we said earlier, towards imparting correct moral attitudes and useful social habits. Thus, for example, the 1852 Select Committee on Education in Victoria specified that teachers were required, amongst other things: 66

The problem of school knowledge 6 To observe themselves and to impress upon the minds of their pupils, the great rule of regularity and order – A TIME AND A PLACE FOR EVERY THING, AND EVERY THING IN ITS PROPER TIME AND PLACE. 7 To promote, both by precept and example, CLEANLINESS, NEATNESS, AND DECENCY. . . . 8 To pay the strictest attention to the morals and general conduct of their pupils, and to omit no opportunity of inculcating the principles of truth and honesty; the duties of respect to superiors, and obedience to all persons placed in authority over them. . . . (cited in Bessant, 1983, p. 9). On this latter point, the legitimation of the relationships of subordination and domination permeated the curriculum in a number of ways. For example, the existence of the rich was justified (in the Irish National Readers, in Victoria in the 1850s and 1860s!) in stories that suggested that if wealth were evenly distributed ‘all would soon be as miserably poor as the most destitute beggars are now: indeed, so far worse, that there would be nobody to beg of (cited in Bessant, 1983, p. 10). Also, as Bessant points out, classroom drill, such as reading in unison, rote learning of tables and sums, leaving and entering rooms on command, and so forth, was used not only to promote order and efficiency, but also to reinforce notions of unquestioning obedience to authority, in this case, that of the teacher. In some schools, this extended to military drill: The value of military drill as a mere aid to school management is worth bearing in mind; while out of doors it is not incorrect to say that it commands a price in the labor market, the drilled laborer being worth more than the awkward hand untrained in the art of working in concern with his fellows (cited in Bessant, 1983, p. 30). Such explicit conceptualisations of what education should achieve and of what should be taught appear curiously blunt, even naive today. They allow us to understand however, more clearly perhaps than is the case now, how the introduction of mass schooling served specific class-based economic and political interests requiring a massive cultural onslaught on working class people in order to prepare them for the realities of life under capitalism. Little wonder that the introduction of public schooling met with a good deal of resistance and absenteeism and that inspectors found: 67

The problem of school knowledge teachers are exhausting their energies in the effort to stimulate the children to take part in the lesson. The eager look, the alert mind, and the pupil’s own question are the comparatively rare exception. Very often even the physical attitude of attention and work is wanting. . . . (Cook, Davey and Vick, 1979, p. 42). In a sense, that brings us back to the present, for those observations, slightly differently expressed perhaps, could be made of many contemporary classrooms! Certainly, it should be clear by now that the introduction of mass education contained elements somewhat at odds with our commonsense perceptions of education as a social good. For all that, education continues to be perceived as a necessary prerequisite for making one’s way in life. The particular knowledge which schools teach, the daily routines of schooling may be tedious but, in the commonsense view, necessary and useful. The particular values which schooling rewards and punishes are again in the commonsense view, entirely reasonable. In order to explore the paradox more fully, we need to turn now to a consideration of more contemporary curriculum issues.

Contemporary curriculum issues In some ways, as we indicated at the beginning of this chapter, conceptualisations of school knowledge and public expectations of schooling haven’t changed a great deal over time, although the ‘language of justification for schooling’ (Dale and Esland, 1977, p. 38) has become more sophisticated and notions of ‘what is to be learned’, and how, have become somewhat more complex. Some of the reasons for this lie in more prolonged participation rates at schools and in the need for a better educated and better credentialled workforce for the expanding post World War Two labour market. Additionally, over time progressive education ideas about personal development and fulfilment have gained rhetorical ascendancy over notions of social control, the latter now being relegated to what is commonly referred as the ‘hidden curriculum’, a concept we will take up shortly. Today, views about social control and working-class industriousness have been replaced by more technocratic notions of efficiency and produc tivity, deriving essentially from 68

The problem of school knowledge American systems management ideas on institutional goals and behaviour (Apple, 1979; Pusey, 1981). We will refer to this more fully in the next chapter. What we have today then is a complex education industry: large educational bureaucracies; a fully-fledged teaching profession; publishing cartels, and so on. In all of this the sharply oppositional class forces of the nineteenth century have been submerged to a large extent in the post World War Two rhetoric of equality of opportunity, personal development and individual fulfilment. School structures and curricula have moved to acknowledge this rhetorical shift, as elementary schools for the working class with their narrowly conceived curriculum offerings have been replaced by a comprehensive secondary school system whose diverse curriculum offerings are more often than not computer timetabled. Similarly, simplistic notions of literacy and an explicitly class-based education system are no longer seen as socially acceptable or desirable. There are historical differences between western nations as to the timing and details of such changes in curriculum and school structures. However the general pattern prevails throughout. In our technologically advanced, post-industrial and multicultural society we pay lip-service at least to drawing on the collective talents of all members. Curriculum theory has burgeoned as an important part of the education industry to help explain how best to achieve such worthwhile educational goals. Yet our perceptions of what education is all about remain curiously anaemic or romantic. For although educational aims and policy are couched in more sophisticated and democratic terms, the essential nature of the educational enterprise remains somewhat shrouded. In a sense it is now far less overtly political than in an earlier era of strident calls for education to help preserve the social fabric of society. Curriculum theory in particular has contributed to this depoliticising of education (Apple, 1979, p. 44). For curriculum theory typically brackets aside the social, economic and political context in which schooling is enmeshed, treating school systems and curriculum as ahistorical, technical problems which can be solved with appropriately designed learning packages, teaching strategies and so on. In short, contemporary thinking about education, now enshrined within the profession itself, treats schools and the schooling process as neutral, a far cry from earlier more robust formulations about the purposes of education. And yet the social and economic divisions engendered by a capitalist economy have not disappeared. Indeed, as we point out in Chapter Seven, there is evidence 69

The problem of school knowledge to suggest that class and gender divisions are still important in contemporary Australia. In terms of schooling, Bowles and Gintis (1976, p. 30) argue, for example, that while the dual objectives of social control and equality of opportunity have become intermingled since the mid-nineteenth century, the present-day education system in the USA reveals an ‘unequal contest between social control and social justice’. They claim that ‘equality of opportunity’ in effect has meant a disproportional advantage to the well-to-do, and a thwarting of the hopes and needs of other groups. Similarly, many critics (e.g., Schools Commission, 1975a, 1984a) have pointed to the failure of ‘equality of opportunity’ policies in education to make any real impact on girls’ educational qualifications and job opportunities. In order to understand why this should be so, and more importantly to understand how curriculum might contribute to educational and social inequality, we need to turn to what could be called the ‘underside’ of teaching, the hidden curriculum.

Education as ideology: the hidden curriculum The concept of the hidden curriculum (see further, Whitty and Young, 1976; Apple, 1979) is used to distinguish the implicit functioning and outcomes of education from explicitly stated goals, strategies and content. Given our earlier, broad definition of curriculum, we would agree with Taylor (1984) that the term hidden curriculum may be somewhat redundant. Nevertheless it is useful for our purposes here, particularly in explaining the shifting emphasis in educational rhetoric from social control to social justice. What has happened, we suggest, is that early, explicitly class-based formulations of educational goals and purposes have been not so much replaced as simply submerged or ‘hidden’ beneath a different, more technical and seemingly more humanistic rhetoric. (Some aspects of this argument are developed in Chapter Four.) Why has this occurred? One of the major problems faced by western democratic governments is the need to satisfactorily reconcile or justify the contradiction between political notions of liberal democracy and the inequalities engendered by a capitalist economy. Schooling, in part through the operation of the curriculum, plays a key role in serving just that purpose, in ways which we now examine in some detail. Certainly since the Second World War, schooling has been promoted heavily as the central institution capable of rectifying the persistent social inequalities of Western 70

The problem of school knowledge democracies. Policies of equality of educational opportunity were adopted by governments of all political persuasions as a means of equalising the life chances of all pupils, regardless of social background. Yet schooling has not achieved such egalitarian goals. Quite the reverse. While the ideology or rhetoric of schooling might promote and legitimate notions of equality of opportunity, the structures and practices of schooling in fact act against such purposes, reinforcing and reproducing class and gender inequality. (This is elaborated in Chapters Six and Seven.) Now let us look more closely at how this process works. The way in which schooling functions in Western societies first came under serious scrutiny in the 1960s (e.g., Goodman, 1962; Holt, 1965; Postman and Weingartner, 1969; Illich, 1971; Reimer, 1971; Freire, 1972). Illich and Freire in particular drew popular attention with their trenchant accounts of the alienation, oppression and sheer inhumanity of institutionalised schooling which they saw as quite antithetical to supposed liberal objectives of personal growth and social emancipation. Freire (1972), for example, pointed to the way in which formal schooling creates rigid barriers between teachers and students in such a way as to make the learning process alienating and ultimately meaningless: Education [has become] an act of depositing, in which the students are the depositories and the teacher is the depositor. Instead of communicating, the teacher issues communiques and ‘makes deposits’ which the students patiently receive, memorize and repeat. This is the ‘banking’ concept of education. . . . (pp. 45-6) The end result, for Freire, is deeply de-humanising: The banking approach to education will never propose to students that they consider reality critically. It will deal instead with such vital questions as whether Roger gave green grass to the goat, and insist upon the importance of learning that, on the contrary, Roger gave green grass to the rabbit. The ‘humanism’ of the banking approach masks the effort to turn men into automatons – the very negation of their ontological vocation to be more fully human (p. 48). Illich (1971) similarly expressed concern with the alienating and depersonalising effects of schooling which he saw as exemplifying the 71

The problem of school knowledge ‘commodity fetishism’ of a materialistic and consumer-oriented society, of which schools are an integral part. By this he means that the process of schooling, and the values imparted and reflected by schools (the hidden curriculum) reduce both the learner and the education process to commodities, to be measured, sorted, packaged and consumed: School sells curriculum – a bundle of goods made according to the same process and having the same structure as other merchandise. The distributor-teacher delivers the finished product to the consumer-pupil, whose reactions are carefully studied and charted to provide research data for the preparation of the next model, which may be ‘ungraded’, ‘student-designed’, ‘team-taught’. . . . (p. 46). Early Marxist analyses of education, for example Dale et al. (1976) in Britain or Bowles and Gintis (1976) in the United States, extended these critiques into a more systematic analysis of the role of schooling in sustaining the class relations of a capitalist economy. In these analyses, the values, attitudes and social relations of schooling are seen as designed to ‘teach the norms necessary to adjust the young to the changing patterns of the economic system’ (Karier, 1976, p. 21). In Schooling in Capitalist America (1976), Bowles and Gintis develop a thorough-going analysis of the role of schooling in capitalist society. Schools, they argue, are designed not only to produce an appropriately skilled and credentialled workforce; they are also required to impart the appropriate attitudes towards work as well as the appropriate social relations of work: The perpetuation of the class structure requires that the hierarchical division of labor be reproduced in the consciousness of its participants. The educational system is one of the several reproduction mechanisms through which dominant elites seek to achieve this objective. By providing skills, legitimating inequalities in economic positions, and facilitating certain types of social intercourse among individuals, U.S. education patterns personal development around the requirements of alienated work. The education system reproduces the capitalist social division of labor, in part through a correspondence between its own internal social relationships and those of the workplace (p. 147). Bowles and Gintis elaborate this notion of a ‘correspondence’ between the relationships of the workplace and the relationships of schooling. They draw 72

The problem of school knowledge attention to the way in which relationships of subordination and domination in schools between and among administrators, teachers and students replicate the hierarchical division of labour of the workplace; to the comparable lack of power of workers and students in relationship to jobs and curriculum respectively; to the motivational dependence of both workers and students on external threats and rewards (wages and the threat of unemployment, or grades and failure respectively), rather than on the intrinsic satisfaction of school or work; and to the way in which the specialisation and compartmentalisation of academic knowledge reflect the fragmented nature of jobs. The work of Anyon (1980, 1981a, 1981b) has provided further detailed research evidence for the existence of a correspondence between school experience and the relationships of work. Now it is of course rather a long bow to infer direct causality between the structures and processes of schooling and work, even if we accept the correlations. Indeed, the early work of Bowles and Gintis and other ‘reproduction’ theorists has been criticised for the overly mechanistic view of the relationship between school and work (e.g., Giroux, 1981; Apple, 1982a, 1982b; Smith and Knight, 1982; Lingard, 1983b). The early Marxist critiques however did provide some important insights into how and why education has taken its present form and content. They also provided the beginning of an explanation for both the underlying ‘sameness’ which persists in education across time as well as for the intense resistance to schooling displayed by many working-class students in particular (experienced by teachers as ‘discipline problems’). Such theories also suggest reasons for the periodic educational upheavals which occur at times of economic dislocation, such as we are now experiencing in the transition from post-industrial to post-service society (Jones, 1982, pp. 5-6). We will take up that point in more detail towards the end of the chapter. First, however, a brief diversion is necessary; a proper understanding of the nature of the correspondence between school and work, and the way in which school knowledge or curriculum helps to contribute to social and economic inequality, requires some understanding of the labour process itself.

Excursus: the labour process An important analysis in this area is provided by Braverman’s Labor and Monopoly Capital (1974). Braverman saw work in capitalist societies as a 73

The problem of school knowledge manifestation of class divisions in which the labour process operated as a means of social control giving a great deal of power to management over workers. Two aspects were of particular significance, according to Braverman: the division of labour inherent in capitalist production, and the newly emergent principles of ‘scientific management’. The division of labour under capitalism, which Braverman contrasts with the organisation of work in prior craft or artisan economies, led to fragmentation of work into separate tasks (not necessarily a new feature), assigned to separate workers (a new feature), to be completed at minimum costs (a new feature): the assembly line. Braverman cites a revealing quote about the early meat-packing industry in America: It would be difficult to find another industry where division of labor has been so ingeniously and microscopically worked out. The animal has been surveyed and laid off like a map; and the men have been classified in over thirty specialities and twenty rates of pay, from 16 cents to 50 cents an hour. . . . In working on the hide alone there are nine positions, at eight different rates of pay. A 20-cent man pulls off the tail, a 22&l/2-cent man pounds off another part where good leather is not found, and the knife of the 40-cent man cuts a different texture and has a different ‘feel’ from that of the 50-cent man (Braverman, 1974, p. 81). The division and consequent ‘deskilling’ of labour in this way in order to reduce costs and maximise profits became particularly iniquitous, Braverman suggests, when harnessed to principles of ‘scientific management’, enumerated most clearly in Taylor’s Principles of Scientific Management, published in 1911. Taylor’s central proposition was the need for management to gain complete control over the labour process itself: Workers who are controlled only by general orders and discipline are not adequately controlled, because they retain their grip on the actual processes of labor. So long as they control the labor process itself, they will thwart efforts to realize to the full the potential inherent in their labor power. To change this situation, control over the labor process must pass into the hands of management (cited in Braverman, 1974, p. 100). 74

The problem of school knowledge Taylor’s ‘principles’ were designed to meet this end. They entailed, firstly, ‘gathering together all of the traditional know ledge which in the past has been processed by the workmen’ (ibid., p. 112) and putting it in the hands of management. The second principle involved removing ‘all possible brain work . . . from the shop’ (ibid., p. 113). In other words, the conception of a task is separated from its execution; mental labour is separated from manual labour. The third principle involved issuing workers with detailed written instructions of the task to be accomplished the following day. ‘This task specified not only what is to be done, but how it is to be done and the exact time allowed for doing it. . . .’ (ibid., p. 118). (Reminders of lesson plans?) The significance of these ‘scientific management’ principles lies in their insistence on the monopoly or concentration of knowledge exclusively in the hands of management in order to ‘control each step of the labor process and its mode of execution’ (ibid., p. 119). The assumptions here about human capabilities are quite invidious, particularly in the subsequent separation of conception and execution of tasks and concomitant separation of sites of work (Head Office – Manhattan; sweatshop – the Philippines). Taylor expressed his views on this with great clarity: I can say, without the slightest hesitation, that the science of handling pig-iron is so great that the man who is fit to handle pig-iron as his daily work cannot possibly understand that science; the man who is physically able to handle pigiron and is sufficiently phlegmatic and stupid to choose this for his occupation is rarely able to comprehend the science of handling pig-iron (cited in Dale and Esland, 1977, p. 25). Taylor’s propositions did not of course necessarily reflect the reality of the factory floor. As Edwards (1979), for example, has pointed out, the labour process (like the schooling process, we might add), has to be seen as a site of conflict, a ‘contested terrain’ as he puts it, in which workers sometimes obstinately refuse to accept the passively subservient role prescribed by Taylorist principles. For all that, Taylorism remains significant, according to Braverman, because the underlying assumptions remain in many ways central features of modern labour processes and relations, and as such continue to contribute to the depersonalised, deskilled and alienated nature of much contemporary work. This is true despite the change of rhetoric to the softer ‘human relations’ school of management and despite more recent interest in the West in Japanese management models and practices which operate on somewhat different assumptions. 75

The problem of school knowledge The hidden curriculum and social control If we return now to the concept of hidden curriculum in the light of the above discussion, we can begin to see more clearly the relevance of ‘correspondence’ theories of the relationship between school and work. For example, we can see how the fragmentation of the curriculum into subject hierarchies represents an educational division of labour which in some senses conditions the incoming generation for the correspondingly hierarchical and fragmented nature of work. The distinction between the mental and manual division of labour is a particularly significant indicator of subject status in schools. Thus, for example, ‘practical’ subjects such as manual arts, home economics or typing carry less status than theoretical (‘brain’) subjects like calculus, English literature or physics. By extension, low status subjects are frequently made more theoretical in an attempt to achieve higher status. More invidiously, the separation of school work into ‘brainy’ and ‘practical’ subjects extends to the consciousness of teachers and pupils alike as seemingly accurate descriptions of the students who take the subjects (hence ‘dumb’ kids/classes and ‘smart’ kids/classes), and is reinforced by testing procedures which seem to dominate most aspects of school life. (See further Chapter Six.) The concentration of control in the hands of management so that workers remain alienated from all aspects of the labour process, reduced simply to selling their labour for wages, also has its stark correspondence in the schooling process. Pupils rarely get to participate in decisions about their learning, and are reduced in the end to selling their labour for grades. A form of ‘scientific management’ is also in some ways extended to the realm of teaching itself, manifested for example in those programmed ‘teacher proof curriculum packages and formal syllabi beloved by publishing houses and the education department bureaucracies alike (of which more in Chapter Four). Certainly the critical view of schooling as essentially inhumane and alienating bears strong resemblance to Braverman’s discussion of the alienation and degradation of labour under capitalism. Again, of course, we have to be careful not to overextend the metaphor of ‘schoolworkers’ as mechanistically-functioning cogs in a well-oiled machine. As we all know from personal experience, school life isn’t really like that, even though some school principals might like to think of their schools as models of efficiency and productivity. As we suggested in the previous chapter, the control exerted by 76

The problem of school knowledge and over teachers is never absolute or permanent and, as we discuss in more detail in the final chapters of this text, there are instances where teachers and pupils together do attempt to confront the fragmentation of the curriculum and the alienating processes of schooling in order to reinterpret what ‘school knowledge’ is really all about. But there is another way in which our descriptions of the relationship between school and work need to be modified. For so far we have presented only the ‘dark face’ of capitalism. Yet this is not likely to be the lived experience of most of the readers of this text who after all, in general, represent the successful products of the education system. Certainly, this is not the message which appears on our television screens where we are constantly extolled with the glittering prizes of free enterprise: new shades of lipstick, new fashions, new cars, new everything and more, more, more. The world as it is presented to most of us, especially in Australia, ‘the lucky country’, is one of prosperity and abundance, recession and unemployment notwithstanding. The lived experience of most high school graduates in Australia is not one of antagonistic class relations, of exploited workers and fat-cat bosses; rather, it is of ordinary folk making a living, paying off a house, making their way in life. This uncontroversial, even bland, view of the ordinariness of life is certainly one of the ‘messages’ of schooling. We need therefore to return to other aspects of the hidden curriculum, to its ‘social justice’ elements rather than its ‘social control’ elements, in order to understand how schooling helps contribute to an ideologically loaded view of society and classbiased practices.

The hidden curriculum and the social order Apple’s (1979) discussion of the hidden curriculum examines in some detail how school curriculum contributes to a world view which sees society as basically harmonious and integrated. This in turn, he argues, contributes to the legitimation of social inequality by promoting a ‘political quiescence’ and an acceptance of the status quo (p. 85). His examination of two particular curriculum areas, science and social studies, shows how the teaching and presentation of these two subjects in schools is based on highly conservative assumptions about social order and social conflict. For 77

The problem of school knowledge example, the view of science presented in schools, he suggests, is heavily consensus-oriented in a way that: underemphasizes the serious disagreements over methodology, goals and other elements that make up the paradigms of activity of scientists. By the fact that scientific consensus is continually exhibited, students are not permitted to see that without disagreement and controversy science would not progress or would progress at a much slower pace (ibid., p. 89). Because science is taught in schools as a non-controversial or neutral body of knowledge, with ‘facts’ and ‘methods’ to be learnt and memorised (Freire’s ‘banking concept’ again), rather than as the product of a scientific community in which conflict is endemic and ideas constantly challenged and changing, students internalise a reified view of science in particular, and of knowledge in general. That is, knowledge becomes ‘frozen’ in time and abstracted from its human (including political and social) context. As a result, Apple argues, students do not learn to question the legitimacy of their memorised facts or the underlying assumptions of science (or knowledge in general), nor do they gain any alternative perspectives on knowledge. Consequently, their world view on science in particular, knowledge in general, and society as a whole remains static. Hence their quiescence is reinforced and the social order remains unchallenged. (See also Biggins, 1984; Knight, 1985, 1986.) The teaching of social studies in schools is similarly conservative, Apple suggests, providing a perspective that ‘tacitly accepts “happy cooperation” as the normal if not the best way of life’ (ibid., p. 93). The consensus (or functionalist) view of society, which maintains that the social order is held together harmoniously by the cooperative interlinking of social roles (after all, society needs garbage collectors and factory workers as well as doctors and housewives) is predominant in the social studies syllabus. Apple quotes some nice examples from various social studies texts, for example: When we follow the rules, we are rewarded; but if we break the rules, we will be punished. . . . That is why we learn the customs and rules, and why we follow them. Because if we do, we are all rewarded by a nicer and more orderly world (ibid., p. 95). 78

The problem of school knowledge Social studies curriculum in general, Apple suggests, avoids discussion of conflict, or else portrays conflict as being dysfunctional, that is, disruptive of a social order whose legitimacy is never challenged. Class conflicts or opposing class interests are totally excluded from the framework of most social studies curricula. As a result, Apple concludes that most schools provide a view which legitimates the status quo ‘since change, conflict, and men and women as creators as well as receivers of values and institutions are systematically neglected’ (ibid., p. 102). Certainly, in the Australian context, it is true to say that women have been almost totally excluded from history text books (Spender, 1982). Similarly, little mention is made of Aborigines except in the most stereotyped terms, while accounts of the attempted destruction of Aboriginal society by white colonialism rarely appear in school text books (Commissioner for Community Relations, 1976). Other critical studies of school curricula have contributed to our understanding of how the content of various subject areas, and its underlying values, help to promote a non-critical view of social life, or an acceptance of the normality and inevitability of life as we experience it. For example, Vulliamy’s (1976) discussion of ‘what counts as school music’ shows how distinctions between ‘high’ and ‘low’ culture (the brains and the hands again) in the teaching of school music reinforces ‘commonsense’ views about a world in which, ‘naturally’, there must be such status and class distinctions. Similarly, Taylor’s (1984) study of commercial studies texts in Australian schools shows how sex role stereotyping is reinforced by the portrayals of secretaries (the ‘hands’) and their bosses (the ‘brains’). Such studies and others (e.g. Young, 1976, on school science; Maher, 1983, on biology; Hutton, 1983, on history) show that the content of curriculum, as well as the processes of schooling, play an important role in structuring a view of the world which is in some senses distorted or incomplete, and bland. It should be noted that this comes about not only as a result of what content is selected, but also of what content is omitted. Williams (1976) termed this process of curriculum selection the ‘selective tradition’. Partly in response to these kinds of critical analyses of ‘school knowledge’ which revealed the extent to which curriculum, or what is taught in schools, excludes and delegitimises the knowledge and experiences of so many students, there have been moves in recent years towards introducing subjects, themes and topics which begin to fill out the historical silences. For example, more recent 79

The problem of school knowledge accounts of Aboriginal history and experiences go some way towards presenting an alternative and sometimes even oppositional view of the encounter between black and white in this society. The introduction of counter-sexist materials and pedagogy into schools has helped to break down traditional sex-role stereotyping. Subjects like peace studies, environmental studies, media studies and so on can all, in various ways, be seen as ‘counter hegemonic’ in that they start to question a taken-for-granted view of the social order and prevailing social relationships. And, of course, as we shall see shortly, it is precisely these kinds of curriculum materials and resources which become controversial. But before we get onto that, we need to look at the significance of another crucially important idea (and practice) embedded in the hidden curriculum of schooling, namely the importance of individual effort and ability in determining school achievement and, by implication, life chances. This notion, sometimes referred to as ‘meritocracy’, acts as an important ideological cornerstone of our social order.

The hidden curriculum and the ideology of success: meritocracy One of the classroom’s most persistent messages is that success, at school in particular or in life in general, comes as a result of personal talent harnessed to hard work; conversely, failure results from idleness or stupidity or both. This is the ideology of meritocracy, in which schooling plays a central role in ways we consider briefly now. As has been shown, because of the very parameters of thought which bind curriculum, schooling usually presents a quite particular view of social reality, as harmonious, integrated and desirably conflict-free. Concomitantly, knowledge is seen as value-free, a neutral body of facts to be learned, memorised and consumed; school success is then determined on the basis of ‘objective’ testing procedures which sort and select learners according to their digestive and regurgitative capabilities (Broadfoot, 1979). (For further discussion, see Chapter Six.) Curriculum construction thus becomes the process whereby, in increasingly complicated terminology (see Chapter Four), knowledge is broken into a hierarchy of skills and subject matter to produce divisions between schools, within schools and within classrooms between the ‘dumbies’ (good with their hands) and the 80

The problem of school knowledge ‘smarties’ (good with their mind), reflecting the distinction between mental and manual labour referred to earlier. These divisions in turn are seen as reflecting individual choice and ability. Schooling is thus portrayed by educationists and common-sense views alike as a kind of obstacle race in which all participate more or less equally, though due acknowledgement is sometimes made of particular ‘handicaps’ suffered by ‘deprived’ groups. The task of curriculum and testing experts then is to make the race as fair as possible, to ensure that the most ‘gifted’ and ‘hard working’ (that is, those with merit) achieve their deserved rewards. These are the ‘achieving’ students, beloved of teachers, as distinct from those with ‘low motivation’, who are troublesome to teachers. In educational policy terms, meritocracy is enshrined in the doctrine of equality of opportunity, supported by both labour and non-labour sides of politics in most Western democracies, Australia included. Meritocracy promises social mobility through a society in which the accidents of birth (class, gender, race or ethnicity) are seen as presenting no permanent barriers to achievement. To this extent meritocracy, compared with feudalistic ascriptive views of society, has to be seen as a progressive ideology. Certainly in political terms, meritocracy has proved a remarkably effective moulder of public opinion. Chamberlain’s (1983) analysis of class consciousness in Australia, for example, indicates that many people accept the notion that ‘most people have an equal opportunity to get into the top class if they have the ability and work hard’ (p. 140), even though they may be aware from their own experiences that the social world does not in fact operate in that way. As an idea, meritocracy appeals because it functions as a carrot rather than a stick, giving primacy to human agency in a way that seems to be neglected by some social control or ‘class’ views of the world. Materially, the economic and educational experiences of most Australians during the post war economic boom (1950s to the mid 1960s) have served to reinforce this ideology. Certainly the expanding, buoyant and changing economy provided apparently increased opportunity for all, thus giving some objective reality to the promises of meritocracy. Additionally, a sense of social mobility, of a society ‘on the move’ was also assisted by Australia’s massive post war immigration program which brought more than 2 million settlers to this country in the decades 1945-75. This contributed to the development of a kind of 81

The problem of school knowledge ‘labor aristocracy’ (Collins, 1975 and 1984) comprising, first, the native-born Australians and then the longer-settled immigrants as successive waves of immigrant workers took the worst and lowest paid jobs. Thus the expanding postwar economy, the accompanying expansion of secondary schooling along with overall improvements in living standards in the boom years, served to incorporate (some might say co-opt) the working class within the dominant meritocratic ideology (Connell et al., 1982, p. 191). However, the question-begging assumptions underlying an educational meritocracy about the basis of achievement and the definition of ability are rarely acknowledged or even perceived by the ‘experts’ whose apolitical educational constructs find widespread public acceptance. In their often well-intentioned endeavours to ‘equalise’ the ‘race’ (e.g., special programs for disadvantaged groups; more refined testing procedures to ensure objectivity; remedial reading schemes, and so forth), the deep structural inequalities, referred to throughout this chapter and again in Chapter Seven, become quite obscured in the apparent transferral of responsibility for educational success and failure onto individual effort and ability. Berry (1977) describes the situation in this way: The Australian situation . . . more closely resembles the case where a few competitors start one metre from the finishing line, a few more fifty metres back up the track, a larger group are further back hammering in their starting blocks, others are still changing in a crowded dressing room, while the remainder are at home under the impression that the race starts tomorrow (p. 43). Crucially then, the ideology of meritocracy serves to legitimate but at the same time obscure the structural inequalities which education helps to sustain and reproduce. Education thus ostensibly provides a ‘fair go’ to everyone, so that all people ultimately can avail themselves of economic opportunity (if they wish and if they try) provided they have the necessary ‘ability’. Hence in the public mind that fundamental contradiction between political democratic ideals and the reality of economic inequality is legitimated by the education process itself, where a small but- important shift is made from ‘equality for all’ to ‘equality of opportunity’ (Dale and Esland, 1977, p. 44). Thus to reiterate, structural inequality is transformed, through the ‘hidden curriculum’ of meritocratic ideology in schools, into a question of individual competitiveness and effort. Inequality becomes, not a 82

The problem of school knowledge social or structural issue, but the product of individual talent or stupidity, effort or idleness. Meritocratic ideology has worked well for a long time. However, recession, economic reconstruction and persistently high levels of unemployment have forced a major reappraisal of the possibility of social mobility in a meritocratic society, and with it, a reappraisal of the fundamental purposes of schooling. We now face what some critics have called a ‘crisis of legitimation’ (Habermas, 1976; Pusey, 1980) in which debates over education and, by implication, over school curriculum, can be seen as one specific example. In considering the implications of the legitimation crisis, we return now to our central analysis of the problem of ‘school knowledge’.

The legitimation crisis A major problem facing governments throughout the West at this time of economic uncertainty is how to stem the rise in public expectations which have built up over the boom years without, at the same time, destroying public faith in the liberaldemocratic institutions such as schooling. Certainly, changing economic circumstances accompanying the shift to a post industrial society have created major problems for sustaining the legitimating function of meritocracy. For as an ideology, meritocracy is effective only while it seems to reflect some kind of social reality. And in educational terms, as we have just indicated, under the post-war boom conditions when unemployment rates were extremely low in Australia and jobs plentiful in an expanding job market, the meritocratic view of schooling appeared to function well. Under such conditions, it certainly seemed that those who tried hard at school and obtained a ‘good’ education were able to find an appropriate job, in many instances better than those of their parents. The mid 1970s in Australia saw the end of the economic boom. A decade later, by 1984, unemployment levels had reached 10 per cent, the highest since the great depression of the 1930s. The first and hardest hit group were the school leavers who, in a ‘blame the victim’ social response, were also the first scapegoats, the ‘dole bludgers’ (Windschuttle, 1981). The second scapegoat was education, for under crisis conditions, when the taken-for-granted nexus between school and work was revealed as fragile, the central paradoxes and contradictions within 83

The problem of school knowledge education started to become more publicly apparent. Students who fulfilled meritocratic requirements (worked hard, got good results) still failed to find jobs on leaving school or failed to get into tertiary education. Once this process started to reach epidemic proportions (as it did by 1979, when youth unemployment levels reached 25 per cent), and individual ‘blame’ could no longer be plausibly sustained as an explanation for what was going on, it was natural enough that the focus of concern would shift to the education system itself, to the apparently broken promises of schooling. Thus the late 1970s saw in Australia the emergence of intense debates about educational goals, purposes and curriculum reflecting, though not fully paralleling, similar debates which had begun a decade earlier in Britain where economic recession had struck first and hardest. At one level, the debates were about educational standards, curriculum content, teaching methods and the relevance of education to jobs (the British Black Papers’ (Cox and Boyson, 1969, 1975) attack on liberal/progressive education is illustrative). At a deeper level, they reflect issues we have raised in this chapter, about definitions and control of knowledge and their relationship to the structures of power in the broader society.

Ideological conflict: the debates over curriculum In Australia, the main protagonists in the curriculum debates have been, on the one hand, various employer spokespersons or groups, the Australian Council for Educational Standards (ACES), powerful voices within the media whose views are expressed in lead articles or newspaper editorials, a section of academia generally identified with the ‘new right’ (see Sawer, 1982) and a variety of fundamentalist and ‘far right’ pressure groups (Freeland, 1979b). Although there are considerable differences within this general coalescence of views, in a general sense they all tend to subscribe to the belief that education has become ‘soft’, that ‘standards’ have fallen and that the failure of many school leavers to find jobs lies in part, if not fully, in the failure of the education system to provide the requisite skills. On the other hand are the views of many teachers, academics and a number of ‘policy’ bodies such as professional subject associations and indeed the Schools Commission itself (to be referred to again shortly) who hold to a more ‘progressive’ educational philosophy. In the current uneasy relationship between school and work the 84

The problem of school knowledge proponents of progressive education believe that school curriculum needs overhauling and rethinking if it is to meet the needs of school leavers (whose failure to find jobs is seen as a product of the economic structure rather than the education system). This ‘side’ of the debate tends to emphasise the importance of an inquiryoriented curriculum in which subject boundaries become somewhat muted; hence the emphasis on areas of inquiry such as peace education, media studies, social studies and so forth rather than subjects or disciplines. While the latter approach gained some currency within Australian schools during the expansionary early 1970s, the ‘legitimation crisis’ to which we have just referred of the mid 1970s and 1980s has made this approach more controversial. Thus attacks on school curriculum, particularly in the various social studies areas, have become more pronounced over this time (see also Nelkin, 1976, for an account of similar attacks overseas). The social sciences in particular were attacked by ‘back to basics’ proponents for the apparent concentration on ‘wishy washy’ irrelevant knowledge at the expense of vocationally-oriented, ‘useful’ knowledge. Initially such criticisms were subsumed in more general debates about falling standards carried out in Australia largely under the aegis of the Australian Council for Educational Standards (ACES), other education lobbies, various employer groups and newspaper editorials. Thus for example, the Victorian Employers’ Federation referred to ‘the growing concern of the community over the reading ability of its younger members’ (Literacy Working Group, 1979, p. 9). In similar vein and about the same time, ACES chastised the educational ‘progressives’ for ignoring ‘the consensus of parents and citizens in our community, (namely) that the rising generation should be instructed in the basic disciplines’ (ibid.). An editorial in The Australian proclaimed: There is little doubt in the general community now that . . . our schools are failing to a depressingly large degree to give children the basic educational skills we have a right to expect. . . . It is through hard work in the classroom, rather than by paying attention to the vociferous and often bizarre proposals advanced by the radical minority of teachers, that we can best hope to reduce the present shocking numbers of children who leave the school system barely able to read, hardly capable of counting, and almost totally incapable of expressing themselves coherently (The Australian, 22 April 1978). 85

The problem of school knowledge However, as Presdee (1983) has argued, (see also Dwyer et al., 1984) the focus of the debate soon shifted from the question of standards per se (partly, we might add, for lack of any sustainable evidence) to more central questions about educational ‘relevance’ in a period of rapid and turbulent social and economic change. The concern, Presdee contends, was twofold. Firstly, the critics argued that there needed to be a closer articulation between school and work. This was essentially the message of the Williams Report (1979) into work and education (set up by the Fraser Liberal government in 1975 to investigate appropriate directions for education in a post-industrial society) which argued for more ‘relevant’ vocational training in schools. This sentiment was echoed by various employer groups and the media. For example, the Victorian Employers’ Federation secretary claimed in 1976 that there appears to be a pre-occupation with allowing students to engage in the pursuit of subjects and courses which while of great interest have no relevance or bearing to industry’s needs (cited in Presdee, 1983, p. 133). Secondly, Presdee points to the critics’ concern with the attitudes and ‘low motivation’ of school students (‘There needs to be some expression of the meaning of work and the work ethic’ asserted the same VEF secretary quoted above.) Thus, in the words of a former Federal Minister of Education: What we have in quite a considerable number of the young are attitudinal problems. . . . What we now have to find out is whether there is any way of identifying these people early on and seeing if we can find remedies in time (Carrick, cited in Presdee, 1983, p. 133). The debates over curriculum pivot on competing definitions of relevant, or useful, knowledge. In more theoretical terms, this exemplifies some dimensions of the hegemonic struggle ‘over the “hearts and minds” of the people’ (Sharp, 1980, p. 121) that we referred to earlier in the chapter and which in turn, we argue, relates to the legitimacy of the social order itself. For the point about hegemonic struggle is that it touches the deepest layers of thought about how a society operates. Williams’ (1976) description of hegemony as ‘deeply saturating the consciousness of society’ gives some idea of how ideas or belief systems (such as meritocracy), which may not equally serve the interests of 86

The problem of school knowledge all sections of the community, are nevertheless seen by all as ‘natural’, ‘inevitable’ and taken-for-granted. Dominant or hegemonic ideas are powerful because they reflect the ideas of the socially powerful and the power of those ideas to ‘cajole, persuade’ rather than to bluntly coerce. Conversely, oppositional (or counter hegemonic) ideas are dangerous because, in challenging the power of the dominant ideas, they threaten the prevailing social order. At times of general social and economic uncertainty, such as we have been experiencing since the mid 1970s (in other words, in face of a generalised crisis of legitimation), school curriculum as a major purveyor of ideas takes on a special significance. Not surprisingly then, in commenting on the Queensland government’s controversial decision to ban SEMP (Social Education Materials project) and MACOS (Man: A Course Of Study) (see Smith and Knight, 1978: Freeland, 1979a; Scott, 1980) the then deputy premier commented: Education is not the private reserve of educationists in back rooms. . . . We have drifted away from control of education in the last five or six years in delegating policy-making as well as administration. We intend to return the control of policy to parliament (The Courier Mail, 13 March 1978). What we are suggesting here is that what is really central to the debates over curriculum is not control of education or the curriculum per se; rather, it is the attempt to control the ‘knowing’ process, in other words, to re-establish hegemony in changed and changing economic circumstances. In this context, the comments of a group of high-school students who participated in the trialling of one of the SEMP units on consumerism are revealing: It made us more aware when we leave school as to what happens in industry and in the general outlook on life. . . . We were learning things that were going to affect us later. . . .budgeting, banking, checking out loans from banks and everything. We were able to judge more critically what actually we should be having and we shouldn’t be having. . . .like television ads. We were given ideas about prestige and we were able to look for things which weren’t important. . . and.what we really needed. . . . A lot of the time, for instance Maths, after you’ve finished school a lot of people won’t do anything we were doing in maths. This thing (SEMP) will cross the bridge, for sure. . . . Maths, I can’t really see the use 87

The problem of school knowledge for it . . . like when you buy a tin of fruit, you don’t want to know the area of it. . . . I found my parents couldn’t help much in how to understand how to manage finance, which SEMP helped me with . . . we were taught to manage money . . . so that when we grow up and get married we can manage money (This Day Tonight interview with students, Brisbane, March 1978). In a sense, that quote illuminates one of the central issues in the debates over school knowledge. It nicely illustrates Bernstein’s (1971) point about how the distribution of knowledge in a society also reflects the distribution of power, or, conversely, that control over knowledge is in a very real sense a form of social control. It is important to point out here that the process of knowledge control does not have to entail conspiracy. We do not suggest that the ‘hard-liners’ in the debates conspire to ‘keep people in their place’ when they talk about standards, discipline and a more ‘rigorous’ curriculum, even though this may be the effect of their stance. Rather, we suggest, it is a tribute of sorts to the hegemonic force of the meritocratic view of society, so powerfully promoted within education, that the underlying and frequently antagonistic relations of class and gender remain unexamined and unacknowledged in an education system whose essential purpose has been, as we indicated throughout, selection and allocation. (See also Literacy Working Group, 1979.) All of this still appears largely oriented to social control. And yet, as many writers have pointed out, education is a two-edged sword: it can be used for emancipation or for oppression (Illich, 1971; Freire, 1972; Apple, 1979). Education is not, ultimately, a pale reflection of economic life or a direct instrumentality of the state. First, economic life itself is fraught with contradiction; second, education does have a ‘life of its own’, so that third, education is always ultimately a site of conflict and struggle. What is taught in schools, the curriculum, is always ‘up for grabs’ as it were, and ultimately teachers do have a fair degree of control over what they do in the classroom. There is no ultimate pre-determination. We talked earlier of a legitimation crisis in face of the fractured taken-forgranted nexus between school and work. This may be therefore a particularly apt time for what Junor (1984) has referred to as a ‘new educational settlement’. We will take up these issues more fully in the final two chapters, but the idea is worth exploring briefly in the concluding section of this chapter as we move back towards the classroom. 88

The problem of school knowledge Implications for classroom teaching Over the past decade, virtually every state has held a major inquiry into educational directions (for example, Keeves in South Australia, Ahern in Queensland, Blackburn in Victoria, McGaw in Western Australia, McKinnon-Swan in New South Wales and so forth). More significantly perhaps, the Commonwealth Schools Commission (established in 1973 as an advisory body to the Whitlam Labor government) has attempted to move away from a simplistic meritocratic ideology. Thus the opening pages of its Report for the Triennium 1976-8 state: This Report has three basic themes. The first is equality – an emphasis on more equal outcomes from schooling, laying particular stress on social group disparities and attempts to mitigate them. . . . (Schools Commission, 1975b, p. 6). Despite the varying political fortunes of the Schools Commission there is no doubt that it went some way towards opening up possibilities for teachers interested in trying to accomplish more humane and democratic educational goals. Even the names of the major Schools Commission reports are indicative of their wide-ranging reformative concerns: Girls, School and Society (1975a); Schooling for 15 and 16 year olds (1980); Participation and Equity (1984b); and Girls and Tomorrow (1984a). The rhetoric of these reports at least acknowledges the structural and cultural constraints inhibiting liberal-democratic goals of personal fulfilment and successful school achievement: Schools should go out of their way to build the confidence and competence of all students. Aspects of school organisation which reinforce invidious distinctions based solely on personal social characteristics such as sex, race, cultural differences – or even age, size or interest in tertiary entrance qualifications – should be modified or eliminated (Schools Commission, 1980, p. 9). The Schools Commission has now explicitly acknowledged schooling’s inability to provide an automatic escalator into the job market, suggesting instead, in a manner somewhat reminiscent of Illich that 89

The problem of school knowledge the examination of some of the myths about how our society operates – that if you work hard you will invariably get on, that life chances reflect ability rather than birth, that citizens are equally powerful in political democracies – is indispensable for any process that could be called education (ibid., p. 13). Of course, all this may be mere rhetoric, the old liberal-democratic ideology of equality of opportunity painted with a new democratic-socialist brush of ‘more equal outcomes for all’. (See Johnston’s (1983) compelling analysis of the ‘discourse’ of the Schools Commission Reports for an elaboration of that argument.) And certainly, as we indicate in Chapter Four, there are other kinds of tensions within education which make that kind of rhetoric difficult to implement. But we would not want to be too pessimistic. Economic circumstances, if nothing else, are forcing educational redirections, for good or for bad. If it goes badly, we could see the kinds of trends outlined in this chapter becoming even more pronounced in a form of educational ‘deskilling’ which would see working-class students even further disadvantaged educationally by curriculum offerings, gilded by a pseudo-vocational or pseudo self-development gloss, which in fact lead nowhere. White (1983), for example, suggests that the past explicitly class-biased curriculum is being replaced by a new division between ‘a highly abstract curriculum, from mathematics and physics to computer languages, and a participatory alternative which is not intended to go anywhere’ (p. 30). We would hope however that teachers might be able to grasp the emancipatory possibilities of curriculum in order to put the rhetoric of progressive policy documents into practice. For example, the ‘Participation and Equity’ report suggests: Schooling should (not) be narrowly vocational. On the contrary, rapidly changing technologies . . . will demand that young people give serious thought to the fundamental social changes occurring in the world they are entering. They will also require a general capacity for learning skills rather than any particular learned skills . . . the need for schooling to lay down the foundations for life-long learning is more pressing than ever (Schools Commission, 1984b). In response to such rhetoric, we would hope that teachers might show both the professional and political acumen to think through and put into practice the 90

The problem of school knowledge curricular implications that this entails. Here we bring this all back to teachers in the classroom. As we indicate at various points in this text, the problem with many conventional treatments of education encountered in teacher education courses is that teaching is reduced to the level of a micro-skill, the essential components of which are to develop strategies for ‘keeping control’ and ‘teaching the subject’ well. Yet increasingly such sanitised recipes, despite their superficial appeal, are proving totally inadequate in the evermore complicated real world of teaching. ‘Teaching the subject’, as we have tried to suggest in this chapter, is extremely problematic. A whole range of historical, socioeconomic and political factors has ‘intervened’, as it were, to ensure that in most classes in most schools, most pupils are learning something quite different from ‘the lesson’ into which teachers may have poured so much time and energy. Sometimes such ‘alternative’ learning (the hidden curriculum) occurs surreptitiously and quietly, so that the normal, predictable classroom rhythms remain undisturbed. These are the ‘good classes’, the ‘good lessons’. More frequently now, students explicitly and noisily reject these curriculum offerings as irrelevant and boring, preferring instead to forge their own. These are the ‘bad classes’, the ‘bad kids’, the source of so much teacher burnout. And yet, this is not to suggest that teaching is becoming a futile activity. Quite the contrary. What we have really tried to indicate in this chapter is that there is a perfectly rational element in some students’ rejection of an ultimately highly repressive curriculum. The students may not fully understand the dimensions of such repression, but certainly, having been at the receiving end of the sorting and selection process over a number of years, they are able to grasp that formal schooling brings them no joy and no benefits. It is not in their interests. Student rejection of ‘what is taught’ in schools then is not finally a discipline problem; it is a problem of schooling and ultimately a problem about power. (See particularly Corrigan, 1979.) For teachers then, there is a choice, and a challenge. They can continue to teach curriculum as ‘taken-for-granted’, to work on improving lesson plans and discipline and control techniques in order to try to control those students who don’t like their lessons. They may be lucky. It may work. There may not be many students educated in the process, but they’ll have behaved reasonably well and therefore 91

The problem of school knowledge have left the teaching role intact. Or teachers may be unlucky, and potentially a teacher statistic. Alternatively, teachers can try to come to grips with the underlying causes of student dissatisfaction with schooling, a major element of which will be to acknowledge and try to overcome the present repressive, sexist, authoritarian and alienating processes of schooling. At present schools face a major crisis. High youth unemployment has led to much higher retention rates in secondary schools. At a policy level now, the federal government is encouraging more extended participation in secondary schooling for all. As this occurs, the kinds of problems referred to here may reach explosive levels, to the point where, collectively, teachers and policy-makers will have to confront the fundamental issues of curriculum and the power relationships inherent therein. Perhaps eventually there will be no choice, only a challenge.

Further reading Apple, M. (1979), Ideology and Curriculum, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Apple, M. (1982a), Cultural and Economic Reproduction in Education: Essays on Class, Ideology and the State, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Apple, M. (1982b), Education and Power, Boston: Routledge & Kegan Paul. The first of these books in particular is worth reading closely. The second book is a collection of essays, a number of which are relevant to the concerns of this chapter. The last work repeats some of the themes raised in the two previous books, but provides a good overview of Apple’s main points. Bowles, S. and Gintis, H. (1976), Schooling in Capitalist America: Educational Reform and the Contradictions of Economic Life, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. An important book in sociology of education theory. It was one of the early exponents of ‘reproduction theory’ and provides a thoroughgoing Marxist analysis of American schooling. Some good historical material. Browne, R. and Foster, L. (eds) (1983), Sociology of Education, 3rd ed., Melbourne: Macmillan. A number of articles from this reader are cited in this chapter. One of the more useful sociology of education anthologies. Connell, R. et al. (1982), Making the Difference: Schools, Families and Social Division, Sydney: Allen & Unwin. This book is not concerned only with curriculum issues; however

92

The problem of school knowledge its discussion of the effect of the competitive academic curriculum on school-family relationships is worth pursuing in some detail. Corrigan, P. (1979), Schooling the Smash Street Kids, London: Macmillan. Although not directly concerned with curriculum, this book is useful in its analysis of ‘school problems’ as being the product of broader social factors. It is particularly concerned with the question of power relationships in society. Dale, R. and Esland, G. (1977), Mass Schooling, Milton Keynes: Open University Press. A concise account of the historical context of modern schooling from a Marxist perspective. A good introductory text. Dale, R. et al. (eds) (1976), Schooling and Capitalism: A Sociological Reader, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. A collection of readings providing some excellent source material on various aspects of schooling, a number of which are of particular relevance to this chapter. Dwyer, P. et al. (1984), Confronting School and Work: Youth and Class Cultures in Australia, Sydney: Allen & Unwin. An interesting Australian account which deals, in passing, with curriculum. Freire, P. (1972), Pedagogy of the Oppressed, Harmondsworth: Penguin. This book is now something of a classic. Examination of Freire’s analysis of education and particularly his account of pedagogy remains a useful exercise. Holt, J. (1965), How Children Fail, Harmondsworth: Penguin. This, like all of Holt’s other books, is fairly representative of the spate of critical treatises on education emerging during the 1960s. Written from a progressive educational stance. Very readable. Illich, I. (1971), Deschooling Society, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Although the notion of ‘deschooling’ has now lost currency, Illich’s incisive analysis is still extremely important and worth close reading. Postman, N. and Weingartner, C. (1969), Teaching as a Subversive Activity, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Pusey, M. (1981), ‘How will governments strive to control education in the 1980s?’ Discourse, vol. 1, no. 2, pp. 9-17. One of the best critical examinations of educational policy and direction, with clear implications for curriculum. Radical Education Dossier, nos. 1-23. Subsequently retitled Links nos. 24- . One of the few Australian journals written from a consistent ‘left’ perspective. Articles are written clearly and without jargon and are therefore accessible to beginning sociology students. Schools Commission (1975a), Girls, School and Society, Canberra: Australian Government Publishing Service. Schools Commission (1980), Schooling for 15 and 16 Year Olds, Canberra: Australian Government Publishing Service.

93

The problem of school knowledge Schools Commission (1984a), Girls and Tomorrow, Canberra: Australian Government Publishing Service. Schools Commission (1984b), Participation and Equity in Australian Schools, Canberra: Australian Government Publishing Service. Most of these reports are reasonably short and easy to read. They provide a useful indicator of government policy and, inter alia, have a lot to say about curriculum issues. Whitty, G. and Young, M. (eds) (1976), Explorations in the Politics of School Knowledge, Driffield: Nafferton. A useful book of readings for those wanting to pursue the sociology of school curriculum and school subjects in more detail.

94

Chapter Four

Understanding the system

From whatever point of view the educational systems of . . . Australia are approached, one is led back inevitably to the type of administration by which they are dominated. . . . They are dominated by the aim of securing efficiency in a somewhat narrowly conceived round of educational prescriptions and requirements. That this efficiency is secured cannot be denied, but the major question is whether such efficiency is not secured at too high a price. It is achieved at the expense of the educational growth of the pupils and the professional growth of the teachers, on the one hand, and, on the other, at a sacrifice of that adaption to changing educational needs which is the keynote today of educational progress in the more advanced democracies of the world (I. Kandel, Types of Administration, 1938, pp. 81, 82).

Understanding the system Teachers face a challenge, not only in confronting the kinds of curriculum issues referred to in the previous chapter, but also in understanding, confronting and surviving ‘the system’. In this chapter, we explore how the system operates, the social and political pressures acting on the system, and how schools fit into the larger scheme of things; in other words, what it means to work in the system. For while individual schools may appear chaotic at times, or haphazardly administered, schools do not function randomly. Rather, they exist as part of a much 95

Understanding the system wider system of education which organises, in broad terms, educational policy and practice at federal, state and regional levels. The ‘system’ establishes the administrative arrangements and procedures which underpin the organisation of its constitutent schools, and it ensures coordination between the various sectors: regional, state and federal; primary, secondary and tertiary.

The idea of a system Before going on to examine the organisation of schools and the education system in more detail, it is important to point out that much of our social life is in some senses ‘organised’ or ‘systematised’ (Esland, 1971, p. 19). That is to say: Our society is an organizational society. We are born in organizations, educated by organizations, and most of us spend much of our lives working for organizations. We spend much of our leisure time paying, playing and praying in organizations. Most of us will die in an organization, and when the time comes for burial, the largest organization of all – the state – must grant official permission (Etzioni, 1964, p. 1). Normally, we take our social or working life pretty much for granted, without being too aware of either the underlying organisational structure or the structural similarities which extend across many aspects of ‘organised’ life: at home, in school, the workplace or in various organised leisure-related activities and so forth. Yet a pattern does exist: in very general terms, most organised life (and we include family life) characteristically displays a gendered division of labour, a hierarchy of authority, status and power, a method or mechanism for decision-making, and a formal or informal statement of organisational aims and objectives, rules and regulations. Sometimes ‘the system’ is quite formalised, even though the activities of the particular organisation may at times be quite informal, the Rotary Club, for example. In other instances, family life, for example, the underlying ‘system’ may be much more informal and difficult to discern. Within most organisations, systems or institutions (these terms are used interchangeably here), an informal social structure generally exists side by side, and sometimes in conflict, with the formal structure. So, for example, a group of office typists may subvert the ‘proper’ functioning of the office (deliberately or 96

Understanding the system unintentionally) by doing things in their own way or at a different pace as, for example, in the satirical Nine to Five! Similarly, teachers or pupils may subvert the school system by refusing (intentionally or otherwise) to ‘go along’ with the proper way of doing things, or by rejecting particular educational goals or objectives. Such teachers or pupils may be conforming to what is, in some senses, a ‘subterranean’, informal system which exists alongside the formal system of the school. One of the earliest, and still interesting, explorations of such systems can be found in Whyte’s (1955) classic Street Corner Society which, as the title suggests, was concerned with delineating the social organisation of street gangs in an inner-city setting in the United States. It is important to remember that these social systems, organisations or institutions are part of a broader social environment (Blau and Scott, 1963, pp. 199205) though institutions or organisations vary in the degree to which they interact with the surrounding community. Some are more ‘open’ (that is, highly interactive) while others, prisons for example, are more closed (Goffman, 1968). It is interesting to think about schools in this way, that is, as more or less ‘prison-like’ (Humphreys and Newcombe, 1975, pp. 36-49; Esland, 1971, pp. 32-3). Furthermore, institutions or organisations, whether open or closed, also reflect prevailing social beliefs (or at least, the beliefs of dominant sections of the community) about how society should be ordered. Thus the way in which the prison system, the school system, the family structure, the health system and so forth are organised in any given society reveals and reflects something about the dominant beliefs and practices of that society at any given time. That is, organisations, and ‘organised life’, are historically-placed cultural arenas. They change over time. Perhaps we should emphasise at this point that although we are talking about organised life and its pervasiveness, we are not in any sense denying individuality or ‘uniqueness’. But sociologists recognise, sometimes to readers’ initial discomfort, the pervasive and powerful force of social organisation which underlies our seemingly individualistic existence. They stress that without social organisation there would be no viable individual life. Thus not only is our personal life to a large extent systematised, but our complex and technologically advanced society requires and generates an appropriately complex, interdependent and highly organised social structure: the economy, the legal system, organised religion, the ‘body politic’ (government or the state); defence, recreation and so on, including of course the education system. 97

FIGURE 4.1 Organisational Structure Department of Education, Queensland Senior Administration June 1984 Adapted from: Queensland Education Department, Current Awareness Datasheet, June 1984

Understanding the system

98

Understanding the system The education system Formally the Australian education system comprises a complex and diverse set of interconnecting ‘segments’: the schools, the Colleges of Advanced Education (CAEs), Technical and Further Education (TAFE), the universities. Additionally, there are separate private and public (state) school systems, and a rather complicated division of responsibility for education between the commonwealth and state governments. In broad terms, the commonwealth takes responsibility for tertiary education (the universities, the CAEs and to a lesser degree TAFE) while the states are responsible for primary and secondary education (the schools). However, the states also have considerable influence over the Colleges and TAFE, and the commonwealth plays an important role in determining educational policy and funding priorities in some areas of schooling. In this chapter, we will be focusing primarily on the school system, with some discussion of the implications of the dual private/state system which exists in Australia. We attend first to public or state schooling. In general terms, a typical state education system might look something like the diagram in Figure 4.1. (There will, of course, be variations between states, and the diagrams will never be quite accurate, for as we have just stated, systems change.) This diagrammatic representation of a state education system could be extended horizontally to encompass linkages with other aspects of state government responsibilities, as shown in Figure 4.2.

FIGURE 4.2 Links between State Government Departments 99

Understanding the system Note that the education system both interlocks and competes with other segments of the social structure for funding priorities. This has implications which will be discussed shortly. The system could also be extended to indicate links with the commonwealth government, the commonwealth education system, and the various subsets of the tertiary education sector, as indicated in Figure 4.3. The Australian Schools Commission, as presented in Figure 4.3, provides an important link between the commonwealth and state education systems at the schools level. Since its establishment in 1973, the Schools Commission has issued a number of policy documents which have provided a ‘climate of consciousness’ that has been absorbed in different degrees by the states. The Curriculum Development Centre (previously an autonomous body but now part of the Schools

FIGURE 4.3 Links between State and Commonwealth Education Systems 100

Understanding the system Commission) has also played an important link role between the commonwealth and the states through its sponsoring of a number of curriculum projects such as the SEMP resources referred to in Chapter Three. We will say more about the Schools Commission later in the chapter. Again at the federal level, the education system both connects and competes with other sections of public expenditure. Possibilities for conflict and competition within the education system between its various constituent sections are also apparent. Furthermore, the links shown in this and the other figures sketch out only the formal communication channels. In practice, these may be undermined or bypassed by various informal links, through the political manoeuvres of particular people, for example, or through the ways various committees are constituted and controlled, and so forth. The education system therefore, like all parts of the social structure, is in many ways a political creation and as such politically vulnerable. To guard against direct political intervention, the education system operates through an independent bureaucracy accountable to the Director-General in each state or, at the commonwealth level, to the Head of the Commonwealth Education Department. Although the Department Head or Directors-General are ultimately accountable to the relevant state or federal Minister, the education bureaucracy may exert a powerful influence in its own right, sometimes in conflict with government thinking or wishes and sometimes not. Before turning to a more specific discussion of the education bureaucracy, we consider first some general aspects of bureaucratic organisation.

Bureaucratic organisation As the three figures in this chapter indicate, bureaucratic organisation denotes an administrative structure based on a hierarchical division of authority and labour (Weber, in Gerth and Mills, 1958). Within this pyramid of authority, positions, duties and jurisdiction of responsibility are clearly specified and rigidly adhered to, as are the organisational rules, regulations and procedures. Communication between employees (or officers) of a bureaucracy is generally formal and by written (or today, computerised) memoranda which are stored and filed. The filing system is, in a sense, the bureaucracy’s arsenal; in a bureaucracy, no decision or request exists unless it has been noted, on the proper form and by the properly 101

Understanding the system designated officer and sent along the appropriate channels until it reaches its designated destination. There it is appropriately acted upon and filed for future reference. A great deal has been written about bureaucracies, some funny (for example, Heller’s (1955) novel Catch 22), some chilling (for example, Kafka’s (1953) The Trial or Orwell’s (1949) 1984), but all satirise in one form or another the absurdity or dangers of bureaucratic excess, and undoubtedly we all have our favourite story about encounters with the bureaucracy. For all that, a bureaucratic form of organisation has been perceived ideally, if not always in practice, as the most efficient and rational way of administering large organisations or systems in modern societies. Thus the sociologist Max Weber, one of the foremost theorists of bureaucracy, saw bureaucratic administration as a central and indispensable part of modern capitalist society: Experience tends universally to show that the purely bureaucratic type of administrative organization . . .is, from a purely technical point of view, capable of attaining the highest degree of efficiency and is in this sense formally the most rational known means of carrying out imperative control over human beings. It is superior to any other form in precision, in stability, in the stringency of its discipline and in its reliability. It thus makes possible a particularly high degree of calculability of results for the heads of the organization and for those acting in relation to it (cited in Worsley, 1982, p. 369). For Weber, bureaucracy represented a progressive force compared with the nepotistic practices of the past, offering the possibility of a totally rational system of administration. Yet he was also ambivalent about bureaucratic organisation, foreseeing the possibility of bureaucracies covering, like an ‘iron cage’, every aspect of advanced industrial society. Bureaucracies, then, are seen as a kind of office version of a smoothly functioning factory production line, with administrative tasks broken down into manageable, restricted units, handled in logical sequence by officers whose duties and responsibilities are clearly spelled out. Bureaucracies, ideally, are seen as even-handed administrative systems, impervious to corruption, nepotism and political influence, because of the numerous checks and balances contained within the complex division of tasks and responsibilities carried out ‘without hatred or 102

Understanding the system passion, and hence without affection or enthusiasm’ (ibid., p. 371). To help sustain such objectivity, workers in a bureaucracy (unlike industrial workers) are typically offered tenured positions within a career structure which allows for systematic promotion on the basis of merit and seniority. While lower echelon work is extremely limited in the scope it allows for personal initiative or decision-making, senior bureaucrats have a great deal of responsibility and influence. As a result of their career within the organisation, senior officers acquire considerable knowledge and expertise both about their area of work and how ‘the system’ operates. Their decisions are therefore informed by both expertise and experience. Within a bureaucracy, then, decisions are made ‘at the top’ and passed down; subordinate officers must unquestionably obey the decisions of their superiors which in turn are based on written rules and procedures. There is of course some delegation of responsibility, so that varying levels of decision-making occur all the way down the line. But the same pattern prevails throughout: in each case, subordinates are responsible to superior officers or conversely, superior officers are accountable for all the actions of those subordinate to them. This of course means that at any given time, officers not wishing to take responsibility for (that is, be held accountable for) a particular decision, may send it ‘up the line’ (more commonly known as ‘passing the buck) until at some point it falls clearly within someone’s jurisdiction. Bureaucratic organisation thus entails a clear pyramid of decision-making, with those at the bottom having very little responsibility or knowledge about the overall involvements of the organisation, and hence little power, and those at the top having a great deal of knowledge and responsibility and, as a result, power. This characterisation of bureaucracy is of course over-simplistic. As we have already suggested, any form of social organisation is riddled with the complexity of human interactions. The formal description of a bureaucratic form of organisation does not necessarily match the institutional reality: power and status are also mediated through informal social networks (Blau and Scott, 1966). Bureaucratic forms of organisation have typically arisen in areas of stateprovided services, for example, electricity, water supply, health, and of course education. That perhaps helps to explain why bureaucracy has been portrayed in particularly derogatory terms in relation to communist countries where the state plays a more central role in the industrial and economic spheres. But even in our socalled ‘private enterprise’ society, and particularly in Australia, state intervention 103

Understanding the system in the provision of services and welfare is considerable, giving rise to a broad-based ‘bureaucratic sector’ (exemplified perhaps by the city of Canberra!). Encel (1970) wrote of the ‘bureaucratic ascendancy’ characteristic of Australian life, noting Davies’s comment that ‘the characteristic talent of Australians is not for improvisation, nor even for republican manners; it is for bureaucracy’ (p. 59). Butts (1961), an American observer of Australian schooling in the 1950s, made similar comments with respect to the highly centralised Australian education system which he found to be underpinned by two basic assumptions: ‘(1) a uniform policy for all schools in a state is a good thing, and (2) a uniform policy can be achieved only when the basic decisions are made by a relatively few people’ (p. 12). He goes on to suggest that, whatever the virtues of centralised bureaucracy (and there are a number), the end result is to create a system in which it is assumed that only a few non-professional persons can be trusted with a role in educational decisions. . . . The vast majority of teachers and headmasters of schools are largely excluded from this group. Professional decisions are basically confined to head office and to the top officials in head office (pp. 1415).

The education bureaucracy Butts’s observations about the centralised and bureaucratic nature of Australian education can perhaps partly be explained (if not justified) by geography, that is, by the need to provide equitable educational services to country and remote areas. (See Encel, 1970, pp. 58-9 for a discussion of the complex relationship between bureaucracy and democracy.) Hence in each state as well as federally, a centralised educational bureaucracy has emerged, though there have been attempts recently to achieve some decentralisation in Victoria. Figure 4.1 outlines the basic form of the education department pyramid, peaking with the Director-General of Education in each state. Each of the ‘blocks’ on the diagram represents various stages or levels of educational decision-making and responsibility. Each block represents, in a sense, a mini-bureaucracy in its own right. The schools are placed low in the overall education hierarchy, giving some indication of a principal’s real power and authority (or lack of it) in the general scheme of things. 104

Understanding the system Yet the school operates as a mini-bureaucracy in its own right, and in this bureaucracy the principal wields considerable power. Thus, within any school there is an administrative hierarchy, from principal through to teachers, with ancillary staff somewhere alongside (or below). Each position within the school hierarchy is clearly and progressively demarcated in terms of duties, responsibilities and salary. By and large, teaching provides a tenured career through which the more ambitious may proceed, step by step, eventually out of the school system into the larger educational bureaucracy: the regional office, for example, or to ‘head office’ in the state or commonwealth education department. Within the state system (unlike the private sector) the teaching career-structure spans all the schools in the state, a mechanism which provides both carrot and stick. A stint of ‘country service’ is generally a prerequisite for successful promotion through the ranks, while the ‘punitive transfer’ exists as an ever-present (though never explicitly stated) threat to teachers refusing to toe the line. The constant movement of teachers through the system in this way is perhaps one reason why the administrative infrastructure needs to be so stable, reliable, so bureaucratic. People may come and go, but the system lives on! To this end, schools are rule-bound and operate an extensive filing/recording system. To a greater or lesser extent (and there are significant differences between states and regions) school policy and practices are determined, not by the principal who acts rather as a functionary of the larger system, but within the framework of policy determined further up the line, within the relevant sections of the education department, duly sanctioned by the Director-General and, ultimately, the Minister. In all of this, classroom teachers are, organisationally, but very small cogs in a very large machine. So, what does it all mean? For what we have described so far is an organisational framework, solid and real in one sense, but sociologically fragile in terms of how, in practice, things work. In other words, although schools exist within a bureaucratic framework, they certainly do not function in a straightforwardly bureaucratic way, for a variety of reasons. We will develop that aspect a little later. First however, we will consider the impact of bureaucratisation on school organisation and classroom teaching. For bureaucratic organisation, despite the ‘ideal’ model it posits for smooth-running efficiency, is inherently constraining on teaching, and on educational interests in general. This is partly because, as a form of administration, bureaucracies are designed to limit or control personal responsibility and autonomy, except at the most senior level. Consequently there is 105

Understanding the system always tension between the needs of the ‘system’ and teachers’ professional judgements. Constraints also arise from a process of ‘goal displacement’, whereby the ostensible objectives of an organisation (in this case the school’s educational objectives) are displaced by administrative objectives of a ‘smooth running system’ (thus ‘running a tight ship’ is a not uncommon metaphor among school principals or deputy principals). These two points require elaboration.

Tensions between bureaucratic and professional demands Teaching in many respects is regarded as a professional activity, and while we have some reservations about the use of this term (elaborated earlier in the book) we will persist with it now as a description of the way in which teachers make decisions about their educational objectives and classroom practices. Ideally, teaching is an activity requiring considerable ‘professional’ judgement about the needs of pupils, the appropriateness of resource and curriculum materials, about learning styles and teaching strategies, about evaluating pupil performance, and so on. Teachers acquire such professional expertise over time, on the basis of their training, accumulated experience and through the process of consultation with colleagues. In other words, and this is a key element in the nature of professional as distinct from bureaucratic judgement, teaching is an individualistic though peer-oriented activity of equals, drawing strength and legitimation from consultation and cooperation with colleagues on an equal basis (see also Chapter One). Additionally, teaching claims professional status in company with, say, medical work, in that teaching is, ideally, a person-oriented, or client-oriented activity where the teacher-pupil relationship is one of confidence and individual negotiation rather than public record. Certainly the rhetoric of teaching for ‘individual differences’ is prominent on the teacher education agenda. All of this then points to a marked discrepancy or tension between bureaucratic and professional authority. Etzioni (1964), for example, contrasts the hierarchy of power characteristic of bureaucratic administration with the individualism of professional knowledge. Administration, he suggests, requires a ‘clear ordering of higher and lower in rank’ in order that the organisation be a ‘coordinated tool’. Individual knowledge, by contrast, cannot be so easily coordinated: 106

Understanding the system It is this highly individualized principle which is diametrically opposed to the very essence of the organizational principle of control and coordination by superiors. . . . In other words, the ultimate justification for a professional act is that it is, to the best of the professional’s knowledge, the right act. He might consult his colleagues before he acts, but the decision is his. If he errs, he still will be defended by his peers. The ultimate justification of an administrative act, however, is that it is in line with the organization’s rules and regulations, and that it has been approved . . . by a superior rank (p. 77). Thus the reality for most classroom teachers is that in general, teachers’ socalled professional judgements are pre-empted by rules, procedures and curriculum decisions made by other people in higher positions in the educational bureaucracy. Such major decisions as to what should be taught (the syllabus), how and when to assess, what textbooks to use and so forth are frequently not the teacher’s prerogative. Sometimes such constraints on teachers’ professional autonomy come from the internal bureaucracy, the subject coordinators, the principal or whatever, and sometimes they come from the wider educational bureaucracy. None of this however is to suggest that teachers need act as helpless cogs in a relentless machine, an issue we address in more detail in the final two chapters.

Tensions between means and ends A tendency with bureaucratic administration is for the needs of ‘the system’ to override the original objectives for which the organisation exists, in a process sometimes referred to as ‘goal displacement’ (Merton, 1957). In other words, tensions develop between ‘administration’ as such, and the original organisational objectives. Berger, Berger and Kellner (1981, p. 54) suggest that: In bureaucracy the means are typically as important, or nearly so, as the ends. It is not just a question of getting somebody a passport but of getting it to him by the proper means. . . . Bureaucracy is by the same token singularly susceptible to ‘goal displacement’. This prevails when interest in the means has actually replaced the original interest in the ends and the bureaucracy concentrates all its 107

Understanding the system energies on the perfection of its procedures. The purpose of the bureaucracy is now no longer to issue passports but to perfect the procedures operating within the passport agency. . . . In relation to education, the distinction between administrative and educational objectives seems on the surface to be silly. Theoretically, the administration helps the organisation to attain its goals more efficiently. However, in practice, in the name of ‘efficiency’, administrative procedures begin to take on a life of their own. Efficiency, rather than educational considerations, becomes the organising motif. What administrators judge as ‘efficient’ determines organisational (in this case, school) procedures, even though they may at times conflict with what teachers might regard as educationally desirable. Examples are numerous and wideranging. A principal may decide that it is more efficient, in terms of her or his own time and organisation, to relay messages to the school at fixed times via the public address system. Some of these messages may be relevant to everyone; mostly they relate to only some of the school population, for example, the swimming team, those whose mothers work at the tuckshop, and so forth. From the teachers’ and students‘ point of view, the messages are a (sometimes welcome!) distraction and waste valuable classroom time, particularly when they are quite irrelevant to the concerns of the class members. Again, a principal may decide that it is more efficient, in terms of time and standardisation of recording procedures, for teachers to assess by coded symbols rather than discursive reports. Thus teachers find themselves trying to relate to parents the difficulties they are experiencing with a student in the gobbledygook of ‘ikwz’ which, according to the coded assessment card received by the parent means: (i) – lacks understanding; (k) – sometimes illegible; (w) – requires supervision; (z) – not up to expectations. The depersonalising of the educational experience in this way simply reinforces the already considerable barriers between teachers and pupils, or teachers and parents. Thus ‘efficiency’ in this instance contributes to educational alienation. A final example. A principal may decide that it is more efficient, time and money-wise, to centralise all photocopying facilities in the secretary’s office for the secretary to carry out at prescribed times. In practice, this firstly cuts out the possibility for teachers to carry out emergency operations (practising teachers will sympathise with the meaning of that!), thus reducing flexibility; secondly, it adds 108

Understanding the system a controlling element. We know of an example where the implementation of just such a procedure led to the banning of a teacher’s proposed class discussion (by senior pupils) on abortion. The reading she had put in for routine photocopying upset the secretary (whose job it was to copy the article); the secretary complained to the principal who banned the use of the article in the classroom for fear of flak from parents and others higher up in the system. This is a good example of a point made earlier in the chapter, of the ‘embeddedness’ of institutions in a wider social and political context which, directly or indirectly, affects the way organisations operate. In the name of organisational efficiency, then, ‘proper procedures’ emerge which, from an educational point of view, are far from efficient and often diversionary. They serve to create an alternative set of expectations about performance of duty, quite separate and sometimes in direct conflict with teaching competence. As a result, promotion may come to depend not so much on the original criteria of professional competence or teaching effectiveness (however defined), but on ‘administrative capability’. In this process, ambitious classroom teachers may have to forgo painstakingly acquired teaching skills in order to learn new and different skills relating to management of ‘the system’, including institutional politics. In other words, knowing how the system ‘works’, and being a smart political operator (for example, building up contacts, knowing whom to impress, and how), may become major elements in the pursuit of a successful career in the education system, rather than effective teaching. As an aside, we would suggest that for teachers the process of ‘goal displacement’ reaches a significant point at the subject coordinator level, when professional autonomy may become directly challenged by system demands, for example, in agreeing to adopt (or not to adopt) a particular set of texts, a particular curriculum package, a particular assessment scheme, and so forth. At about this stage, the real sorting out seems to occur between the bureaucratic sheep and the goats, though presumably the potential sheep can be spotted in the teaching force quite early by the eagerness with which they obey directives and embrace routine procedures. Thus far, the administrative sheep have tended to be male, though current government equal opportunity and affirmative action initiatives may hasten the emergence of more ‘femisheep’! 109

Understanding the system More subtle forms of goal displacement also contribute to the erosion of educational objectives, particularly in the areas of assessment and discipline. In both cases, what are intended as means to organisational ends (in this case, ‘well educated’ students) frequently become ends in themselves. In other words, teachers tend to spend a great deal of time on assessment or discipline-related tasks seemingly demanded by ‘the system’, even though these may be quite at odds with their own educational goals or wishes. Thus in relation to assessment, for many pupils and teachers education has come to mean testing and, conversely, what is not tested tends not to be viewed as education (Holt, 1970, p. 51ff). Quite apart from its educational implications, what this means in terms of how the system operates is that the best ‘testers’ rather than the best teachers (for the two are not synonymous) tend to be promoted through the system. Similarly in relation to discipline, bureaucratically derived notions of ‘order’ may be projected onto the practice of teaching. Indeed, the very structuring of classrooms requiring one teacher to take charge of 30 or even 40 pupils at a time means that the ‘good teacher’ tends to become defined primarily as someone who can keep that class ‘in order’ and maintain ‘classroom discipline’ (Dale 1977b, p. 49). In practice, therefore, ‘good teaching’ involves developing a range of subtle (and not so subtle) strategies and forms of intimidation to keep 30 or so pupils quiet for 40 minutes or longer at a stretch, regardless of the educational consequences. As a result, many hours are wasted on discipline-related drills (waiting for fiddlers to stop fiddling, for talkers to stop talking, for daydreamers to answer unheard questions, haranguing the disrupters, bullying the resisters) all in the name of ‘classroom control’ and the approval of those who help determine the ‘successful’ teacher’s career. In other words, assessment and discipline become the ends which seem to occupy so much classroom time, rather than simply the means of facilitating the original educational purposes of schooling. And the ability to manage classrooms and fulfil assessment requirements tend to become the determining criteria for ‘good teaching’. Now all of this of course begs the question of what constitutes good teaching, and certainly the account given here is an oversimplification of a process described by Grace (1978, p. 167) as the ‘social construction of the good teacher’. Grace’s own study of ‘good teachers’ revealed a complex range of definitions, but nevertheless found a ‘continuing preoccupation with social order and social control’. Furthermore, ‘only in a minority of the schools was the 110

Understanding the system emphasis in typification of good teachers strongly upon the quality of classroom teaching or pedagogic skill as such’ (p. 167). Of course, as Grace points out, such system demands are not created out of a social or political vacuum. The processes described here do not simply ‘just happen’. They are the product of, and reflect, powerful social, economic and political forces which exert considerable pressure on the education system and its practitioners (Connell, 1985). This aspect is considered in more detail in later chapters but one implication relevant to the discussion here is that we have to modify the distinction drawn above between ‘bureaucratic’ and ‘professional’. Both modes, we suggest, may be linked by their common roots in the general social order.

The teacher-technician: bureaucratic and professional convergence We have noted how bureaucratic projections of the notion of order onto the education system may result in the displacement of educational goals and objectives. That metaphor suggests that the worlds of the bureaucratic administrators and the educational practitioners are in some ways opposed. To some extent we believe that to be true, but the picture is not so simple. For educationists themselves have adopted practices and ‘ways of thinking’ which are not merely reflections of bureaucratic structures, but rather represent internalised views about the way education ought to function which in many ways correspond to the bureaucratic vision. Bates (1983, p. 74) puts it this way: both bureaucracy and professions contain various principles of control related to social, cognitive and epistemological structures. The claim of bureaucracies to forms of rational organisation and planning, and the claims of professions to scientific knowledge and expertise combine in the contemporary world into a single model of technical rationality. The reasons for this convergence of the professional and the bureaucratic are complex. However, Bates points to the relationship between the control and definition of knowledge (the province of the professional) and the control of social 111

Understanding the system systems (the province of bureaucracy) in modern society. These two provinces come together, he suggests, in a ‘scientific problem-solving’ model of educational administration, a point to which we will return shortly. Furthermore, the professional domain (in this instance, education) is not simply dominated, but permeated by ‘bureaucratic consciousness’. Elements of this bureaucratic consciousness include: a sense of orderliness ‘based on a taxonomic propensity. . . . Phenomena are classified rather than analysed or synthesised’, an assumption of predictability and neutrality informing a general principle of justice, and a generalised belief in ‘organizationability’ (Berger, Berger and Kellner, 1981, pp. 44-60). Such elements also seem to be characteristic of Bates’ ‘scientific problem solving’ model. So let us turn more specifically to the realm of education, to explore in more detail how the ‘technical rationality’ underlying the bureaucratic administration of education also structures and permeates professional practice. Pusey (1983, p. 402, see also Dale, 1982) argues that the basis of this symbiotic relationship between the professional and the bureaucratic lies in the need by governments to maintain control over a domain inherently resistant to bureaucratic control. The rather diffuse goals of education, he suggests, do not readily lend themselves to a bureaucratic division of labour or standardisation of tasks. Hence the nature of the control is likely to be ideological (relating to values and beliefs) rather than bureaucratically administrative, that is: Basically governments do not want concrete and specific controls because the proliferation of specific controls creates unmanageably complex coordination problems. What they want, in the first instance, is something very much more abstract and general . . . what governments want is more governability, i.e. control of a more generalised sort or, in other words, a kind of guaranteed obedience in advance of particular commands. Habermas’s way of putting it is to say that governments seek more ‘steering capacity’, in a sense, more power (ibid., p. 404). How then, asks Pusey, do governments obtain this ‘steering capacity’? The reasoning here (following Habermas, 1971) is complicated, but it is important to try to follow the general argument. In short, steering capacity is generated through the application of the ‘scientific problem-solving approach’ to educa tion. Such an 112

Understanding the system approach draws strength and legitimacy from its apparently neutral and objectively ‘scientific’ handling of education. However, Pusey argues that the scientific view of the world is inherently imperialistic: the applied natural and social sciences presuppose that things and people can and ought to be controllable and manageable: ‘technical control’ per se is the ‘constitutive interest’ of the applied and social sciences. . . . Science usually wittingly or unwittingly involves some kind of power-brokerage. It is in the very nature of science to take sides against the uncontrolled and to strive always towards increased control and controllability (Pusey, 1981, p. 11). Here we can begin to see a convergence or symbiosis of the bureaucratic and the professional-scientific. This is emphasised again in Bates’ discussion of the ‘technical-rational model of education’ which he sees dominating educational administration and practice. Amongst other things, he argues, such a model assumes: (a) the law-like nature of scientific propositions, which specify clearly relations of cause and effect and, therefore, allow the possibility of technical control, (b) the objective nature of true knowledge and its neutrality in the face of human interests and needs, and (c) a conception of education, which separates fact from value and employs models of instruction and inquiry which are functional, rather than historical or social (Bates, 1983, p. 76). The end result, Bates concludes, is that such administrative treatment defines teaching as a technical process in which the major considerations are not content, volition and justification, but efficiency, effectiveness and communicability (ibid.). There is a marked resonance here with the notion of ‘bureaucratic consciousness’ discussed earlier. One implication of making education ‘technical’ in this way, a process described by Pusey as the ‘scientisation of education’, is that the professional judgements of teachers are pre-empted by preordained ‘scientifically formulated’ prescriptions 113

Understanding the system of ‘how things are done’. Consequently, the professional-teacher becomes the technician-teacher. This point requires some elaboration. Examples of educational scientisation can be found in the wide range of modular programmed curriculum kits and ‘scientifically’ designed standardised testing and evaluation instruments now available on the educational market, as well as in the increasing emphasis on detailed specification and delineation of educational aims and objectives, the bane of teaching life! (See Lingard, 1982 for a discussion of the scientisation of assessment in Queensland.) Other forms of scientistic education, we would suggest, are found in the burgeoning emphasis on micro-teaching skills (accompanied by the trappings and paraphernalia of science: laboratories, equipment and special facilities), together with the language in which all of this is presented, a pseudo-science ‘eduspeak’, for example: Students will learn how to plan lessons which illustrate the effective use of the components of specified teaching strategies . . . (and) utilize non-verbal cues as effective adjuncts to communication (cited in Henry, 1984, p. 26). All this is intended to make teachers’ work more ‘objective’ and therefore ‘fairer’, which is how principles of neutrality and justice, referred to earlier, frequently get tangled up in these technocratic approaches to education. In practice, of course, there may be a considerable gap between such assumed objectivity and the reality of the inequities of classroom life (see further Chapter Six). Partly too, the intention is to make teaching more understandable and more easily analysed, which is a good example of the ‘taxonomic propensity’ of bureaucratic consciousness seeping across into professional consciousness, and thus into the making of the technician-teacher. Our general point here is that this sort of scientisation of education contributes to undermining (or devaluing) teacher professionalism by eroding the scope of professional judgement, in areas such as curriculum, methods or pedagogy, and assessment. This process creates a hierarchy of knowledge and ‘expertise’ (another point of convergence with the bureaucratic-administrative hierarchy), resulting in a kind of educational deskilling (Apple, 1982a. See also Buswell, 1980, for a detailed case-study of deskilling). For once education is objectified, codified and preorganised in the various ways described above, teachers tend to lose opportunities for significant creative involvement. This is because, as Apple (1982b) suggests, scientistic approaches to education for various reasons 114

Understanding the system (including the economics of publishing) tend to concentrate expertise in the hands (minds?) of a few, so that the planning and production of materials are frequently carried out centrally (by the experts) and separate from their execution (by the technician-teachers). Such a division of labour is reminiscent of the discussion of Taylorism in Chapter Three. As a result, collegial-professional notions of education, described earlier, are pre-empted. All of which relates back to Pusey’s discussion of ‘steering capacity’. Scientisation is a means of providing the kind of self-control by the profession over education which ensures, in Pusey’s terms, ‘governability’. Apple (1982a) makes a similar point in his discussion of educational reskilling which, he argues, involves the substitution of [educational] skills [with] the ideological visions of management. The growth of behaviour modification techniques and classroom management strategies . . . signifies these kinds of alterations. That is, as teachers lose control of their curricula and pedagogic skills to large publishing houses, these skills are replaced by techniques for better controlling students (p. 256). That is, control over education does not (cannot) rely simply upon bureaucratic constraints. Rather, control is exerted through the way in which education has become defined within the profession itself, and by the profession’s acceptance of ‘scientifically’ standardised formulations of content, procedures, assessment and so forth which provide the standards by which it may be publicly judged. Ryan (1982) picks up this point about the relationship between ‘scientistic’ notions of education, and accountability. The ‘accountabilists’, he argues, claim that: Teaching needs to be put on a scientific basis . . . if its productivity is to be raised and its efficiency assessed; for them, the science of teaching requires the explicit formulation of clear and measurable instructional goals, and a method of achieving these that is systematic, pre-packaged, non-idiosyncratic, and above all, testable (p. 23). The further consequence of this is a ‘downgrading of teaching to a technical activity, and the equation of learning with the production of strictly measurable performance objectives’ (p. 29). 115

Understanding the system Before we leave this section on scientisation, it is perhaps important to point out that the criticisms are not of science per se, or with scientific method. The essence of the critique is that the precepts of science have become distorted in the way they are taken up in contemporary educational usage. The discussion here draws on the work of social theorists such as Marcuse (1964) and Habermas (1971), whose analyses are concerned with profound questions of human freedom and autonomy in an era where rationalist imperatives of science and technology form part of the available political and ideological means of control. As a final caveat, we should add our belief that not everything produced by the ‘experts’ at the curriculum head offices is necessarily bad; far from it. Nor are we suggesting that all attempts to ‘improve teaching’ are undesirable. In a general sense, we believe that in many ways teaching methods and content have probably improved over the decades. So really, what we are suggesting is that, just as teachers do and must discover means of working around bureaucratic constraints, teachers need not be and indeed are not fully, the captives of the ‘false science’ pervading the profession (Apple, 1982a; Dale, 1982, p. 143; Ryan, 1982, p. 37).

Change and innovation in the system The picture presented so far might suggest a system bogged down in institutional inertia, yet schools are not necessarily immobile and/or conservative organisations. For schools, and the education system of which they are a part, are ultimately ‘socially constructed’ cultural arenas, filled with people. The education system is a complex and variegated cultural entity. In general, bureaucracies are culturally conservative, partly because the structural requirements for an orderly and routinised work-flow tend to favour the promotion of individuals through the system who are most disposed to ‘play the game’: the technicians, and those imbued with a plentiful supply of ‘bureaucratic consciousness’. Yet this is by no means necessarily or always so (see, for example, Wilenski, 1986) and invariably within the complex educational system there are pockets where creativity, innovation and critique flourish, ultimately contributing to the injection of new ideas and procedures into the system. Furthermore teaching, despite all attempts at technocratic control, requires a great deal of personal judgement, initiative and interaction with pupils. Thus teachers are potentially in a position which invites 116

Understanding the system ‘bucking the system’ and creating new directions. In other words, the tension between professionalism and bureaucracy, together with the sheer size and complexity of the educational bureaucracy, provide sources of innovation and change. An important example of this is found in the role played by the Australian Schools Commission, established by the Whitlam Labour government in 1973 to advise on educational policy and priorities, to coordinate the dispersal of funds for approved projects and generally to oversee commonwealth government sponsored initiatives within the various state education systems. So, for example the Disadvantaged Schools Program, the Innovations Grants scheme, various Multicultural Education projects, programs and materials aimed at countering sexism, and more recently, programs concerned with increasing participation rates in secondary schools (the Participation and Equity Program) have all been commonwealth government sponsored and funded initiatives, mediated through the Schools Commission. In this way, the Schools Commission has functioned as a major instrument of educational reform, helping to legitimate new ideas (for example, redefining equality of opportunity to include the notion of equal outcomes as well as access; establishing the rights of minority groups to equal access to educational resources; promoting the shift from assimilationist to cultural pluralist notions of Australian society, and so forth). Such ideas in turn have had considerable (or at least potential) impact on educational policy and practices within the various state systems. Other examples can be cited. South Australian education in the mid-1970s illustrates how the combination of a reformist government and an innovative education minister helped to create a new ‘cultural climate’ in the educational bureaucracy which ultimately filtered down to the school and classroom levels. Regretfully, one might have to acknowledge that both in this instance and in the case of the Schools Commission, subsequent changes in government and the recession of the late 1970s and 1980s have contributed to a changing cultural climate and the dismantling of many of those initiatives, a reaffirmation of our central point that social systems reflect wider socioeconomic and political pressures. For all that, education remains in a constant state of flux, and within individual schools some principals and teaching staff have shown remarkable aptitude in pushing through imaginative reforms despite bureaucratic obstacles (see for example Engish, 1975; Williamson, 1979; Knight, 1982; Hannan, 1985). 117

Understanding the system Indeed, at all levels within the system, there are invariably system ‘deviants’ fostering educational change and innovation.

Conflict and contradiction within the system Change is also built into the very structure of the education system which, despite its conservatism and stability, remains internally fragmented and tension-ridden. The resultant conflict and contradictions contribute to change and sometimes to innovation. For example, conflict arises out of competing state and federal sources of authority, particularly when different political philosophies exist as, for example, between a federal Labor government and a Queensland National Party government. Thus in Queensland there have been tensions over the implementation of certain Schools Commission projects philosophically at odds with Queensland government thinking (e.g., the dissemination of counter-sexism curriculum materials (McHoul, 1984), or support for community language teaching projects in schools (Lingard, 1983a), these initiatives being against state education department policy on equal opportunity and multiculturalism respectively). In both these instances and others, state education department policy, while theoretically independent from Ministerial influence, is quite heavily influenced in practice by the political philosophy of the incumbent government. But the real point about all this is that the tensions and contradictions between state and federal authority do provide a wedge into what may appear to be an immobile system. For instance, in Queensland, despite state education department resistance, progressive teachers and administrators have been able to seek commonwealth funds for counter-sexism projects, thus helping to introduce some reform into the system. Similarly, in all states, the present federally funded Participation and Equity Program provides possibilities for innovative teachers and principals to introduce reforms in what may appear to be conservative bureaucracies. Tensions are also inevitably generated by competing or conflicting demands and interests of the various sections within the system. For example, questions of class size or workloads have generated intrasystemic disputes between, say, teacher unions and the education department on a number of occasions. Another example relates to tensions between schools and teacher-education institutions. School 118

Understanding the system principals frequently regard teacher education institutions as ivory towers whose staff have little appreciation of the ‘real world’ of the classroom. Some teacher educators in turn may regard schools as bastions of conservatism which fail to come to grips with the real needs of students in a rapidly changing society. Finally, as we indicated at the beginning of the chapter, the education system as a whole must compete with other sectors (defence, health and so forth) for its share of public revenue. Given that funds are never adequate, particularly during recession, the resultant strains on the education sector as a whole ripple right throughout the system. The point about all this is that such tension and conflict can act as a force for change. The current debate over curriculum directions is in part symptomatic of such tensions. Thus, while ideally administrative systems are designed to avoid or minimise conflict, the fact remains that in practice this is neither possible nor desirable. For conflict generates new ideas, and provides the possibility of a ‘new settlement’ on each occasion. We do not suggest here a romanticised view of the education bureaucracy as a plurality of interests competing with each other, or with other segments of the social structure, on equal terms for shared-out spoils of victory. On the contrary, our view is that, in essence, the education bureaucracy (and the broader social structure) is very hierarchical and basically authoritarian. Teachers do not have the same power as principals who have less power than regional inspectors and so forth. Women certainly have less power than men in the bureaucratic division of labour and authority. All we suggest is that the system is far from watertight, and far from stable. As a result, it offers more possibilities for creative and progressive work than many teachers might imagine.

The unions A major impetus for change within the system comes from teacher unions (White, 1983b). Over the past decade unions have exerted increasing pressure on the system in campaigns which extend well beyond traditional bread and butter union issues of salaries and working conditions. For example the peak union body, the Australian Teachers Federation (ATF), acted as an important and radical educational pressure group in relation to policy issues and funding priorities; witness, for example, the ATF campaign around educational issues which de facto 119

Understanding the system contributed to the election of the Hawke Labor government in 1983. The unions’ funding submissions to their respective state education ministers reflect their members’ educational priorities. Thus smaller class sizes, lesson preparation time, in-service programs and curriculum innovations have all been issues successfully taken up by teacher unions in their struggle, on teachers’ behalf, for a greater share of the educational cake. Such issues reflect more than concern over resource allocation; they also contribute to shifts in policy direction, to change and innovation. Thus unions have also been active participants in contemporary curriculum debates, for example, in moves to promote peace education, environmental studies, counter-sexism materials and so forth. In Victoria, the teacher unions have led the way in curriculum reform and in moves towards restructuring the educational bureaucracy to allow for greater school-based initiatives and teacher autonomy. Within the education system, the unions represent a forum for the political expression of the collective (though not necessarily unanimous) teacher voice. Of course, teachers’ unions themselves share some of the disadvantages, organisationally, of large bureaucracies. Nonetheless, in many instances active and committed teachers may find it more profitable to work through the union bureaucracy, rather than the education bureaucracy.

So what makes a school? Implications for teachers So, what does this all mean for the classroom teacher? Really, it means that teachers not only have to think their way through curriculum issues of what and how to teach; they also have to tread the minefield of the education system. This is no easy matter, particularly at this time when fundamentally new directions are being worked out. Moreover (ironically and importantly in view of what we have said about the education system) in the eyes of those trying to effect change it is frequently the classroom teacher ‘hiding behind the system’ who is considered to be a major obstacle, rather than the system itself. While we would not wish to underrate the real professional and bureaucratic constraints on teachers, as described in this chapter, and despite our comments on educational centralisation in this country, the fact is that there are a number of contradictory pressures on the system which make it likely that schools and teachers of the future may have much more autonomy over what they teach and how they organise themselves. Already, 120

Understanding the system school-based curriculum development is encouraged in most states. Yet a number of regional inspectors, college lecturers or school principals find classroom teachers unwilling to move away from the safety of the known syllabus, or unable to conceptualise new approaches. Union initiatives also frequently meet resistance from teachers. In the future then, we would suggest, the successful teacher will have to do a great deal more than simply play the bureaucratic system. For while individual schools may continue to function as mini-bureaucracies, they don’t have to, and the most successful ones won’t. The education bureaucracy as such will not and cannot disappear, and teachers need to know how and why bureaucracies work. But we really do have to modify our earlier picture of the heavy-handed bureaucracy in which only the most constrained and conformist teachers can survive and succeed. On the one hand, the impetus for ‘tunnel-visioned’, narrow, non-imaginative and at times downright damaging educational practices comes in part from scientised and technocratic notions of education promoted by the profession itself. These practices need to be tackled at that source; stodgy thinking and practice cannot always be blamed on ‘the system’. On the other hand, the system itself is far more diverse, complicated and tumultuous than the austere organisational charts might indicate. Given the various conflicting and contradictory segments which together comprise the system, there are spaces and opportunities for visionaries as well as functionaries and technicians.

The private school system So far, we have been talking about the organisation of the state education system which takes formal responsibility for the provision of ‘free, secular and compulsory’ education. Within Australia however, a significant and increasing minority of students are educated in the private school sector (Ely, 1978; Maslen, 1982; Hogan, 1984). Private schools are usually, though not necessarily, denominational and the majority are sex segregated. Many non-denominational private schools are regarded as ‘experimental’ or ‘alternative’ (Maslen, 1982), while within the denominational sector it is usual to distinguish the Catholic from the non-Catholic schools. Most local parish Catholic schools are organised nowadays into a Catholic Education system in each state (hence are known as ‘systemic’ schools), 121

Understanding the system administered by a Catholic Education bureaucracy which in many respects parallels the state education system and has been responsible for considerably upgrading those schools in terms of funding, resources and staffing levels (Praetz, 1983). These schools generally charge low fees, reflecting the general expectation that Catholic families, regardless of income, will send their children to be educated in Catholic schools (Anderson and Vervoorn, 1983, p. 64). Thus these schools educate a significant section of the Australian working class (Bennett, 1982; Praetz, 1982). According to Hogan (1984), the Catholic systemic schools are in many respects more like the state schools than like other private ‘elite’ schools. By contrast, the autonomous ‘elite’ Catholic schools, catering for the wealthier families, more closely resemble the other ‘elite’ private schools (generally Protestant). Indeed, until 1967, certain elite Catholic schools were in some instances classified simply as ‘private’ rather than ‘Catholic’ in official statistics (Anderson and Vervoorn, 1983, p. 69). In general terms then, this means that the state and systemic Catholic schools together are responsible for the education of about 90 per cent of Australian

FIGURE 4.4 Total School Enrolments, Australia 1982 Source: ABS, National Schools Collection; Government Schools, 1982, NonGovernment Schools, 1982. (Adapted from Hogan, 1984, p. 53)

122

Understanding the system TABLE 4.1 Proportion of Students (%) in Australian Schools, 1982

Primary Secondary

State

Catholic systemic

Catholic non-systemic

Other non-government

78.5 72.0

16.5 9.0

1.5 10.0

3.5 9.0

Source: ABS, National Schools Collection: Government Schools, 1982, NonGovernment Schools, 1982. (Adapted from Hogan, 1984, pp. 54-5) students, while the remaining 10 per cent are catered for by the more elite nonsystemic Catholic and other private schools, as shown in Figure 4.4. These general statistics mask some important considerations, such as the shifts that occur between primary and secondary enrolments, shown in Table 4.1. This table suggests that, as pupils move from primary to secondary schooling, there is a significant drop (6 per cent) in the proportion attending state schools and an equivalent gain in the proportion attending non-Catholic private schools. Even more notable is the very large shift within the Catholic sector to the ‘elite’ Catholic schools. This skewing towards the elite private schools appears to be even more pronounced in the final year of schooling, as indicated by the Victorian statistics shown in Table 4.2. Another point to note in comparing private and state school systems is the difference in retention rates (that is, the numbers of students completing secondary schooling) in the private and state sectors, shown in Table 4.3. As Hogan suggests, the figures raise more questions than answers, and we address this issue a little later. But there are further complications in the picture of TABLE 4.2 Distribution of Year 12 Enrolments (%) by School Type, Victoria, 1980 State

Catholic*

Other non-government

54

24.5

21.5

Source: ABS, Schools, Australia. (Adapted from Teese, 1981, p. 120) * Proportions in systemic and non-systemic schools not available. 123

Understanding the system school retention rates, revealed for example in Table 4.4. In Hogan’s words again, such statistics suggest that state school children on Sydney’s wealthy North Shore are just as likely to finish high school as students in private schools. They are three times more likely to finish high school than children in the outer western suburbs of Sydney (pp. 65-6). Statistics relating to future prospects of school leavers from the private and state sectors further highlight the relationship between education and social privilege (Maslen, 1982, ch. 3; TABLE 4.3 Retention Rates (%) in Australian Schools, 1982 State

Catholic*

Other non-government

29

47.5

89

Source: ABS, Non-Government Schools, Australia, 1982. (Adapted from Hogan, 1984, p. 65) * Proportions in systemic and non-systemic schools not available.

TABLE 4.4 Retention Rates (%) in State High Schools in Selected NSW Electorates, 1982 Electorate

Retention rate

Bligh (Sydney Boys High) (Sydney Girls High)

90 and above

Parramatta (4 schools)

30.0

Broken Hill (8 schools)

15.0 and less

Source: Sydney Morning Herald, 22 June 1983, p. 3. (Adapted from Hogan, 1984, p. 66)

124

Understanding the system Anderson and Vervoorn, 1983, ch. 5). Proportionately larger numbers of students from the elite private schools than from the state schools successfully gain admittance to tertiary education (50 per cent and 14 per cent respectively: see Maslen, 1982, p. 42) where another hierarchy of status exists. Universities are generally (not invariably) regarded as more prestigious than CAEs; some universities have a higher status than others (for example, the ‘old established’ Melbourne and Sydney Universities); and within universities, some faculties are more prestigious than others (for example, medicine or law at Melbourne University). The higher the status (either of type of institution or of faculty), the

FIGURE 4.5 Relative Proportion (%) of Students at Various Stages of Education Source: Australian Bureau of Statistics ‘Schools 1980’, and Williams, C., ‘The Early Experience of Students on Australian Campuses’. (Adapted from S. Marginson, 1982, p. 29) 125

Understanding the system higher the proportion of students from the elite private schools. Figure 4.5 gives an indication of this trend (see also Anderson and Vervoorn, 1983, ch. 5). Within the private school sector then, a pecking order of status and fees exists, reflecting broader class distinctions. By contrast, the state education system is supposed to provide a uniform standard of education for all pupils, regardless of background, though of course this does not happen in reality and the state schools (as indicated in Table 4.4, for example) also reflect social gradations. Within the private sector, the ironically-named ‘greater public schools’ (with suitably inflated fees and luxurious settings, usually situated in the more salubrious suburbs) are generally perceived as the cream on the educational cake. A disproportionate number of their graduates move with relative ease through the ‘top’ professional courses at Melbourne and Sydney Universities, from where they go on to form a significant section of the ‘top’ professions, the upper echelons of the public service, banking and commerce, and significant sections of politics, particularly on the conservative side (Maslen, 1982, ch. 4; also Meighan, 1981, pp. 347-8 for a brief discussion in relation to the British context).

The funding of private education and the issue of ‘state aid’ We said at the beginning of the chapter that education has to compete with other segments of the social structure for funds and resources. Thus in the process of fighting for its share of the economic cake (for example, one fighter plane buys x thousand teachers, and so forth), education is from the outset political: annual political decisions determine educational funding levels vis-à-vis other sectors: social welfare, defence, health and so on. These decisions are the result of intense lobbying, so that budget outcomes reflect prevailing power structures and the ‘ideological climate’. Labor governments, for example, tend to spend more on public sector interests such as health, social security and education (particularly state education), while Liberal governments’ spending priorities tend to favour private enterprise: industrial, business and banking interests and so forth. Hence the Whitlam Labor government increased education spending substantially in its first term of office in the early 1970s. However, the succeeding Fraser Liberal government cut education spending and, as we shall see shortly, redirected available funding towards the private schools. The Hawke Labor Government of 126

Understanding the system 1983 promised, as part of its election platform and its later Accord with the union movement, increased spending again for education. Within this lobbying for funds, the funding of private schools remains a highly controversial area of educational debate. Initially, under the Menzies Liberal government in the mid 1960s, state aid took the form of grants to private and state schools for science laboratories (Ely, 1978, p. 81). But, ironically, state aid became institutionalised from 1972 when commonwealth support for private schools expenditure was made an election promise of the victorious Labor party. Labor promised a needs-based funding policy, aimed at establishing mechanisms for positively discriminating in favour of disadvantaged schools in order to bring them up to a more generally acceptable level. This strategy successfully captured a significant section of the Catholic vote and ensured the survival of many of the poorer parish Catholic schools whose population included some of the most disadvantaged pupils.

FIGURE 4.6 Changing Proportion of Commonwealth Schools Budget Allocated to Private and State Schools Source: For private schools: Cooper, 1982, p. 9. For state schools: estimated on basis of Stockley, 1983, p. 57; and Hogan, 1984, p. 98. 127

Understanding the system One of the first tasks of the Interim Committee of the newly created Schools Commission, whose establishment achieved the legislative endorsement of the Liberal-National controlled Senate only on the condition that subsidies to all private schools would be continued (see Ely, 1978, p. 95), was to determine the ‘needs’ of Australian schools (Schools Commission, 1973, ch. 5). This task, as Ely (1978, p. 92ff) points out, was fraught with contradiction and ambiguity and led ultimately to the strengthening of the private school sector as a whole, at the expense of the state schools (see also Cooper, 1982). This was partly due to the contradictions inherent in the Schools Commission’s charter, borne out of political compromise from the outset, and partly due to changing government philosophies. In the mid 1970s, under the Fraser Liberal government, state aid for private schooling accelerated and changed emphasis, from the needs-based funding policy of Labor favouring in principle only the poorest private schools, to a ‘freedom of choice’ and ‘diversity of schooling’ policy much more favourable to the private school sector in general (Stockley, 1983, p. 52; Praetz, 1983, p. 35). The net effect of this is revealed in Figure 4.6. As a specific example of the meaning of this shift, Geelong Grammar, classified as a Category A school in 1973 in terms of ‘needs’, was by 1977 placed in Category 2, with ‘needs’ estimated at $193 per pupil in recurrent expenditure; the corresponding ‘need’ of the average Victorian high school pupil was considered to be $128 (Ely, 1978, p. 96). According to Stockley (1983) the Liberal government’s emphasis on ‘freedom of choice’ and accompanying slogans of ‘quality’ and ‘excellence’ specifically encouraged the subsidisation of the wealthiest private schools, regardless of need. If this was not done, it was argued, they may be tempted to lower their high standards in order to qualify for any needs-based system of assistance; that is, a ‘needs’ basis is seen to be a disincentive to excellence. Largely, this is a deliberate attempt to mould the public consciousness towards accepting the need and duty for government assistance towards extremely wealthy private schools. The transferral of funds is one example of a redistribution of wealth within the whole society, and is an example of the rhetoric of worth and equality being used to mask the establishment of an unequal order (p. 52). 128

Understanding the system Such a change in policy emphasis, particularly in the context of a generally shrinking educational budget, created a good deal of hostility and revived the state aid debate which was thought by some to have been settled by the 1890s! Education lobbies such as the Council for the Defence of Government Schools (DOGS), the Australian Teachers’ Federation (ATF), and the Australian Council of State School Organisations (ACSSO, a parental body) in various ways challenged the legitimacy of state aid. For example, in 1981 DOGS unsuccessfully mounted a constitutional challenge on the validity of state aid in the High Court of Australia. The ATF and ACSSO, together with various teacher and academic unions campaigned vigorously against educational privatisation and helped to mobilise support for the return of a Labor government. The Hawke Labor government in some ways has reverted to a needs-based policy which also entailed an attempt to scale back funding for the wealthiest private schools. However, even a rather pusillanimous attempt to redress the balance drew political flak from the powerful private school lobby which managed to draw on side even the Catholic sector, the chief beneficiary of the needs-based policy. In other words, the private school lobby has now coalesced into a powerful force with a good deal of political clout and public credibility (Praetz, 1983).

The social function of private schooling The existence of the private school sector, and the role it apparently plays in sustaining social privilege (Encel, 1970; Meighan, 1981; Teese, 1981; Connell et al., 1982) requires some comment. Further, there is mounting evidence of the increasing popularity of private education (Maslen, 1982, ch.5; Praetz, 1983; Hogan, 1984). Private schooling is experiencing a funding and enrolment boom which has implications for the functioning of the education system as a whole. People choose private education for a variety of reasons. Some, for religious reasons. Some prefer the sex segregation of many private schools. A number of private schools are relatively small ‘homely’ institutions with more flexible approaches to education, and are preferred by parents for that reason. Private schools, because of the way they are structured, have much greater control over both staff and students which means, in general, greater staff stability and tighter student discipline. Thus many parents believe that private schools offer a ‘better’ 129

Understanding the system education than public schools and send their children for this reason. But in many cases, private education represents not merely an educational choice but a social and economic investment. Parents choose these schools ultimately, and sometimes at great personal sacrifice, to buy status, privilege and opportunity (as well as perhaps some or all of the other things described above). And as we have indicated above, such choices have been made somewhat easier over the past decade by the ideological and funding shifts favouring the private school system. However, as Teese (1981) for example has forcefully argued, contrary to the rhetoric of educational ‘diversity’ and ‘freedom of choice’, parents do not in fact have equal choices in an open educational market about their preferred schooling. Rather, he suggests, parental choices are constrained by the differing educational arenas and social functions of private and state education. The overall effect of this differentiation, Teese suggests, serves to sustain and reinforce class divisions which are masked, but not obviated, by a small number of working-class enrolments in elite private schools and by the sustained illusion of a free and open competition between the state and private schools. State high schools, he suggests, with their historical antecedents as ‘mere continuations’ of elementary schools, were never ‘meant’ to lead to tertiary education. The fact that more tertiary students now come from state rather than private schools in no ways diminishes this social fact, Teese argues. Rather, over time and in response to a burgeoning economy and more complex social demands after the Second World War, the state system has attempted to replicate the operation of the private schools through ‘residential segregation’ (p. 99) and/or careful selection and streaming processes, the results of which were illustrated in Table 4.4 in those differential retention rates among state schools. The necessity for state education to mimic or replicate private education, according to Teese, serves on the one hand to demarcate its essential difference and exclusion from that world (as witness the large numbers of state school pupils who do not last the distance), and on the other hand to bolster and give credence to the impression that both systems are essentially the same, with one system (the private schools and a few geographically and academically select state high schools) just ‘happening’ to perform better. Teese (1981) defines the social purposes of these (elite) private schools as being in part, to define the limits of public elementary schooling by physically and institutionally excluding it from the recognized outward practice of learning. . . 130

Understanding the system . The position and function of the private schools, achieved partly by negating the connection between elementary schooling and academic learning, has been the undisturbed transmission of status from father to son within the propertied classes (pp. 97-8). Thus, unlike their state counterparts, the (elite) private schools enjoy and cultivate a close association with the universities (and also, as Kenway (1984) points out, with the wider world of social and economic success), both on the basis of the social composition of their joint clientele, and on the basis of the mutually compatible ‘academic curriculum’. Clearly, there is a close parallel here with the central proposition of Connell et al.’s (1982) Making the Difference, namely that rulingclass schools exist as ‘class organisers’ in an ‘organic’ relationship with their clientele, while for the working class, schooling acts as a ‘class disorganiser’ to exclude the majority of those pupils over time. We will refer to this in more detail in Chapter Five. For Teese (1981, p. 103) then, the function of private schools is to consolidate middle-class students’ attitudes, tastes, interests and experiences through the filter of their separate school environment and its academic curriculum. And as both Teese and Connell et al. argue, the academic curriculum, while ostensibly open to all participants, remains class-based and closed to those who cannot unlock the cultural doors (see further Chapters Five and Seven on the related notion of ‘cultural capital’). Thus, according to Teese, in private schools unlike in government schools, the academic curriculum and higher education are experienced as common destiny. . . . [T]he private schools thus so particularize [academic learning] in deference to their clients as to make its private use a public ‘duty’ and its public use a private right (pp. 115-16). This essential difference in social functions, Teese argues, helps to explain differential outcomes. For example, his examination of Victorian statistics suggests that the higher retention rates and superior examination performances of the private schools do not represent the outcome of an equal contest between two competing cohorts of pupils from the state and private systems. Rather, the private schools’ apparently more successful retention rates and exam results are inflated by a significant number of grade 12 repeats (from pupils not permitted to besmirch the record by sitting unsuccessfully the first time round), and by a significant 131

Understanding the system number of transferred pupils from the state schools in years 8 and 10. Thus, as Teese points out, the private schools get the glory, even though in hundreds of individual cases the effort has been put in by teachers in government schools who, at the last moment, are stripped of the fruits of their labour and traduced by politicians and the press as lowering standards (ibid., p. 96). The further consequence of the apparent sameness but in practice difference of the two systems, Teese notes, is a continual bleaching of the state system, as an inevitable consequence of the very existence of the private schools: The attraction of students away from government schools – which must become a more or less continuous, open campaign once public funds are appropriated to private schools – weakens the pupil-mix remaining in government schools and the general environment these provide in terms of prevailing levels of interest and aspiration, of motivation and achievement, and of teacher morale and parent identification. Under these circumstances, the private schools thus constitute not only a model for competitive effort but at the same time a means of reducing the competitive position of those government schools duped into the fray (ibid., p. 99). Teese of course is focusing on the social function of the elite private schools. No doubt some readers’ experiences of private schools may be quite at odds with such a description. And of course we recognise a spectrum rather than a simple polarity of private schools. But this does not detract, we suggest, from an analysis of the social functioning of private schools as serving to create and sustain a two-class schooling system; nor does that recognition detract from the critical belief that the current trends towards strengthening private schooling contribute to the legitimation and perpetuation of social inequality. Thus on the one hand, there is the ‘first class’ private sector, already heavily subsidised by fees and donations from some of the wealthiest groups in society, now receiving public money for the education of already privileged pupils in schools which enjoy facilities and benefits denied to the great majority of pupils. On the other hand, the ‘second class’ state sector (and to some extent, sections of the Catholic system) educating at least 75 132

Understanding the system per cent of the pupil population, receives no private subsidy beyond that raised by local parent groups. In wealthier areas, this might be substantial, in poorer areas, negligible, resulting in practice in a kind of educational ‘under class’. During economic recession such as Australia has experienced over the past decade, with a shrinking educational budget, this trend towards educational privatisation has contributed towards a self-fulfilling prophecy serving to increasingly debilitate state schooling. At present, as we saw in the last chapter, education is unjustifiably blamed for youth unemployment and for its failure to ‘do the job properly’. Under such circumstances, the ‘better’ performances of the private schools together with their mystique of discipline and orderliness seem understandably attractive to parents concerned about the future prospects of their children. As we have attempted to show here and elsewhere (see Chapters Six and Seven), the supposedly ‘better’ outcomes of private schools are very problematic; they remain ‘better’ only to the extent to which they successfully manage to retain their social exclusiveness. Nevertheless, this is not the general public perception, and, given the present funding mechanisms, increasing enrolments in private schools serve to further accelerate the shift in funding at the expense of the state sector. The result is that the great majority of pupils whose parents either cannot afford or do not choose private education remain in a state system which is allowed to run down and is then accused of failure. Yet structurally, given that an increasing proportion of shrinking funds is going to the private schools, there is no way in which the state schools can adequately ‘do the job’. What we are seeing here is the result of an approach to the public sector (in this instance state education) referred to by some critics as ‘residual’ (Jamrozik, 1983; Preston, 1984) as distinguished from ‘universal’. According to Preston (1984), a universal orientation, being inclusive of all citizens, promotes distributive justice and more equal standards of living, personal autonomy, and collectivity and cooperation rather than individualism and competition. Thus one might refer to universal provision of a variety of public welfare services (childcare, health, transport and, of course, education) all paid for by the collective public purse. By contrast, a residual orientation, she suggests, with its underlying monetarist freemarket assumptions about the provision of public services on a ‘user pays’ basis, sees ‘public’ or ‘residual’ welfare as a kind of social safety net only for those 133

Understanding the system TABLE 4.5 Characteristics of Universal and Residual Orientations to Public Services Universal public service

Residual public service

* is generally chosen in preference to private sector alternatives by all sectors of society.

* is only used as a last resort and has stigma attached. Those who can, choose the private alternative.

* is supported by the full social spectrum, the wealthy and power-ful as well as the weak.

* is not supported by the whole community and even those who use it may not support it.

* is seen as valuable to the community as a whole, not just to the participating individuals.

* is only seen as having relevance or value to those individuals using it.

* is not resisted by high-income earners who do not object to their taxes being used to support it.

* is resented by the wealthy for the support ‘their’ taxes must contribute. They demand tax rebates or other forms of more direct public financial support for private sector alternatives.

* socially defines and exhibits what is considered ‘quality’ service.

* ‘quality’ is socially defined by the private-sector alternative. The public is seen as inferior.

* determines and controls the relationships with other services and practices.

* the private sector determines and controls relationships; e.g., the school-university nexus by elite private schools.

(Adapted from Preston, 1984, pp. 5-6) unfortunates not sufficiently well integrated into the social system to care for themselves. Such an orientation promotes social divisiveness and personal stigmatisation, and further reduces the options available to the already disadvantaged, while at the same time further empowering the already advantaged. The characteristics of these alternative views are summarised in Table 4.5. When applied to education it seems to us there is a powerful argument for the desirability of a universal rather than residual approach to educational provisions. Yet in the current economic climate, with strong pressure on governments to cut 134

Understanding the system public spending, state education is increasingly taking on a ‘residual’ status. Given the power of those whose vested interests are so well served by the elite private schools (see Kenway’s (1984) evocative article on this aspect), and given the persuasiveness of the current ‘freedom of choice’ and ‘diversity of schooling’ slogans, there seems to be no easy way to combat this. Given too the roars of outrage that accompanied even the suggestion in 1983 of a cutback of public funds to the wealthiest schools in Australia, the suggestion of their total abolition in favour of a universal system of public education is clearly nothing more than an idle fancy – or a socialist dream! So perhaps all we can reiterate here to classroom teachers, in whatever system, is that the game is loaded. There are good sociological reasons for the seemingly superior performances of private-school students, and we hope that a careful reading of this chapter and Chapters Six and Seven will help in providing an understanding of this. This is in no way to suggest that we approve of the system that creates these outcomes; nor is it to suggest that we denigrate working-class students or teachers in working-class schools. Quite the reverse. But only by careful sociological analysis, we believe, is it possible to combat stereotypical views of working-class students and schools as ‘inferior’ and to show that their supposedly superior middle- or ruling-class counterparts obtain their results not, as common belief would have it, on the basis of hard work and ability (these ingredients being generally shared or lacking through the full spectrum of the population), but on the basis of a system which is loaded in favour of one class and against the rest.

Further reading Anderson, D. and Vervoorn, A. (1983), Access to Privilege: Patterns of Participation in Australian Post-secondary Education, Canberra: ANU Press. The book provides some reasonably up to date statistical information on the access, or lack thereof, of various social groupings to higher education in Australia. Apple, M. (ed.) (1982a), Cultural and Economic Reproduction in Education: Essays on Class, Ideology and the State, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Look in particular at the section on the scientisation of education.

135

Understanding the system Bates, R. (1983), ‘Educational administration and cultural transmission’ in R. Browne and L. Foster (eds), Sociology of Education, 3rd ed.,Melbourne: Macmillan. A difficult article, but worth pursuing for its comments on the ‘technicisation’ of education. Gerth, H. and Mills, C. (eds) (1958), From Max Weber: Essays in Sociology, New York: Oxford University Press. In particular for the section on bureaucracy. Goffman, E. (1961), Asylums, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Not directly relevant to education at all. But a most interesting analysis of the constraining effects of social institutions which can indirectly and usefully be applied to a consideration of educational institutions. Grace, G. (1978), Teachers, Ideology and Control: A Study in Urban Education, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. One of the few books to critically consider the ideological aspects of and surrounding education. Hogan, M. (1984), Public vs. Private Schools: Funding and Directions in Australia, Ringwood: Penguin. Some excellent statistical information here. Maslen, G. (1982), School Ties: Private Schooling in Australia, Australia: Methuen. A cross between critical analysis and the consumer’s guide to private schools! Very readable and worth looking at, particularly for its more critical chapters. Preston, B. (1984), ‘Residualisation: what’s that?’, The Australian Teacher, vol. 3, no. 8, pp. 5-6. Look in particular at the table on residual and universal public services. Pusey, M. (1983), The control and rationalisation of schooling’, in Browne and Foster, op. cit., pp. 401-9. This article is very similar to the earlier one in Discourse . (See recommended readings for Chapter Three.) Highly recommended for its discussion on the scientisation of education.

136

Chapter Five

Students in context

We had built up educational institutions which could be as separate from ordinary life – yet as dominant – as Norman castles looking down on Saxon villages. . . . Looking at youths struggling with the police, or old men playing bowls, or workmen smoking in the lavatories at the mill, or endless committee meetings in the club, it raised questions about an organic style of life – that of the majority – from which our great institutions; law and order, education, libraries, health, stood sharply off. What emerged from that was the sad waste of cultural capital. We dissipated cultural vitality, and left a space between people and the institutions they paid to serve them. (Brian Jackson, Starting School, 1979, p. 75.)

Introduction: structuring culture In Chapter Two we considered the impact of student cultures on classroom events, and saw something of the social class conflict within the classroom. In this chapter we will explore the social and the cultural context of the school and classroom further. As we have said, the culture of the classroom is influenced by the cultural milieux from which the participants come, and these milieux are shaped by structural features. While geographical factors such as urban and rural differences have an impact on schools and classrooms, the main structural features with which we will be concerned are class, gender and ethnicity. These variables tend to 137

Students in context intersect to shape cultural milieux. For example, in an inner city girls’ school in Melbourne which we will shortly discuss, class and ethnicity as well as gender are important factors in shaping the experiences of students at the school.

The school community Think of some schools: those once attended, those in the local neighbourhood, those visited on prac., inner city schools, newer schools in the suburbs, country state schools, private church schools, elite grammar schools. There are evident differences between them and one major set of differences relates to their educational processes. Here it is useful to think about those social factors which are likely to influence these educational processes, and the way in which they lead to marked differences between schools. For example, compare the kind of neighbourhood in which teachers generally like to teach with one which is frequently avoided. What social factors shape the settings of different schools? Indeed, the most immediately noticeable difference between schools relates to the neighbourhoods in which they are situated and the space and buildings associated with them. And here it is worth pointing out that most children are not in their school by choice, but because it happens to be in their neighbourhood and (in some states) the one they have been zoned to attend. In their recent Australian study of families and schools, Connell et al. (1982) commented on the significance of the spatial organisation of cities. They describe the situation of working-class families in two- or three-bedroom bungalows on small suburban blocks in post-war suburbs with inadequate public transport and few community facilities. In striking contrast were the more comfortable spacious homes in prestigious suburbs of the ruling-class families. Such differences between suburbs are linked with the personal resources available in families, but they also in turn create differences in family life styles between suburbs. That is, differences in lived culture in Australian society have consequences for life chances, a point which will be addressed in more detail later in this chapter and elsewhere. Our more immediate concern here is the way in which obvious and tangible differences are reflected in schools. For example, on arriving at an inner-city Melbourne school to which she had just been appointed as principal, one writer expressed her shock at the surroundings: 138

Students in context Could streets be so narrow, so choked, congested with parked vehicles while through traffic – trucks, buses and souped up Holdens – belted up and down in both directions. . . .? Could factories be so close? Could street signboards announce so many backyard industries? Could so many houses be packed into an urban block? And reflecting on her previous experience, she commented ‘How naive to assume that all schools shared the spaciousness of the two country high schools at which I’d taught before. . . .’ (Engish, 1975, p.119). Similarly, Connell et al. (1982) contrasted the typical working-class and rulingclass schools which they studied, though more in terms of the atmosphere than the buildings. They contrasted the ‘noise, movement and mess’ in the working-class comprehensives with the impression of ‘effortless good order’ of the independent schools. What factors are involved in such differences? Clearly it is more than something to do with suburbs and buildings, but also something to do with the people in the community. In moving to thinking about the people living in a suburb, we first take up the notion of community. One approach to defining community takes the view that a community is a specific geographical area whose population has a certain identity of interests and a distinctive pattern of social relations. This definition seems useful when thinking about schools, although private schools, while certainly drawing on a group with common interests, do not draw on a specific geographical area. But sometimes there may be a conflict of interests rather than an identity of interests in the community, which may be reflected in a school. For example, many older inner city suburbs may house several distinct groups, with a mixture of middle-class ‘trendies’ renovating old houses, remaining working-class families, and Aboriginal families in the cheapest housing of all. The link between a school and the community it draws on is of course the families whose children attend that school. Here it is critical to stress the different ways in which families relate to schools. For different family backgrounds have different implications for children’s school experience, not as such, but because of the different ways families relate to schools. Thus Connell et al. (1982) stress that the family and the school are not totally separate spheres with different processes: ‘The family is what its members do, a constantly continuing and changing practice, and, as children go to and through school, that practice is reorganised around their schooling’ (p. 78). 139

Students in context Therefore the class background of students will certainly affect the processes going on in a school. So too will ethnic background. As we will see, these two factors are interrelated. The position of migrant groups in society (for example, Greeks, Lebanese, Vietnamese) depends on economic as well as cultural factors and these are related to each other in complex ways. For example, an inability to speak English (a cultural factor) will restrict employment opportunities and limit migrants’ chances to improve their economic position. Therefore when we look at the effects of ethnicity on schooling it is difficult to separate them from the effects of class, and also of gender. However, before attempting any discussion of these structural determinants of schooling, we will look at some case studies of Australian inner city schools, and at the way various features of the community provide the social context for schools.

Inner city schools: some case studies The Sydney University Inner City Education Project undertook a study of the schools in the inner city area near that university (Turney and Ryan, 1978). The area was characterised by terraced houses, some high-rise blocks of flats, industrial and business activity, traffic noise and pollution, and streets congested with parked cars. 17.3 per cent of the families in the area were single-parent families compared with the general figure for Sydney of 9.7 per cent at that time. The area had a relatively elderly population compared with other Sydney suburbs, and the population was residentially mobile, although 15 per cent had lived in the area for over 15 years. Over half the adults were migrants, many with limited schooling. Of those in the workforce, 73.7 per cent were in unskilled and semi-skilled blue-collar jobs. In one of the primary schools studied, which Turney and Ryan (1978) named ‘Parish Point School’, about 20 different ethnic groups were represented, with the largest ethnic groups being Greeks, Turks, Italians, Yugoslavs, Chinese and Aborigines. Turney et al. (1978) commented that little was known about such inner-city schools in Sydney. Their study highlighted the range of variations in family background of pupils at these schools in terms of ethnicity, length of residence and occupation of parents. They pointed out that while students and their parents had 140

Students in context high aspirations and expectations, the students still had achievement problems at school. Unfortunately, and significantly, their teachers thought that the students and their parents had low aspirations and expectations. They also drew attention to the fact that the teachers were young, inexperienced and middle-class, but by no means all unhappy about city teaching. All, however, felt that they were unprepared for the experience. It is clear that this school could be classified as working-class, with the variation in ethnic background constituting a second determining factor for educational outcomes. Another case study focused on the former Brunswick Girls High School in Melbourne (Claydon, 1975). The characteristics of the Brunswick neighbourhood and school community were similar to that of Parish Point School. 44 per cent of the population were born overseas, and 40 per cent of the working males and 45 per cent of the working females were in the manufacturing industries and beginning to be affected by unemployment. At this school gender was also a factor in shaping family and school experiences. Other case studies of a number of Australian schools may be found in Hill (1977). (Reading these case studies is a good way to vicariously broaden one’s experience and find out about a whole range of different kinds of schools which exist in Australia.) Another setting which we have not considered is a rural area. Country schools often have particular problems such as limited resources and staffing problems. The Fitzgerald Report (1976) drew attention to the problems of education in rural areas, pointing out that country children also have a particular pattern of experiences and may often be in poor economic circumstances. Turney et al. (1980) carried out a study of isolated schools in western New South Wales, and concluded that the problem was ‘as much or more an economic and social problem as an educational one’. However, they did find that teachers seriously underestimated the levels of student aspiration and suggested that ‘this may indicate the existence of a self fulfilling prophecy with respect to educational achievement’ (p. 119). They also found that school-community relations were poor, and that at least part of the problem of education in rural areas seems to be a lack of an approach to school programs which takes account of the different backgrounds and experiences of country children.

141

Students in context Class, culture and school processes The study by Connell and others (1982) was particularly concerned with class differences and found a major difference in the way working-class and ruling-class families related to their schools. They contrasted the cooperative coping style of working-class families with the individualistic ethos of ruling-class families. In the case of working-class families the cultural style conflicted with the competitive values and ethos of schooling, whereas for ruling-class families home and school ethos were consistent. They also found that for a variety of reasons ruling-class parents were able to relate to their children’s teachers and schools in a far more effective way than working-class parents. But it is important to note that this study strongly refuted the myth that working-class parents are not interested in their children’s education. Such cultural and class factors influence how well children do at school. Indeed social class differences in education have long been an issue for debate. There is a wealth of Australian evidence (Fitzgerald, 1976; Meade, 1978; Branson and Miller, 1979; Edgar, 1980) which shows that, despite the expansion of mass education in the secondary area, there are still gross inequalities in educational outcomes which are reflected by social class inequalities in occupational qualifications, income and wealth. Many early explanations for social class differences in education focused on the ‘deficient’ backgrounds of working-class children, particularly on cultural and linguistic ‘deficits’. (See further Chapters Six and Seven.) That is, working-class culture was conceptualised as impoverished and limited, and working-class forms and use of language as inferior. (See Bernstein’s early work, 1965.) Now, however, it is more commonly acknowledged that whatever their background, children have their own effective style of language and a culture which is rich in experience. But the crucial point is that while middleclass experiences and language styles are valuable in relation to the predominantly middle-class values of the schools, working-class background, experiences and language styles are not. The French sociologist Bourdieu (1974) uses the term ‘cultural capital’ to describe the accumulated experiences which middle-class children bring with them to school: ‘cultural’ because it refers to a whole way of thinking and disposition to life, and ‘capital’ because it is built on and used by the school. That is, the school assumes middle-class culture, attitudes and values in all its pupils. Any other background, however rich in experiences, often turns out to be a liability. Hence Bourdieu talks of the ‘symbolic violence’ done to working142

Students in context class children who have alien values imposed on them by schools. Similarly, Sennett and Cobb (1972, p. 26) speak of the ‘laying on of culture’ which makes working-class boys and girls feel inadequate. (Again, see Chapters Six and Seven.) Recently Dwyer et al. (1984) have provided a more detailed cultural analysis of working-class life. They argue that there are a number of themes in working-class experience which are relevant to the existence of a distinctive working-class culture. They draw on various Australian sources, as well as their own research, to discuss the nature of working-class culture which in their view arises in response to the dominant culture. While they acknowledge that working-class culture is fragmented by gender and ethnic differences, they identify four major positive features which potentially influence young working-class people, and which have particular relevance for education. The first theme which they identify is ‘solidarity’, evident both in the workplace and the neighbourhood. This is related to a mutually supportive attitude to schooling, demonstrated by a number of Australian studies which show the significance of a shared approach to learning among working-class pupils. The second aspect is ‘lived knowledge’, that is, the integration of practice and intellectual understanding found among working-class people which is constantly unacknowledged and devalued within the education system. The third positive attribute of working-class culture which also has educational implications is ‘informality’. In the work situation informal networks challenge hierarchical and bureaucratic authority structures. Similarly, as we have seen in Chapter Two, students’ own informal culture often rebels against formal authoritarian and bureaucratic relations in the school. The final theme of working-class culture discussed is ‘labour power’. Dwyer et al. argue that working-class people are conscious of the significance of their labour power, and that this consciousness is crucial for their definition of themselves and their futures. Of course, young working-class men and women perceive their futures in different ways, and we will take up this issue later in this chapter.

Poverty Typically, discussions of poverty tend to raise images of Third World conditions, starving children and shanties. But poverty in Australia claims some 2 million victims whose situation is, relatively speaking, grim and depressing, particularly 143

Students in context because of the affluence which also exists around them. Thus the notion of poverty is relative, considered in relation to the context in which people live and from which they define their worth. This is reflected in the following definition of poverty: ‘Poverty is an inability to achieve a standard of living allowing for self-respect, the respect of others and for full participation in society’ (Kincaid, 1973, p. 171). Thus, poverty is much more than simply being at the bottom of the income scale. The poverty line is defined as the minimum amount of money necessary to exist each week, and it provides the best available benchmark as to who is poor in Australia. The Australian poverty line was developed by the Commission of Inquiry into Poverty (Henderson, 1975) and is the minimum required for basic needs. It is updated to account for changes in average weekly earnings, and varies according to family size, housing costs and whether or not the family head is working or looking for work (which involves transport costs). In December 1981 the amount for a working couple with two children and with housing costs, was $171.10. In July of that year, a Gallup Poll revealed that most people thought that $238 per week was the smallest amount needed for a family of four for all expenses, which was $71.30 more than the poverty line at that time (Smith, 1982). There is fairly general agreement that the poverty line is set at a very austere level and should be raised to include other families living close to poverty. We will take up these issues again in Chapter Seven. Who are the poor, the almost 20 per cent of Australians on or below the poverty line? They are most likely to be pensioners, the aged, single parents, invalids and handicapped people. They are also more likely to be Aborigines, recently arrived migrants and refugees, and women. They will most probably be in debt, often unable to pay bills for essential services such as power and gas, often short of food or living on bread and tea, and dependent on second-hand clothing and furniture. Teachers in an inner city school may have many children coming from such situations of poverty, though frequently their backgrounds are not understood well enough, so that such students tend to be victimised by school practices. Poor children lack adequate housing and good food, with obvious consequences for their health and ability to study. Their homes are over-crowded so that often there is no place to study anyway. Certainly teachers need to be aware of the effects of poverty, and become duly sensitive about enforcing school uniform rules, or requiring money for books, subscriptions and excursions. The Fitzgerald Report (1976) carefully documents the effects of poverty on education. The most obvious and 144

Students in context important of these, of course, is academic failure and early school drop-out. Consequently, ‘irrespective of their academic ability or desire to learn, students from poor families have relatively little chance of securing success. . . .’ (Fitzgerald, 1976, p. 88). Similarly, Smith (1982) reports from a study of 90 low-income families that certain difficulties in schooling were clearly related to the income of the families studied. For example, children were forced to stay away from school or miss outings because of financial difficulties, while luxuries such as music lessons, which are for some middle class children an accepted part of life, were totally out of the question. There are also the less tangible social effects of poverty, such as the stresses and strains of trying to cope with apparently hopeless situations, which can lead to domestic violence and/or family breakdown. Given the economic recession and the high rates of unemployment, the numbers of people in poverty are likely to continue to increase, and teachers in state schools or working-class Catholic schools may well have to deal with the consequences. Recent research studies show a shift in the ages of those living in poverty in Australia. While in the past the poor tended to be predominantly elderly, in recent years a growing proportion of women with children living on welfare benefits are found among the ranks of the poor. There are also growing numbers of young people living in poverty.

Ethnicity The alienation felt by many working-class children in school may also be felt by children belonging to various ethnic groups. An ethnic group may be defined as a group based on national origin, religion or race or a combination of these elements. An ethnic group will have its own distinctive culture, or way of life, ranging from fundamental or core elements of culture to more superficial aspects such as food and dress. However, the two key aspects of culture which are relevant to a discussion of education and ethnicity are language and values. Although all people belong to an ethnic group, the term is usually used in relation to minority groups in a ‘multicultural’ society such as Australia. Thus the many non-English speaking migrants who are part of Australian society, as well as Aborigines and Islanders, are all members of minority ethnic groups. 145

Students in context The gulf between home and school is exacerbated for working-class students speaking a language other than English at home when the difference in culture and language is ignored by the school. Children from non-English speaking backgrounds, particularly working-class, experience a totally alien world of school. Numerous accounts have documented the humiliation of migrant children in the Australian school system and there is evidence that this still continues to some extent. Jean Martin (1978) talks of the process of devaluation of migrant cultures, where distinctive cultural backgrounds are ignored and migrant children are treated as little Anglo-Saxons. The following extract shows the personal effects of such school policies: When I first came to the infants school, I was six years old, and I had just arrived in Australia. It was so terrible and strange, I ran away. I might have been young, but I could sense something hostile. They caught me and put me into the principal’s room. I thought I was in prison because one of the windows had a bar on it. . . . I remember it was not the schools or the teachers who taught me how to behave because they were always punishing me. It was my father who kept on talking of the Greek ways and the differences between us and the Australians and that we must be good and obey. Never were the differences obscured. But throughout my schooling I saw no attempt ever made by any of my teachers to learn something about me or to ask me if we felt uncertainty or strangeness around us (Isaacs, 1981, p. 12). The same study has numerous other accounts of discrimination by teachers and other children encountered by migrant children. Isaacs suggests that from the early grades the children begin to grow away from the Australian community both inside and outside the school. We can understand this if we think a little about the interrelationships between culture, language and identity: language and culture shape the identity of a person, and one’s sense of oneself is integrally interrelated with both. Marta Rado made a similar point, commenting that, ‘Culture, in other words an individual’s language and value system, is not a set of clothes that can be changed overnight’ (Rado, 1975, p. 51). This was said at a time when schools were quite blatant about being assimilationist. They expected children to become Australianised as quickly as possible. Children from migrant families were given 146

Students in context no English classes but were expected to ‘pick up’ English merely through exposure to it. The meaning of such a language barrier to the primary school child is discussed by Brown (1979) who presents some detailed case-study material of Asian and West Indian children in a British infants’ school. A detailed account of one day in the life of Ravider, a six-year-old Indian child, documents the total isolation both in the classroom and in the playground caused by the language barrier. Ravider is unable to understand or communicate with the teacher or the other children because of his lack of English. Another rich source of case-study material is Jackson’s (1979) study of six children from differing cultural backgrounds starting school in a north of England infants’ school. It is not surprising then that many children from migrant families have problems with school work. Negative school experiences do more than influence student identity or cause conflict for students caught between the very different cultures of home and school. Language problems also influence school achievement in a more direct way because language is such an important tool of learning and a critical factor in intellectual development. Programs in the teaching of English as a second language (TESL) have developed in Australia to help migrant children to learn English quickly. As well, bilingual programs have developed in several states. Although the research evidence is rather confusing (Horvath 1980), there is fairly general agreement that it is preferable, in terms of social and intellectual development, for children to become literate in their mother tongue before becoming literate in English. Research shows that transfer of literacy skills to a second language is much easier than initial learning in the second language. There are still problems, but this may help to prevent the not uncommon situation of children having problems at secondary school because they have never become properly literate in either their mother tongue or English. They often end up with problems with both languages and are therefore ‘semi-lingual’. Recent developments in multicultural education in Australia are encouraging children to maintain their first language and feel pride in their cultural background. At the same time cultural studies in the curricula of mainstream children aim to improve intercultural understanding. These attempts are a step in the right direction and should help to make everyday school experiences less humiliating for migrant children. 147

Students in context Aboriginal children Children from Aboriginal families are likely to experience marked alienation from the white middle-class values imposed on them by the Australian school system. Their difference in cultural background has in the past been ignored or denigrated, and as with migrant children, language may be very significant in the problems Aboriginal children have at school. As well as these cultural factors, many Aboriginal families are living in extreme poverty, in inadequate housing and with poor health. These economic and cultural factors are interrelated and both are relevant to schooling in direct and indirect ways. Aboriginal and Islander children may speak one or more Aboriginal language at home, a Creole language or Aboriginal English. A Creole is a language which develops as a result of contact between different language groups and a new language becomes the mother tongue. Many Torres Strait Islander children, including some in Townsville and Cairns, speak a Creole as their first language. Aboriginal English is a dialect of English spoken by Aboriginal students in a number of rural and urban schools, and there is evidence that many teachers, even those in schools in Aboriginal communities, think that the children are merely speaking ‘bad English’ (Malcolm, 1982). However, Aboriginal English has its own particular patterns and structures, and if teachers constantly correct, rather than build on and develop existing language skills, the effects on subsequent language and intellectual development are disastrous. Fortunately a number of bilingual programs are now in operation in various states in schools with a significant Aboriginal population. But too often in urban schools cultural and linguistic differences are not adequately recognised or catered for. Furthermore, students often have to cope with the low expectations and racism of teachers as well as the racism of other pupils (Fitzgerald, 1976). Little wonder that Aboriginal students often do poorly in the Australian education system. Lack of awareness of cultural difference can cause misunderstandings in the classroom. Differences in communication patterns have important implications for teachers. For example, teachers should understand that Aboriginal children will tend to look down and avoid eye contact because that would be a sign of disrespect to the teacher. Further, singling out an Aboriginal child or praising them in front of the class may cause acute embarrassment or ‘shaming’. Case studies of traditional learning (Harris, 1980, 1982) and communication patterns (Eades, 1982; Malcolm, 148

Students in context 1982) and their implications for education can suggest some areas where teachers need to be aware of cultural difference. For example, in many Aboriginal communities direct questions are not used in everyday communication. Thus teachers using such questions in the classroom may find that they fail to elicit a response from the children. Cultural differences also affect learning styles in important ways. Aboriginal children traditionally learn skills and knowledge from relatives and elders in real life situations and largely through non-verbal methods. However, in government schools in Aboriginal communities, there is a tendency to use verbal methods to teach about content which is largely abstract and with little immediate application to everyday life. Thus Aboriginal students are likely to have major difficulties in mainstream educational settings. So far in this chapter we have tried to show the importance of cultural background and experience in relation to schooling. Failure to take account of cultural difference causes student alienation and problems with school work. It is essential that teachers have an understanding of cultural difference and use and build on that difference. Above all, teachers must begin ‘where the child is at’ and use and work with his or her experiences. Bernstein has put it succinctly: ‘If the culture of the teacher is to become part of the consciousness of the child, then the culture of the child must be first in the consciousness of the teacher’ (Bernstein, 1970, p. 68). This may mean changing some of the goals and curricula within schools as well, so that Aboriginal students are educated on their own terms.

Gender and schooling There is a further major structural determinant which cuts across class and ethnicity to shape school experience, namely gender. There are real differences in the school experiences of boys and girls which reflect and help to maintain the unequal positions of men and women in society. And of course family practices begin and support this sex differentiation which continues in schools. Sex differences in school experiences have been well documented in Britain, the USA and Australia (e.g. Frazier and Sadker, 1973; Schools Commission, 1975a, 1984a; Deem, 1978, 1980). The Making the Difference study (1982) also provides some account of the processes involved in the construction of masculinity and femininity in relation to each other in schools. This study highlights the different 149

Students in context styles of masculinity and femininity which develop in working-class and rulingclass schools. In independent boys’ schools, competitive sport, particularly football, was seen to play an important role in the development of masculinity through the school. But variations in versions of masculinity, and a subsequent hierarchy, developed. For example, at the top of the hierarchy was the aggressive footballer type, while lower down were those who become involved in drama and debating and reject sport. Similarly in independent girls’ schools a particular class-based version of femininity was developed which complements the predominant version of masculinity. Here femininity was organised around sociability rather than competition and with an eye to a future subordinate role in marriage. In some independent schools, however, a different kind of femininity was encouraged, where achievement was much more important and where girls were prepared for careers as well as for marriage (Connell et al., 1982). By contrast, in working-class schools the versions of masculinity and femininity which develop arise much more out of resistance to the process of schooling. We will take up these issues in more detail in the next section of this chapter in relation to our discussion of youth cultures. Most discussions on sex differentiation in schooling distinguish between the overt and the ‘hidden’ curriculum. Many writers contend that the hidden curriculum, consisting of unintended and unexamined messages passed through school processes, is at least as powerful in its effects as the overt curriculum. It is indeed likely that it is more resistant to change because it is implemented unconsciously. Thus it is possible for the hidden curriculum to transmit messages which contradict a school’s stated official policy. Research studies show that the construction of masculinity and femininity, which begins in the family, is reinforced by the primary school experiences of children (Brophy and Good, 1974; Schools Commission, 1975a; Delamont, 1980; Evans, 1982). For example, teachers’ expectations about different interests, abilities and likely futures of boys and girls are subtly conveyed in classroom practice. At the secondary level the official curriculum uses sex as a segregating factor in its most obvious way in single-sex schools and in single-sex classes, but there are many other ways in which curriculum and school organisation contribute to sex differences in school experience. Here subject choices and timetabling are important, as schools may 150

Students in context force traditional choices by, for example, timetabling subjects such as manual arts and home economics at the same time slot. (See also Taylor’s (1984) analysis of the particular effects of choice of commercial subjects on girls’ school experiences.) Resource materials are a major source of unintended teaching about women and sex roles. Studies of primary school reading books have shown that they either omit women or present traditional stereotypes. The role of women is also neglected in most secondary school texts, particularly in history and in science books. Lobban writes, ‘This aspect of the “hidden” curriculum . . . ., presents a picture of the world in which males are more prestigious and active than females’ (1978, p. 56). Literature studied in English classes may also reinforce traditional stereotypes unless handled with care. Recent research on sex differences in classroom interaction shows just how different are the classroom experiences of boys and girls. Research on primary school teachers shows that they demonstrate a preference for males, and that they interact more with boys and value male ideas more highly (Delamont, 1980; Evans, 1982; Spender, 1982). Work in secondary schools also shows that both male and female teachers give boys more attention than girls in the classroom and that they are quite unaware that they are doing this (Spender, 1982). Spender found that twothirds of classroom time was spent with the boys, and that when she herself attempted to equalise the interaction in a classroom she managed in fact to spend only 42 per cent of her time with the girls. She comments that she felt she had neglected the boys, that the boys themselves felt neglected, and concluded that the male domination of classrooms is considered natural and feels fair. Similar evidence is reported in a study by Michelle Stanworth (1984) of senior-level classes in a British high school. Research in fourth, sixth and eighth grade classes in the USA (Sadker and Sadker, 1985) and also in Australia (Schools Commission, 1984a) supports Spender’s findings; Kelly (1985) has provided some detailed evidence of sex differences in student experiences in science classrooms which tend to advantage males and disadvantage females. Clearly these sex differences in interaction patterns are pervasive and likely to be extremely important. It is crucial therefore that teachers understand how a myriad of social expectations affects what goes on in mixed classrooms in subtle ways. 151

Students in context Youth subcultures We have already seen in Chapter Three how outside groupings of students impinge on classroom events. These ‘youth subcultures’, as they are termed, are shaped by dimensions such as class, gender, and ethnicity which have been discussed in this chapter and which form a powerful part of the wider social milieu. Originally youth subcultures were studied in relation to deviance and delinquency, but more recently their importance in relation to education has been recognised and work on youth subcultures has made an increasing contribution to the sociology of education (Apple, 1982b). Connell et al. (1982), however, express reservations about talking of youth cultures or subcultures because this may exaggerate their ‘coherence and totality’. Instead they would focus on the way in which what they call ‘peer life’ interacts with family and schooling. However, we can say that youth subcultures generally arise from lived experience in response to common problems among groups, shaped as we have said by dimensions such as class, gender and ethnicity. Groups with different values from established middle-class values are more likely to experience problems in relation to mainstream society, and consequently youth sub-cultures tend to be more evident among working-class people and among minority groups. These are certainly the type of youth sub-cultures which will have implications for schools in the sense that they are more likely to be visible and oppositional to school values. Reference to two different types of youth subcultures in Britain may help us to understand more clearly the emergence and dynamics of youth cultures. Although they are distinctive, both have some relevance for a consideration of youth cultures in Australia. They are both male youth subcultures. In fact there has been much more work done on male youth subcultures, which tend to be street-centred and therefore more visible. Girls tend to be more focused on the home than their male counterparts for a number of reasons, and consequently girls’ subcultures were seen to be marginal and thus for some time were neglected. The first subculture to be considered is the Rastafarian movement in Britain which arose during the 1970s among West Indian immigrant youths. It is dealt with here because it illustrates well some general features of youth subcultures. The Rastas (as adherents of the movement are called) organised their lives around the 152

Students in context divinity of Haile Selassie of Ethiopia, with Africa as a spiritual and intellectual focus to which all blacks would eventually return (Cashmore, 1979). Cashmore (1979) maintains that there were some preconditions in Britain which allowed the development of the movement, in particular a loosening of attachment to parental values and a growing awareness of the existence of racism in Britain. He uses Matza’s (1966) concept of drift to explain the guided movement from a state of ‘cultural limbo’ towards the acceptance of a new identity through the Rastafarian movement. Rastas expressed their values in a number of distinctive and overt ways: they wore dreadlocks (hair twisted into long coils) which became a symbol and celebration of blackness. Similarly, narrow-legged short trousers emphasised poverty, and ‘the colours’ (the red, black and green of the Ethiopian flag) were used in a symbolic way. There was also a revival of Jamaican patois or Creole which served to maintain distinctiveness and exclusivity. The same kinds of symbolic elements are apparent in the reaction of some Aboriginal youths to their powerlessness and in their attempts to assert their Aboriginal identity in the use of the red, yellow and black colours of the Aboriginal flag. When Cashmore speaks of youth drifting and being guided towards the movement he is referring to the part played in the spread of Rasta values by reggae music and by Bob Marley as a key figure in the movement. Reggae music is distinctive, with its beat originating in Jamaica, and represents ‘the most articulate and inventive form of protest music ever to emerge out of the Caribbean’ (Cashmore 1979, p. 101). The lyrics embody Rasta values. For example there are constant references to Zion and the Promised Land, and leaving Babylon (that is, white colonial powers); the people are urged to ‘Stand up, Stand up for your rights! Stand up, Don’t give up the fight!’ Willis (1975) carried out a study on a less unusual type of youth subculture: that of ‘motor-bike boys’ in Birmingham. He describes the expressive style of the motor-bike culture communicated through body style, clothes and music. The bikies transformed the conventional motor-bike protective gear to enhance the image and experience of motor-bike riding, by riding without helmet, goggles and gloves, and with jackets open and flying in the wind. 153

Students in context The lack of helmet allowed long hair to blow freely back in the wind, and this, with the studded and ornamented jackets, and the aggressive style of riding, gave the motor bike boys a fearsome look which amplified the wildness, noise, surprise and intimidation of the motor bike. The bikes themselves were often modified to accentuate these features (Willis, 1975, pp. 237-8). The aim of course was to make the machines look as fierce and powerful as possible. In terms of social interaction and body style, the bike boys were rough and tough with fighting an accepted part of their way of life. They developed a confident and aggressive type of masculinity, rejecting organised sport through which aggressive feelings might have been ‘safely’ channelled. Interestingly, as with the Rastas, music too was integrally connected with the subculture. Several bikies spoke of the way motor bike riding and rock music became part of the same feeling, likening the rhythm in the head to the sound of the engine. Thus Willis suggests that: the main middle-class culture is based on the head, language and cerebrality, and minority opposition cultures are based on the body, style and the nonabstract. We must consider the possibility that the body is used in certain minority cultures [. . .] to express coded, and partly hidden, opposition to dominant culture surrounding them – in a way that language, even where it could be effectively used, would never be allowed to (ibid., p. 252). It is interesting to think about this interpretation in relation to the anti-school behaviour of some working-class students. There has been a good deal of such work carried out on male youth subcultures, and we list some useful studies at the end of the chapter. We have also referred to Willis’s (1977) study on a group of younger working-class ‘lads’ in Chapter Two. These lads developed an oppositional culture at school which affirmed their masculinity. Willis argues that in so doing they are preparing themselves for futures in manual labour, which for them is consistent with their aggressive masculinity which gives status. One of the few Australian studies on youth subcultures was carried out by Goodman (1979) in a Melbourne secondary school. He documents various aspects of oppositional behaviour which the boys adopted as an inversion of the rules of school culture. Goodman found a high level of interest in football, cars and motor 154

Students in context bikes, and as with the bikies and ‘the lads’ there was an underlying theme of aggression and violence. Goodman points out that none of these aspects of the subculture provides any basis for the development of a political class consciousness but, as with Willis’s lads, rather confirms the expected life pattern: What began as a cultural reaction to a culture ends up having profound economic and social consequences. The ‘vulnerable moment’ passes, with a burst of sound and fury signifying, in real oppositional terms, nothing at all (1979, p. 81). A recent study (‘Louts and Legends’) of students in an inner city secondary boys’ school in Sydney provides some rich data on the role ethnicity, as well as class and gender, plays in the development of youth groups in schools (Walker, 1985). The study found (rugby) football to be a major factor around which a hierarchy of friendship groups, shaped by ethnicity and particular versions of masculinity, developed within the school. Football helped to achieve some sort of unity and school spirit which was felt by many teachers to be a positive feature. However, this was achieved at the same time as reinforcing racist and sexist values which ran counter to the school’s philosophy and policies. A number of studies of working-class girls have been carried out in Britain. (Again these are listed at the end of the chapter.) A recurrent theme in such work is that working-class girls’ opposition to school usually leads them into the active acceptance of ‘femininity’ and a future of home and family. Thus McRobbie’s (1978) study of working-class girls shows how class and sex are interwoven in complex ways in the school. She identifies, at the level of the official ideology of the school, the efforts to prepare girls for a career in the home. Similarly, the hidden curriculum also operates to disadvantage girls. At the same time, the class background of the girls is significant in shaping their school experiences, with working-class and middle-class girls being channelled towards different kinds of jobs. (See Chapter Six.) In response, the girls develop an oppositional stance to schooling in the form of an anti-school subculture which is also antagonistic towards middle-class girls. McRobbie describes how they assert their femaleness in the classroom by introducing their sexuality in such a way as to force teachers to take notice. She describes how the official school image of femininity (neatness, and passivity) is 155

Students in context rejected in favour of a more ‘feminine’, even sexual one, with the girls wearing make-up to school and disrupting the class by loud discussions about boyfriends. McRobbie points out the extent to which marriage, family life, fashion and beauty all contribute massively to this feminine anti-school culture. Meanwhile, outside school, girls’ subculture is centred on the home, because of involvement in domestic tasks and also because of parental control. McRobbie and Garber (1976) talk about the ‘culture of the bedroom: experimenting with make-up, listening to records, reading the mags, sizing up the boy friends, chatting, jiving. . . .’ (p. 213). In an Australian study of two girls’ state schools in Melbourne, one workingclass and one middle-class, Thomas (1980) found some interesting differences. Both groups of girls turned towards traditional female roles in their efforts to resist the academic demands of the school, and to achieve positive identities which challenged the negative ones placed on them by the school. However, Thomas found middle-class girls much more subdued in their opposition to school than the working-class girls who saw school as a hostile and repressive institution. Consequently they constructed an image of themselves as ‘tough, worldly and unromantic’ and were much more ‘anti-school’ in their attitudes and behaviour. Samuel (1983a) looked at school processes through which working-class girls in Sydney were labelled as ‘deviant’ and were ‘cooled out’ of school, regardless of their reasonably positive attitudes to the school curriculum. Like the working-class girls in the Thomas study, these girls rejected the ‘culture of femininity’ instead using their sexuality as an effective weapon in the classroom. However, Samuel reports that often the girls’ use of sexuality as a weapon backfires, as the teachers respond by labelling the girls as ‘sexually immoral and promiscuous’ (p. 374). Further, she found that, despite their strong rebelliousness, the girls in her study could not see any real futures for themselves outside marriage. Interestingly, Thomas (1980) found working class girls to be realistically aware of their futures as child-rearers and that they were less involved with romantic versions of love and marriage than the middle class girls. It is likely that, as with working class boys, opposition to school leads them into a traditional working-class future. Willis’s (1977) ‘lads’, in opposing school values, qualified themselves for futures as manual workers. However, for them manual work affirmed their masculinity and thereby gave them status. But in the case of girls, status is not achieved from ‘women’s work’ and they see no alternative in the long run to motherhood and child 156

Students in context rearing, with or without love, romance and marriage. (See also Moran’s (1983) study of female youth culture in an inner city school, and Griffin, 1985.) It is important to stress that Samuel sees the teacher as playing an important role in ‘cooling out’ working-class girls; however, she does not see the process as inevitable. Clearly, to the extent that schools and teachers are often representative of an alien set of values, they are important in the production of school-based youth cultures. Students resist the power and authority of the school in various ways we have already discussed. (See also Corrigan, 1979.) Hawkins makes the important point that disorder in schools cannot be put down to pockets of trouble makers who are pathologically naughty. Resistance is most often sociable, collective and enjoyable. Many students cope at school by organising against its power. For some their resistance will be mild and intermittent, for others it will be aggressive and relentless. Kids adopt different kinds of resistance at different times and with different teachers (Hawkins, 1982, p. 8). There is, in fact, as we have seen, much evidence which suggests that the organisation and content of schooling are key factors in the production of resistance to schooling.

Youth in the eighties One important feature of the context within which youth subcultures arise in contemporary Australia is the high level of youth unemployment. The recession and associated unemployment has had both direct and indirect effects on youth subcultures in recent years. Since the mid-1970s, opportunities for full-time employment for 15-19 year olds have deteriorated, particularly for girls, and also for Aborigines and some migrant groups. The high rates of unemployment have been linked with increasing homelessness and involvement in drugs and crime among youth. There have been a large number of media reports on these issues but not a lot of research has been done on them. 157

Students in context Windschuttle (1981) writes of kids on skid row as a phenomenon which many people refuse to believe, but gives examples of the rapid increase in the proportion of young men (under 26) using shelters for homeless men. He documents increases in drug convictions and alcohol usage in New South Wales with the onset of the recession, and the fact that the fastest growth in convictions occurred in areas of high unemployment. He points out that caution is needed in linking drug usage with unemployment, but says that health and welfare workers’ observations provide additional evidence to support this conclusion. Often youth unemployment leads to tension at home, and Windschuttle points out that because of a lack of community facilities the young jobless have few places to go. They congregate in shopping centres and pubs, and often gravitate towards the skid row and drug scenes. It is significant that elements of this ‘dole queue culture’ reach back into the lives of working-class youth who are still at school. Because unemployment has touched most of their families, they know that they too have poor job prospects and bleak futures. This exacerbates further the alienation felt by working-class students through their experiences of schooling, discussed earlier. In the past, youth subcultures tended to develop in opposition to the discipline and control of the world of work and, to a lesser extent, of school. But the recent development of youth subcultures among boys in their early teens, sometimes still at primary school, takes on added significance. For example, the existence of street breakdancing groups in Australian cities among 12-15 year old males (of mainly Aboriginal, Islander, Maori or other ethnic minority group descent) reveals a good deal about the school experiences of these youths, and about their position in contemporary Australia. (See Taylor, 1985.) Thus subcultures may be viewed as indicators of oppression, offering a source of identity to participants which they cannot obtain elsewhere. Although youth subcultures usually fail to challenge society in any significant way, the potential for radical change is always there. With large numbers of working-class youth influenced directly or indirectly by the recession there is the possibility that the awareness of ‘place’ in the social structure will radicalise such youth subcultures. As Brake has written of youth subcultures: Some are trivial, some are hedonistic and joyous, some are expressions of brutalizing effects of class oppression. Often they are all of these, but a few do contain the radical kernel of a revolutionary and liberated culture (1980, p. 176). 158

Students in context There is one further significant factor shaping the subcultures of the young unemployed. As we will discuss in the next section, popular culture and the commercial youth market is central in the development of leisure-time activities of young people. The young unemployed have plenty of time to indulge in popular culture, but no money to spend. It needs to be stressed that leisure is a concept which has developed in relation to work, and the enforced non-work time of the unemployed cannot be described as leisure. Presdee has written of the way the young unemployed are frozen out of the relations of production and the social relationships created by the practices of the economy through the loss of the wage. They become not only surplus to the labour market but are excluded from the market place in general. They are not marginal to the system, they are outside it, surplus, not needed. They are in modern terms, ‘on ice’ (Presdee, 1984, p. 7). How young people are themselves responding to this new social situation where the traditional transitions to adult life are blocked is a topic only just beginning to be researched. (See for example, Presdee, 1985; Watson, 1985; Willis, 1985.) It is, however, important to take into account this new social context affecting youth in Australia in the 1980s, and how it reaches back into school life in a number of ways.

Media and youth We have already seen that music is integrally involved in the expression of youth subcultures. Over the years many writers have been critical of popular culture, of which the media in general are important components, and have made invidious comparisons with ‘high culture’, such as classical music and ‘great literature’. From another perspective, there has also been criticism of the so-called homogenising effects of the mass media, which are said to transmit the values of capitalism and consumerism. In relation to young people, Connell et al. (1982) discuss the way the commercial youth culture helps to constitute teenagers as consumers of the ‘youth industry’ and as sexual beings, legitimising the exploration of sexuality which is elsewhere forbidden. They argue that the commercial aspects of youth culture are profoundly divisive, pushing kids away from parents, and separating girls from boys through blatant sexism. 159

Students in context Two dominant views about the role of media in society suggest, on the one hand, that the media’s role is to satisfy audience demands and basically to give people what they want, or, on the other hand that the media impose the ideology of capitalism on a passive working class. We would agree with Windschuttle, however, that the media should be seen as arenas of class conflict. He sees the popular media as inconsistent, contradictory and changing, and argues that ‘economics establish a framework within which relatively independent, cultural factors are played out’ (Windschuttle, 1984a, p. x). As part of the culture, media present pictures of reality about the way society works, and these pictures are likely to include contradictory messages. Although there will be dominant ‘preferred’ meanings and interpretations (those favoured by and transmitted by authorised channels), there are also likely to be a number of meanings which are oppositional to the prevailing order. Thus media constitute a ‘contradictory richness’ (Chambers, 1980) which may be used selectively by subcultures. In this section we are particularly interested in the relationship between media and youth in general and youth subcultures in particular. The media are immensely popular with youth and indirectly shape and define the experience of members of a subculture. Hebdige (1981), in discussing this generative role of the mass media, writes that the media provide us with the most available categories for classifying out the social world, offering a symbolic framework within which the separate and fragmented pieces of the social totality appear to fit together and make sense. Not only do the media supply groups with substantive images of other groups, they also relay back to people a ‘picture’ of their own lives which is ‘contained’, or ‘framed’ by the ideological discourses which surround and situate it (Hebdige, 1981, p. 90). Over the years there has been a good deal of concern about the effects of various aspects of television on youth in general. For example, numerous studies have attempted to assess the effects of TV violence on children and young people. (See for example Edgar, 1977, 1980.) There has also been concern about stereotyping and the kinds of reality and values presented. A study (Stewart, 1983) of the way family life is portrayed in prime-time Australian television comments on the 160

Students in context overall unreality of the television fare. For example, the study concludes that the picture of family life shown is male dominated, white AngloSaxon and largely middle class. Stewart says that while this orientation is demographically speaking the culture of a small minority, ‘it reflects with remarkable accuracy the power structure of Australian society’ (Stewart, 1983, p. 57). While not subscribing to the notion that media are monolithic and all powerful, Windschuttle (1984a) also acknowledges that often elements of the popular culture are expropriated and exploited via the media, particularly in advertising. He expresses concern about the effects of advertising on adolescents who, he says, at a time of identity searching, are particularly vulnerable. Further, he argues that a significant proportion of commodities that are targeted at adolescents, such as tobacco and alcohol, have social consequences which are undesirable and often harmful. Soft drink advertisements portray Coca-Cola drinkers as ‘attractive, confident and living life to the full’ (Windschuttle, 1984a, p. 215). Windschuttle argues that for most adolescents their world contrasts sharply with an uncomplicated ideal world. The message of the advertisements is that drinking coke is essential for those who lead this life, but for most adolescents ‘the fun loving fantasy never materialises. All they ever get is the commodity’ (Windschuttle, 1984a, p. 216). Other advertisements feed on anxieties, for example the adolescent girl with bad skin is urged to use a particular cream in order to magically regain sparkling good looks and an array of boyfriends. ‘First they sell you your inadequacies, then they sell you the solution, their product’ (Windschuttle, 1984a, p. 252). Younger children are the target of many ‘junk food’ advertisements too, and 4560 per cent of all advertising during children’s 4.00-6.00 p.m. viewing period is for food products (Windschuttle, 1984). Finally, we need to say something about youth and popular music given that the latter is an important part of the culture which kids bring to school. This centrality of pop music in the lives of young people is well established, reflected in the common sense notion that key elements of youth cultures are ‘sex, and drugs and rock ‘n’ roll’. Oliver (1976) has written that pop music is popular culture to youth: ‘it is the focus of social activity, the source of language and styles of dress, the symbol and expression of youth culture mores’ (p. 277). The idea of rebellion has been embodied in pop music over the years in various forms, and is epitomised most clearly in the early forms of punk. Earlier we saw 161

Students in context how reggae music was part of the Rastafarian subculture, and rock music integrally related to the bikie subculture. Willis (1978) uses the term ‘homology’ to describe such a fit between the values and life style of a subculture and the music which expresses its concerns. Hebdige (1981) shows how there is such an homological relationship between punk subculture and punk music. The latter resulted in the late 1970s from a number of very distinct and superficially incompatible musical traditions, and was complemented in an ‘equally eclectic clothing style which produced the same kind of cacophony on the visual level’ (Hebdige, 1981, p. 89). Hebdige goes on to say that punk style fitted together homologically precisely through its lack of fit (i.e. hole is to t-shirt as spitting is to applause as binliner is to garment as anarchy is to order) – by its refusal to cohere around a readily identifiable set of central values (P. 89). This description is of original punk style and music. Later the subculture was coopted by the music and the fashion industries and became neutralised and commercialised. This illustrates nicely the tension in popular music between the commercial interests and the expression of the social realities of the creating and performing musicians. For example, the recent breakdance craze also illustrates the interplay between economic interests and genuine folk-based influences. Breakdancing originated among the black male street cultures of New York, developing out of their material circumstances and life experience. The dance routines were appropriated by commercial interests, fed back to white youth in Australia, and have had a part in shaping street cultures through a number of new recordings. The street culture on the other hand, is dynamic and developing in new ways, and is often one jump ahead of the record industry (Taylor, 1985). We have discussed schoolgirl subcultures in this chapter together with some related issues relevant for schooling. We need to say something about sex divisions in popular music and the way that girls’ interests in pop music tend to be tied up with the ideologies of romance, love and marriage (Frith, 1978). Frith and McRobbie (1978-9) argue that rock operates both as a form of sexual expression and as a form of sexual control. They argue that rock is involved in the construction of sexuality, and contrast male oriented ‘cock rock’ with ‘teeny bop’ music consumed mainly by girls. For girls the focus is on the star: boy-next-door masculine qualities become the focus rather than the music. McRobbie (1978) says 162

Students in context that such a focus becomes extended to the pin-ups which are symbolically placed above the bed and looked at with passive longing.

Implications for schooling It may be that some of these interpretations about media and youth subcultures are overgeneralised, but it can be seen that there are some links with the oppositional school cultures which we discussed in the previous section. We would contend that this wider milieu is an important context within which schooling should be considered and that it is only by understanding some of the effects of the cultural milieu that we will begin to understand the young people we are trying to teach. In this chapter we have dealt with how structural dimensions, such as class and ethnicity, help to shape students’ cultural milieu. We have also dealt with the way gender shapes experience. Our final sections have attempted to discuss the wider cultural context and in particular we have attempted to give a brief outline of how youth cultures relate to what is happening in schools. In calling for a study of education in its broader cultural context Macdonald has written: In an age of mass media and a wide variety of cultural agencies, we can no longer justify concentrating upon schools, in isolation, as the sole or even dominant creator of meanings, class and sexual identities and consciousness (1981, p. 164). This broader perspective is important not only to help us understand the students we are teaching. It is also important in terms of utilising their ‘lived culture’ in the classroom. Earlier we emphasised the need to take account of the class and cultural background of children in schools. In the same way we need also to take account of popular culture and youth subcultures and utilise both in the classroom.

Further reading Claydon, L.F. (ed.) (1975), The Urban School, Carlton: Pitman. A case study of a school in a working class area in Melbourne with a high proportion of non-English speaking migrants.

163

Students in context Connell, R. et al. (1982), Making the Difference, Sydney: Allen & Unwin. Illuminates some of the processes which ‘make the difference’ between ruling class and working class schooling. Read especially chapters 2, 3 and 4. Hill, B. (1977), The Schools, Ringwood: Penguin. A readable collection of case studies of a number of very different Australian schools. Read one or two of the studies and the concluding chapter. Johnson, L. (1984), ‘The uses of the media: an interpretation of the significance of the mass media in the lives of young people’, Discourse, vol. 4, no. 2, pp. 18-31. This article discusses issues to do with youth cultures and the media. Windschuttle, K. (1984), The Media, Ringwood: Penguin. A recent comprehensive account of media in Australia. The section on culture is particularly interesting.

Studies on male youth subcultures Brake, M. (1980), The Sociology of Youth Culture and Youth Subcultures, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Covers a number of British working-class youth cultures from teddy boys to punk. Corrigan, P. (1979), Schooling the Smash Street Kids, London: Methuen. A readable account which considers the implications of a British youth subculture for schooling. Hall, S. and Jefferson, T. (eds) (1976), Resistance Through Rituals, London: Hutchinson. There are several useful papers in this collection including a very good lengthy discussion of theoretical issues. Hebdige, D. (1979) Subculture: The Meaning of Style, London: Macmillan. Also very readable – an account of the punk subculture including the relationship of music to the subculture. Robins, D. and Cohen, P. (1978), Knuckle Sandwich, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Readable portraits of growing up in an inner-city estate in north London. Willis, P. (1977), Learning to Labour, Farnborough: Saxon House. A now classic study of a group of working-class ‘lads’ in the British Midlands.

Studies on female youth subcultures Griffin, C. (1985), Typical Girls, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. A British study following a group of young women from school to the job market (or unemployment) and which was originally set up to complement Willis’s research.

164

Students in context Llewellyn, M. (1980), ‘Studying girls at school’, in R. Deem (ed.), Schooling for Women’s Work, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, pp. 42-51. A useful paper about issues concerned with schoolgirl cultures and based on case studies carried out in two schools. McRobbie, A. (1978), ‘Working class girls and the culture of femininity’, in Women’s Studies Group (ed.), Women Take Issue, London: Hutchinson, pp. 96-108. This was one of the first studies on teenage girls’ subcultures, but is still worth reading. Moran, P. (1983), ‘Female youth culture in an inner city school’, in Educational Research for National Development: Policy, Planning and Politics, AARE conference proceedings, Canberra, pp. 281-90. One of the few Australian studies which have been carried out on schoolgirl cultures. Samuel, L. (1983), The making of a school resister: a case study of working class Australian secondary schoolgirls’, in R. Browne and L. Foster (eds) Sociology of Education (3rd ed.), Melbourne: Macmillan, pp. 367-75. Another Australian study which looks at the way schools are implicated in the production of anti-school cultures. Sharpe, S. (1976), Just Like a Girl, Ringwood: Penguin. A study based on work in four London schools which includes work on West Indian and Asian girls.

165

Chapter Six

Schooling processes and educational outcomes

Although unequal treatment in the classroom is not the only cause of unequal performance, it may well be a very significant cause. This would suggest that schools do not distribute opportunity evenly to all students, but unevenly according to how they are treated. Further, schools are not simply neutral proving grounds for individual talent and diligence; they are agencies which actively shape and expand differences between students. The conception of schools as a meritocracy is basically erroneous because it overlooks this aspect. (Jeffrey M. Blum, Pseudoscience and Mental Ability : The Origins and Fallacies of the IQ Controversy, 1978, pp. 170-1.)

Schooling processes and educational outcomes In the previous chapter we stressed the significance of class, gender, race and ethnicity in affecting educational experiences and opportunities. Here we will consider in more detail the processes by which schools contribute to socially based patterns of unequal educational outcomes. Working-class students as well as many girls, many migrants and most Aborigines do not negotiate the demands of competitive schooling as successfully as do better-off students. We would point out also that much of what happens to students in schools can only be understood in terms of the more insidious effects of meritocratic ideology (see Chapter Three) and the credentialling in which schools are involved. Furthermore, a sociological 166

Schooling processes and educational outcomes understanding of the complex nexus between school and an unequal economic structure (see Chapter Seven) and of the social construction of the curriculum (see Chapter Three), is also central to analysing what schools do to students. Practices such as testing (of IQ, ability or aptitude), streaming, examining, along with the competitive academic curriculum and the pacing of classroom instruction all affect students from varying backgrounds in different ways, while contributing to differential educational outcomes between individuals. An understanding of the production of these different outcomes requires a sociological analysis. In Chapter Three we explained how structural inequalities in wealth and income within Australian society were reconciled with demands for equality and justice through the ideology of equality of opportunity in an ostensibly meritocratic society. (See Rowse, 1978, for an historical account of this reconciliation.) Schools are central to the implementation of meritocratic ideology. In short, schools are supposed to ensure that all have an equal chance to be unequal. Since the Second World War equality of educational opportunity concerns have focused specifically upon the secondary schools, when all of the states moved to provide some secondary schooling for all. David Bennett (1982) has documented clearly how the view of secondary education as the engine of individual social mobility took hold in Australia during the economically prosperous 1950s and 1960s (also see Connell et al., 1982, ch. 1, ch. 2). From that time students from all backgrounds were at least included in the educational opportunity race. However, equality of educational opportunity has changed in meaning over time (Keeves, 1978; Bennett, 1982; Johnston, 1983). Until the election of the federal Whitlam Labor government in 1972, equality of opportunity was defined simply in terms of equal access to schools of equal facilities, comparable staffing patterns and uniform curricula. Whitlam initiated a ‘stronger’ definition (Roper, 1970), encompassing both government and non-government schools, which placed emphasis on more equal outcomes across social groupings. Positive discrimination in terms of federal expenditure for schools classified as disadvantaged was the approach taken to achieve this progressive goal (see Beazley, 1980). However, the program was short-lived and did not in any way challenge the separate, yet complementary, social functions of the elite and non elite schools (Marginson, 1986). There was a return to a ‘weaker’ definition in terms of access during the Fraser years, while the Hawke Labor government, at least at the level of rhetoric, 167

Schooling processes and educational outcomes has attempted to cojoin contemporary concern about youth unemployment with a definition of equality in terms of outcomes in the Participation and Equity program (Schools Commission, 1984b). The recent report of the Quality of Education Review Committee (1985) perhaps signals a new direction in this debate. In what follows we document the inequality of outcomes from schooling. To reiterate, success or failure at school is not distributed randomly amongst the population; rather there are social patterns relating to class, gender, race and ethnicity. The evidence which follows shows quite vividly that equality of educational opportunity, defined in terms of outcomes between social groups, still does not exist. The schooling processes which are involved in the construction of unequal educational outcomes are then outlined. In a sense, however, the structure and processes of schooling institutionalise an ‘individual blame’ explanation for both school success and school failure (Connell et al., 1982, p. 185). Thus the notions of ‘ability’ (for teachers) or ‘brains’ (for students) are centrally important to the common misrecognitions of the broader social processes intimately involved in the production of school success and failure. In the last section of this chapter, therefore, we seek to deconstruct these notions and show how they operate to legitimate inequality of educational opportunity and outcomes. (See also Bourdieu, 1974.)

The documentation of inequality of educational opportunity There is a very well documented and strong correlation between social class of origin and factors such as overall success in school, including success in public examinations, doing well in IQ and other aptitude tests, likelihood of completing 12 years of schooling, particularly an academic secondary schooling, access to selective schools, access to tertiary education, and finally access to the best jobs (Ashenden et al., 1980, p. 1). All of this evidence (see references at the end of this chapter) indicates the linkage between social class of origin and likelihood of school success or school failure. (See Chapter Seven for a more detailed consideration of social class.) This is not to suggest that some working-class students do not succeed academically; of course they do. However, the likelihood of ruling-class and middle-class students succeeding is much greater. As well as 168

Schooling processes and educational outcomes class-based disadvantages in educational opportunities, many girls are also disadvantaged in education as are Aboriginal and some migrant children. Class intersects with gender, ethnicity and race to compound disadvantage for some students. We will explore these bases for disadvantage in turn, beginning with class. As we pointed out in Chapter Four, class in a sense determines which sort of secondary school an individual is likely to attend. The non-government, nonCatholic schools are attended by and large by ruling and middle-class individuals. Working-class students generally attend state schools or Catholic parochial schools. Within the government sector there are also secondary schools, often situated in the more affluent suburbs, which operate in a fashion similar to that of the elite private schools. The differing class clienteles of these schools are most clearly reflected in their differing retention rates to Grade 12, which we documented in Chapter Four. There is a very substantial difference in retention rates for those with fathers in non-manual jobs, compared with those with fathers in manual jobs (Behrens, 1978; Wright et al., 1978), irrespective of type of secondary school attended. As well as correlating with retention, social class also relates to academic performance. Fitzgerald (1976, p. 27), in summarising the Australian research on this matter, points out that children from upper social classes achieve higher scores on all types of academic measures than do children from the bottom of the class structure (also see Wiseman, 1970a,b; Connell, 1972). Fitzgerald also adds that these results are in line with overseas research findings. Perhaps the most obvious class correlations in education are those associated with obtaining tertiary education. Bourdieu’s (1974) French research found that working-class individuals had to have better matriculation results than middle- and ruling-class ones before they contemplated tertiary education. Tertiary education for many affluent students is just a part of their natural taken-for-granted world, whereas for those of working-class origins it is a totally new experience. Research by Carpenter and Western (1983) shows that for males with similar aspirations for higher education, those from privileged class backgrounds were more likely to gain entrance to tertiary education. Terry Dunn (1982) suggests that the Victorian matriculation examination (the Higher School Certificate) discriminates against working-class students. Interestingly, he found that ‘state school students perform 169

Schooling processes and educational outcomes better at University than do independent school students having the same HSC score’ (p. 190). As long ago as 1943 La Nauze documented the socially elite and economically privileged characteristics of Australian university students. And in a fairly recent full length study, Access to Privilege, Anderson and Vervoorn (1983) conclude, after surveying a 50-year period, that universities (particularly) and all higher education institutions (generally) remain very much socially elite institutions. In their words: The over-representation of students from high socio-economic backgrounds has remained constant at least since 1950, as has the under-representation of those of lower socio-economic background (p. 170). All of the research has indicated that students from professional backgrounds are hugely over-represented in universities, while those from working-class backgrounds are dramatically underrepresented. As well as class-based inequalities there are also gender-based inequalities in educational outcomes. Although since 1976 the overall retention rate to Grade 12 of girls has been greater than for boys, girls still face many educational disadvantages. As argued elsewhere, class and gender intersect, shown for example by the greater retention rates for girls in the non-government schools. Retention in government schools for girls rose from 25 per cent in 1972 to 34 per cent in 1982, while the comparable figures for non-government schools were 42 per cent and 60 per cent respectively. In the most socially elite schools of all (the non-government, non-Catholic schools), the retention rate for girls in 1982 was 93 per cent compared with a figure of 85 per cent for boys in similar schools. Across the decade 1972-82, male retention rates have gone down while female retention rates have gone up. Karmel (1983) has attempted to explain the decreased participation in tertiary education which occurred in the late 1970s/early 1980s in terms of young people entering the workforce when there was a job available rather than pursuing tertiary education. Maybe this phenomenon can also explain the different patterns in male/female retention rates, along with the different labour markets for teenage males and females (Taylor, 1986). Certainly, the economic recession from the mid 1970s hit teenage girls very early and probably more 170

Schooling processes and educational outcomes harshly than most groups. Even now, when official unemployment rates for 15-19 year old males are almost identical with those for 15-19 year old females, research (Stricker and Sheehan, 1981) would indicate that the situation for girls is still much worse, given their high levels of hidden unemployment. These figures on female retention to the final year of schooling do not present the whole picture. We need to consider also the courses and subjects the majority of girls are doing in comparison with boys. Girls and Tomorrow (Schools Commission, 1984a, p. 17) points out that whereas 25 per cent of boys meet tertiary entrance requirements with two mathematics subjects, physics and chemistry, only 6 per cent of girls do so. Additionally, while 45 per cent of boys meet tertiary requirements with at least general maths, less than 20 per cent of girls do so. These unequal outcomes are central in limiting female access to science and maths based tertiary courses, as the tertiary figures themselves readily indicate. Furthermore, they limit the access of females to the highest paying jobs. Girls’ opportunities in the area of computing, for example, are considerably limited. Thus, the work options and life chances of girls have been constrained by their concentration in the non-science and non-maths areas in the secondary schools. Schooling for girls has tended to close off options and reinforce traditional stereotypes, while also preparing them for a narrow range of jobs. (See Fomin, 1984, for an interesting sociological account of how mathematics at the HSC level in Victoria contributes to the reproduction of gender differences.) The high retention rate for girls can also be misleading for another reason. If we consider overall participation in education for the two age groups 15-19 years and 20-24 years, we find that male participation is markedly higher than for females: in 1981 the participation rate for 15-19 year old males in TAFE, CAEs and universities was 67 per cent and in the 20-24 age groups it was 24 per cent, compared with 57 per cent and 16 per cent respectively for females. Females make up less than half the students in all of the three post-secondary sectors. There are more females in the CAEs than in the other two sectors; this reflects the large number of women in teacher education courses. While female participation in universities has increased from almost 1 in 3 in 1950 to be now approaching 1 in 2 (Anderson and Vervoorn, 1983, ch. 4, ch. 12), women are still concentrated in particular courses such as the humanities, social and behavioural sciences, and education. While women have begun to move into 171

Schooling processes and educational outcomes courses such as medicine, law, dentistry, economics and business studies they still do not constitute half the student body in such courses (Anderson and Vervoorn, 1983, p. 52; Schools Commission, 1984a, p. 4). In 1981 for instance, still only 1 per cent of all female students were enrolled in engineering/technology courses. There are similar gender-based discrepancies in the different courses offered by the CAEs (Anderson and Vervoorn, 1983, p. 58) and also in TAFE where, for example, in 1980 only 7 per cent of female enrolments were in basic trade courses (Schools Commission, 1984a, p. 5). Additional gender-based inequalities in university study exist when one compares male and female participation in post-graduate study. In 1980 almost 30 per cent of masters degree students were female, while only 24 per cent of doctoral students were female. Furthermore, female postgraduate students are concentrated overwhelmingly in the fields of humanities, social and behavioural sciences, education and natural sciences (Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet, vol. 1, 1984, p. 26). It is interesting to note that whereas almost two-thirds of all teachers are women, less than one-quarter of doctoral students in education are women (Western, 1983, p. 146). Thus, while more women are going on to tertiary study, there are still clear male and female enclaves. In addition women are grossly under-represented at the higher degree level, a fact which is very clearly reflected in the gender composition of the academic staff of tertiary institutions (Cass et al., 1983). As suggested earlier, girls are disadvantaged in comparison with boys in the transition from school to work. This is so because of the sexual division of labour and because the economic recession has had a particularly harsh impact on employment opportunities for young women. Furthermore, at all levels of educational qualifications women are disadvantaged in comparison with male workers in terms of incomes (Western, 1983, p. 171). These inequalities in schooling and occupational choices experienced by females reflect the patriarchal nature of our society where men have power and women do not. As Kate Millett (1970) pointed out in Sexual Politics, men control most avenues of power within the society: military, industrial, technological, scientific, political, academic, financial (Millett, 1970, p. 25). One could no doubt add to the list. Patriarchy also means that particular versions of masculinity and femininity develop which tend to reproduce male power and female subordination. Furthermore, it means that there are a number of different spheres of activity (public/private, work/non-work, production/consumption) which correspond with clear male and female divisions within society (Game and Pringle, 1983, p. 15). 172

Schooling processes and educational outcomes In the post-war period the participation of women in paid work has increased from a labour force participation rate of 22 per cent in 1947 to 44 per cent in 1983. Thirty-seven per cent of all workers are now women. In 1977 the OECD found that Australia had the highest level of occupational segmentation by sex of all countries studied. About 63 per cent of female workers are concentrated in the three occupational classifications of sales, clerical and service. Within occupations women tend to be concentrated in lower level jobs. For example, in 1979 while throughout Australia 68 per cent of all primary teachers were female only 10 per cent of primary school principals were female (Schools Commission, 1984a, p. 24). In 1983 the ratio of working women’s earnings to men’s was 80:100. However, if part-time workers and teenage workers are included the female/male ratio in 1983 was 66:100 (Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet, vol. 1, 1984, p. 20). Gains for full-time female workers have been offset by the increasing involvement of women in parttime work. In considering girls and schooling, as well as the position of women in society, it must always be kept in mind that patriarchal relations and the capitalist class structure (see Chapter Seven) are intimately interrelated and shape each other (Connell et al., 1982; Game and Pringle, 1983). For example, in the previous chapter it was shown how working-class and ruling-class schools operated to construct different class-based styles of masculinity and femininity. It seems certain that the current polarisation of male and female life chances through schooling reproduces the patriarchal divisions within the society. As the Girls and Tomorrow Report (Schools Commission, 1984a, p. 3) points out, these divisions tend to alienate men from the family and caring roles and women from paid work and careers. Yet most individuals throughout life experience both. Thus, as the Report goes on to argue, there exists ‘a critical mismatch between the actual post school experiences of many women and the futures for which schools have tended to prepare them’ (p. 3). Next, we will consider briefly the opportunities available to migrant children in the Australian schooling system. It needs to be stressed that ethnicity intersects with class. We point out in Chapter Seven, when considering social class in Australia, that the post-war migration program has had a considerable effect on the Australian class structure. (Also see Collins, 1984.) In particular, a segmentation of the working class has occurred, with many southern European migrants (for example from Greece and Italy) forming a layer of unskilled and semi-skilled workers within the working class. UK migrants and those from Northern Europe 173

Schooling processes and educational outcomes tend to be distributed throughout the class structure in a way more similar to that of the Australian born. Gender also intersects with ethnicity, so that non-Englishspeaking migrant women tend to have the worst, lowest paid factory jobs. In discussing how migrant students perform in schools class factors must always be kept in mind, for within each migrant group the social class correlations in educational success outlined earlier also pertain. However, as Jakubowicz (1984, p. 13) argues: Clearly disadvantages suffered due to gender, class, ethnicity or disability cannot be mechanically added together as if in competition for the ‘most oppressed category’. Rather, the reality of the individual’s experience is caught by the way these social processes are enmeshed in each other. There are some technical difficulties in looking at the research on migrant educational opportunities. First, but by no means least of the problems is how to define ‘migrant’ (Fitzgerald, 1976, p. 53). Is a migrant student one whose both parents were born overseas, one who has one parent born overseas, was born overseas, has non-English-speaking parents, or what? Furthermore, because of the assimilationist ascendancy within Australian public policy towards migrants from the Second World War until the early 1970s, there is not a large amount of long-term research data on the educational and occupational fortunes of migrant students (see Jakubowicz, 1984; Sturman, 1985). Data were simply not kept; officially migrant children in schools were regarded no differently from other children. Thus, there has not been a very substantial body of research concerning educational opportunity amongst migrants on which to draw. Adding to the problem of analysis is the fact that migrants are not a homogeneous group. For instance, there are vast differences between the experiences of migrants from English-speaking backgrounds and those from non-English-speaking backgrounds. There are also substantial cultural differences between and within ethnic groups; and additionally the culture of some migrant groups is closer to mainstream Australian culture than is others. One could go on outlining the difficulties in making sense of the evidence on migrant educational opportunities. Keeping these difficulties in mind, a summary of the research findings on the educational opportunities of migrant students follows. The research of de Lemos (1975) and Bourke and Keeves (1977) indicates the difficulties significant numbers of migrant children from non-English speaking 174

Schooling processes and educational outcomes backgrounds face in coping with school English. De Lemos (1975) found marked differences between those from non-English-speaking backgrounds and those from English-speaking backgrounds on verbal tests, but no differences at all on non-verbal tests. The research evidence summarised by Anderson and Vervoorn (1983, ch. 7) indicates that migrant students, irrespective of ethnic background, have higher educational aspirations across the board than Australian-born students. Gender also affects aspirations, so that the evidence shows that the educational aspirations of Italian girls are much lower than for Italian boys. Perhaps there is a specific ethnic cultural effect here. Class is also related to the high aspirations of the children of Eastern European background as many of their parents came from better-off backgrounds than they experienced on arrival in Australia. The early evidence on the educational success of Indo-Chinese students might indicate a similar phenomenon at work. Many Indo-Chinese in Australia (both refugee and non refugee) come from entrepreneurial backgrounds. In terms of converting aspirations into achievement of goals, Southern European migrants generally do not fare as well as others. On this point, Anderson and Vervoorn (1983) argue that ethnicity and the migrant experience appear to be the dominant determinant of aspirations, while class seems to be the dominant determinant of whether or not aspirations are achieved. They state: It is predominantly working class migrant groups that have limited success in relation to their level of aspiration when it comes to actually entering a higher institution (ibid., p. 115). It must be stressed in conclusion to this section on the educational opportunities of migrants that, as Jacubowicz (1984, p. 6) clearly states, most studies of educational participation, achievement and outcomes of Australian school children do not address in a systematic way the experience of culturally distinctive, gender-distinguished and class-identified children. Categorically, Aboriginal people are the most socially disadvantaged on all social indicators amongst the Australian population (Western, 1983; Department of Aboriginal Affairs, 1984; Fisk, 1985). The history of Aboriginal/European relations since 1788 has at times been a horrific one (Rowley, 1972; Lippman, 1981; Reynolds, 1981; Miller, 1985). The effects of the nineteenth-century 175

Schooling processes and educational outcomes destruction of Aboriginal people and culture are still played out today in most areas of Aboriginal life. Certainly, the dominant culture has not come to grips with this non-savoury aspect of its history (Smith, 1980; Reynolds, 1981). Today, all of the evidence would indicate that Aboriginal people have the highest birthrate, the highest death rate, the lowest life expectancy, the highest infant mortality rate, the worst health, the highest imprisonment rate, the worst housing and the lowest educational, occupational, economic, social and legal status of any identifiable group in Australia (National Population Inquiry, 1975, p. 455; Western, 1983, ch. 4). One could add that Aboriginal people also currently have the highest unemployment rate (Windschuttle, 1979; Western, 1983), which compounds further their position as the poorest group in Australia. Set against this range of social disadvantages and a long history of official neglect and abuse, no educational policy of itself can be expected to provide Aboriginal children with equal opportunities. However, the evidence would suggest that most often schooling has exacerbated the situation further, for attitudes towards Aborigines within the community have been reflected in schooling policy, provision, practices and curriculum. Indeed, it was not until the 1950s that all Aboriginal children even had access to schooling. Even then, there was opposition from some Anglo-Australians to Aboriginal children attending their schools (Harris, 1978a and b). The 1981 census indicated that there were still almost 10,000 Aboriginal people over the age of 15 years (12.5 per cent) who had never attended school. The 1976 census discovered that 18 per cent of school-age Aboriginal children were not attending school in the Northern Territory. Evidence on poor daily attendance rates by Aboriginal children would seem to indicate that schools have not begun to adequately meet the needs of most Aboriginal schoolchildren. This applied whether considering people living a more traditional lifestyle, those living in rural areas or small country towns, or urban Aborigines. All the evidence (for example, Fitzgerald, 1976; McConnochie, 1982; Watts, 1982; Anderson and Vervoorn, 1983; Western, 1983) indicates unequivocally the disadvantages experienced by Aboriginal students. Given this past history of neglect it is hardly surprising that Aboriginal students are likely to begin school late, to perform badly and to leave school early. There has been an improvement in retention rates at the secondary level since the introduction by the federal 176

Schooling processes and educational outcomes government of the Aboriginal Secondary Grants Scheme in 1969. Thus, in Queensland across the period 1978-82, retention rates to Grade 10 have risen from 66 per cent to 72 per cent, and retention to Grade 12 has improved from 8 per cent to 18 per cent although this is still a much lower retention rate than for the total population. (See McConnochie, 1982, pp. 17-18.) Tertiary education is by and large out of the question for most Aboriginal people (Anderson and Vervoorn, 1983, ch. 8). The 1981 census indicated that throughout Australia only 94 Aboriginal people had bachelor’s degrees and 18 had higher degrees; yet this was an increase on the 1976 census figures which were 33 with bachelor’s degrees and 9 with higher degrees. More recently, affirmative action programs have seen increased participation and success for Aborigines in tertiary education; for example, in 1985 two such students passed first year medicine at Queensland University with flying colours.

The construction of unequal educational outcomes What we will do in this section is show how the inequalities in educational opportunity outlined previously are ‘manufactured’ in the day-to-day, taken-forgranted practices in schools and in classrooms. In one sense, educational success and failure are produced by classroom practices. However, it needs to be stressed that schools play a contributory, rather than causal, role in the production of class, gender, ethnic and race correlations with academic success. Some of the most deeply embedded and taken-for-granted assumptions about school success and failure reflect widespread acceptance within the culture of the notion of ability and of the notion that individuals control their own destiny. Thus teachers most commonly will explain an individual’s success or failure (irrespective of social characteristics) in terms of ‘ability’, which is usually regarded (incorrectly) as a discrete asocial characteristic of individuals. We will attempt to deconstruct that sort of explanation in the final part of this chapter. Suffice to say here, that limitations upon the numbers who can succeed in schooling stem at the most macro level from the constraints that a hierarchical and differentially rewarded labour market places upon the outcomes from schooling. Furthermore, a hierarchical society structures different experiences for different 177

Schooling processes and educational outcomes social classes. Given the way society is currently structured, not all can succeed economically. Likewise, given the way schooling is currently structured, not all can succeed academically. The number of tertiary education positions available is also related to the labour market (and other factors). The number of such positions places limitations upon success and failure rates at upper secondary levels. Given these constraints, the patterns of educational inequality outlined previously then are produced in the everyday practices of schooling. Schools in capitalist societies such as Australia are simultaneously attempting to develop all students to their fullest, while sorting and selecting them for a hierarchical and differentiated labour force (Bowles and Gintis, 1976). Faced with this contradictory tension, most teachers attempt to relate to students in a spirit of liberal individualism while at the same time differentiating and socialising them for a class-stratified society (Hargreaves, 1978, p. 78; also see Connell, 1985). In the large working-class state secondary schools, teachers often cope by developing a teaching strategy of control for the many and educational mobility for the few, according to Connell (1985, p. 195). Students also experience this tension stemming from the conflicting demands placed upon schools. While competitive sorting and selecting pressures become more overt and obvious at the secondary level, differentiation begins from the earliest years of schooling (Sharp and Green, 1975). Schools teach all students their ‘worth’ in comparison with other students. As Nash (1973, p. 16) has argued, whatever else students learn at school, in a sense it can be said that schools teach hierarchical levels of personal worth more successfully than anything else. Schools are intimately involved in the credentialling process through sorting and selecting students (Berg, 1972; Collins, 1979). Such processes have some negative effects on the day-to-day practices of schooling, including the narrowing of curricula to those subjects which suit competition and allow for fine distinctions in pupil performance and the valuing of the extrinsic rewards contingent upon educational success rather than an intrinsic valuing of education itself (Ashenden and Costello, 1984, pp. 21-2). Competition in schooling affects classroom practices, but more importantly it adversely affects many individuals. Jackson (1968), Holt (1971) and others have shown how even many primary school pupils develop a fear of failing and a fear of taking risks in a classroom environment in which they are always being assessed. 178

Schooling processes and educational outcomes Holt (1971, pp. 31-2) suggests that: ‘it is a rare child indeed who can come through his schooling with much left of his curiosity, his independence, or his sense of his own dignity, competence, and worth.’ Now, while Holt’s assertion perhaps may apply to many students, we think it most aptly applies to the disadvantaged groups previously discussed, many of whom are alienated from school. Whatever their school results, the hidden curriculum ensures that most students leave school imbued with an individualistic ideology, which explains the world in terms of the discrete characteristics of individuals and their efforts. As Watson (1985, p. 116) puts it: the very idea of graded assessment relies on the assumption that educational outcomes are entirely the result of an individual’s effort (and not the combined product of a number of factors, such as the kind of teaching and the nature of the curriculum). Often, within a competitive schooling environment, particularly at the secondary level, teachers become more concerned with grading and ranking students than with ensuring that all students have learnt what are regarded as essential skills and bodies of knowledge. Lingard and MacLennan (1984) report their experience of a high school English subject head who supported what was obviously an unfair English comprehension test because it gave a good distribution of results. The correct answers to the test could supposedly be found from a close reading of the given passage. However, many of the questions required extracontextual knowledge for correct answers to be given. For example, students were asked where the extract would have been most likely to appear: in a story book, a children’s encyclopedia, or a school textbook. Also, the phrase ‘It’s all “doubleDutch” to me’ was used in the text and students were asked to explain what the phrase meant. This extra-contextual knowledge most likely would have been available to middle-class students rather than others. Indeed, it was these very questions which produced the ‘acceptable’ distribution of results. This is just one specific case of the more general process of constructing unequal outcomes. Thus, often sorting and selecting begins to take precedence over educating and sometimes fairness can fall by the wayside. This is particularly the case from upper primary school onwards. The demand placed upon teachers that they get through a set amount of work in a set time also produces unequal outcomes amongst students. 179

Schooling processes and educational outcomes Thus teachers often assume that if students cannot complete work in a set time they are not capable of doing it at all (Ashenden and Costello, 1984, p. 75; also see Bernstein, 1979). Bernstein (1977) argues that on entering school pupils have to adapt to two central components of a school’s culture, which he calls respectively the expressive order and the instrumental order. The former relates to behaviour, manners and the like and is linked to the school’s socialisation function, which attempts to socialise individuals into the dominant cultural values. On the other hand, the instrumental order deals with the school curriculum (both hidden and overt); it deals with the specific skills, knowledge, attitude to knowledge and so on which the school is trying to teach. The instrumental order divides the student body, in that (for a whole host of reasons) some students do better at it than others. The selection and allocation function of schooling works through the instrumental order; streaming and other socially divisive practices flow from it. According to Bernstein, it is the expressive order of the school which can operate to include all students in the life of the school, while at the same time they are being selected and sorted on the basis of their performance in the instrumental order. The expressive order, through things such as the development of so-called school spirit, attempts to bind the whole school together as a distinct moral collectivity. Paradoxically, there is usually a stronger expressive order in the elite non-Catholic, non-government schools, where most seem destined for success, than in the working-class comprehensive schools where many seem destined for failure. Bernstein argues that if the emphasis in a given school is very much on the instrumental order to the detriment of the expressive order, then many students will not be ‘involved’ in school life. (This would apply particularly in many working-class high schools.) As a consequence, they will most likely turn to a pupil-based expressive order which in many cases, particularly in working-class schools, will be anti-school and disruptive. To understand such student behaviour effectively, teachers must acknowledge the selection and allocation purposes of schooling and their effect on schools. Tony Knight (1974) has written about four school-based ‘structural determinants’ of educational success. These are student reputation, labelling, streaming and teacher expectations (or prophecies in motion!). All of these processes interact to reinforce each other in a synergistic way. They also contribute 180

Schooling processes and educational outcomes to the production of the inequalities in educational outcomes we outlined earlier. Each will be considered in turn. Knight (1974) writes of how students acquire stigmatising labels within schools. Once the labels are acquired they are difficult to throw off and seem to accompany students as a reputation through their schooling careers. School record cards and teacher staffroom chat may contribute here. Because some cannot succeed (schools are structured that way), some gain labels which affect self-esteem and aspirations. Very often these negative labels are associated with less affluent background, gender, or with membership of a minority group. While Knight speaks of individual student reputations whole schools also build different sorts of reputations over time. Thus many elite schools construct reputations of themselves as places of outstanding academic achievement. Likewise, some state high schools, usually the selective ones and those situated in well-to-do middle-class suburbs, build positive academic reputations. Many of the state high schools located in the inner and outer working-class suburbs, by contrast, develop pejorative reputations. In this context, Petrie (1984, p. 16) speaks of a ‘low institutional pride syndrome’. He discovered the existence of such ‘low institutional pride’ amongst both staff and students at the outer Brisbane workingclass high school he researched. At this school, which is perhaps unfortunately not atypical, he found disenchantment and dissatisfaction along with a high degree of cynicism and alienation amongst both staff and students. Such a ‘low institutional pride syndrome’ is compounding in its effects, so that withdrawal or rebellion by students is often met by lack of commitment and withdrawal on behalf of teachers. Thus, as well as high student absence there was also high teacher absence in Petrie’s research school. In addition, there was a very high turnover of staff and the school’s pejorative reputation affected the attitudes of new teachers. Thus at the most macro level, different schools establish different reputations which in turn establish different teacher expectations. This operates to reinforce the reproduction of inequality. Each year we hear graduating teachers speaking in very negative terms of their first placement in ‘difficult’ working-class schools. Such an attitude can have its own self-fulfilling effect. But, of course, simply changing such attitudes is not in itself enough. The practice of streaming obviously is closely related to the schools’ selection and allocation function. Jackson (1968) alludes to this when he stresses that early 181

Schooling processes and educational outcomes streaming is a statement of later life chances. Likewise, Rosenbaum (1975, p. 48) describes the academic and non-academic streams within secondary schools as one of the most striking social hierarchies in society. On this same point Alexander et al. (1978, p. 65) also conclude: Differential tracking (streaming) in secondary schools thus introduces academic inequalities where none previously existed, and in so doing contributes independently to educational and socio-economic inequalities. Once students are streamed, and most secondary schools are streamed whether it be according to ‘ability’ or subject choice, a whole range of negative processes is set in train. Douglas (1964), for example, found a decline in academic motivation and self-esteem amongst those placed in lower streams. Knight (1974) argues convincingly that pupils are ultimately powerless once they are streamed, becoming ‘locked in’ to either success or failure. Additionally, Taylor (1980) has shown how streaming redirects students’ educational and vocational aspirations so that in Bourdieu’s terms (Bourdieu and Passeron, 1977) objective probabilities become transformed into subjective expectations. Taylor (1983) and Woods (1976) have shown how even when students are given a ‘free hand’ in subject choice, they stream themselves, indicating the effect of school expectations and of broader social and structural factors. Furthermore, Cicourel and Kitsuse (1963) found in their research on school counsellors that factors external to ‘ability’ (such as membership of an ‘in-group’ or being well behaved) were involved when advice was given to students regarding appropriate courses to take. One could hypothesise that a consideration of the latter factors could further disadvantage already disadvantaged students. The most insidious part of these processes is that working-class, female and minority group children are most disadvantaged by streaming decisions. All of the research is unequivocal on this point. In this way, many working-class students, girls, migrants and Aborigines are ‘cooled out’, as it were, and discouraged from succeeding. As Knight argues, ‘streams’ are supposed to be homogeneous in composition; as such, cultural diversity does not become a salient factor for concern for many teachers. Up until the late 1960s/early 1970s sociologists of education attempted to explain working class failure in schooling in terms of home environment. This was 182

Schooling processes and educational outcomes the ‘cultural deprivation’ argument which we criticise in Chapter Seven. From about that time, a new concern developed which focused on how the internal workings of schools contributed to the production of inequality. There was a concern with the effect of streaming on pupil clique formation and on pupil performance. Perhaps the best known of these research studies are the two Manchester University studies: firstly David Hargreaves’ Social Relations in a Secondary School (1967) and secondly Colin Lacey’s Hightown Grammar (1970). Both studies considered the internal social systems of their research schools, in Hargreaves’ case a working-class secondary modern school and in Lacey’s case a more middle-class academic grammar school. Both studies show the obvious effects of selection and allocation on the internal operations of schooling, the subsequent related development of pupil cliques and the effect of clique membership upon pupil performance, values and behaviour. Hargreaves’ study shows how streaming produced within his research school two distinct subcultures, firstly the pro-school academic one in the upper streams, and secondly the ‘delinquescent’ anti-school subculture in the lower streams. The dominant values in the former were congruent with those of the teachers and the formal culture of the school (the expressive order), while within the latter the dominant values were antithetical to those of the school. Thus those in the lower streams who attempted to do well and to work hard found themselves ostracised and of low status. Teacher praise of these students only served to further reinforce their low status amongst fellow students. In these streams high status was connected with being anti-school, and indeed some boys depressed their school performance so as to remain part of the high status anti-school clique. Now, Hargreaves suggests that such attitudes may well have had their gestation within the home, but his research shows quite clearly that whatever differences the students brought to school were compounded considerably by the school’s streaming practices. While the school was attended largely by working-class students, those worst off were concentrated in the lower streams. Hargreaves also argues that the school provoked the development of anti-school cultures by placing young and inexperienced teachers with the more ‘difficult’, lower-stream classes. It seems also that the more ‘deviance-provocative’ teachers (Hargreaves et al., 1975, pp. 260-1) were placed with the more difficult classes. In his study, Lacey (1970) deals with a totally different and more middle-class school clientele, yet he also found the development of quasi anti-school cultures amongst those who were not succeeding. In effect, both studies show the selection 183

Schooling processes and educational outcomes and allocation pressures upon schools working themselves out in practice. The subsequent differentiation of students ensures the development of particular subcultures, which in Hargreaves’s case operated so as to reinforce further the disadvantage of the already disadvantaged. (Also see Chapter Five.) Teacher expectations are often constructed around pupil characteristics such as social class of origin, gender, ethnicity or race, again to the detriment of the already disadvantaged. Usually such expectations are transmitted through teacher attitudes and behaviour (Rosenthal and Jacobson, 1968; Brophy and Good, 1970; Rist, 1970, 1977; Blease, 1983). In addition, such expectations tend to compound over time in the development of individual pupil histories. Rist (1972), for example, found in his research that a kindergarten teacher organised student seating in her classroom according to her perception of their academic ability, and this was done after the children had only been at kindergarten for eight days! He discovered that the seating arrangement was actually based on social class criteria and early pupil interaction patterns with the teacher. He also showed how the teacher operationalised her different expectations of these students in terms of amount of attention given, amount of autonomy granted and the use of praise and control. His article also shows how the initial label given to a student becomes entrenched and perpetuated. Elsewhere (1977, p. 298) he has summarised research showing that teachers construct expectations of students not only on the basis of academic performance, but on the basis of classroom interactional patterns or ascribed characteristics such as race, sex, class or ethnicity. (Also see Becker, 1952.) Teacher expectations, as stated earlier, can also be associated with whole schools, streams or classes within a school, as well as with individuals. Teachers construct different expectations about different schools on the basis of the school’s class clientele and its previous academic history. In her research, Keddie (1971) found that hierarchical conceptions of ability and perceived social class were the two categories around which teachers organised their practice and ‘created’ students as ‘A’ students or ‘B’ students and so on. Moreover, she found that teachers, ostensibly using an undifferentiated and common social studies curriculum across streams, in practice actually differentiated the kind of knowledge made available to the various streams. That is, teachers’ perceptions of students in a sense control the knowledge they make available to them. She further argues: 184

Schooling processes and educational outcomes It seems probable that the pupils who come to be perceived by teachers as the most able, and who in a streamed school reach the top streams, are those who have access to or are willing to take over the teachers’ definition of the situation (p. 150). She asserts that this is not so much a question of being able ‘to move to higher levels of generalisation and abstraction’, as the capacity to move to a way of thinking disparate with that of common-sense, everyday life. Leacock’s (1969) research, conducted in city schools in the United States, found something of the broader processes of teacher expectation at work. She discovered an interesting relationship between teacher characteristics such as warmth and supportiveness and student achievement. The major difference between two predominantly black schools, one working-class, the other middle-class, was in terms of differing teacher expectations of student performance. There were warm and supportive relationships between the students and the teachers in both schools. However, in the middle-class black school the teachers demanded and achieved high academic achievement by the students. This was not the case in the black working-class school, where it seemed that the teachers conveyed a stereotypical view of working-class students in which academic success was not expected. Kleinfeld (1972), in considering successful teachers of American Indians and Eskimos, has found that such teachers manifest warmth towards their students, as well as a high level of ‘demandingness’. Fanshawe (1976) has argued that these are desirable traits for effective teachers of Aboriginal students. Parents’ relationships with their children’s schools can have an effect on schools and classroom practices. For example, Connell et al. (1982) show how ruling-class parents are ‘articulated’ with their children’s schools via a market. As such, they are able to effect some control. By contrast, working-class parents relate to their children’s schools via a bureaucracy. Consequently, they cannot exercise the same degree of control. On the basis of her Australian research, Hatton (1985) has argued there is an additional form of articulation which pertains in middle-class state schools and which she classifies as a ‘quasi-market’. She found in her research school considerable involvement of middle-class parents. Their ‘control’ extended into both pedagogical and curriculum decisions as well as to matters such as the transfer or otherwise, of teachers. 185

Schooling processes and educational outcomes Arfwedson’s (1979) Swedish research on which Hatton has drawn indicates that professional middle-class parents can have a considerable effect on, and control over, teacher practices. Indeed, Arfwedson found that high-status parents were able to ‘cultivate’ particular teacher perceptions so that the teachers and the parents worked together to achieve the desired success for their children. Jean Anyon’s (1980) research is very important in terms of our concern here to outline how class-based inequalities in educational outcomes are constructed in day-to-day classroom practices. Anyon researched distinctions in what Bernstein (1971) has called the three message systems of schooling (curriculum, pedagogy, evaluation) operating in five primary schools with different social class clienteles: two working-class, one middle-class, one which Anyon calls professional elite and one which she calls executive elite. She found that the hidden curriculum of each school was different, and structurally corresponded with the class experiences of the home, and the likely future experiences at work. In the working-class schools ‘work’ consisted in following the steps of a procedure; in the middle-class school ‘work’ meant providing the correct answers; in the elite professional school ‘work’ was carried out creatively and independently; while in the elite executive school the emphasis was on the development of analytical and intellectual skills. Each of these five schools was ostensibly following the same curriculum, but in practice students in each school were taught different things with subsequently different outcomes. An interesting New Zealand study by Ramsay et al. (1983) has augmented the understandings provided by Anyon’s research. In contrast with Anyon’s work, they found that some working-class schools were much more successful than others on a whole range of indicators such as exam results, test performances, delinquency rates and student behaviour. However, the New Zealand study did find that the unsuccessful working-class schools in their research were very much like those described by Anyon. In both sets of unsuccessful schools the knowledge presented was removed from the experiences of the students, teachers held negative stereotypes of their students and they totally neglected the social history of the working class as a group within society (see Ramsay, 1983, p. 296). In stark contrast the teachers in the successful working class schools studied by Ramsay and his colleagues ‘made considerable efforts to develop lively, integrated programs related to the children’s perceived needs and interests’ (Ramsay, 1983, 186

Schooling processes and educational outcomes p. 301). Furthermore, these teachers did not rationalise student failure by blaming the students individually or their homes, but rather attempted innovative pedagogical practices and most often blamed student failure on inappropriate teaching approaches. In accordance with Anyon’s findings, Ramsay and his fellow researchers found in all their schools (except one) that very little attention was given to the history of the working class (Ramsay, 1983, p. 303). However, one important distinguishing feature of the successful working-class schools was their eschewing of a monocultural approach and their embracing of an effective multiculturalism which aimed to encourage bicultural individuals with competencies to operate effectively in at least two cultures. To this point schooling processes related to the production of class based inequalities in educational outcomes have been outlined. The production of gender-based inequalities will be considered next. Following the approach of the Schools Commission’s Girls and Tomorrow (1984b), we will examine briefly how gender socialisation is affected by the organisation of schooling, curricula and patterns of human interaction in classrooms, and how, in general terms, schooling still contributes to the reproduction of a patriarchal society and its associated gender-based inequalities. Males clearly predominate in positions of power at all levels throughout the schooling system. This is even the case in primary schools where women predominate. Furthermore, the distribution of teachers across levels and across subject areas is usually reinforcing of gender-based stereotypes, so that for example, Kelly (1985) has argued that the disproportionate numbers of males teaching and doing physics contribute to the perception of physics as a masculine subject. Interestingly, males also dominate the membership of committees set up to inquire into the operation of educational systems. School curricula, including sport, commonly do very little to challenge these stereotypes; indeed some subjects, for example history, despite the recent development of feminist historiography, present a view of humanity as being predominantly male. Other subjects, such as science and physical education, are heavily imbued with masculine assumptions. Often the very structure of subject choice at the secondary level is such as to close off non-traditional options for both boys and girls. Evidence (for example, Foster, 1984; Firkin et al., 1986) would suggest that school counselling has reinforced stereotyped sex roles. Textbooks, at 187

Schooling processes and educational outcomes all levels of education and in all subject areas, also serve to reinforce these stereotypes: women are presented in passive roles or are conspicuous by their absence. For example, Smail (1984) amongst others has shown the predominance of males in science textbooks. The same applies to books in general. Healy and Ryan (1975) in a study of children’s books argued their most striking feature was that women were either ignored or neglected. The language of both classroom and school interaction, as well as of books, is also ‘man-made’, and as such often excludes half the population from its purview (Spender, 1980; Bryson, 1984). Spender’s research on differential teacher interaction with male and female students was referred to in the previous chapter. Spender (1982) found that teachers give more attention to boys than to girls. In classes with equal numbers of boys and girls two-thirds of teacher time is spent talking to boys. Often teachers, who have to be concerned with matters of classroom control because of class size, gear their lessons to the interests of boys. Such practice can reinforce notions of males as boisterous and active ‘doers’ and females as docile and passive ‘receivers’. On a more general point, Sarah and Spender (1980) argue that co-educational schools are organised around male norms. Similarly, Blackburn (1982) has written about how in the secondary schools girls are slowly, but surely, excluded from the dominant academic curriculum. We have already discussed the work of Anyon (1980), showing how the same curriculum can be taught with different emphases to schools with different class clienteles, contributing to different class-based outcomes. Hacker and Rogers (1982) discovered something of a similar pattern at work in girls’ and boys’ science classrooms. Their research found that all-girl science classes were confined to lower-order intellectual activities, while by contrast all-male science classes were extended and encouraged to engage in higher-order intellectual activities. Kelly (1985, p. 141) has shown how boys’ ‘masculine’ behaviour in school science laboratories ‘helps to establish science as a masculine subject’. Evans (1979, 1982) found that all teachers, but particularly older ones, held very conventional attitudes towards the future careers of their male and female students. In addition, he found that quiet, conscientious boys as well as the more ‘macho’ outgoing ones received a lot of teacher attention, whereas it was only the more outgoing girls who received a fair share of teacher attention. Often the quiet, conscientious female students were ignored. The more outgoing girls were 188

Schooling processes and educational outcomes perceived negatively by older teachers and more positively by the younger ones. Sociological research has documented different teacher responses to male and female anti-school cultures. While some teachers have a ‘sneaking respect’ for male anti-school behaviour, often anti-school girls are labelled as sexually permissive and viewed very negatively. (See Chapter Five.) Many of the in-school processes outlined to date with respect to the production of class and gender inequalities in educational outcomes also apply to both migrant and Aboriginal students. Certainly, negative school reputation, low teacher expectations, labelling and the like play their negative roles. Watts (1982, p. 8) suggests that success at school for Aboriginal students is most likely when the message of all school personnel is one which affirms their value as Aboriginal Australians. In many cases this positively affirming climate is not present. The same would apply with migrant students. Aborigines, and to a lesser extent migrants, are presented negatively or ignored in school textbooks. Usually a very much bowdlerised view of Aboriginal/ European relations is presented in history textbooks. Aborigines and migrants are grossly under-represented in the authority structures of the schools. The greatest difficulty faced by migrant students from non-English-speaking backgrounds is often one of language, and here teacher misperception of language difficulties as indicative of lack of ‘ability’ compounds the difficulties already encountered. Aboriginal and migrant students in the large cities tend to be concentrated in working-class suburbs and thus attend the local working-class state schools. Here, as well as facing problems flowing from their ethnicity, they also face the problems endemic to many working-class schools, some of which have been outlined earlier. Green (1982), who has written about the classroom teacher’s effect on Aboriginal school performances, asked 15 teachers of Aborigines to list the main difficulties they encountered when teaching Aboriginal students. He found that the teachers overwhelmingly responded in terms of factors external to the school which he classified into the following categories: ‘child deficit’, ‘family deficit, ‘environmental deficit’, ‘other agencies not supporting the school’ (p. 111). Only 11 of the 80 responses dealt with schools and classrooms and six of these were provided by one teacher. Green (1982, p. 111) catalogues the ‘school and classroom deficits’ thus: 189

Schooling processes and educational outcomes Aboriginal children are ignored – reading materials are inappropriate – prejudice by teachers and non-Aboriginal children – teachers do not have special training to teach Aborigines – a lack of Aboriginal support staff – inadequate extra curricular activities. Obviously each of these factors has its effect. In attempting to explain the contribution of schools and classroom practices to the poor educational outcomes of Aboriginal children, Green (1982) establishes the lines of a chronological chain which, once set in motion, lead to the development of a negative self image for the Aboriginal child and ultimately to school failure. Green suggests that teachers begin to build a picture of Aboriginal students through a whole range of input factors, ranging from admission forms, report cards, physical appearance, language, staffroom gossip, stereotyped perceptions and the like. On the basis of ‘negative’ evidence here, such as the use of non-standard English or disparaging staffroom comments, teachers may develop unfavourable responses to Aboriginal students. Thus low teacher expectation may result in the teacher withholding warmth in relationships with these students. Subsequently the students may respond negatively and set up an almost inevitable downturn in school performance. In this context, teacher expectations may also be reinforced by their interpretation of factors external to the school situation, such as Aboriginal poverty, poor health, poor housing, and so on. While this may be a correct reading of the situation, such interpretations may lead teachers not to expect Aboriginal students to do well at school (Tannock and Punch, 1975, p. 93). Indeed, often teachers believe Aboriginal students cannot do well at school.

The concept of ability: a sociological critique We have been at pains throughout this chapter to point out that there are distinct patterns to the probability of school success or failure. Additionally, we have stressed that the existence of these educational inequalities in outcomes along class, gender, ethnic and racial lines requires a social or sociological explanation. Such an explanation is required if we are to avoid blaming the individual victims 190

Schooling processes and educational outcomes of school failure for their own failure. Hannan (1985) argues that this latter type of ‘pupil blame’ explanation certainly absolves teachers, their methods and the curriculum from any blame, while leaving intact broader social inequalities. In the previous section of this chapter we have attempted to show how these unequal educational outcomes are produced in the day-to-day practices of schooling. In the following chapter we provide a more structural account in terms of economic and social inequalities. However, there is another important factor, notably the notion of individual ‘ability’, which provides for teachers and others a readily available non-sociological account of differential educational performance between individuals and social groups. The notion of ability therefore needs careful scrutiny and will be the subject of this section of the chapter. This notion of ability is intimately related to the broader ideology of ‘individualism’, which in turn is embedded historically in the development of Western capitalist democracies. It is therefore necessary to consider briefly the emerging ideology of individualism in historical context, including its Australian version. Historically, the birth of liberal societies in eighteenth-century Europe was accompanied by the emergence of the ideology of individualism. As Rose, Kamin and Lewontin (1985, ch. 4) point out, the gradual breakdown of feudalism in Europe from the fourteenth to the seventeenth century and the concomitant gestation of capitalism precipitated a new ideology emphasising equality, freedom and the importance of the individual. The ruling class or bourgeoisie, who emerged victorious in both an economic and political sense over the hereditary aristocracy in this period, justified their new ascendancy in terms of equality and individual freedom. However, equality did not apply to all individuals in either the economic or the political spheres; many men, for example, were excluded from political equality and the right to vote, and of course all women were excluded from such political rights for even longer. In consequence, the new capitalist society which emerged was still hierarchical in structure, with vast discrepancies in the distribution of wealth, income and power; many still remained poor and powerless. Rose, Kamin and Lewontin (1985, p. 66) argue that once the victory of the new bourgeoisie over the old aristocracy had been achieved, the ideas of equality and freedom which had been ‘the 191

Schooling processes and educational outcomes subversive weapons of a revolutionary class’ were quickly and effectively converted into ‘the legitimating ideology of the class in power’. The obvious disjunction between the ideology of equality and the hard reality of structured inequalities had to be justified if the ruling bourgeoisie were to hold on to both their economic and political power. In short, a new supporting and legitimating ideology was required. It is here that the ideology of individualism was propagated in all of its variegated forms. More specifically, the apparent intransigence of social inequality was justified by the ready relocation of the cause of social inequality in the nature of individuals, rather than within the operation of the social and economic system. Australia was colonised by Europeans during the period when liberal capitalism was labouring its way to infancy in Europe. Australia as a European settlement appeared at the very time the notions of equality and freedom were challenging the old and collapsing hereditary aristocracies of quasi-feudal Europe. Liberal ideas regarding the individual found very fertile soil in Australia, for Australia had no feudal past, though again equality was not all encompassing, clearly excluding Aborigines from the fraternity, as well as Asians and most women (see Rowse, 1978; Collins, 1985). Nevertheless, the nineteenth-century frontier society precipitated, as Russell Ward has argued, an ethos of mateship framed within a liberal framework of a ‘fair go’ for all. (See also McQueen, 1970; Rowse, 1978.) The working-class challenge during the 1890s was incorporated ultimately by the development of the humanitarian liberal state at the time of federation. Subsequently, demands for equality were converted into an acceptance of the rhetoric of equality of opportunity which, as we have shown elsewhere, represents a subtle but important conceptual shift with a much stronger emphasis on individual achievement. How then does all of this relate to notions of ability and school performance? To understand this, we need to explore how the whole testing process which underpins schooling, and which of course is riddled with assumptions about ability (or the lack of it), fits in with the general ideology of individualism. The testing movement (and its parent discipline, educational psychology) is based upon the fundamental but frequently obscured assumptions that individuals possess some concrete and measurable quantity of ‘ability’ (sometimes referred to as ‘intelligence’) which is distributed throughout the population on a ‘normal 192

Schooling processes and educational outcomes distribution’ curve (meaning that very small proportions of the population have either very low or high ‘intelligence’, with most people having ‘average intelligence’). Once these assumptions are unravelled, which is the intention here, it becomes easier to see how the ideology of individualism which suggests, to put it fairly crudely, that ‘it’s all up to the individual’, together with the notion of ‘ability’ or ‘intelligence’, link into the general acceptance of the weaker concept of equality of educational opportunity rather than the stronger and more desirable concept of equality of outcomes. Although contemporary educational rhetoric tends to pay lip service at least to the cultural foundations of ability (hence the emphasis on developing the ‘whole child’, ‘full potential’, talk about ‘good and bad homes’ and so forth), it is important to recognise that earlier formulations about ability (and indeed much contemporary classroom practice) stress the biological determinants of ability, thus providing a neat justification for explaining social inequalities in terms of biologically based individual differences. Bisseret (1979), the French sociologist, argues that the notion of success or failure at school as a product of hereditary intellectual abilities (a specific example of the biological determinist approach) began to enter the Western cultural tradition at the end of the eighteenth century, and took on scientific apparel at the end of the nineteenth century. Bisseret traces the etymology of the word ‘aptitude’ in French and in so doing shows very clearly how its changed meaning in the wake of the French Revolution justified the continuation of both social and educational inequalities. Since the new society was held to be egalitarian and committed to equality, continuing inequalities could only be individual and ‘natural’ in origin (Bisseret, 1979, p. 6). Until the Revolution, hereditary inequalities and the ascribed power of the monarchy and the aristocracy were justified by the doctrine of the divine right of kings. With the appearance of liberal capitalism, social inequalities were now to be justified in terms of the inherent (‘natural’) differences between individuals. As such, equality stretched only as far as providing equal opportunities, not equal outcomes. In Discipline and Punish (1979) another French sociologist, Foucault traces the way the human sciences began to play a role in social control across the period we are dealing with; that is, the time of the emergence and establishment of capitalism in Europe. Gradually, across the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, groups such 193

Schooling processes and educational outcomes as prison wardens, the police, doctors, psychologists, educationists and teachers amongst others, began to control individuals by classifying and categorising them. Additionally, in the latter part of the nineteenth century, argues Foucault, the concept of the ‘norm’ appears and becomes central to the forms of control executed by the human sciences and their practitioners such as teachers. Moreover, schools became critically important institutions in the so-called ‘normalisation’ of individuals; as Sarup (1982, p. 18), drawing on Foucault, puts it: ‘Normalisation became one of the great instruments of power’. It was in this general climate and in the wake of the provision of mass schooling that intelligence testing began. In fact, the a priori acceptance within the nascent intelligence testing movement in the latter part of the nineteenth century of the notion that intelligence is distributed along a normal curve within the population, is one very good example of the more general process Foucault refers to. The Englishman Galton, the nineteenth-century founder of mental testing, assumed a hereditarian position as well as advocating the view that intelligence was ‘normally’ distributed in the population. Furthermore, Galton discarded his original sensory motor test when those he regarded as intellectually superior did not perform well on his test. By contrast, Binet, the Frenchman who constructed the first paper and pencil IQ test in 1905, rejected the ‘brutal pessimism’ implicit in the hereditarian bent of Galton. Indeed, Binet’s test aimed to find those who needed remedial help to overcome their learning difficulties. In the United States, Lewis Terman constructed his famous Stanford-Binet test in 1916, so that the results also approximated Galton’s a priori assumption that intelligence was distributed ‘normally’ along a bell-shaped curve in the population. Kamin (1977) has shown quite clearly how Terman and other early testers in the United States rejected Binet’s position and instead placed a hereditarian interpretation on what their tests measured. Some of these tests (e.g., the Stanford-Binet) are still widely used today, and newer tests are still constructed upon the a priori assumption of a ‘normal’ distribution of whatever the tests measure. Not surprisingly perhaps, one thing which all these tests have in common is the frequently found correlation between IQ scores and academic performance. What is the reason for this correlation? For the proponents of testing, a causal explanation along biologically determined lines is frequently offered; that is, school success or failure is seen to be ‘caused by’ an individual’s degree of ability or inherited 194

Schooling processes and educational outcomes intelligence which it is assumed the tests measure. There are several central assumptions here about intelligence, which Matthews (1980) has outlined: that the IQ tests actually measure intelligence (which is regarded as perhaps the most important determinant of success in school and later life); and that this individual trait is largely heritable. Matthews argues further (1980, p. 134) that the ‘IQers’ make a range of deductions from these assumptions, namely: that intelligence is very difficult to change and that inequalities in intelligence are not eliminable; that race and class differences in IQ scores are probably genetic in origin; and that any ‘attempts to achieve greater equality in areas where intelligence is important (education, social position) are unrealistic’ (Matthews, 1980, p. 134). This is obviously a specific example of the justification of entrenched social inequalities through a biologically reductionist view of intelligence. Earlier it was pointed out that such an ideology emerged with the birth of capitalism. Over time a more sophisticated variant of this type of causal explanation has developed which holds that ability tends to be culturally based rather than inherited. Either way, some important and disturbing practical consequences flow from such an ideology. Before moving on to a more general sociological critique of such reductionist explanations it is worth noting some of the practical outcomes of this pervasive view of the world. For example, McCallum (1986) has shown how nascent psychological theory and test development over the first three decades of the twentieth century in Australia were used to justify limiting access to academic secondary schooling for the working classes in the state high schools. Increased secondary attendance in the 1930s, precipitated by the lack of jobs, was accompanied by the provision of different types of secondary curriculum with varying statuses leading to different sorts of jobs. McCallum documents how psychological theories regarding differences in individual ability were used to justify the provision of limited academic secondary opportunities for the working class. At the same time the private secondary schools were left free to carve out a role for themselves which perpetuated the dominance and privileges of the classes who attended them. Of course, the real expansion of secondary provision came after the war, but the ground had been set. Equality of opportunity simply meant that all ‘had a go’ at the academic curriculum, even though almost inexorably the literary and cultural basis of the academic curriculum, to which we referred in Chapter Three, ensured there would be a social class pattern to the distribution of 195

Schooling processes and educational outcomes success (Bourdieu and Passeron, 1977; Ozolins, 1981). Bennett’s (1982) work showed how, even for the Labor party, equality of educational opportunity came to mean opportunity for ‘bright’ working-class individuals to be successful. Hence, this individual-reductionist version of ability became a central component of equality of opportunity rhetoric: the notion of ‘ability’ itself was nearly always taken for granted and rarely examined. In his research, McCallum makes reference to the Australian Council for Educational Research (ACER), established in 1930 from an American Carnegie Foundation grant, which immediately set about developing a range of standardised tests for use in Australian schools. Much further research is required so that we can understand the effect of ACER and its battery of tests upon Australian education from that time. To date, we only have Connell’s (1980) descriptive account (also see Bessant, 1983). Certainly, it seems that ACER lent some considerable credence to the view that ability or intelligence was a scientifically defined concept, possessed to varying degrees by different individuals and readily open to scientific measurement. Junor (1983, p. 20) shows that, of the 37 research grants approved by the ACER in its first year of operation, six were for ‘application or standardisation of mental, scholastic or motor tests’, three were for ‘tests of teaching ability or teaching promise’, four were for the ‘use of standardised tests in investigating problems of school administration’, and three were to ‘investigate physical or mental characteristics of children’. This list indicates something of the statistical fetishism and psychometric bent of the ACER. As suggested earlier, biological determinism was enormously influential on the nascent testing movement in the early twentieth-century United States (Kamin, 1977) and in Britain. It needs to be stressed that the IQ debate is not just an academic one. The hereditarian viewpoint has affected the lives of many people. For example, in the United States IQ tests were used to limit the migration of particular groups (Kamin, 1977, ch. 2), to introduce sterilisation laws in some states (Kamin, 1977, ch. 1) and to reduce the educational opportunities open to many workingclass and minority-group children through streaming based upon IQ testing. In Britain, the views of Cyril Burt (whose highly influential studies on identical twins were later found to be fraudulent) formed the basis for the construction of a pattern of secondary school provision which most often denied opportunities to workingclass individuals. 196

Schooling processes and educational outcomes Bacchi’s (1980) Australian research indicates that for a whole host of reasons the biological reductionist version of individualism did not take strong hold in Australia until later during the 1930s depression. As she argues: Between 1900 and 1914 the political and social climate in Australia suited the more optimistic environmental theory. Currents from abroad challenged the effectiveness of social reform but were not sufficient to give hereditary determinism a solid base. It took the anxieties and insecurities associated with the Depression to make this doctrine popular (p. 212). However, a eugenics society supporting selective breeding had been founded in New South Wales in 1912 by Richard Arthur, a Mosman doctor, who as Minister for Health in the New South Wales parliament in the 1930s advocated sterilisation for ‘defectives’. (Also see McCallum, 1984.) A detailed account of the effect and influence of the biologically determinist version of individualism upon Australian intellectual life, public policy and specifically its effects upon educational policy and practice has not yet appeared. However, the evidence available indicates the pervasiveness of this view within the community generally, and particularly amongst teachers, educational administrators and policy makers. Why then do sociologists find all of this so troublesome? What is the sociological explanation for the correlation between scores on IQ tests or other tests of ability and school performance? The answers to these questions lie in two directions, one to do with the pseudo-scientific nature of the tests themselves and research based upon them, and the other to do with the cultural biases inherent in testing specifically and schooling generally. The apparently ‘scientific’ nature of intelligence tests (IQ tests) has reinforced and contributed to teachers’ conceptions of intelligence, as well as to those dominant within the broader community. The interchangeability of IQ with ‘intelligence’ in common-sense understanding is witness to the way the supposed scientific validity of such tests has gained acceptance. However, the history of IQ testing, briefly outlined earlier, is a fairly sorry and sordid one, as a broad range of studies now well testifies, for example Kamin’s (1977) The Science and Politics of IQ, Blum’s (1978) Pseudoscience and Mental Ability, Lawler’s (1978) IQ, Heritability and Racism, Gould’s (1984) The Mismeasure of Man and Evans and Waites’ (1981) IQ and Mental Testing: An Unnatural Science and Its Social 197

Schooling processes and educational outcomes History. These titles bear witness to the ideological and pseudo-scientific nature of IQ testing and many of the claims made for it, and also to the political nature of the debate. This political nature is also readily apparent in the resurgence of biologically deterministic arguments proffered by authors such as Jensen, Eysenck, Herrnstein and Schockley in the troubled times of the late 1960s (see Matthews, 1980, ch. 8; Lawler, 1978). In part, these arguments were offered in response to the compensatory programs implemented by the Johnson administration in the United States during the economically buoyant mid 1960s. Such programs as Headstart had been underpinned by an ideology which argued that poor students were ‘culturally deprived’ and that compensatory programs in schools could make up the ‘deficit’. Jensen and Eysenck both argued specifically that there was a high heritability of intelligence, and postulated that differences in mean IQ between the white and black populations could possibly be genetic in origin. In so doing they argued against increased or compensatory expenditure on the education of the disadvantaged. Herrnstein, another psychologist, argued at about the same time that, to put it bluntly, the rich were genetically superior to the poor and that the United States and its social hierarchy fairly closely approximated the distribution of genetically determined intelligence. William Shockley, a Nobel Prize winning physicist, supported both Jensen and Herrnstein, and argued for a return to a eugenicist program of sterilisation for ‘low intelligence’ people! Now, none of these assertions has scientific validity, as a close reading of any of the above-mentioned books on IQ would show; they are statements of opinion without a scientific base. However, their surfacing does indicate the political character of the debate, and the reactionary nature of the hereditarian viewpoint, as well as the need to socially situate all theories (Matthews, 1980, ch. 8). On the question of heritability of differences in IQ scores (the genetic contribution to the differences in a trait between individuals), Kamin’s (1977) most thorough and widely recognised summary of all the research evidence suggests unequivocally that ‘(t)here exist no data which should lead a prudent man to accept the hypothesis that IQ test scores are in any degree heritable’ (p. 15). On this same issue Henderson (1976) and Rose and Rose (1979) point out the logical absurdity in arguing that if most people accept, for example, that eye colouring is inherited, then they ought to accept a similar argument with respect to another supposedly individual characteristic, intelligence. Such critics point to the common scientific error here of physiological reductionism, where a complex set of socially defined 198

Schooling processes and educational outcomes behaviours (intelligence) is reduced to and made synonymous with a discrete physiological trait. We agree with Rose and Rose (1979) that intelligence ought to refer to a changing interactive relationship of individuals with others and with the social and natural worlds (p. 88). The complexity of this sort of conceptualisation of intelligence denies the possibility of intelligence tests as they are presently conceived and constructed (Kleinig, 1982, ch. 11). Thus, those who accept the validity of IQ or similar ‘aptitude’ tests are accepting that the ability to succeed in a narrow range of specific tasks within a set time is an indication of one’s intelligence. We would take a much more sceptical view in agreeing with Lawler (1978, p. 99) that this position ‘identifies real intelligence with an individual’s unaided ability to perform the most primitive types of formal exercises’. A close reading of the tests will most certainly indicate their primitive nature. For example, the Stanford-Binet Intelligence Scale, under the category of ‘Aesthetic Comparison’, asks people to distinguish between ‘ugly’ and ‘pretty’ faces. The stereotypical notions of beauty and ugliness conveyed by the ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ answers are primitive (and destructive) in the extreme. For instance, one of the so-called pretty faces has tidy, carefully cut hair, a string of pearls and makeup; its opposite ‘ugly’ number has straggly hair and a hooked nose. Another pair of faces displays on the one hand, a conventionally small and straight nose, neatly permed hair and head band, and on the other hand, stereotypically negroid lips and nose. Such items are not only primitive; they highlight another feature of IQ (and other) tests, namely their cultural narrow-mindedness and bias. In this context, Paul Henderson (1976) points out the social and political components of IQ testing. As Henderson argues, some have the power to define which behaviours will be regarded as evidence of intelligence, for example, teachers and test constructors, while most do not. Henderson further states that because of their position within the class structure, a section of the middle class are able to select and define those behavioural characteristics which are to be considered ‘intelligent’. The middle-class teachers who classify schoolchildren and those who construct so-called intelligence tests choose particular skills to test. Some interesting examples of this can be found in the Wechsler Preschool and Primary Scale of Intelligence (WPPSI) which, inter alia, under the heading of ‘Comprehension’ asks children a series of ostensibly open-ended questions such as ‘Why do people have to work?’, ‘Why is it better to build a house of brick than of wood?’ and ‘Why 199

Schooling processes and educational outcomes are criminals locked up?’ The ‘correct’ answers are both arbitrary and culturally embedded. In the tropical climate of Queensland, for example (or Bali etc.), the inappropriateness of brick housing could well be argued for, but in this test would not be allowed. In response to the question on criminals, a somewhat arbitrary distinction is drawn between the use of the future tense (‘they’ll kill people’ – correct) and the present tense (‘they kill people’ – wrong). Now while the reason for drawing this distinction may be clear, we would argue that to infer a difference in intelligence between the two responses is clearly nonsensical. For example, although the directions for examiners suggest that ‘Poor verbalization should not be penalized’, the failure to use the future tense may well reflect little more than a dialect or regional speech variation, or it may simply reflect a ‘loose’ use of language, rather than a lack of understanding of the issue involved. Hence what is really being tested here is the ability to conform to certain middle-class and to some extent arbitrary expectations about the use of language, rather than comprehension. The ‘correct’ answers to each of the comprehension questions in most cases similarly rest on quite arbitrary assumptions which simply do not stand up to close scrutiny. For example, there is no clear reason why, in answering a question as to what to do if a shop runs out of bread, ‘looking elsewhere’ is a more appropriate or ‘intelligent’ response than ‘going without’ or ‘waiting another time’. In marking these comprehension questions, this arbitrariness is further reinforced by the fact that examiners are asked to ‘use (their) judgment when (they) encounter unusual responses’. In the end then, it is not really clear at all just what skills are being tested, beyond the skill of simply meeting the requirements of the test and the examiner. Thus the power to construct such tests is ultimately a political one, given their function and the legitimacy granted them. On this basis, Henderson (1976) turns upside down the common assumption that people gain positions of social privilege because of their intelligence. Rather, Henderson argues that ‘it is possible to say that it is due to their privileged position that people are intelligent’ (p. 142). Berry’s (1966, 1971) ‘ecological functionalism’ hypothesis concerning the nature, definition and development of intelligence also points out the cultural specificity of the concept of intelligence. Basically, Berry’s psychological research led him to the idea that people living in different cultures develop different skills in response to the particular environmental demands made upon them within their 200

Schooling processes and educational outcomes culture. Thus, for example, desert Aborigines are superior to middle-class nonAboriginal Australians in some measures of spatial cognitive skills. Berry’s research and theory drive home the point that the concept of intelligence is culturebound and refers to behaviour in particular circumstances. The concept of intelligence which underpins many teachers’ practice is similar to that implicit in IQ tests and criticised above. Here we have a ready explanation for the correlation between IQ scores and school test results. Rose and Rose (1979, p. 88) for example, show that for many teachers ‘a child’s logical and numerical skills, reading ability and conformity to the teacher’s expectations’ are together interpreted as measures of ‘an underlying unitary intelligence’. In regarding school performance as indicative of the inherent intelligence of individual students, teachers are failing to take account of the particular cultural bases of school curricula, practices and behaviour. Throughout this book it is emphasised that the content and practices of schooling advantage those from better-off homes and disadvantage those from working-class and minority backgrounds. (See Chapter Seven.) Research on the correlation between IQ score and social success also shows that there is a much stronger correlation between class of origin and adult income and occupation, than between childhood IQ and adult income and occupation (Bowles and Nelson, 1974; Bowles and Gintis, 1976; Blum, 1978, ch. 6; Rose, Kamin and Lewontin, 1985, pp. 93-4). Bowles and Nelson (1974) show that those with ‘average IQ’ and with parents in the top 10 per cent of income earners have 25 times the likelihood of being top income earners than those with ‘average IQ’ and parents in the bottom 10 per cent of income earners. Rich ‘dumb’ kids are much more likely to be rich themselves than are poor ‘bright’ kids. Inequality is passed on, by and large, from generation to generation within families, not because of individual intelligence but because of the social power of more affluent families. Rose, Kamin and Lewontin (1985, p. 94) sum up thus: Strong performance in IQ tests is simply a reflection of a certain kind of family environment, and once that latter variable is held constant, IQ becomes only a weak predictor of economic success. If there is indeed an intrinsic ability that leads to success, IQ tests do not measure it. If IQ tests do measure intrinsic intelligence as is claimed, then clearly it is better to be born rich than smart. 201

Schooling processes and educational outcomes This brings us to a further consideration of the cultural biases of the actual tests themselves, some of which have been outlined already. A quick glance at any test will indicate the class and ethnic cultural biases. Most of the tests emphasise verbal skills (see Lawler, 1978, pp. 29-37). The Stanford-Binet and Wechsler Intelligence scale for children utilise vocabulary lists and indicate that the average six-year-old or nine-year-old (for example) can recognise a given number of these words. Such tests measure experience rather than intelligence (see Andrews, 1977, pp. 12-14) and clearly advantage middle-class students. There is also the question of the standardisation of the tests: they are standardised against teacher evaluations and against the ‘norms’ of middle-class children. There are no ‘culture fair’ tests. As Lawler (1978, p. 71) states, There have been no tests that are truly “culture fair”, in the sense that they involve material and skills that are common to all cultures’. Thus, it can be argued that IQ test results are artifacts of the test instrument as much as anything else. Why then do teachers accept individual ability explanations? First, it was argued earlier in this chapter that liberal individualism is an important ideology both historically and in contemporary Australia. Liberal individualism, as Rowse (1978, p. 15) points out, divorces individuals from their social context, particularly social class, and in so doing explains all aspects of social behaviour (including school performance) in terms of individual traits. Teachers in particular, given the nature of teacher professionalism and their position in the schooling hierarchy, are prone as a group to be both captives and purveyors of the ideology of ‘individual ability’, despite its questionable scientific validity outlined above. Teachers see individual ability as either genetically determined or culturally based, stemming from ‘poor home backgrounds’. In a practical sense it is irrelevant as to which of these two determinants they choose. The point is that the ideology is so pervasively part of teaching and schooling that either individual students or their families are ‘blamed’ for their ‘stupidity’ in a way that is sociologically blind. In the process, both school practices and the nature of the social structure remain unexamined. Dale (1977, p. 20) argues convincingly that teacher training, and particularly the part played by much educational psychology, ‘encourages teachers to see educational problems as deriving from individuals, and the solution to them as lying in individual treatments’. This individualised account is a central component of the meritocratic ideology (Dale, 1977, p. 25). The particular nature of teacher 202

Schooling processes and educational outcomes professionalism with the state mediating between teachers and their clients in controlling curricula and certification (Johnson, 1972; Garvey, 1982) means teachers’ professional mandate becomes a ‘technical’ one, to teach, assess and ‘normalise’ (Sarup, 1982, ch. 2). As such, the ground is made particularly fertile for individual ability explanations, and such a tendency is reinforced through the competitive academic curriculum, testing and examining. Most teachers are committed to the notion of individualising instruction, a practice which is potentially progressive. However, class size usually militates against its implementation. In practice, individualised instruction has only really been applied to two groups of students: those in ‘special education’ and those in ‘gifted and talented’ programs (see Shapiro, 1984). Such individualisation operates as a negative categorisation for special education students, forming part of the process of ‘normalisation’ referred to earlier. For the ‘gifted and talented’, individualising instruction allows them autonomy and self direction and most often arguments further their advantage (see Ryan, 1982a). Both of these practices lend some further legitimacy to the view that unequal school outcomes are basically the product of different individual capabilities, while at the same time reinforcing the notion of a ‘normal’ distribution of ‘ability’. Teachers are often seduced by what Harris (1982, p. 16ff) calls the ‘individualistic principle’ which includes the ‘anyone can, therefore everyone can’ logical fallacy. An individual working-class student or a poor Aboriginal student may succeed against great odds, but this does not mean, given the current social structure and its attendant economic constraints that, for example, all workingclass students can succeed and be socially mobile. Educational inequalities do not arise solely or chiefly out of different individual characteristics. Rather, the structure of social inequality limits the numbers who can succeed both academically and socially and, as such, schooling works to differentiate students in a hierarchical and competitive way. The very structure of schooling is predicated upon the assumption that only a few can really succeed: ability is regarded as a scarce commodity. In this way a metamorphosis occurs: social constraints are converted into limitations supposedly inherent within individuals. It has been shown throughout this chapter that individual ability explanations of the pattern of inequality in educational outcomes are totally inadequate. And the ‘scientific’ evidence regarding IQ tests which shores up such explanation is at best 203

Schooling processes and educational outcomes questionable. Certainly, the overall effect of such a view has been to limit the possibilities for many students, particularly those from socially disadvantaged backgrounds. The notion of intelligence or ability implicit here is reductionist and has negative consequences. We would emphasise, in contrast, that all human beings are capable of achieving much. As Cooley (1980, p. 94) points out, ordinary people in their everyday life display extraordinary amounts of intelligence. Thus we are not denying that individuals are different with varying capabilities for doing different sorts of tasks. However, at the present time the selection and allocation function of schooling both exacerbates and manufactures differences between students through particular practices such as streaming and so on, while simultaneously ignoring the real capacities of all students. Indeed, the fact that schools select and allocate demands that ‘fine grain’ distinctions be made between individuals, though this is generally based on assessments of what students cannot do, rather than on what they can or could do. In the process many students miss out. As Hannan (1985, p. 92) argues, universal schooling should qualify all universally for work, full participation as citizens, and for further education if desired. Currently this does not occur; a restructuring of schooling is thus necessary, a matter we take up in the last two chapters. In this chapter we have provided one sociological alternative to explanations based on individual ability by considering the way school processes contribute to unequal outcomes. In the next we will indicate how the structural inequalities (economic and cultural) in Australian society are reflected in an unequal educational system and contribute to the reproduction of inequalities from generation to generation through schooling.

Further reading Anderson, D. and Vervoorn, A. (1983), Access to Privilege: Patterns of Participation in Australian Post-secondary Education, Canberra: Australian National University Press. A clear and thorough documentation of disadvantages relating to social class, gender, ethnicity, race and type of school attended in access to tertiary education. Anyon, J. (1981), ‘Social class and school knowledge’, Curriculum Inquiry, vol. 11, no. 1, pp. 3-41. Looks at how the ‘same curricula’ was taught differently in schools with different

204

Schooling processes and educational outcomes social class clienteles and how this related to the reproduction of social class based inequalities. Blum, J. (1978), Pseudoscience and Mental Ability: The Origins and Fallacies of the IQ Controversy, New York: Monthly Review Press. Provides an excellent historical account of the development of IQ testing, as well as a critical analysis of the assumptions underpinning such tests. Connell, R.W., Ashenden, D.J., Kessler, S., and Dowsett, G.W. (1982), Making the Difference, Sydney: George Allen & Unwin. An important study of how the intersection of families and schools produces inequalities in outcomes along class and gender lines. Hammersley, M. and Woods, P. (eds) (1976), The Process of Schooling: A Sociological Reader, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. A good collection of material on the process of schooling which also includes Paul Willis’ ‘The class significance of school counterculture’. Kamin, L.J. (1977), The Science and Politics of IQ, Ringwood: Penguin. Reviews all of the ‘scientific’ research concerning the hereditarian thesis regarding IQ test scores and argues that ‘There exist no data which should lead a prudent man to accept the hypothesis that IQ test scores are in any degree heritable’ (p. 15). Also looks at the politics of the early testing movement, concentrating on the situation in the United States. Matthews, M.R. (1980), The Marxist Theory of Schooling: A Study of Epistemology and Education, Sussex: Harvester Press. Ch. 8 provides a very good outline and critique of the basic assumptions underpinning the hereditarian position regarding IQ test scores. Ramsay, P., Sneddon, D., Grenfell, J., and Ford, I. (1983) ‘Successful and unsuccessful schools: a study in Southern Auckland’, The Australian and New Zealand Journal of Sociology, vol. 19, no. 2, pp. 272-304. Reports research findings regarding the differences between ‘successful’ and ‘unsuccessful’ working class (and Maori) schools in Auckland. Rose, S., Kamin, L.J. and Lewontin, R.C. (1985), Not in our Genes: Biology, Ideology and Human Nature, Ringwood: Penguin. Provides a sustained critique (historical, sociological, political, scientific) of all forms of biological determinism and traces the historical development of this ideology during the onset of industrial capitalism. Rowse, T. (1978), Australian Liberalism and National Character, Melbourne: Kibble Books. An interesting study of liberal ideology, and the emphasis on the individual within that ideology, in Australian politics and life in general. Schools Commission (1984), Girls and Tomorrow: The Challenge for Schools, Canberra: Schools Commission. A very good summary of a broad range of research showing how school practices most often disadvantage girls.

205

Schooling processes and educational outcomes Sherwood, J. (ed.) (1981), Multicultural Education: Issues and Innovations, Perth: Creative Research. Considers the ways in which migrants and Aborigines are disadvantaged in schooling and what can be done about it. Western, J.S. (1983), Social Inequality in Australian Society, South Melbourne: Macmillan. Amongst other things, clearly documents inequalities in educational opportunity in Australian society. Woods, P. (1983), Sociology and the School: An Interactionist Viewpoint, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. This study is mainly concerned with school and classroom processes, but it does make some attempt to link these with the production of broader social inequalities.

206

Chapter Seven

School and society

People have to be educated. Poor people and working people are taught, at least by this society, that they’re made to be just shit workers. You run the factories, you make our cars, while we get fat. In educating them, we first have to make them aware that something is wrong. And it’s not because they’re dumb. I think that’s what makes me sad about my parents. What’s made me different from them is that I always had that eagerness to get up and go. When I see people being real passive and not having that insight to want to experience different things and try to change, I get mad. (Sam Lopez, in Studs Terkel, American Dreams: Lost and Found, 1980, p. 484.)

School and society: the loaded game In his interview with Studs Terkel (the American oral historian), Sam Lopez alludes to the contribution of education to the reproduction of social inequalities, a matter which is the central concern of this chapter. Lopez shows an acute awareness of the Them and us’ element in social class divisions. However, while his remarks indicate that he has some insight into how schooling affects many working-class people, Lopez is also clearly caught up with the individualistic ideology which we discussed and critiqued in the previous chapter. As was pointed out there, to avoid blaming the victim with respect to the patterns of unequal educational outcomes across social classes, a more structural approach is required. In this chapter we 207

School and society follow up the claim of Chapter Three, that schooling, despite its meritocratic ideology, is intimately involved in the perpetuation of an unequal society. We explore more fully that nexus (or link) between school and society which was also taken up in Chapter Six, noting its relationship to issues of opportunity, life chances and the class structure of Australian society. We begin by noting that schools are expected both to serve social purposes and also to benefit individual pupils. The question then is, given that there are indeed divisions in society, can schools serve the needs of all equally? This issue is critical for any school or system which seeks to take seriously the aims of a liberal or progressive education. Consider, for example, that such aims typically call for three things: equality of opportunity for all students regardless of their backgrounds (this is the principle of fairness or justice); attention and provision for a wide range of individual differences (because a democratic society values individual human beings and their varied potentials); and preparation for adult life in the real world, including preparation for work (that is, preparation for an unequal set of human relationships in which power is not shared equally by all). However, as we have suggested at various points throughout this book, the latter aim appears to predominate. Regularly schools are attacked for failing to prepare pupils for jobs; they are blamed for unemployment, and so on. But many of the jobs to which students are expected to go are tedious or even soul-destroying, and unemployment is a reality for a growing segment of Australia’s youth. In preparing students for such situations, the schools do not develop all to their full abilities. This is not to say that schools and teachers deliberately set out to do this to their students. Rather, social demand takes precedence over individual need and economic functions override personal development. But the game is loaded in other ways also. As Chapter Six pointed out, the educational chances of individuals are affected by their background including their social class, gender and ethnicity. Thus working-class students tend to get workingclass jobs, albeit also divided along gender and ethnic lines, while those who succeed at school and go on to college or university tend to come from more privileged backgrounds regardless of school attended. Teachers almost intuitively know these social facts. Yet they can so easily fall into a ‘blaming the victim’ mode of explanation, explaining school success or failure solely or largely in terms of individual characteristics or, say, the poor home background of the student. Such explanations fail to take into account the specific cultural focus of schooling 208

School and society discussed earlier and the fact that schools presently operate in ways that ensure that only a select number of students succeed academically. For example, less than 20 per cent of any age cohort goes on to tertiary education. It is our conclusion that this diminution of opportunity is determined as much by labour market demands as by anything else, and paradoxically current attempts to increase school retention rates in the light of high levels of youth unemployment are one ready indication of this. Indeed, an understanding of the broader social structure and schooling’s links with that structure is necessary for a fuller account of what schools really do. It is these subtle and not so subtle links between schooling and society which this chapter explores sociologically. However, for an adequate understanding of the way schools work, we must first overview the nature of Australian society and the forms in which inequality is manifest within it. This means attending in particular to the economic divisions in Australian society. It means examining the degree and extent of inequality and its effects upon children and their families. It means considering why, given the objective evidence of inequality, there seems to be such a relatively limited perception of class and class differences in Australia. With all of this done, we can then look at the nature and consequences of schooling for individuals and for society itself.

The Australian class structure As indicated previously, Australian society is fractured by class, gender and ethnicity, and these divisions cut across each other in complex ways. In the previous chapter we pointed out that Australia was a patriarchal society in which most social power resided in the hands of males. Patriarchy intersects with the class structure of capitalism in most complex ways, structuring different life experiences for males and females from similar class positions. Ethnicity is also an important structural feature of contemporary Australian society which complicates further the interrelationship between patriarchy and social class. So although power is unequally distributed across our society on a range of criteria, our focus here will be upon class as a major discriminator in the exercise of power and the distribution of wealth in Australian society. Clearly there are major differences between the 209

School and society powerful and the powerless, the rich and the poor, and those who own or manage capital and those who must work for a wage for their living. In this sense, ‘class’ can be described as having an economic basis which generates distinctions between the ruling class (bourgeoisie), and the rest of society, although as will be seen shortly it is useful to make further distinctions between sections of the middle class (petty bourgeoisie), the working class (proletariat) and the unemployed. Now Australia, the USA, Britain and similar countries are often described as capitalist societies, in contrast to countries such as the Soviet Union, China or Czechoslovakia which are termed communist. What is meant by such a distinction is that in one set of countries the economy is largely privately owned and controlled, while in the other it is owned by the state, hence supposedly by ‘the people’. Such a distinction is a little too coarse, although certainly useful. For one thing, in Australia and Britain, some sections of the economy are nationalised or at least controlled by the state. Thus in both countries the railways are owned by the state. In England, the coal mines are owned by the state. In Australia, Australian Airlines, the Commonwealth Bank and Telecom for example are not private corporations. That is, we have a mixed economy. Nor is it so easy to talk of individual ownership of capital in Australia when much of the private sector is corporate in nature, being owned by shareholders or multinational conglomerates. Furthermore, despite the ideological differences of East and West they have some things in common. Here we would draw attention to the inequalities in power and privilege existing in both systems. In one system, capitalists may own the means of production, that is, the factories, industry, capital, and in the other, the state controls all, but in both, considerable power accrues to the managers, upper echelon bureaucrats and public servants. And in both, the workers are relatively powerless, having little control over their work processes. All of this must be taken into account in any discussion of Australia as a capitalist society, in which control and ownership of property (that is, capital, industrial plant, technology and so on) are used to produce profit, that is, a return to the owner, shareholder or capitalist from the use or investment of that property, beyond the share which is paid to the worker who produced the goods or services in question. In other words, a surplus of the worker’s work effort is used to create profit. This profit can be reinvested as further capital, and so on. Hence we can speak of capitalists, capitalism and capitalist society. 210

School and society Australia, however, differs from other ‘first world’ capitalist societies such as the USA and Britain in that much of its economy is owned or controlled by interests outside of Australia. This has always been true of the Australian economy. Until the Second World War Australia was clearly within the British orbit. Since then American, and lately Japanese capital has been more influential. Today 59 per cent of mining and 36 per cent of Australian manufacturing are foreign controlled (Wheelwright, 1980, p. 125). Key sectors of mining and manufacturing indicate even higher levels of foreign control: brown coal, crude petroleum and natural gas, 84 per cent; motor vehicles, 100 per cent (Wheelwright, 1980, p. 127). These figures for overseas control also indicate that there is a fair section of the economy controlled internally by Australians. However, despite the fact that somewhere between 500,000 and 1 million Australians own shares, there is only a small group which could be said to control the various sectors of the economy (see Connell, 1977a, ch. 3). This small group who control the economy is sometimes described as the ‘ruling class’ (Connell, 1977,a,b; Connell and Irving, 1980) or the ‘corporate class’. Dwyer et al. (1984, p. 35) delineate this ‘corporate class’ as: primarily concerned with the accumulation of capital and increased profitability for the large corporations which dominate the private sector. This class includes a very small minority of the population, owning a disproportionate share of the country’s wealth, earning high incomes, exercising disproportionate influence over national economic priorities, and having direct and close links with the corporate classes of other western societies. Many of the leaders in this group were represented at the Economic Summit held by the Hawke government shortly after it first came to power in 1983. However, given the dependent nature of the Australian economy, there is a sense in which they constitute a dependent ruling class (Kemeny, 1980). Further, there is not a simple unity of interests amongst the ruling class, unless the interests of all are threatened. Rather, as Connell and his colleagues (1982, p. 152) suggest, the interests of manufacturers and pastoralists are often opposed, capitalists and high status professionals will not always agree, multinational and local capital will be in conflict, large capital and small capital compete, and so on. Think of the debate over the tariff protection of Australian industries: how will these groups line up? Think 211

School and society of the different responses of large and small capital to the Hawke government’s Accord with the trade union movement. Such differences are inevitable and ongoing. Encel (1970) has documented the similar social and educational backgrounds of the men (and it is mainly men) who constitute this ruling class. It is significant that their backgrounds are similar to large numbers of the political and administrative elites (for example, many Australian prime ministers, senior public servants, and so on). But what ultimately unites the ruling class is their support for a capitalist economy on which their privileges are based, as well as their collective opposition to the interests of the workers, reflecting the conflicting interests of ‘capital’ and ‘labour’ in a capitalist economy. Workers, who constitute most of the population, must sell their labour or work power to those controllers of the economy in return for a living. That is, there is a working class, whose labour is used by the corporate class to generate capital and increase profits. This class is mainly employed in wage labour, with minimal wealth, low average income, working in industry and the services sector in primarily manual occupations (Dwyer et al., 1984, p. 36). In another sense, the working class is shaped by institutions and practices such as political parties, unions and other organisations, together with ‘family and neighbourhood networks’ which tend to construct working class ‘communities’ (Connell et al., 1982, p. 159). Here common interests are expressed and something of a common culture and identity can be shaped. However, just as there are conflicts of interest within the ruling class, so there are similar conflicts within the working class. A central cleavage centres around the skilled/unskilled division. At most times in Australian history (the 1890s depression, the Great Depression of the 1930s, and the current economic circumstances being the major exceptions) there has been a shortage of labour in Australia. The post Second World War migration program was one response to such a shortage. This labour shortage has served to diminish skilled/unskilled wage differentials so that the skilled/unskilled wage ratio was and is much closer in Australia than in, say Europe or North America (Wild, 1978, p. 60). The post-war economic boom (1950s to early 1970s) also saw the Australian-born working class gain considerably in standard of living. Much of this gain was achieved on the backs of the post- war migrants who took many of the least skilled jobs in the 212

School and society factories (Collins, 1975, 1984). In this respect Wild (1978, p. 63) speaks of an ethnic underclass within the working class. The working class is segmented along gender as well as ethnic lines. For example, many of the most unskilled, most soul destroying jobs on the factory floor are done by migrant women (Storer, 1975; Wild, 1978). According to Department of Employment and Industrial Relations statistics released in September 1983, 63.3 per cent of female employees were concentrated in three major occupational groups, clerical, sales and service. Aborigines are, of course, the most grossly disadvantaged group within the Australian working class (Fisk, 1985). Brisbane research for the Poverty Inquiry (Henderson, 1975, p. 26) indicated that more than 90 per cent of Aborigines who had jobs were in unskilled work. The most disadvantaged have been hit the hardest by current economic problems. For example, Windschuttle (1979, p. 14) indicates that in 1979 in excess of half the Aboriginal workforce were unemployed in comparison with the then official figure for the total population of about 6 per cent. The position has deteriorated since then (Lippman, 1981; Western, 1983). There is then a very basic, though often hidden, conflict of interest between the two broad-based classes of Australian society: the ruling class who individually and collectively own and control the economy, and the working class who simply sell their labour for wages and whose power stems largely from their collective actions through the trade union movement. This conflict is at core, economic. To oversimplify, the ruling class seek to maximise profit while the working class seek to maximise or at least protect wages through trade union activity, and sometimes via direct strike action. These two interests are of necessity in conflict. That is, at core, we believe Australian society is divided along economic lines, notwithstanding the Hawke government’s talk of ‘consensus’. This conflict, however indirectly, impinges upon all aspects of Australian life and, as suggested in Chapter Five, the economic conflict referred to also manifests itself in cultural ways.

The question of a middle class To date the structure of Australian society presented has been a two class one, basically a ruling class and working class which are in economic and cultural 213

School and society conflict with each other. Now, most readers are probably wondering what has happened to the ‘middle class’. After all, there is a considerable body of literature, both American and Australian, which stratifies society into sets and subsets of the working class, middle class and upper class. Research (Davies, 1967; Chamberlain, 1983) has shown that a majority of Australians regard themselves as middle class. However, an alternative perspective, typically derived in some way or another from some form of Marxist theory, usually rejects the middle class as a class. For example, Connell and his colleagues (1982, p. 147) argue that our ‘middle managers, humbler professionals, technical experts and small business people’ lack the stable interests of both the working and ruling classes, and likewise lack the cultural institutions which would permanently express and defend such interests. Therefore they argue that the middle class is strictly not a class as such. Instead, they speak of the complexity and divisions within both ruling and working classes. Dwyer et al. (1984) take a similar stance. Where do we stand on this matter? We acknowledge a sympathy with the views of both Connell et al. and Dwyer et al., who stress class as a relationship (that is, as a dynamic concept) rather than as an indicator of a position (a static concept) within the social structure. However, consider for a moment the position of a teacher. Is teaching a working-class occupation or a middle-class occupation? What relationship does it have with respect to the two classes delineated thus far? Kevin Harris (1982, pp. 35-6) argues that teachers in everyday, common-sense perceptions are not usually perceived to be working class for a number of reasons. First, they are economically privileged in comparison with most members of the working class, despite many common misperceptions in this regard. This is particularly true for female teachers vis-à-vis female members of the working class. Second, most teachers have tenured jobs and thus some job security, and are paid by cheque fortnightly or monthly, not weekly via cash stuffed in brown envelopes. Third, teachers are white-collar workers, that is, they do not do manual work. Fourth, teachers are helped by people who clearly are members of the working class, for example, typists, janitors and cleaners. Also in this regard and very importantly, teachers have some control over their work, much more control than most working-class people normally have. Finally, teaching is usually regarded as a profession with the appropriate tertiary qualifica tions. One might add that culturally teachers are probably different from working-class people. 214

School and society There seems to be some validity to these common-sense perceptions. In our view there does appear to be a group of individuals/occupations which are difficult to place as either ruling class or working class, and which may be more appropriately classified as middle class. Some recent Marxist class analyses, in particular Wright (1978), have argued for three classes with a middle class sitting between the two main economic classes. Further, Wright (1978, pp. 60-1) identifies what he calls ‘contradictory class locations’ between each of these three classes; for example managers and supervisors occupy a ‘contradictory class location’ between the ruling class and the middle class, while workers such as teachers who have some work autonomy are regarded as being in a contradictory class location between the middle class and the working class. From a similar theoretical position, Harris (1982) has also classified teachers as occupying a contradictory class location, meaning that teachers are at a fulcrum of pressure from both the capitalist class and the working class. For Harris, in an economic sense teachers belong to neither of these two classes, but are closer on this dimension to the working class. However, according to Harris, in both ideological and political senses, teachers stand closer to the capitalist class because they assist capitalist domination of the working class by ensuring that working class people accept the capitalist social structure (1982, p. 130). Thus, while we agree with Dwyer et al. (1984) and others (McGregor, 1983a, ch. 2) that the notion ‘we are all middle class these days’ is a myth, we do believe there is a group in society who can most usefully be classified as middle class. How should such a class be described? For Wild (1978) the distinguishing features of the middle class are the nature of their work (non-manual as opposed to manual) and possession of educational qualifications. The concern for educational qualifications has meant that the middle class has been very supportive of schooling. Max Walsh (1979) in Poor Little Rich Country speaks of the ‘B.A. Dip. Ed. Class’ who helped vote the proeducation Whitlam Labor government into power in 1972. Similarly, the offspring of the middle class have most successfully negotiated the cultural demands of schooling and succeeded academically as described in Chapter Six. Fitzgerald (1976, p. 18) has argued that, by contrast, those at the top of the class structure are less reliant upon education to maintain their privileged position while 215

School and society those at the bottom are often locked in by class barriers, one of which is having little or no education. None of this is to suggest that ruling-class children do not do well at school or that working-class children cannot do well. What it does suggest is that education is central to the reasonably strong ‘market capacity’ of the middle class and central to their children maintaining comparable living standards to their parents. In critiquing analyses such as Connell et al.’s (1982) which proffer a dichotomous class structure, Beilharz (1985) argues that there is a middle class in Australia which is made up of two subgroupings, the first consisting of small business people, the second consisting of professionals. We would agree with Beilharz (1985, p. 99) when he argues that many professionals, including teachers, nurses and social workers, are ‘the progeny of the welfare state which developed in Australia throughout the twentieth century but especially in the inter-war and postwar periods’. Additionally, Beilharz argues that those professionals who work for the state very often have as their clients the 2 million Australians living on social welfare who, he argues, need to be clearly distinguished from the employed working class. Just as there exists an interdependent relationship between capitalists and the working class, so there exists a similar interdependence between that section of the middle class who work for the welfare state and their clients, many of whom form a disadvantaged group within the working class. Substantial sections of this middle class have been radicalised through their tertiary education and through their work experiences and position within the class structure. Many contemporary progressive social movements such as feminism, the peace movement and the conservation movement draw their ‘recruits’ largely from this class. This section of the middle class usually supports increased government expenditure on the socalled ‘social wage’ and is at the same time vehemently opposed to cuts in public sector expenditure. The so-called ‘middle-classing’ of the Labor party and the radicalising of white-collar unions are two results. (See Beilharz, 1985.) We indicated earlier that Australians have a strong middle-class consciousness. There are two important factors here. First, during the post war economic boom most Australian-born working-class families experienced a substantial improvement in standard of living, including increased home ownership. Indeed, 216

School and society the Australian-born workers formed something of a labour aristocracy as the worst jobs were taken by post-war migrants. It was during these economic boom times that some suggested the working class was becoming more like a middle class (see Kemp, 1978, ch. 1). Second, there is the changing nature of the workforce. Since the Second World War there has been a decline in the percentage of the total labour force employed in manufacturing and an increase in the percentage employed in the service sector. For example, Australian Bureau of Statistics figures show that 27.6 per cent of the total labour force were employed in manufacturing in 1961, 21.7 per cent in 1976 and there has been a further decline since then, while service sector employment has increased from 60 per cent in 1961 to 70.8 per cent in 1976. Barry Jones (1983, pp. 77-8) shows that in 1981 Australia had more blue-collar workers (2,617,734 persons) than previously, but that as a proportion they made up a smaller percentage of the workforce than ever before, albeit still 41.6 per cent. The figures in Table 7.1 taken from Jones (1983) indicate the changed blue-collar/ white-collar ratio since 1947. Now, this changed composition of the labour market is often incorrectly in our view, perceived as an indication of the ‘middle-classing’ of Australia. Herein lies a problem in classifying a middle class. The effect of technology on jobs illustrates this point. It has meant that some so-called middle-class jobs are becoming more like working-class jobs. For example, with computerisation banking has become fragmented and routinised, making the work of tellers less skilled than in the past (Game and Pringle, 1983). Similarly, Harris (1982) and White (1983) have written about the potential proletarianisation of teaching as an occupation.

TABLE 7.1 Changed Blue Collar/White Collar Ratio since 1947

Blue collar White collar

1947 Nos

%

1981 Nos

%

2,071,100 1,125,300

64.8 35.2

2,617,734 3,674,895

41.6 58.4

(Adapted from Jones, 1983, p. 78)

217

School and society Resistance to class analysis? Over the years we have found many tertiary students resistant to the view of Australian society as being divided and at core in conflict along class lines. A consideration of this resistance might provide us with some further understandings of the Australian class structure, particularly in terms of the relationship between class and consciousness. One reason for this rejection is, of course, the fact that tertiary students are by and large drawn from a fairly select social group within the society (Anderson and Vervoorn, 1983; Western, 1983, pp. 49-61). As such their social experiences are of a particular kind, and thus relatively limited. There is an important relationship between people’s experience of the world and their construction of how it operates (Chamberlain, 1983). The evidence seems to suggest that members of both the ruling class and the working class have a clearer perception of the class structure than do the middle class (Wild, 1978, ch. 4). Furthermore, members of the two fundamental economic classes are much more likely ‘to conceive the class structure in dichotomous, conflict terms’ (Wild, 1978, p. 61). While about 80 per cent of Australians believe there are classes in Australia and while almost 100 per cent will place themselves in a class, it seems that there is only a limited level of systematised awareness of the class structure amongst the population (Wild, 1978, ch. 2). This is very true for the middle class and probably particularly true for middle-class students who have succeeded in the school system. On this general point, George Orwell some time ago suggested that the class structure was somewhat like an aquarium: so easy to pretend it is not there, but impossible to get through! The dominant ideology within our society emphasises the ‘individual’ and the individual’s responsibility for his or her fate in the society. Hence the class bases of success or failure are often hidden from view. Schools play an important role in teaching this individual ethos as part of their hidden curriculum as we pointed out in Chapter Three. As was suggested earlier, classes, be they ruling class or working class, are not ‘watertight’ categories. There are conflicts, divisions, tensions and changing alliances within classes and furthermore gender and ethnic divisions cut across class divisions. This complicates the world as we experience it and often masks our perceptions of class. Indeed, just as we suggested that Australia should be regarded 218

School and society as a capitalist society, it also should be regarded as a patriarchal society with structured gender inequalities. (See Bryson, 1984, and Chapter Six.) It was mentioned earlier in this chapter that some important sections of the Australian economy, such as the car industry, are controlled by groups outside of Australia (see Kemeny, 1980; Crough, Wheelwright and Wilshire, 1980; Crough and Wheelwright, 1982). In this context, Crough and Wheelwright (1982) speak of Australia as a client state of the transnational corporations. Further, particularly since the mid 1970s, the labour-intensive Australian manufacturing industry has been in decline, which is an important factor in the current high levels of unemployment. Some Australian manufacturing companies have relocated in Asia because of the ready availability of cheap, acquiescent labour there. This also has been done by transnational with interests in Australia. Thus, globally we now have a ruling class which operates out of the commercial centres of the ‘First World’, for example, the United States, Britain, West Germany, and increasingly a highly oppressed working class located in the Third World, for example the Philippines, Taiwan, Singapore. The implications for Australia are that we now have a clustering around the so-called middle class and the development of an underclass of unemployed. Traditional working-class jobs are being either automated out of existence or transferred overseas. All of this is occurring as Australia becomes part of what Crough and Wheelwright (1982), amongst others, have called the new corporate world economic order. This process and its effects influence the perception of class within Australia. Again, often even if social class differences are conceded, many will argue forcefully that Australian society is not as class-conscious as Britain and that the divisions here are not as overt. However, we would argue that there is a confusion here between aspects of Australian culture, specifically its egalitarian component, and the hard evidence on the distribution of wealth, income, power and life chances in contemporary Australia. Historians (Ward, 1978; Clark, 1980, 1981) have documented how a peculiarly Australian ethos was formulated by the last decade of the nineteenth century. This ethos was perhaps most clearly and systematically articulated in the writings of Henry Lawson, Banjo Paterson, Joseph Furphy and in the Bulletin and in a different way in the paintings of Tom Roberts (Astbury, 1985). Nineteenth-century experiences, particularly those of the isolated male workers on the frontier, precipitated egalitarianism and mateship as central components of the developing Australian culture. As Bernard Smith puts it, ‘Mateship was an ethics of situation, 219

School and society distilled from a century of coping and surviving in the bush’ (1980, p. 14). European settlement in Australia had no vestiges of a feudal ancestry, whereas Britain still had hangovers of a feudal past in a hereditary aristocracy, the House of Lords and so on. This historical idiosyncrasy of Australian settlement added to the peculiarly egalitarian flavour of the nascent ethos. There were also negative aspects to the cultural egalitarianism of mateship. The ethos was racist, excluding Aborigines and also the Chinese on the goldfields. Xenophobia was spawned as part of the ethos. It was also stridently sexist producing the twin ‘damned whores’ or ‘God’s police’ stereotypes of Australian women (Summers, 1975). The point is that the egalitarian side of Australian culture existed despite vast inequalities in the distribution of wealth and power. Consequently it is an important component in explaining the common-sense rejection of class conflict in contemporary Australia. Of course, in our highly urbanised culture with about 70 per cent of the total population living in the capital cities, and more than 80 per cent living in urban areas, much of this old egalitarian ethos has come under challenge. In McGregor’s words (1983a, p. 70): This egalitarian sentiment is not nearly as strong as it used to be; in the post-war years it has been eroded by affluence, competitiveness and the dramatic expansion of white-collar workers (and their accompanying values). . . . McGregor (1983b, p. 36) now speaks of two competing cultural traditions in contemporary Australia: ‘fair go’ and ‘never give a sucker an even break’. However, there are enough vestiges of the egalitarian ethos of Australian culture for many to confuse this cultural aspect with the material reality. It is to these material questions such as the distribution of wealth and income, which we will now briefly turn. The brief analysis of the distribution of wealth and income in Australia which follows is intended to indicate fairly starkly the material, structural and distributional aspects of class.

Class and structural inequalities in Australia We will begin by a consideration of the distribution of wealth. Edgar (1980, pp. 701) defines wealth in the following way: ‘Wealth includes owned property in the form of land, housing, bank savings, stock investments, possessions and so on, and 220

School and society can be transmitted from one generation to the next by inheritance.’ On the latter point, it needs to be kept in mind that most wealthy people in Australia are rich because they have inherited their wealth (Raskall, 1980; Trainer, 1984). Inheritance is very important in the transfer of wealth from one generation to the next. The tax structure does very little at all to confront this situation (Wheelwright, 1980) and the abolition of death duties in most states over recent years has exacerbated the situation. Further, it is the wealthy, rather than wage earners, who can buy the capacity to evade and avoid tax (Wheelwright, 1980). Raskall (1980) has provided us with the most detailed analysis of the distribution of wealth in Australia. In so doing, he correctly points out two things: the scarcity of data for Australia and the conservative propensity of the scarce data we do have, a point which Groenewegen (1972) has also made. Raskall’s data indicate an extreme concentration of wealth in that the top 1 per cent of the population own 22 per cent of the wealth, the top 5 per cent own 46 per cent, and the top 10 per cent own 60 per cent. Further, the top 5 per cent own more than the bottom 90 per cent put together, while the bottom 50 per cent own less than 8 per cent of Australian wealth (Raskall, 1980, pp. 72-3). In short, wealth is more inequitably distributed in Australia than income. Thus, in summarising his findings, Raskall comments on the extreme inequality in the distribution of wealth in Australia: ‘The wealthiest 2,000 people own as much as the poorest 2,225,000. Large disparities in income are dwarfed by the uneven ownership of personal wealth’ (1980, p. 77). Mention has already been made in Chapter Five of those at the other end of the scale who live in poverty, which the Fitzgerald Report (1976, p. 5), Poverty and Education in Australia, defined as that group of people disadvantaged by a relative lack of power and choice because of their position at the bottom of the social scale in terms of income, occupation, status and respect. Henderson (1975), as was noted in Chapter Five, pointed out that poverty is very much more than simply being at the bottom of the income scale. Poverty denies self respect and the possibility for full participation in all aspects of society, including education. (See Fitzgerald, 1976, ch. 3; Edgar, 1986, pp. 4-5.) According to Henderson, 10 per cent of income units in Australia fell below the austerely drawn poverty line and another 8 per cent were less than 20 per cent above 221

School and society that line. Thus 18 per cent of family units were very poor or rather poor. Australian Bureau of Statistics figures for 1978 indicated that 50 per cent of all workers earned less than $50.00 above the poverty line. The current economic situation with unemployment at 10.2 per cent (September 1983) has exacerbated this situation considerably, as did Fraser government policies (Sheehan, 1980), with there being some suggestion that now almost 25 per cent of family units are very poor or rather poor. The poverty line in December 1986, according to the University of Melbourne’s Institute of Applied Economic and Social Research, is shown in Table 7.2. Fitzgerald, in the Poverty and Education Report (December 1976), found that 7.9 per cent of dependent children lived below the poverty line and 8.7 per cent were less than 20 per cent above the poverty line. He concluded (1976, pp. 6-7) that ‘one in every six of all dependent children in Australia is poor through no fault of their own and in circumstances which they cannot influence’. The current levels of unemployment have seen a worsening of this situation. Figures released to the media by the Commonwealth Department of Social Security in January 1986 indicated that about 788,000 children under 16 years of age (1 in 5) lived in poverty as members of families who were dependent on government pensions. According to Bettina Cass, consultant to the Department, the situation has deteriorated since the time of the Henderson Report because of high levels of unemployment, longterm unemployment, an increase in single-parent families, and increased housing

TABLE 7.2 Poverty Line in December 1986* (Head in work force) 1 adult (including housing costs): Couple (including housing costs): Couple with 1 child (including housing costs): Couple with 2 children (including housing costs):

$148.40 per week $198.50 per week $238.70 per week $278.80 per week

(Taken from Institute of Applied Economic and Social Research, University of Melbourne, March 1987.) *Based on the preliminary estimate of seasonably adjusted household disposable income from all sources after taxes per head per week for December quarter 1986 of $206.10.

222

School and society costs (The Sunday Mail, January 19, 1986). The poverty rate for female-headed single parent families is almost 50 per cent (Cass, 1986, p. 4). (See Cass, 1986; Raskall, 1986.) According to the Australian Bureau of Statistics (September 1983), the mean or average income for 1981-2 was $9,656, while the mean for males was $13,020 and for females was $6,230. Most male workers earned less than the mean and almost 90 per cent of female workers earned less than the male mean! The top 10 per cent of income earners in 1981-2 received 29 per cent of all income whereas the bottom 20 per cent received only 1.6 per cent. The situation had deteriorated from 1978-9 when comparative figures were 27.8 per cent and 2.2 per cent respectively. Such figures should indicate something of the material reality of most Australians and the distributional aspect of social class. Indeed, some analysts have predicted things might get worse (Walsh, 1979; Sheehan, 1980; Jones, 1983; McQueen, 1982). What we are talking about here are structural inequalities, inequalities which cannot be explained in terms of the characteristics of individuals but only in terms of how the class structure operates. Certainly the evidence appears to support the assertion that ‘Class is not an invention of the intellectuals, to be conjured up or conjured away by tricks of definition’ (Connell and Irving, 1980, p. 3). We agree with Connell and Irving (1980) that in discussing class ‘the brute obviousness of class relations in industry’ should always be kept in mind. As they put it: To the worker on a production line, there is not much doubt about the meaning of class – it is an immediate reality in the noise, pace and discipline of the line, in the size of the weekly pay-packet, and the contrast with the pay, conditions and authority of management (Connell and Irving, 1980, p. 3). Class encompasses all aspects of our lives, including amongst other things where we live, the sort of house we live in, our choice of friends, what and when we eat, our sexual relations, how we dress, the TV programs we watch, the entertainment and hobbies we pursue, the car(s) we drive, our language, our childrearing practices, our construction of gender, the type of school we attend, the level of education we receive, as well as our aspirations, and so on (almost ad nauseum) through the whole gambit of what we might call cultural activities. 223

School and society Sennett and Cobb (1973) have written quite movingly and passionately about what they call the ‘hidden injuries of class’, that is, the way the lived experience of class affects the feelings of self worth and the interpersonal relations of workingclass men and women. They contend that working-class people are often reconciled to their position within the class structure through the hopes they have for their children: ‘We didn’t make it but maybe our kids can’. This means that unlike the situation in middle-class families, working-class lives often act as a warning to working-class children rather than as a model (Sennett and Cobb, 1973, p. 128). This may be demeaning and injurious to feelings of dignity and self worth, despite positive attitudes to their class held by many working people. Thus class relationships are generated from the basic production processes of society, helping to shape people’s lives in terms of whether they own and/or control the economy, sell their labour or stand somewhere in between this broad division. In this way class is one important determinant of power. Through control of the economy the ruling class are usually able to exercise more power than the working class. Power, of course, is also exercised through the state, which regulates the conditions under which people work and under which profit may be made. The state is supposed to act as an arbitrator between various groups in this process and so theoretically acts as an independent locus of power. However, given the conflicting pressures from capital and labour, the state always remains a site of struggle, though we would argue that its overall operation favours capital. For example, in the current period of economic restraint, increased pressures on the state to reduce public spending and allow for a greater flow of ‘market forces’ (seen for instance in policies deregulating banking) have, we would argue, tended to shore up capital rather than labour. More subtly, even social welfare expenditure and services, while in many ways favouring the interests of workers, perhaps help to provide political stability by inhibiting social opposition and disruption from disadvantaged groups (for example, the unemployed). Now, in considering questions of the role of education as a state instrumentality, and questions regarding opportunity in education, the structural inequalities in wealth and income which have been outlined in this chapter must be kept in mind. More bluntly, the class-based inequalities in educational opportunity outlined in Chapter Six, in the final instance must be considered against the backdrop of the seeming perpetuation of these structural inequalities across time. 224

School and society Class and schooling: the explanation While schools are supposedly sites of meritocratic, individual competition (see Chapter Three), the patterns of success and failure are clearly class based as documented in Chapter Six. In the words of the Schools Commission’s Participation and Equity document (1984b, p. 1): ‘the distribution of educational opportunities by the social origins . . . of students is a persistent feature of the Australian system’. This is a social fact requiring sociological explanation, particularly in terms of the class structure and its operation, rather than an explanation in terms of the discrete characteristics of individual students such as many teachers might offer. How then do sociologists seek to explain the class links to educational success and educational failure beyond broad considerations of the nexus between unequal educational outcomes and an unequal society? The Australian Karmel Report (Interim Schools Commission, 1973) which led to the establishment of the Schools Commission, outlined three types of explanation which have been offered for the differential, class-based patterns of school success and failure: (i) genetic differences between social groups, (ii) classbased differences in out-of-school experiences, (iii) class-based factors in the culture of the school. The Report dismissed the first explanation, as we do also. (See Chapter Six.) Michael Flude’s (1974) review of the American and British research literature on the social class and schooling question suggested that the sociological explanations offered could be classified into one of four types, namely: (i) cultural deprivation, (ii) cultural difference, (iii) class-based social inequalities, and (iv) educational deviance and the structure of school knowledge. (See Tyler, 1977; Foster, 1981; Connell et al., 1982, for different conceptualisations of the types of sociological explanations offered. Also see Lamb, 1984, and Smith, 1983, for recent discussions of the Australian literature.) Flude (1974, p. 16) argues that most of the early post Second World War research in Britain on the question of inequality of educational opportunity was concerned to explain ‘those handicaps that prevented a perfect relationship between measured ability, educational opportunity and performance’. Rectification of this situation was sought on two grounds, first that of social justice and second that of the needs of an advanced industrial society for all talent to be developed to its fullest. Similar arguments were-proffered in the post Second World War education debate in Australia. 225

School and society The first type of explanation then, according to Flude, is the cultural deprivation thesis which accounts for the comparative lack of educational success of workingclass students in terms of a range of deficits imputed to the sociocultural environment of the working-class home. These deficits, it is argued, range from limited social experiences to cognitive and linguistic inadequacies, as well as inappropriate value orientations. This explanation argues that the reason for failure lies with the working class itself and its supposedly deficient social and cultural experiences and values. In evaluating the cultural deprivation thesis Sharp (1980, p. 6) has this to say: The main difficulty with this approach is that it sets up an arbitrary standard of cultural value emanating from the culture of the white middle class and then proceeds to define all groups who diverge culturally from this norm as deprived. This thesis also fails to consider the relationship between material circumstances and the development of culture (ibid., 1980, p. 8). Moreover, such a view of working-class culture might very well set up certain teacher expectations which end up being part of the problem, rather than part of the solution (Rist, 1970). The second type of explanation, namely cultural difference, was a response to the first. The compensatory education programs associated with the Head Start Project in the United States were based explicitly upon a deficit view, as were a whole range of pre-school intervention programs including the Bourke Pre-school Project in western New South Wales (see de Lacey, 1974, pp. 92-6). The apparent long-term failure of these compensatory programs was one important factor in generating the cultural difference view. The latter view rejected the deficit account of working-class life and minority group life and instead focused on the way schools responded in their teaching methods, value assumptions, teacher attitudes and curricula to these cultural differences. Nell Keddie’s (1973) collection of readings, Tinker, Tailor . . . the Myth of Cultural Deprivation, was one very important statement of this new focus. This cultural difference stance seems at least on one level to be something of an advance on the cultural deprivation explanation. In writing about deficit theories and compensatory education for minority racial and ethnic groups, Kelly and McConnochie (1974) have pointed out how such a perspective contributes to the 226

School and society destruction of both ethnic identity and respect for minority group cultures. In contrast, the cultural difference stance at least demands that teachers treat sympathetically the particular cultural differences (both class and ethnic based) which students bring to school. However, the cultural difference perspective: fails to realise that a genuine cultural pluralism presupposes economic and political pluralism, that is, a situation where political and economic power is evenly distributed among the different cultural groups, no one group having the monopoly over defining what it means to be educated, or superior power to determine the content and forms of schooling (Sharp, 1980, p. 8). Hence, although more enlightened, policy and practice based upon a cultural difference perspective tend to ignore structural inequalities. Thus they do little to ensure that the disadvantaged gain a more equal access to the rewards of the society. The social inequalities explanation covers a variety of stances. All who hold to this view, and we are amongst them, would argue that as long as there are very substantial inequalities in the broader society, for example in the distribution of wealth and income, as well as in educational provisions, there will be inequality of educational opportunity. Thus everyone must have an adequate income, and all the things which flow from that (adequate housing, health, diet, indeed an adequate standard of living) before anything can be achieved in education. Evidence from two studies, namely Fitzgerald (1976) and Meade (1982), indicates direct financial reasons for the early school leaving of poor pupils and gives support to the social inequality explanation. For such students the completion of full secondary schooling is financially rarely feasible. In addition, fair and equitable expenditure on schools is required so that the schools attended by the poorest children located in the poorest suburbs are as ‘good’ as those attended by the richest children in terms of facilities, student-teacher ratios and so on. There are also cultural aspects to such material inequalities. For example, Sharp (1980, p. 8), writing from a social inequality stance, argues that ‘the disadvantaged lack political and economic power and inhabit a cultural world which reinforces their subordination’. Thus, in contrast to both the cultural deprivation and cultural difference views, the social inequality explanation demands:

227

School and society an objective appraisal of all cultures with a view to assessing which of their various aspects are enlightening and progressive as opposed to those which impede understanding of the conditions which produce inequality (Sharp, 1980, p. 9). The final explanation outlined by Flude (educational deviance and the structure of school knowledge) owes its beginnings particularly to the publication of Michael F.D. Young’s (1971) collection of readings, Knowledge and Control: New Directions for the Sociology of Education. In that book Young argued that educational failure, and school deviance, were in some senses constructed or manufactured by the classroom practices of teachers, including assumptions underpinning curriculum decisions and the definitions of school knowledge. Some of these accounts were outlined in Chapter Six.

Australian approaches Some debate has gone on in Australian education about questions of opportunity since the late 1930s (see McCallum, 1979). By the late 1960s and early 1970s, education generally and educational inequality specifically had become important political issues. The focus was no longer simply access to secondary schooling for all but upon unequal outcomes between social groups (see Teese, 1984). The publications by Roper (1970) and Fensham (1970) were both an impetus and response to the inequality debate. These publications documented the class-based inequalities in educational outcomes as outlined in Chapter Six. The commitment of the Whitlam-led Labor party to overcoming educational inequality was one important factor in its election to power in December 1972. Further, Labor’s concern for disadvantaged groups was very important in attracting electoral support from teachers, the teacher unions and from sections of the middle class. The subsequent establishment of the Schools Commission in 1973, its needs-based funding approach for both state and non-state schools and particularly the establishment of the Disadvantaged Schools Program, generated a revitalised Australian debate about educational inequality, including policy considerations of how it could be overcome. ‘Disadvantage’ was defined by the Schools Commission according to two criteria: first, school facilities and second, the class and ethnic characteristics of 228

School and society students (Interim Schools Commission, 1973, p. 50). ‘Social inequality’ and ‘cultural difference’ approaches were thus blended. Approximately 11 per cent of all schools covering 13 per cent of all Australian schoolchildren had been classified as ‘disadvantaged’ by 1975 (Hogan, 1984, p. 72). The Disadvantaged Schools Program was different from American compensatory education programs in that it did not focus specifically on ‘remedial’ early childhood education and it placed a strong emphasis on upgrading facilities for disadvantaged schools (see Foster, 1981, ch. 4). The high levels of youth unemployment from the mid 1970s switched the focus of policy from equality to ‘quality of education’ concerns, as part of the standards and accountability debates (Henry and MacLennan, 1980; Sharp and Freeland, 1981; Dwyer et al., 1984; Freeland, 1986). Attention moved from a concern with educational outcomes towards a critical focus on the curriculum. There was also an attempt to tighten the relationship between school and the world of work for most students, in particular for those not going on to tertiary education. Transition education was one innovation here. The fact that very up-to-date statistics about inequalities in educational opportunity are difficult to find is a ready indication of the changed focus of the education debate during the Fraser years (Hogan, 1984, p. 73). However, the Fraser government’s weakening of needs-based funding and the emasculation of the Disadvantaged Schools Program, along with its reduction in real term expenditure on state schools and increased expenditure on private schools (see Chapter Four), ensured that the inequality question was kept on the political agenda, particularly by teacher unions throughout Australia. The Hawke government’s Participation and Equity program is an indication that inequalities in education are again at least a matter for political concern, albeit within the context of high levels of youth unemployment and the weakened school/work nexus. In this context the Quality of Education in Australia report (Quality of Education Review Committee, 1985) can be seen as an attempt to cojoin concerns for ‘equality’ with concerns for ‘quality’, though in a period of restraints on government expenditure on education, this may be interpreted as a parsimonious attempt to get more for less. Since the early 1970s Labor in government at the federal or state level usually has taken an activist or interventionist stance in attempting to achieve equality of educational opportunity, defined in terms of equality of outcomes for all social groups. This can be contrasted with the less interventionist stance of both federal and state conservative governments, which has given greater emphasis to 229

School and society questions of ‘choice’ in education (see Chapter Four) and which has defined opportunity more ‘weakly’ in terms of equality of access only (Roper 1970; also see Chapter Six). In thus emphasising choice over equality, conservative governments have tended to fund schools on a per capita rather than needs basis. As indicated earlier, Whitlam’s concern to provide equality of educational outcomes for all social groups renewed debate around the intransigent social class/ school success relationship. In particular a protracted debate began in the pages of The Australian and New Zealand Journal of Sociology in 1974. (See recommended readings at the end of this chapter.) By the mid 1970s reproduction theory (as discussed in the Introduction) had become important in both American (Bowles and Gintis, 1976; Carnoy and Levin, 1976) and European (Dale et al., 1976; Bourdieu and Passeron, 1977) sociology of education. This theory, which argued that schools reproduced and legitimated social inequalities rather than provided opportunities (see also Chapters Three and Six), was imported fairly quickly into Australia in the pages of Radical Education Dossier and with the appearance of Branson and Miller’s (1979) Class, Sex and Education in Capitalist Society. Connell et al.’s Making the Difference (1982) and Dwyer et al.’s Confronting School and Work (1984) are the most recent developments in the Australian sociological debate about educational inequalities. Though both works undertake a critical analysis of the complex interrelationships between school outcomes and social class, they do not subscribe to all features of reproduction theory. In the next section of this chapter we examine the debate surrounding reproduction theories in education and these two Australian studies.

Social and educational inequality: reproduction theory and recent developments The development of reproduction theory in the sociology of education was at one level a response to the apparent failure of liberal compensatory education programs to ameliorate the class basis of school success. Reproduction theory is Marxist in origin. As such, reproduction theories of schooling begin from the assumption that social inequalities along gender, race and class lines are structural features of society and not the products of individual pathology. 230

School and society Generally speaking, Marxist theorists see capitalist societies as being rent by an inevitable conflict of interest between owners and workers, between social forms of production and individual appropriation of profit. Further, the economic mode of production, including its attendant social relations of production or class structure, is seen to be determinant (however tenuously or indirectly) of the superstructural institutions of society, including schools. Such theorists usually see the function of education within capitalist society as the perpetuation of capitalism through the socialising of workers into a consciousness which inhibits any challenge to capitalism as an economic, social and cultural system. Hence, the central metaphor of these Marxist critiques of capitalist schooling has been that of ‘reproduction’, where schools are regarded as essential in producing suitably skilled and socialised individuals who will meet the needs of a segmented and hierarchical workforce. Thus, schools are seen to be very important institutions for both social and cultural reproduction. Reproduction theorists play down the possibility of equality of educational opportunity in capitalist societies. They argue that schools reproduce social class inequalities rather than offer opportunities for social mobility. That is, they argue that schools reproduce individuals into, by and large, similar social class and type of occupation as their parents. Branson and Miller (1979, p. 2) in their reproduction analysis of Australian education provide a particularly strong version of this position: the whole education system operates to ensure that inequalities fundamental to capitalist production – in particular those based on class and sex – are constantly being reproduced. Social stratification in Australia does not exist despite the provision of ‘free, secular and compulsory’ schooling, but essentially because of it. The emphasis within reproduction theory then is not upon a consideration of the factors which impede equality of educational opportunity, but rather a delineation of the school processes involved in the reproduction of inequalities. The implication of early versions (Bowles and Gintis, 1976; Bourdieu and Passeron, 1977) was that no school-based reforms of themselves could provide equality of educational opportunity for all. 231

School and society Within the reproduction approach a distinction can be made between social/ economic reproduction theorists (e.g., the work of Bowles and Gintis, 1976, 1981) and cultural reproduction theorists (e.g. the work of Bourdieu and Passeron, 1977). As we indicated in Chapter Three, the core of the Bowles and Gintis thesis is that the demand of the capitalist economy for a hierarchically differentiated workforce in terms of both skills and attitudes precludes the achievement of equality of educational opportunity and the full development of all students. These economic demands upon schooling take precedence over all others. Bowles and Gintis explain this reproduction and legitimation of inequality in terms of their ‘correspondence principle’. The correspondence principle postulates a correspondence between the social relations of home, work and school along class lines. It is the social relations of work which determine the social relations in schools and the home. Schools thus replicate the hierarchical division of labour, and in so doing tend to reproduce individuals into similar class relations as those of their families. Hence Bowles and Gintis stress the importance of the ‘form’ or ‘hidden curriculum’ of schooling in this process, rather than the content of the curriculum. Their emphasis is also upon the school’s role in social rather than cultural reproduction. There is another link in the correspondence principle: the social relations of home life match those of work and prepare individuals differentially along class lines for different educational and vocational careers. Bowles and Gintis argue that there is an association between individuals’ experiences at the workplace and their child-rearing practices at home. Thus, for example, working-class people who experience little autonomy at work are more rule-bound and tend to encourage rule-following in their offspring. By contrast, those with some work autonomy, such as professionals, tend to socialise their children to internalise norms rather than to follow externally imposed rules. Bowles and Gintis then argue that differences in socialisation patterns are in turn reflected in different levels and types of schooling. Since the publication of Schooling in Capitalist America in 1976 Bowles and Gintis’s account has come under some criticism for providing an overly mechanistic picture of the relationship between the economy and schooling. It has been argued that their account neglects the cultural and ideological dimensions of schooling and overemphasises structures at the expense of individual agency (Apple, 1982a, pp. 8-9; Lingard, 1983). Also their work has been criticised for giving insufficient attention to the patriarchal features of capitalism in the United 232

School and society States. Some of the gaps in Bowles and Gintis’ work have been complemented by analyses which give greater attention to the role of cultural factors in the reproduction of social and educational inequality. For an example of this, we turn to Bourdieu and Passeron (1977) whose work provides us with a view of schools as central institutions in cultural reproduction. Bourdieu’s analysis differs from that of Bowles and Gintis in that he sees educational institutions as being relatively autonomous from those groups who exercise economic power. The emphasis is on the role of schooling in cultural reproduction which in turn ensures social reproduction. However, Bourdieu’s conception of an ‘homologous’ relationship between economy and culture is reminiscent of the correspondence principle, while at the same time it also emphasises the cultural aspects of schooling, as well as the form. Bourdieu suggests that there is a hierarchy of cultural capital in capitalist societies, which in many ways parallels the hierarchy of economic capital. Cultural capital refers to ‘objective artifacts’ such as books, paintings, etchings, sculpture, ceramics, records, musical instruments. It also refers to cultural ‘practices and activities’ such as visiting live theatre, concerts, the opera, art galleries, museums, film festivals, learning the piano, the violin, taking speech lessons and so on. Finally, cultural capital refers to an ‘institutional currency’ such as academic qualifications, style including relationship with and attitude towards high culture and academic knowledge, modes of social interaction, certain language forms and vocabulary (Foster, 1981, p. 320). According to their social class, individuals are socialised into a particular ‘habitus’, ‘the way a culture is embodied in the individual’ (Harker, 1984, p. 118), which is either more or less conjunctive with high-status cultural capital. High-status cultural capital is embedded in upper secondary schooling and in tertiary education, particularly in the humanities. The crux of Bourdieu’s analysis is that this situation benefits the inheritors of high-status cultural capital and disadvantages those dispossessed of it, particularly working-class students. Thus generally, there is a situation whereby the expected behaviours, expected language competencies, the explicit and implicit values, knowledge, attitudes to and relationship with academic culture required for success in school are all competencies which one class brings with them to school. Bourdieu also stresses that very successful students must possess a specific style and manner towards the dominant academic culture. He calls this an ‘aristocratic’ relationship (1974, pp. 38-9), that is, one at ease with academic culture. This style and manner is as important to be successful academically at upper secondary and 233

School and society tertiary levels in the arts subjects as is the acquisition of the specific knowledge to be learnt (see Ozolins, 1981). Thus perhaps one could speculate that working-class students in Australia who do well are most likely to do well in the sciences, where there are fewer demands for ‘cultural capital’ than in the humanities. By treating all students in the same way and thus apparently fairly, irrespective of their class background and possession or otherwise of cultural capital, schools effectively advantage the already advantaged and disadvantage the already disadvantaged. Bourdieu has put it this way: By doing away with giving explicitly to everyone what it implicitly demands of everyone, the educational system demands of everyone alike, that they have what it does not give (Bourdieu, 1973, p. 80). Thus an act of ‘social alchemy’ occurs whereby cultural inheritance based upon class position is transferred into educational differences, which are ‘misrecognised’ as resulting from ‘individual giftedness’, rather than from classbased differences. Bourdieu refers to this process as involving the exercise of ‘symbolic violence’ because only one particular set of cultural values and behaviours is granted legitimacy. For Bourdieu, furthermore, ‘symbolic violence’ is involved because the apparent neutrality of the culture of schooling masks its contribution to the reproduction and legitimation of an unequal class-based society. Earlier it was pointed out that a major weakness of the Bowles and Gintis thesis was its failure to come to grips with the sociological conundrum of the relationship between social or structural determinism and individual human agency. Here Bourdieu hypothesises a relationship between objective probabilities and subjective expectations. His empirical research into the educational aspirations of students from different social class backgrounds indicated that these aspirations closely matched the objective probability of their completing a particular length and type of schooling and matriculating on to tertiary education. This is reflected in the seeming effortless ease with which many ruling-class and middle-class students move through schooling to tertiary education. It can also be contrasted with the difficulties faced by working-class students in this transition. In the Australian context, Connell et al. (1982) in Making the Difference vividly illustrate this general point. 234

School and society The cultural demands of schooling are manifested most starkly in the requirements for entry to tertiary education where a major culling out of workingclass students occurs (Bourdieu and Saint-Martin, 1974). Ozolins’ (1981) very interesting study of the Victorian Higher School Certificate (HSC) Examiners’ Reports demonstrates this process in the Australian context. In these reports he examines the cultural demands, implicit as well as explicit, which schools and examiners make upon pupils. This study indicates that a certain ease and confidence with the dominant academic culture is necessary to be an outstandingly good matriculation student. In short, we can see that the principles of exclusion of so many students are built into the criterion of success precisely because it is structured to identify and reward those with the correct cultural style and manner. Educational disadvantage is inextricably linked with educational privilege and both need to be studied together (Ozolins, 1981, p. 182). Ozolins also stresses how important the possession of the appropriate cultural capital is to being very successful in the subject of English. Given that in most Australian school systems this is a compulsory subject, we can see another way in which schools disadvantage working-class students (also see Lingard and MacLennan, 1983 and 1984). Mackie’s (1982, 1983) study of the processes of ‘symbolic violence’ in several Victorian primary schools indicates quite clearly how the myriad of classroom processes and practices press towards individual achievement, precipitating ‘a multiple fragmentation on the child’s perception and relations’ (1983, p. 319). For example, Mackie shows how attempts by the children within the classroom to cooperate with each other in a spontaneous fashion are discouraged. Rather, the focus must always be the teacher, and as part of this focus the children must hold their bodies in a rigid fashion. The reproduction theories outlined above can seem to be providing an account of the world in which there appears no easy way out of the reproduction of inequalities. Certainly, they seem to suggest that schools cannot do much to interrupt this process. However, we would want to stress that social reproduction is a very complex and sometimes tenuous process. It is never straightforwardly 235

School and society mechanistic and certainly the part played by schools and teachers in the process is also very complex and not tightly determined. Thus, reproduction as a social metaphor is much more akin to the processes of biological reproduction than to those of photocopying whereby an exact replica is reproduced with some certainty (Williams, 1981, p. 185; Eipper, 1984, p. 156). Furthermore, we would also want to stress that class and cultural differences are constructed by people. This process is sometimes called cultural production and relates to cultural reproduction and ultimately social reproduction, in anything but direct and simplistic ways. In this regard, Willis (1981, 1983) emphasises that any adequate reproduction theory requires an understanding of the tensions and conflicts between the cultural production of the powerful and the cultural production of the powerless. Such theoretical developments have emphasised the cultural ‘resistance’ of the powerless to the processes of reproduction. So called ‘resistance theories’ then have developed within the sociology of education as a recognition that human behaviour in the lived culture of schools relates in complex ways to social reproduction, particularly amongst school failures (Apple, 1982a,b; Giroux, 1983; Chapter Five). This brings us to the two fairly recent and important Australian studies, Making the Difference and Confronting School and Work (also see Chapter Five), which recognise the complexity of reproduction theory and which come out of a different sort of Marxist tradition. The lineage of their work can be traced back to the Italian Marxist theorist Gramsci (1891-1937), who stressed that the values, ideas, common-sense perceptions which were held by working-class people were an important part of their oppression, for all of these were suffused to some extent by dominant values. Gramsci spoke about ‘hegemony’, the process whereby the dominated accept a world view conducive to their domination. However, as the authors of Confronting School and Work stress: It is a mistaken belief that an homogeneous culture exists which perpetuates the values and interests of a ruling class without question, nor do entirely separate cultures exist that owe nothing at all to each other (Dwyer et al., 1984, p. 30). Both studies emphasise the positive features of working-class culture (in particular see Chapter Three of Confronting School and Work), but both in turn indicate how 236

School and society the collectivity or solidarity of working-class culture comes up against the dom inant, competitive, individualistic ethos of school culture and disadvantages working-class students. Both studies also theorise class as a practice rather than as a structure; gender is also conceived in this way. Hence, in schools we see a conflict between workingclass cultural practice and the educational practice of schooling, which derives, however indirectly, from the cultural practices and ideologies of the dominant class. In theoretical terms, then, whereas at times reproduction theory may seem to evaporate human practice into social structure, Connell et al. and to a lesser extent Dwyer et al. almost seem to dissolve structure into practice. (See Eipper, 1982 and 1984, p. 156.) Thus, given the emphasis on culture and practice within the latter approaches, the possibility of effecting change seems more tangible. By contrast, some critics of reproduction theory have argued (incorrectly we consider) that within the reproduction framework revolution seems the only way out. And as Connell et al. (1982, p. 192) put it with respect to schools, revolution, ‘by and large, is not Departmental policy’. It seems that we have come a long way from the matters with which we began this chapter. We began by presenting a view of Australian society as unequally structured and divided along class lines, and also of course along gender and ethnic lines. How do schools fit into this picture? The latter part of this chapter has shown how the society and schooling interrelationship is indeed a tangled web, yet one in which society’s class, cultural and patriarchal features have important effects. Schools in an unequal society such as ours do relate to the production and reproduction of such inequalities across time. However, this relationship is not direct and secure, for the schooling/economy relationship is mediated by both culture and the state. Thus, although there are obviously constraints which weigh upon schools and teachers, this is not to suggest that there is no room for manoeuvre. Now in considering educational inequalities, very often teachers may focus simply on classrooms or perhaps schools and in so doing fail to consider these broader processes. Indeed they may be blissfully unaware of them, for as argued in Chapter Six the conditions of teachers’ practice encourage more individualistic explanations of what is going on. However, by ignoring the effects of some of their practices and the very substantial constraints under which many students toil, 237

School and society teachers will continue to contribute to outcomes which, on reflection, they might reject quite forcefully. Here we refer to the failure to provide opportunity and real education for many working-class students, many girls, many migrants and most Aboriginal students. However, change does not come ‘willy nilly’ from nowhere, but rather from practices which take account of the constraints stemming from the class structure and patriarchy which have been considered throughout this and the previous chapter.

Further reading

Class, Ethnicity and Gender in Australia Bottomley, G. and de Lepervanche, M. (eds) (1984), Ethnicity, Class and Gender in Australian Society, Sydney: George Allen and Unwin. Concentrates on ethnicity and the migrant experience in post war Australia but also takes account of the complex ways class and gender intersect with ethnicity. Bryson, L. (1984), ‘The Australian patriarchal family’, in S. Encel and L. Bryson (eds) (1984), Australian Society: Sociological Essays, 4th ed., Melbourne: Longman Cheshire. A very good introduction to the nature of Australian patriarchy and its operation in various spheres of life, including home and labour market. Collins, J. (1984), ‘Immigration and class: The Australian experience’, in G. Bottomley and de M. Lepervanche, op. cit., pp. 1-27. Looks at the impact of post war migration upon the Australian class structure. Connell, R.W. (1977), Ruling Class, Ruling Culture, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. This is basically a study of the ruling class and the way they retain their dominance within Australian society. Connell, R.W. and Irving, T.H. (1980), Class Structure in Australian History, Melbourne: Longman Cheshire. Provides an historical analysis of the development of the class structure throughout Australian history. Also provides a very good theoretical chapter on approaches to class analysis. Crough, G., Wheelwright, T., Wilshire, T. (eds) (1980), Australia and World Capitalism, Ringwood: Penguin. Considers the impact of the ‘internationalisation’ of the economy on many areas of Australian life. Game, A. and Pringle, R. (1983), Gender at Work, Sydney: Allen & Unwin. A good analysis of the sexual division of labour.

238

School and society Western, J. (1983), Social Inequality in Australian Society, South Melbourne: Macmillan. Clearly and in detail outlines inequalities in Australian society relating to class, gender, Aborigines, ethnicity and age. Wild, R. (1978), Social Stratification in Australia, Sydney: Allen & Unwin. A most readable introduction to social stratification in Australia.

Class, Ethnicity, Gender and Education Anderson, D.S. and Vervoorn, A.G. (1983), Access to Privilege: Patterns of Participation in Australian Post-secondary Education, Canberra: Australian National University Press. A very well documented account of who gets into tertiary education. Branson, J. and Miller, D.B. (1979), Class, Sex and Education in Capitalist Society, Malvern: Sorrett. An early ‘reproduction theory’ account of the relationship between schooling and social inequality in Australia. Connell, R.W., Ashenden, D.J., Kessler, S., Dowsett, G.W. (1982), Making the Difference, Sydney: Allen & Unwin. An important study which considers the interconnections between schooling practices and both class and gender relations. Dwyer, P., Wilson, B. and Woock, R. (1984), Confronting School and Work, Sydney: Allen & Unwin. Considers the impact of youth unemployment on schooling policies and practices in the context of Australia as both a capitalist and patriarchal society. Fitzgerald, R.T. (1976), Poverty and Education in Australia, Canberra: AGPS. The fifth main report of the Commission of Inquiry into Poverty which documents and analyses the reproduction of social inequalities via schooling. Lamb, S. (1984), ‘The study of cultural differences in contemporary Australian educational research’ in L. Johnson and D. Tyler (eds), Cultural Politics: Papers in Contemporary Australian Education, Culture and Politics, Department of Education, University of Melbourne, pp. 37-73. Provides a critical outline of developments in the inequality debate in Australian sociology of education and argues for the usefulness of Bourdieu’s ‘cultural reproduction’ approach in understanding schooling’s role in the reproduction of inequalities. O’Donnell, C. (1984), The Basis of the Bargain: Gender, Schooling and Jobs, Sydney: Allen & Unwin. A most interesting Australian study which analyses the relationship between girls’ schooling and the sexual division of labour. Rizvi, F. (1985), Multiculturalism as an Educational Policy, Deakin University: Deakin University Press. Provides a critical account of the development from assimilation to multiculturalism (including multicultural education) in public policy towards migrants in post war Australia.

239

School and society Smith, R. (1985), The Inequalities Debate, Deakin University: Deakin University Press. A good account of the inequalities in education debate (including the Australian debate). Spender, D. (1982), Invisible Women: The Schooling Scandal, London: Writers and Readers. A good introductory account of the way schooling most often reproduces patriarchal relations of male dominance and female subordination. Tyler, W. (1977), The Sociology of Educational Inequality, London: Methuen. A little dated, but still a good and most readable introduction to the ‘sociology of educational inequality’.

The Australian and New Zealand Journal of Sociology debate Abbey, B. and Ashenden, D. (1978), ‘Explaining inequality’, The Australian and New Zealand Journal of Sociology, vol. 14, no. 1, pp. 5-13. Abbey, B. and Ashenden, D. (1978), ‘Unequal explanations: a rejoinder to Toomey and Edgar’, The Australian and New Zealand Journal of Sociology, vol. 14, no. 2, pp. 188-90. Connell, R.W. (1974), ‘The causes of educational inequality: further observations’, The Australian and New Zealand Journal of Sociology, vol. 10, no. 3, pp. 186-9. Edgar, D. (1978), ‘Reply to Abbey and Ashenden’s “Explaining inequality”’, The Australian and New Zealand Journal of Sociology, vol. 14, no. 1, pp.14-18. Knight, T. (1974), ‘Powerlessness and the student role: structural determinants of school status’, The Australian and New Zealand Journal of Sociology, vol. 10, no. 2, pp.112-17. Toomey, D. (1974), ‘The school status theory of educational disadvantage: a rejoinder to Tony Knight’, The Australian and New Zealand Journal of Sociology, vol. 10, no. 3, pp. 189-91. Toomey, D. (1978), ‘“Two problems of educational inequality”: a reply to Abbey and Ashenden’, The Australian and New Zealand Journal of Sociology, vol. 14, no. 2, pp. 1817. Toomey, D. (1974), ‘What causes educational disadvantages?’, The Australian and New Zealand Journal of Sociology, vol. 10, no. 1, pp.31-7.

Reproduction Theory Apple, M. (1982), Education and Power, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. An account of schooling from a sophisticated reproduction approach. Apple, M. (ed.) (1982), Cultural and Economic Reproduction in Education, London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. A good collection of articles, all of which utilise developments in social and cultural reproduction theory.

240

School and society Bourdieu, P. (1976), ‘The school as a conservative force: scholastic and cultural inequalities’ in R. Dale, G. Esland and M. MacDonald (eds), Schooling and Capitalism: A Sociological Reader, London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, pp. 110-17. The most straightforward introduction to Bourdieu’s theory of schooling as an agent of cultural reproduction. Bowles, S. and Gintis, H. (1976), Schooling in Capitalist America, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. The classic social and economic reproduction account of capitalist schooling. Giroux, H. (1981), Ideology, Culture and the Process of Schooling, London: Falmer Press. Looks at both the constraints upon schooling and the possibilities for radical educational practice from a critical reproduction theory approach. Giroux, H. (1982), ‘Power and resistance in the new sociology of education: beyond theories of social and cultural reproduction’ Curriculum Perspectives, vol. 2, no. 3, pp. 1-13. Provides a clear and critical account of developments in reproduction theory within the sociology of education. Willis, P. (1977), Learning to Labour: How Working Class Kids Get Working Class Jobs, Farnborough: Saxon House. A most interesting piece of research informed by reproduction theory and which emphasises human agency through resistance.

241

Chapter Eight

Teachers and change

[A]lmost to a person the WEP [Work and Engineering Program] students had been inducted into failure by their school experience. The objectives and values they encountered failed to recognise the realities of background, ability and expectation of these learners. Early in the piece they had been classed as failures on the one hand but, on the other, presented with no alternative learning/teaching possibilities to the one which had yielded nothing but a corrosively unsuccessful experience. Finally, at a later stage in their school career, these students faced an array of avenues into adult life, all of which had been blocked off to them. Curiously, they were often then enjoined to continue their schooling. Such ‘encouragement’ to become better educated was a pressure which amounted to persecution, no matter how well motivated its originators. (L.F. Claydon, ‘Closing the gap between technical education and the occupationally disoriented: a case study’, p. 42, Discourse, vol. 6, no. 2, 1986, pp. 32-44.)

So, where do we go from here? The picture that has emerged thus far is perhaps somewhat pessimistic. Indeed, beginning teachers frequently accuse sociologists of education of ‘being depressing’ or teaching about things which they can do little to alter or remedy and which are, therefore, irrelevant to their needs in classrooms. Our intention certainly is not to depress, but rather to show the full measure of the challenge confronting 242

Teachers and change teachers who want to make some positive impact on their students’ lives and who wish to gain a sense of professional achievement. It has been our experience that all too often many of the best teachers (or potentially so) leave the system very early in their careers out of frustration, despair or a sense of total powerlessness to make any impact on the system. Alternatively, as suggested in Chapter Four, many teachers find themselves taking on the colouration of ‘the system’ (with all that this implies) in order to survive. And, as noted in Chapter One, many more drop out because of ‘burnout’. All in all, then, a great source of sensitivity, idealism and understanding of how things ought to be is lost to the teaching profession. We argued that the reason for much of this wastage was not so much that most of these teachers are ‘temperamentally unsuited’; rather it has to do with the increasing demands and responsibilities placed on teachers, and with the contradictory expectations which they (and the education system) seek to fulfil. A major contributor to this problem is that very rarely in their professional preparation, and certainly not in any systematic way, are teachers confronted with this fundamental source of tension in their working lives. Consequently, their failure to make any inroads on the system, together with the mounting tensions which arise from heavier workloads and deteriorating working conditions during the current economic downturn, is too frequently interpreted either as a personal failure or else ‘the system’ is dismissed as a lost cause. Additionally, as noted earlier in the book, because of their particular background and educational experiences, teachers are frequently quite naive about the wider social world many of their students inhabit, and ignorant of the way the world actually works. Yet teacher education, by and large, provides little scope for analysis and understanding of the social context of education. Such courses as are offered in this area are frequently marginalised as being of lesser importance than the ‘real’ studies of teaching processes and subject content. Hence while teachers graduate with a plethora of teaching skills, they rarely have any sense of a long term strategy which will equip them intellectually to survive the deeper challenges touched on in this book. In these final two chapters, then, we attempt to delineate some approaches which might form the basis of a longer-term strategy for survival as a humane and radical teacher in a generally difficult and complex working environment. In this chapter we begin by reviewing some of the more general and abstract theoretical 243

Teachers and change considerations out of which a more radical philosophy of education may evolve. In the final chapter, we move to more concrete considerations and examples of radical teaching.

Teachers’ work: some theoretical considerations We have suggested that the concerns of teacher education tend to relate mainly to one dimension of teaching, which we have referred to in Chapter Four as technical skills. Yet the thrust of this book has been to suggest that a much broader range of understandings is required for teachers to grasp the complexities and contradictions of their work. The basis of the contradiction lies in the tension between the humanistic objectives and the structural realities of schooling. Thus the rhetoric of teaching and the matching convictions of many teachers is to ‘help’ pupils, to treat them as individuals, broaden their horizons, and so forth. The reality, we have suggested, is that, given the ways in which factors such as class, gender, ethnicity and race intersect with schooling, such aims tend to be incompatible with the broader functioning of schools. Further, and related to all this, such aims bump up against current school practices and policies with their central focus around the competitive academic curriculum; against the reality of large classes; against the various control mechanisms that are woven into the fabric of the education system and professional teaching life; and against the precepts of pupils themselves who in many instances and for various reasons (outlined in Chapter Five) may reject the ‘helping’ efforts of individual teachers. Added to that, teachers now work in an extraordinarily difficult social and economic climate where high structural unemployment, especially amongst youth, has provided the catalyst for a ‘legitimation crisis’ in schooling. (See Chapter Three.) The result has been, we suggested, an intensification of competitiveness among some students and an increasing alienation of others who, for want of any viable alternative, now remain at school as ‘problem’ students. Although critics debate whether technological advance will ultimately create or destroy jobs for many teachers this is a moot point. Certainly the current use of technology for profit suggests a negative impact on employment. (See Gorz, 1982, 1985.) And short of a major change in social and economic directions, we suspect that, in 244

Teachers and change Windschuttle’s (1981) evocative terms, the ‘lost generation’ will remain a chilling reality for the foreseeable future. The greatest threat this poses, in educational terms, is the danger of a tightening of the relationship between school and work in ways which will further reinforce existing class and gender divisions. In other words, although initiatives to replace the ‘competitive academic curriculum’ with a more inclusive common curriculum (see Chapter Nine) in many ways represent a progressive force, the continuing strength of the traditional curriculum in the elite private schools and the ‘A streams’ of certain selective state high schools means that, in the face of greater competition for scarcer commodities (proper jobs and careers), the education system as a whole still serves the interests of the privileged classes. For the foreseeable future, then, regardless of Australia’s particular economic and political direction, teachers (as well as politicians, parents and other interested groups) will have to confront what to us are the major educational questions of our time. Here we mean issues such as changing the competitive academic curriculum in a way which does not further polarise educational experiences and outcomes between the privileged and the disadvantaged; making schooling more intrinsically interesting (that is, taking advantage of the recognition that while educational credentials may be even more important than ever for gaining jobs, what constitutes these credentials may be open to question); and making education more an ‘empowering’ (rather than a progressively demoralising) experience for students while at the same time dealing with the conservative backlash that this redistributive educational goal inevitably generates. (See Smith, 1983; Johnston, 1983, 1985; Chapter Three.) To some extent, such objectives are assisted by the recognition in educational policy terms at both federal and (in most instances) state levels, of the ongoing educational disadvantages of working-class students, especially girls, Aborigines, and many students from non-English-speaking backgrounds. This means, to a varying extent depending on state and region, that there is some degree of ideological and even financial support for teachers and administrators attempting to address such major issues as these. (See also Dwyer et al., 1984, ch. 7.) All of this suggests a new agenda for teachers and teacher education, or rather, building on initiatives already taken to which we refer in more detail in the next chapter. It also suggests new conceptualisations of ‘good teaching’. For ultimately, 245

Teachers and change in that vast chain of command which constitutes state education, it is teachers who, individually and collectively as a profession, bear the burden of translating policy into practice, who mediate between social structure and individual student experiences. The individual and collective efforts of teachers therefore, while in some senses predetermined by the social, economic and political context in which they work, are in another sense (and historically have always been, as Grace, 1985, for example, points out) active (or potential) contributors to the process of educational change and reform. In this context, the ‘contradictory class location’ of teachers (Apple, 1983, Harris, 1982) to which we referred in the previous chapter takes on a particular significance. For in sharing the interests of both middle and working classes, teachers are subject to considerable stresses and strains. In some ways, as was indicated in earlier chapters, teachers’ work is becoming ‘deskilled’ and their working conditions are becoming more restrictive. In other words, teachers’ working conditions are becoming more like those of manual workers in some respects. But in other ways, ‘professional’ demands for high levels of student performance, and an increasing range of responsibilities now imposed on teachers mean that they are pulled towards a view of themselves and the teaching profession which makes them reluctant to identify with ‘proletarian’ political and industrial interests. As professionals then, teachers tend to become isolated in their daily encounters with students, isolated from each other, isolated from any overall view of their place in the system, and therefore blind to the patterned inequalities to which their personal practices contribute. In this process, their individual contributions to educational change and reform must of necessity remain muted. A major requirement then of a ‘new agenda’ for teacher education must be to find ways by which teachers can go beyond mere recognition of systemic inequalities (important and generally neglected as even this aspect is), to an understanding of how to mediate between such structural inequalities and the lives of students, upon whom so much energy is expended. An important first step in this project, we would suggest, is for teachers to work on developing a long-term personal educational philosophy which might form the basis of a radical teaching ‘praxis’. (See Introduction.) Such a philosophy must of course go beyond dealing with the obvious problems and teaching skills, though we acknowledge the importance of the ‘operating principles’ that teachers intuitively work out as a daily survival mechanism (Connell, 1985, ch. 11). We recognise also that a long-term philosophy 246

Teachers and change will ultimately be grounded in experience and therefore subject to constant reevaluation, not simply plucked out of a theoretical vacuum. For a personal philosophy is just that; something personal, to be worked out over time, on the basis of a good deal of reading, experience and reflection. That is one of the reasons we remain highly suspicious of the ‘tips for teachers’ approach, even though we understand its short-term usefulness. What follows here, therefore, are some questions which really rework much of the material presented in previous chapters into more personal considerations for teachers. To some extent, of course, these questions are arbitrary. In Freire’s terms, they are generative (here see the next chapter) in that they should spark off further questions and further areas for reflection. Furthermore, the questions are interrelated. This is an important point, for one of the aspects of the present curriculum in schools about which we are particularly critical is its fragmented nature. If teachers are to get students to think more coherently about their world, it is first necessary that they themselves learn to recognise and understand conceptual links and relationships.

Towards a radical philosophy of education: some questions for reflection

* What am I trying to achieve? Personal promotion? Good results from students? Instilling a love of knowledge? Surviving the day? Teacher motivations are complex and variegated (Connell, 1985). One of the things teachers need to do is examine their ‘taken-for-granted’ objectives and to think quite hard about what they ultimately hope to achieve by being a teacher (apart from a salary, the importance of which we would not deny). But as we have emphasised on a number of occasions in this book, classrooms are places where a number of things are occurring simultaneously. In particular, both individual histories and social patterns are being forged. But teachers tend to be aware of, and orient their teaching towards, individual histories. They tend to ignore the social patterns or at best remain aware only of classroom climates: the ‘good’ class, the ‘difficult’ class, the class with the terrible x or y in it, and so forth. 247

Teachers and change Thus, as we observed in Chapter Six, teachers tend to orient teaching strategies towards the individual rather than the socially patterned context, hence the emphasis on motivation, control, discipline, assessment and so on. In so doing, they contribute, often unwittingly, to the patterned inequalities of class, race, ethnicity and gender mentioned frequently throughout the book. Teachers therefore need to consider the broader social patterns of inequality to which their daily taken-forgranted practices may be contributing. In part, this involves going beyond the usual and somewhat simplistic considerations of ‘motivation’, ‘discipline’ and ‘family background’ (Connell, 1985) in considering why some students ‘take’ to schooling while others don’t. Related to this then is the question:

* How do I decide what’s worthwhile education? Accept what’s in the syllabus? Accept whatever the principal/ subject coordinator etc. decrees? Ask the students? Or their parents? Obviously there are no simple definitions of worthwhile knowledge. For some, worthiness rests in the intrinsic virtue of the particular knowledge being espoused: Shakespearian plays, for example. For others, worthiness has something to do with relevance to the learner, having as much to do with process as with content. We believe that worthwhile education should, among other things, help students to get jobs and help them to understand and actively participate in the world in which they live. This sounds platitudinous, but it is an important ingredient for a broader consideration of student ‘motivation’ and success. By ‘understanding’ we mean here an understanding of the various social forces which go to make up ‘society’ and which construct people as individuals within that society. History therefore can become more than a description of events or an aggregate of facts about important people of the past. It may provide a means through which students gain some understanding of the social dynamics of their local community (and hence of themselves as social beings), as well as of the broader sweep of human endeavour over time. Through history, too, students have the opportunity to learn about which social groups dominated, and were dominated, and why. (See McQueen, 1986.) Similarly, drama can become much more than simply the study of ‘important plays’. Drama can also provide a creative avenue for building 248

Teachers and change students’ self-confidence and sense of self (Watson, 1985). Additionally, drama can become a powerful tool for broadening students’ understanding of the diversity and inequalities of social and cultural groupings. Science may become an arena not just for decontextualised learning of experiments, formulae and so forth, but for thinking about the more serious questions of the relationship between people and nature, exploitation of the earth’s resources, the nature of scientific decisionmaking, the politics of research funding (e.g., bombs or safe cars) and so on (Biggins, 1984). English can become a subject which allows students to explore and understand their own world more comprehensively, rather than simply (and alienatingly) the remote world of formal grammar or literary criticism (Lingard and MacLennan, 1983). Through the study of literature, students can be introduced to the world of ‘empowering’ ideas through which, again, they can gain insights into both their own lives and the working of the world around them. And so on. An essential characteristic of ‘worthwhile knowledge’ then, in our view, is that it involves ‘education’ in the full sense of that word, rather than simply ‘training’. Thus worthwhile knowledge, as we understand it, while starting with students’ own experiences and knowledge must eventually extend well beyond personal ‘relevance’; eventually students should be able not only to understand themselves and their immediate circumstances, but through education they should acquire the intellectual armoury to enable them to critically evaluate their society and to question the taken-for-granted. However, we would not want to deny the strength and importance of some forms of so-called ‘traditional’ knowledge. In this context then, we would support more traditional concerns for the study of the ‘great ideas’ (however defined) of art, literature, science and so forth, not because they are great in themselves, but because, handled appropriately (that is, appropriately selected knowledge for the appropriate stage in students’ intellectual development), such ideas ultimately represent powerful knowledge, both instrumentally, in terms of ‘cultural capital’ (and hence life chances) and intrinsically, in terms of contributing to a critical understanding and appreciation of the world. None of this is to suggest, incidentally, that all education has to be ‘deep and meaningful’. There is always space for fun and trivia! And intrinsic to our view of worthwhile education is the notion that education is a creative process which builds upon the existing talents of all students. We do not give detailed curriculum guidelines here for achieving the objectives just sketched out, although in the next 249

Teachers and change chapter we do give examples of some specific curriculum initiatives which go some way towards achieving such objectives. But clearly the approach suggested here presents a considerable challenge for teachers which draws deeply on their ‘professional’ reserves (more of which shortly). Amongst other things, considerations about ‘worthwhile knowledge’ also raise the question:

* How should I teach? As we have noted on a number of occasions throughout this book, the schooling experience is demoralising and alienating for many students, and indeed for a number of teachers. A major component of this demoralisation comes from the repeatedly unsatisfactory classroom relationships between teacher and the taught. Many teachers choose to ignore this basic ‘social fact’ of classroom life. However, we would argue, in considering the question of ‘how to teach’, it is necessary to pay as much attention to this neglected aspect of the ‘hidden curriculum’ as to the more obvious demands of the particular lesson in hand. In general terms, this involves being concerned for creating a humane and equitable classroom ‘climate’ based on mutual respect between teacher and student, and refusing to ‘write off those students who in one way or another fail to conform to teachers’ values, expectations or knowledge systems (see also Chapter Five). We would stress here that such an approach to teaching is not one that can be readily captured in ‘effective teaching’ recipes (useful though these may be along the way). Rather, the creation of an educationally open environment is something that teachers learn to develop over time and on the basis of a well-internalised grasp of the principles underlying a more democratic approach to education, including the notion that ultimately the teacher’s authority, if it is to be effective, must be based on respect, not fear or indifference. The distinction here is between the authoritative and the authoritarian teacher. The question of how to teach is of course also closely related to what to teach. As we noted in Chapter Two, research indicates that most teachers adopt a ‘chalk and talk’ style. Now, there may be times when a purely didactic style is appropriate, and we certainly don’t deny the necessity of ‘writing down the facts’ on occasions. But as we have tried to make clear, and this is really implicit in our discussion of the last 250

Teachers and change question, most facts in themselves are not very interesting even if they do tend to form the bulk of what most students are tested on. Of course, twisting the curriculum into some kind of meaningful shape along the lines suggested in the previous question may mean the end of conventionally quiet and orderly classes and a change from the usual classroom rhythms. So another question might be:

*How can I keep classroom control and motivate reluctant learners? Questions of discipline and motivation frequently fall squarely within the ambit of educational psychology, and the attentive reader by now will have discerned our reservations about some of the assumptions underlying psychological approaches to education. Certainly we would not deny the usefulness and sense of reassurance given to teachers by ‘Monday morning’ strategies (frequently deriving from psychological theories of motivation and control) for dealing with recalcitrant students. Our concern, however, is that many of these strategies, particularly those based on ‘behaviour modification’ techniques, are sociologically blind, contributing directly to the inequitable outcomes of schooling to which we refer so often. One reason for this is that such techniques generally encompass a ‘cultural deficit’ view of students (see Chapter Seven). That is, in assessing which students require ‘motivating’ or ‘disciplining’, teachers frequently make quite value laden and derogatory judgements about the behaviours and cultural backgrounds of their students. (See also Chapter Five.) Even those strategies cast in a more humanistic mould (for example, paying particular attention to the problems of students from ‘broken homes’), often fail to take into account a basic sociological fact about schooling, namely that discipline problems or lack of motivation frequently don’t come ‘simply’ from a ‘poor’ home background or ‘natural aggression’. Rather, such ‘motivational’ problems may well have their genesis in students’ total boredom with, and alienation from, a school system whose curricula and pedagogy are designed to cater for the needs of a minority of students. If this is the case, then more appropriate, sociologically based strategies must be sought to deal with what we certainly agree are very real problems for teachers. Some answers, we suggest, lie in changing traditional concepts of school 251

Teachers and change organisation, curriculum, teaching methods and teacher-student relationships (see further Chapter Nine), and certainly not in the ‘blaming the victim’ syndrome which, explicitly or subtly, pervades much psychological theorising on this vexed question. (Other answers, of course, lie somewhat beyond the immediate scope of teachers, in making changes to the social structure and in reorganising funding priorities within the education sphere.) More generally, we would suggest that questions of motivation and control have to be tackled at two levels, short-term and long-term. In the short term, of course we would agree that beginning teachers, for example, must make use of whatever recipes or strategies they can lay their hands on in order to survive the first one or two difficult years of teaching (and the subsequent ‘inspection’). But equally, we would stress the absolute necessity of moving away from such ‘props’ in the long term, and of starting to think seriously about some of the social and cultural factors underlying apparent indiscipline or lack of motivation (Presdee, 1983; Radical Education Dossier, 1981). Failure to do this, we suggest, means that teachers are becoming ‘incorporated’ into a system almost designed to produce ‘deviance’ and apathy amongst significant sections of the school population. This in turn simply makes the task of teaching (and learning) that much more difficult and stressful. However, turning the focus of motivation and discipline away from individual students (and their family backgrounds) and onto questions of school organisation and curriculum instead, raises another question, namely:

* How do I get around the demands of the system? There are a number of issues here. Timetabling. Relationships with the hierarchy and with colleagues. Relationships with students. As was shown in Chapter Four, the bureaucracy is both an administrative and a social arrangement. Indeed, it is hard to imagine an enterprise as large and complex as education being managed on anything but bureaucratic lines. Thus teachers have to learn skills of making the bureaucracy work for, rather than against them. This process can begin in the classroom. No matter how cumbersome the system, or how bureaucratic the particular school, there is absolutely no reason for individual teachers to extend ‘bureaucratic consciousness’ into the classroom. Even though, to take an extreme 252

Teachers and change example, syllabuses and forms of assessment may be predetermined, there are ways for creative teachers to at least ensure that relationships with students and teaching styles remain humane and non-bureaucratic. Again, we do not propose to spell out exactly how. It is our experience that teachers who see that ‘bureaucratic consciousness’ constitutes a problem will eventually find ways to militate against this. The real question, it seems, is to see the problem in the first place. But simply unravelling bureaucracy within the confines of particular classrooms is not very satisfactory in the end, and can only go so far in coming to grips with the ways in which the education system, through its curriculum and assessment procedures and its patterns of organisation, forges and reinforces those patterns of inequality to which we have referred so often. So teachers need to think about how they can start to work with each other in order to break down the bureaucratic barriers of the school. A number of teachers working together are more likely to be able to mount persuasive arguments for timetable and/or curriculum change, for example, than a lone voice. A number of teachers working together are more likely to convince a principal that it may be in the long term interests of the school, the students, and the principal’s own promotion chances for certain reforms or changes to take place. At a broader level again, teachers can mount more effective action through larger collectivities. These exist, as we suggested earlier, within, for example, Aboriginal education, in women’s educational networks and, obviously, through subject associations and teacher unions. However, though the vast bulk of teachers belong to unions, only a minority tend to be active participants. One major reason for this lies in teachers’ ambiguous professional status. So another important question to consider is:

* What does it mean to be a professional? White (1983a,b) refers to the need to dissect the ideology of teacher professionalism. By this he means that the term ‘professional’ sometimes acts to keep teachers locked into the system, rather than enabling them to confront the system. (Chapter One provides a more extended discussion of this issue.) White is talking about the role of teacher unions in promoting change, and about teachers’ 253

Teachers and change reluctance to engage in union activity because it somehow seems ‘unprofessional’. There are a number of points to be made here. The first is that, under certain circumstances, even the most ‘professional’ of professionals find it totally within their capabilities to engage in militant union activity: witness for example the actions of the NSW procedural specialists during 1985 in their campaign against ‘socialised’ medicine (Medicare). In other words, the distinction between unionism, with its connotations of collective industrial action by manual workers, and the mystique of professionalism, built around notions of secret knowledge and individual expertise, is beginning to break down. Yet teachers’ ambivalent professional status has helped to maintain their isolation and inhibit active union organisation. Furthermore, as Grace (1985) points out, the ideology of professionalism has helped sustain, and indeed been an integral part of, the growth of corporate-scientific forms of education (referred to in Chapter Four as the scientisation of education) which over recent years have substituted for more explicitly authoritarian forms of control over teachers (Pusey, 1983). But as Grace (1985) and Connell (1985) both point out, some teachers read a different meaning into the concept of professional. For this category of teacher, it is the element of autonomy within professionalism which is important, enabling an assertion of independence from bureacuratic or management constraints. At times, such a view may be aligned with a strong commitment to social and political reform as part of an ongoing professional commitment. Viewed this way, professionalism is linked to a sense of personal autonomy which in turn is viewed as an element of purposive collective action in order to challenge certain aspects of the existing administrative, pedagogic or social arrangements of education. Professionals, then, in this latter sense of the word, are not technicians who tend to succumb blindly to the prevailing orthodoxies. Technicians may hone up their affective and cognitive objectives without really thinking that the distinction between them might be silly and artificial (Symes, 1984); they may work assiduously through the modular curriculum packages without reflecting that the modules may be irrelevant to their students’ concerns. Technicians may work hard at perfecting their teaching styles, without recognising that the style may be barren in the absence of an understanding of the underlying realities of classroom behaviour. They may have beautifully executed lesson plans, but be totally unable to engage in a critical discussion with their students about the real issues of the time. 254

Teachers and change How teachers interpret their professional status therefore has an important bearing on how they ultimately carry out their teaching role. For us then, the question of teacher professionalism is an important issue with ideological overtones which require some careful ‘thinking through’. Very often, of course, as suggested previously, this ideology of professionalism is used to isolate teachers and therefore to inhibit collective action. An important aspect of the conservatising force of professionalism lies in the fact that ultimately teachers tend to be held accountable on the basis of their classroom management skills and student performance, both of which are likely to drive teachers ‘inwards’ into more narrowly conceived, though often well-intentioned, individualistic concerns and practices. Consequently, a commonly asked question is:

* How can I help the ‘bright’ and ‘not so bright’ students all at the same time? Notions of ‘bright’ and ‘dumb’ students are, as we have pointed out earlier, central teacher constructs. They are powerful and persuasive labels whose use is almost impossible to avoid. Yet we suggest they should be at least mentally bracketed, or called into question, for as was indicated in Chapter Six, the notion of ability is very problematic indeed. Students become defined as ‘able’ by an education system geared towards certain ends which are highly inegalitarian in nature. Hence, what are often cultural differences are treated as manifestations of differences in individual ability. In the process, a whole range of experiences, talents and interests are excluded from the ‘normal’ school curriculum, thus contributing to the evolving vicious circle which allows some students to be considered ‘dumb’ and others to be considered ‘smart’. The same sorts of built-in mechanisms tend to see girls labelled as ‘not good at science and maths’, and boys labelled as ‘not interested in typing or cooking’. Teachers need to think hard about why these gender and class-based labels arise. And they need to think about how they can reform their teaching styles and content to help overcome such socially constructed divisions. As we stressed in previous chapters, we are not disputing the existence of differential interests and abilities. Amongst other things, teachers must consider how to rearrange the curriculum to ensure that the spread of interests and abilities 255

Teachers and change is not class and gender skewed. Once teachers begin to think this way, they will also start to question the deeper ideology of meritocracy (the other side of the ‘bright’ and ‘dumb’ coin) which, to reiterate, suggests that all students who ‘try’ and ‘have the ability’ will succeed at school. We hope we have indicated the patent absurdity of this notion: as argued in Chapter Six, schools are constructed to produce success and failure. Teachers of course are not able to alter the broader social and economic setting within which education functions, hence they are unable to eradicate the sources of meritocratic ideology. But teachers are empowered to deal with the curriculum at school and in this context at least can go some way towards utilising the full range of talents, aspirations and experiences offered by any classroom of students. This does not really address the original question. But our discussion here is meant to show the need to reformulate that kind of perennial question asked by many teachers in such a way so as to allow them greater scope for genuinely teaching for ‘individual interests’ and ‘individual differences’. In so doing, however, the very real question arises:

* How can I get away from the competitive academic curriculum? This is a thorny question, currently at the centre of considerable debate, and we will discuss it in more detail in the next chapter. One major dilemma, to which we referred at the beginning of this chapter, is that while the competitive academic curriculum (CAC) remains entrenched in the elite private schools and sections of some state high schools, any educational alternatives run the risk of attracting ‘residual’ status (Chapter Four), so that well-intentioned reform once again becomes subverted by education’s essentially class reproductive role. For all that, we would agree with those (e.g., Connell et al., 1982; Dwyer et al., 1984) who argue for the development of ‘organic’ working class school curricula as a necessary prerequisite for any long-term project of providing students with the kinds of understandings to which we alluded previously. This means that initially, effective pedagogy and curriculum will have to connect with working-class interests and cultural perspectives. Ultimately, however, education for workingclass students (as for all students) must aim at breaking down class/cultural barriers in order to allow access to ‘worlds previously undreamed of’. (See Chapter Nine.) 256

Teachers and change Thus, even if teachers cannot in themselves change the class structure, undermining the CAC remains an important aspect of those major questions we raised earlier in the chapter. That is, ‘humanising’ the curriculum (and therefore the experience of schooling) is an important end in itself. Furthermore, although credentialism remains rampant, there is some evidence to suggest that employers may be becoming more open to alternative ways of deriving those credentials in the light of the demonstrated failure of the CAC to provide working-class students with the kinds of ‘employable’ skills many jobs require. Here teachers need to tread warily, for the obvious danger is that the ‘trans-ed’ type alternatives geared specifically to employer demands do indeed highlight and reinforce class-biased education (Bates et al., 1984; Dwyer et al., 1984, ch. 6). The important thing is to provide alternatives to the CAC which make students more, rather than less, powerful. (A few trans-ed programs, particularly in Victoria, were moving in this direction.) Thus the alternative to classical economics, for example, is not the descriptive banalities of some Cit. Ed./Social Studies courses which don’t get much beyond teaching form-filling skills (useful as this may be) or rote facts on the functions of federal versus state powers of government. Rather, such alternatives would, in ways geared to students’ own experiences, get them thinking not just (for example) about the fact of unemployment, or how to cope with it, but about how to understand their predicament and ultimately to challenge those political and economic arrangements which result in the present unacceptable levels of unemployment. (See Bates et al., 1984; Watson, 1985.) In challenging the CAC in this way, we are really posing a redistributive model of educational change (Smith, 1983) which, as indicated in a slightly different context in Chapter Three, will inevitably generate a conservative backlash which extends well beyond the educational arena. For this reason, then, teachers have to confront another question, which is

* How can I more effectively challenge what schools do? This question often vexes radicalised teachers who, having gained some insights into the problems surrounding teaching, feel frustrated at their powerlessness to effect meaningful social change, without which, they realise, many educational reforms become impossible. At this stage, we suggest, teachers need to broaden the forums from which they operate. We agree that schools provide only limited 257

Teachers and change opportunities for educational reform, important though these are (for as we have indicated, even if school-based reforms cannot overcome social and economic inequalities, they can at least make schools more humanitarian places). Radical teachers therefore need to join with other groups interested in social reform. This means active involvement in teacher union activities at the very least, for as we indicated in Chapter Four, unions do provide one forum for promoting educational policy issues which can have far-reaching effect. But teachers interested in bringing about real social change will have to face other political involvements, possibly with the ALP or with other activist groupings (e.g., the peace movement, the Greens, women’s groups, Aboriginal groups and so on). Teachers then need to integrate the insights gained by participation in such groupings into their own teaching practice. This is a long-term rather than a short-term goal. It involves thinking about much broader social concerns, gaining a clear understanding of the relationship between school and society, and some notion of where Australian society (and its education system) ought to be heading. In other words, it involves not only a personal philosophy of education, but a political philosophy of life. We have tried throughout this book to indicate our own view of such matters. We have depicted a society in which, in common with much of the Western world, disparities of wealth and privilege are increasing, and this at a time when technological advances offer real possibilities for social betterment for all. While we do not believe that education can be at the cutting edge of change, we do believe that if teachers are prepared to think about issues such as the ones adumbrated here, schools can become part of a cultural arena providing an important element in social change. The role of education in promoting and supporting social change is seen in recent educational policy decisions: multicultural education; anti-sexism education; the Participation and Equity Program; affirmative action programs; to name a few initiatives. These policy initiatives should not be seen in isolation. In each instance, they form part of broader policy decisions aimed at fostering different social relationships in Australia. The success of such policies, given the entrenched relationships of class and gender characteristic of a patriarchal and capitalist society, is of course always problematic. Some would argue that such policies of reform represent an impossible contradiction in societies such as ours. This may be so. But it seems to us an untenable position to hold if we are going to be teachers. It would imply leaving teaching altogether in order to devote oneself full-time to 258

Teachers and change political action, or alternatively, ‘copping out’ of participating in reformist programs altogether on the grounds that they are doomed to failure. And so it seems there is another question with which to grapple:

* Is it all worthwhile? It seems to us that one of the most important recognitions that teachers have to come to terms with is that there is no final resolution. There will probably never be equality of the kind for which we all strive. That does not make the struggle less important. Any reduction of racial or ethnic discrimination, of gender or class inequality, is important. If it can be extended to the work of a whole school, so much the better. If it can encompass a whole district, better still. But there is no end point at which to pull up and say, This is it.’ Ultimately, satisfaction in teaching will have to come from an intrinsic enjoyment of the struggle and the challenges it provides, even though the confrontation with social reality may at times (as many beginning teachers have told us) be ‘depressing’. Many teachers have tired of the seemingly endless array of disadvantaged groups that have to be considered in a thoroughgoing reform of curriculum and school organisation. They find refuge therefore in a safe middle-class school where there is no incongruence between the school environment and their conception of being a teacher. Or they find refuge in the private schools, where the students seem so much ‘nicer’, come from ‘better homes’, and where they can get down to ‘real learning’. (And ironically, some of the most radical teaching occurs in such schools.) But, as we have indicated throughout, such schools are just that: refuges. They represent an escape from one reality, rather than the full reality itself. This is not to suggest that teachers should approach working-class schools with either a sense of guilt or a sense of mission. But they should, we consider, approach their teaching with a sense of vision.

* The radical teacher In concluding this chapter, we would like to address the question of what it means to be a radical teacher in Australia in the latter part of the twentieth century. We recognise that these are very different times from the ‘flower power’ 1960s, when 259

Teachers and change social reform (or even revolutionary change) seemed within grasp. Today, educational financing is severely constrained as even Labor governments strive to demonstrate their ability to ‘make capitalism work’ and solve the fiscal crisis of the state, in order to sustain the confidence of the business community and indeed of the international money market, and so retain government. This, together with the variety of control mechanisms upon teachers, means that teachers are becoming an even more marginalised group than before. (The change in title of the educational journal Radical Education Dossier to Education Links is a good example of this change in social climate and so is the changed emphasis from the first (1973) to the second (1985) Karmel Reports.) For all that, such pressures upon teachers contain contradictory elements. In the vexed question of ‘what to do with youth’, radical teachers paradoxically may be able to offer clues which are not part of the intellectual armoury of the conservatives who tend to seek solutions from the past. This raises a further issue: What is the difference between a radical teacher, a progressive teacher and a conservative teacher? And does it matter? The distinctions are important, though we would be wary of suggesting that teachers, in practice, fall into such easily separated categories. Indeed, as Connell (1985) has shown, in teachers’ daily practice different philosophical traditions may happily coexist. In general terms, however, we suggest that conservative teachers tend to focus around the ‘old’ issues of ‘standards’, ‘discipline’ and traditional subjects, and the newer issue of ‘accountability’. Although acknowledgement of a changing world may be made, educational solutions are not seen as having changed greatly. Thus questions of youth unemployment are framed, in educational terms, as ‘giving youth the kind of education they’ll need’ for the changing work situation, or for their adjustment to the way things are. Nor are they so much concerned with changing the traditional curriculum as ensuring that as many students as possible get it. In this way, standards are seen to be maintained and teachers, on the basis of student performance, are seen to be accountable. Conservatives, clearly, work very much within the meritocratic tradition. Progressive teachers tend to be more concerned with the individual development of the student; their approach is nicely captured in Connell’s (1985) metaphor of making a garden grow. Progressives have had considerable impact in humanising schooling and making it more relevant to student concerns and needs. From the radical point of view, however, (e.g., Sharp and Green, 1975) the progressives’ individualistic orientation, and their focus upon process almost to the exclusion of 260

Teachers and change content in education, means that they tend to ignore the totality of the social structure in which education is embedded, and therefore remain blind to the ways in which schooling reproduces social inequalities. (See Hunt et al., 1984; Haug, 1985.) What then of the radical teacher? Radical teachers, in our view, combine the conservatives’ concern with ‘knowledge’ (though differently defined), the progressives’ concern with individuals and their needs, and a commitment to democratise the social context within which that knowledge and those individuals exist. It is important to note here that such a concern requires a political commitment to social change and not just a personal commitment to an improvement in the lives of individual students. We could perhaps summarise the qualities of the radical teacher in the following way. Radicals are informed by a utopian vision of the good society and by a deepseated commitment to social justice. They are not martyrs (or at least the effective ones are not). Good radicals work within the system, stretching it to its limits as the situation demands, yet knowing when to back off, constantly treading the tightrope between the demands of the system and personal and political commitment. Radical teachers eschew ‘bureaucratic consciousness’ and the technicist mentality. (See Bates, 1984.) Yet they can deal with, and take on the role of, bureaucrat, and they can mimic the technocratic style when necessary. But they retain an objective awareness of the system in which they work, able to take advantage of the ‘gaps’, ‘wedges’ and ‘contradictions’ within it. A coherent educational philosophy allows radicals to work at an individual level, with particular students; at a classroom level, in terms of constantly monitoring and modifying curriculum where appropriate and possible (for example, to make it less sexist, less racist and generally less exclusive); and at a systems level, in terms of working with colleagues and making the best of the educational hierarchy. But radicals also work at the broader political level, including union activity, so that their educational work is linked with a concern with broader social issues. It is perhaps this latter aspect (which should be distinguished from the progressives’ concern with apolitical ‘community involvement’) which most characterises and distinguishes the radical teacher. Radical teachers work collectively where possible, in recognition of the fact that isolation is personally demoralising and socially regressive. This is why radical 261

Teachers and change teachers generally are also strong unionists (though the reverse is not necessarily true!). Radical teachers have to read, to discuss, to share ideas and experiences in order to contribute to a more broadly based movement of social change and reform. This point is critical, for it is important that the radical stance should be informed and relevant, not simply a ‘knee-jerk’ ad hoc response to contingent circumstances.

Further reading Apple, M. (1983), ‘Work, class and teaching’, in S. Walker and L. Barton (eds), Gender, Class and Education, Sussex: Falmer Press, pp. 53-66. Discusses some of the difficulties and ‘contradictions’ of teaching in a ‘technocratic’ system. Bates, R. (1984), ‘Education, community and the crisis of the state’, Discourse, vol. 4, no. 2, pp. 59-84. Read especially for Bates’ discussion of the ‘technicist mentality’. Connell, R. (1985), Teachers’ Work, Sydney: Allen & Unwin. Based on ‘constructed’ case studies of a number of teacher ‘types’. This is a readable book, free of jargon, canvassing a wide range of issues to do with teachers’ perceptions and experiences of their work. Grace, G. (1985), ‘Judging teachers: the social and political contexts of teacher evaluation’, British Journal of Sociology of Education, vol. 6, no. 1, pp. 3-16. Like Apple, Grace is also interested in the ambiguities of teacher professionalism. (His earlier book, Teachers, Ideology and Control is referred to at the end of Chapter Four.) This is a short and readable article which takes up, in particular, the pressures on teachers’ ‘professionalism’ emanating from the current socioeconomic climate in Britain. Grace is also interesting for his historical perspective on teacher professionalism. Presdee, M. (1979), ‘Education for the dole? An examination of the relationship between education and unemployment’, Radical Education Dossier, no. 10, pp. 4-7. An incisive and readable article. Presdee’s discussion of the ideological attacks on schooling in the current economic climate provide a useful counterbalance to more ‘common-sense’ arguments about student motivation and discipline. Radical Education Dossier, no. 17, 1981. This journal (later named Education Links) is also referred to at the end of Chapter Nine. This particular issue on school discipline includes a number of useful articles written from a sociological perspective which help to put ‘common-sense’ accounts of students’ ‘discipline’ in a broader perspective. Social Alternatives, vol. 4, no. 2, 1984. This issue, entitled ‘Radicalising Schooling’, contains many short, easy to read articles canvassing most of the issues raised in this and other chapters.

262

Teachers and change White, R. (1983), ‘On teachers and proletarianisation’, Discourse, vol. 3, no. 2, pp. 45-57. White, R. (1983), ‘Teacher militancy, ideology and politics’, Australian and New Zealand Journal of Sociology, vol. 19, no. 2, pp. 253-71. Both articles are concerned with questions of teacher professionalism.

263

Chapter Nine

Radical teaching and the adaptive school

The conventional type of education, which trains children to docility and obedience, to the careful performance of imposed tasks because they are imposed, regardless of where they lead, is suited to an autocratic society. These are the traits needed in a state where there is one head to plan and care for the lives and institutions of the people. But in a democracy they interfere with the successful conduct of society and government. . . . Responsibility for the conduct of society and government rests upon every member of society. Therefore, everyone must receive a training that will enable him to meet this responsibility, giving him just ideas of the condition and needs of the people collectively, and developing those qualities which will ensure his doing a fair share of the work of government (John and Evelyn Dewey, Schools of Tomorrow, 1915, pp. 218, 219).

Highlighting the major problems Throughout this book we have highlighted a number of problems with schooling as it currently exists. In particular, we have discussed the failure of schools to address social inequalities and we have shown how school processes are in fact actively involved in maintaining existing inequalities in class, race, ethnicity and gender. Further, we have discussed the alienation experienced by students who do not manage to succeed in the system. Studies of early school leavers (Hawkins, 1982, 264

Radical teaching and the adaptive school p. 9; see also Chapter Two) show that secondary students cite the arbitrary nature of authority in schools, the denial of expression of mature adult behaviour and exclusion from decision-making, as well as irrelevant curricula, as contributing to their alienation. Secondary schools have, until the recent past, served to prepare a select elite for tertiary education. Since youth unemployment has impacted upon schools, more and more students are staying on to upper secondary schooling. And specific government policies such as PEP are aimed at achieving higher participation in full secondary schooling. The abolition of unemployment benefits for 16 and 17 year olds of course will have a similar effect. Thus there are real pressures now being placed on secondary schools in terms of their organisation and curricular provisions. Historically, it seems we may be moving into a period when increasingly a full secondary schooling will become the norm for more and more students. The vibrant secondary school curriculum debate at present relates to this significant historical change. We will take up some of these matters in what follows. How can we change school experience so that students do not become alienated, and perhaps at the same time do something about inequality? How can we give working-class students, girls, migrants and Aborigines a better chance in our schools? How can schools cater adequately and appropriately for the growing numbers in upper secondary school? In this chapter we will discuss some of these general problems with schooling and review some possibilities for change. Where possible we will refer to specific examples of actual innovations in school programs and curricula in Australia. Most attention will be given to working at reform within the state systems. Alternative schools are of interest but tend to be elitist and fail to benefit the bulk of our students. On the other hand, alternatives within the state systems, particularly in Victoria, tend to provide models and inspiration for changes which have the potential to be felt more widely. We have emphasised the many problems associated with the selection and allocation function of schooling. Because of the requirement that schools should prepare students for the workforce or for further study, schools tend to act as sorting and sifting mechanisms. Thus selection and allocation functions dominate schooling through assessment and credentialling. 265

Radical teaching and the adaptive school As we have said, this selectivity pervades the whole system and dominates the curriculum with increasing weight as the senior years of high school approach. It tends to rest on dubious assumptions such as ‘ability’ and ‘intelligence’ which we have discussed in Chapter Six. Consequently, as Hannan (1982a) points out, failure is always attributed to students rather than to courses, so that teachers are not forced to cater more adequately for student needs. The fact that large proportions of students are turned off school by the Competitive Academic Curriculum of course creates enormous problems in terms of control and motivation for teachers who are already coping with large class sizes and scarce resources. Students tend to become alienated and resist schooling with the long-term consequence (as addressed throughout this book) of the maintenance of educational and social inequalities. We need to think about how we can more adequately meet the needs of a much wider group of students. Hannan (1982a) asserts that we have thought about access to schools, but not much about success in schools. As Linley Samuel (1983b, p. 18) puts it: ‘The problem is not that working class kids reject education, but that they are never really offered it.’ This could also be said, as we have seen, of other disadvantaged groups. These issues were also discussed by the Schools Commission (1980) in their report, Schooling for 15 and 16 Year Olds, and again more recently in their Participation and Equity Program (PEP) document (1984). In both reports the Commission stressed the need for a more explicit commitment to all students through an attempt to relate school knowledge more to life experience. They were also critical of many features of school organisation and commented on the need for improved interpersonal relationships in schools. It is important to recognise that the structure of schooling, forms of pedagogy, and the content of education should not be considered in isolation. (See, for example, Haug, 1985.) Thus, for example, it is not likely to be effective to teach democratic principles to a group of passive and teacher-dominated students. It is equally inappropriate to emphasise process to the neglect of content, for example, encouraging inquiry-oriented approaches to learning without an adequate concern for the particular issues being pursued. In the discussion which follows, the relationship of form and content must always be kept in mind.

266

Radical teaching and the adaptive school The curriculum debate In terms of catering more effectively for a wider group of students there have been two rather different developments. Some writers have argued for a more inclusive common curriculum in contrast to a selective exclusive academic curriculum. Others argue that a working-class curriculum needs to be developed to cater for working-class students. Either of these options may take the form of what has been termed the socially critical approach to curriculum. We will discuss these alternatives in turn and give some examples of the forms these new approaches can take. Proponents of a common curriculum argue that there are certain outcomes of schooling which all students should achieve during the compulsory years. This question was taken up in the paper Core Curriculum for Australian Schools (Curriculum Development Centre, 1980) and also in the Schooling for 15 and 16 Year Olds report (Schools Commission, 1980). The CDC document advocates the setting of general parameters for the kinds of understandings and skills which should be central to the curricula of all schools, leaving to individual school communities the development of appropriate and specific curricula. Thus the notion of a core or common curriculum is not inconsistent with school based curriculum development. (See Apple (1982c) for a critique of the CDC core curriculum approach.) There are important implications for schooling in this idea of a common curriculum. Certainly, many of those committed to a common curriculum are critical of the selection and allocation purposes of schooling and the negative effects they have on the classroom experiences of many students. They therefore tend to emphasise the potential for more democratic methods of organisation and likewise see assessment as being determined by the curriculum rather than (as is so often the case) the reverse. Proponents of a common curriculum also address the related practices of streaming, which so often institutionalise and reinforce student inequalities, as we have pointed out in Chapter Six. Ashenden (1984) develops the idea of a common curriculum of this kind in what he calls a contemporary democratic curriculum. (See also White et al., 1984.) In particular, he emphasises that a democratic curriculum should be common to all students and that choices should not involve any closing off of options. Also important is the need to stress cooperation rather than competition, and success 267

Radical teaching and the adaptive school rather than failure. He also emphasises the need for a democratic curriculum to be worthwhile, coherent, systematic, reflective, moral, practical and ‘do-able’ (in contrast to being designed as a mechanism of selection). It should also be inclusive. In Ashenden’s terms: It should quite clearly include in its content the everyday experience of all its students and reflect the character of the community. Which means in practice that what we teach has to be checked out to make sure it includes the often overlooked groups – girls, ethnic groups, working class people – and relates to the everyday experience of ordinary people (pp. 14-15). When discussing a common curriculum it is also important to stress that a central component must be to ensure access to a reasonable and adequate livelihood for young people. It is clear that this issue is particularly important for working-class people who to date have been particularly affected by unemployment (Dwyer et al., 1984). Many of the developments of the common curriculum kind do tend to be somewhat idealistic and, as Windschuttle (1984b) has pointed out, the Manifesto for a Democratic Curriculum (White et al., 1984) has no practical recommendations on the crucial question of the transition from school to work. By contrast, he argues that what is urgently needed to be added to the debate is the recognition of the importance of work for the real life chances of young people. Turning now to the notion of a working-class curriculum, a number of writers have called for schools to be organic to the working class in the same way that the ruling-class schools are organic to the ruling class (Connell et al., 1982). Such an approach involves ensuring that working-class experience and cultural perspectives are incorporated and legitimated in the school curriculum. Those arguing for using working-class cultural perspectives (Cameron et al., 1983) feel that a so-called ‘common culture’ cannot be assumed as a basis for curriculum planning. In Chapter Seven we pointed out the cultural component of social class and the related fact that different social classes experience the world differently. In the context of these class divisions (both economic and cultural) it is much more appropriate to speak of a ‘dominant culture’ rather than a common culture. Cameron et al. (1983) and O’Neill (1984) outline a number of principles which seem to have been important in developments in Victoria towards implementing 268

Radical teaching and the adaptive school more appropriate curricula in working-class schools. In relation to Kensington High School in Melbourne, O’Neill (1984, p. 16) writes, It was felt that whilst the changing economic climate and work-related issues were important, the school had to take seriously the cultural perspectives of its working class community and use the strengths and skills of this community as the basis for determining its curriculum, structure and process. Consequently, developing curricula in working-class schools involves a good deal of parental participation at a number of levels, and also the use of the neighbourhood as a resource. Kensington Community High has attempted to develop a curriculum for working-class people in the neighbourhood (Cameron et al., 1983; O’Neill, 1984). The school aims at collective decision making with involvement of students, staff, parents and the community. The program of the school is organised through four workshops: production, industrial, recreation and adventure. Among other aims the curriculum stresses cooperative group work and socially useful activity. The program is also based on projects which will assist students to find positions in work situations or in local, school-initiated cooperatives. Activities focusing on generating work have been important in the development of Kensington Community School. For example, the school has sponsored community employment programs with the potential to employ school leavers. At the same time, these programs ‘help to establish local control of services in the areas of welfare, recreation and education to ensure they meet community needs’ (O’Neill, 1984, p. 18). Thus a social action component is also involved. Some writers (e.g., Lawton, 1975) have criticised the concept of a working-class curriculum on the grounds that it locks working-class children into particular futures, and closes off rather than opens up options. (See also Ozolins’ (1979) critique of Lawton’s refutation of a working-class curriculum.) This view misunderstands the nature of such an approach to curriculum, for most supporters stress emphatically that although working-class experience is used as a starting point, a working-class oriented curriculum must not confine the horizons of the students. On this point, O’Neill writes: ‘The curriculum process begins with kids’ experience and knowledge; how this is connected with broader issues is crucial to the long term effectiveness of the curriculum’ (1984, p. 18). 269

Radical teaching and the adaptive school Hannan (1985) sees a working-class curriculum as part of the drive to develop a democratic curriculum. He argues that the present division (in curriculum development) should not be seen as a choice of alternatives: We do need a good analysis of our heritage of working class culture. We do also have to keep in mind that we’re not merely trying to implant a different class culture. . . . A democratic culture will be a synthesis of these conflicting class cultures. Thus we do not expect our kids to throw away their working class, or ethnic, language heritage, but we do not either expect them to know only that. We build on that with respect but with a knowledge of its limitations, till we achieve also ease with the various registers of power (p. 255). A further approach to curriculum, the socially critical school (Kemmis et al., 1983), places major emphasis on school processes. Kemmis and his colleagues argue for the centrality of curriculum in the integration of school and community. They stress that education in the true sense, as distinct from socialisation, or training, must explore questions of social justice and must contribute to the critical development of culture. The important elements of the socially critical school are ‘its notion of community, including the learning community, its collaborative character, its use of negotiation, and its aim of critical self-reflection’ (p. 16). These principles apply at the level of the whole school, at the level of classroom practice, and also at the level of school-community relations. For example at the classroom level there would be a negotiated curriculum. That is, teacher and students would negotiate in some degree the work to be done, the manner of its doing, and so forth. At the level of the whole school and with the community the same principles apply and we would expect to find participatory decision-making at both levels. In the socially critical school, teachers need to be concerned to provide students with learning experiences that result in their gaining an historical and critical perspective on society. Kemmis et al. (1983) emphasise that being a socially critical school is a continuing process. They suggest that only at the school level can the process of becoming socially critical begin, and the starting point may vary. Some schools have begun by introducing non-competitive assessment, others by setting up conditions for community participation in the school, and still others by establishing a negotiated curriculum. 270

Radical teaching and the adaptive school Because the socially critical school emphasises processes rather than curriculum content, it does not conflict with the idea of either a common curriculum (including the contemporary democratic curriculum) or a working-class curriculum. In fact, Dwyer et al.’s (1984) suggestions for an appropriate curriculum in a working-class area have some elements common to both. These ideas have grown from their work with a number of working-class schools in Melbourne. Drawing on the work of Paulo Freire, they argue that schools should aim to develop students’ capacities for critical reflection. They call for the application of that critical reflection to the connections that exist between the cultural, economic and political aspects of people’s lives, and an accompanying removal of the barriers that exist between these aspects as well as between schooling and real life (p. 143). They also stress the importance of a commitment to action and the development of programs for change. Other principles which these writers outline in schooling for working-class students include the promotion of open access for all to the human and material resources for learning, and (as noted above) a curriculum grounded in the students’ own traditions, values and experiences. They argue that there is a need for teachers to promote ‘a process of learning that confronts the political and cultural assumptions which lie behind the myth of universal education’ (p. 142). Consequently, it is important for teachers to oppose any attempts to use education to establish or justify a class structure. They give as an example the continued use of ‘narrow and weighted criteria (based on value-laden assumptions) in the assessment of matriculation scores’ (p. 142). We would argue too that many of their criticisms could also be most aptly applied to tests such as the Australian Scholastic Aptitude Test (ASAT) which is used to moderate school assessment in several school systems throughout Australia. A number of approaches have been taken in the development of more appropriate curricula in working-class schools and some references are listed at the end of this chapter. In general, however, they share as common themes a commitment to collective action, participatory decision-making and shared responsibility, together with a view of education as part of a broader program for 271

Radical teaching and the adaptive school social action. Here, drawing on the work of Dwyer and his colleagues, we would stress that to be effective, such approaches must address the need for students to gain an adequate means of livelihood. We would add that such approaches should also be concerned with content as well as more democratic processes. In working for curriculum reform there is often a need to consider long-term goals as well as more short-term goals to help students already in the system. As Harris (1982) points out, there is no contradiction in working at two levels simultaneously, being involved in both long- and short-term strategies. He has some interrelated general suggestions (pp. 150-2) for what he calls ‘Mondaymorning activities’ which again call for cooperation and collective work and participatory decision making. He argues that, as well as paying particular attention to combating sexism and racism in schools and class rooms, teachers should (p)romote class consciousness whenever possible. Use what freedom and control you have over the curriculum to introduce the working class and the concept of class struggle into schooling. This can be done in a subtle manner in all subjects and at all levels (p. 151). They should also (h)elp make pupils more aware of the way authority structures and economic systems influence their lives. This can be done in lessons on respectable topics such as pollution, trade, etc.: in fact, anywhere (p. 152). Ted Trainer (1984) also argues that radical educators must work at two levels. Firstly, progressive teachers must be concerned with how to help disadvantaged students within the current educational and social structures. Thus he argues that such teachers should aim to get more girls, more poor kids, and more Aborigines to successfully complete secondary schooling and to enter and complete tertiary education. But he stresses that much more than this is required, for basically such an occurrence would simply see a reshuffling of the incidence of inequality. Thus, in addition, social/structural changes are required to reduce such inequalities altogether. As he puts it: If you want to alter the amount of inequality and disadvantage in society you must intervene to change the rules and structures of society, to change things like the wage rates and pensions, unemployment rates and the distribution of wealth (p. 5). 272

Radical teaching and the adaptive school In this context, he affirms the importance of the content (or subject matter) of education in raising awareness of these structural problems, as a possible precursor to more radical social change. We have pointed out that a major feature of school selection processes is the pervasiveness of competitive forms of assessment. Many schools wishing to change have addressed the issue of assessment as their first priority. In Australia there is an increasing movement towards school-based or internal forms of assessment in state education department policies (Schools Commission, 1980). Changes at the school level have also helped bring about changes in policy, particularly where teacher unions, as in Victoria, have been involved in campaigning for curriculum change. (See also Bull and Tons, 1985, on the interrelationship between practice and policy in the formulation of multicultural education policy in South Australia.) In many Victorian schools, forms of descriptive assessment and goal-based assessment have been introduced (Hannan, 1982a, 1984). Goal-based assessment was pioneered at Sydney Road Community School (an alternative school within the state system). In goal-based assessment, the student contracts to complete a number of specific tasks in a particular unit of work. In this context, Hannan (1982a, p. 29) emphasises that goals must play down ‘hazy notions like ability’ and play up the value of the actual work produced by the student. He argues that evaluation of courses must go on at the same time as assessment of students. Goals must be achievable, and if a student is meeting all contracted agreements but not improving, there must be something wrong with the course rather than the student. These ideas are consistent with Mike Middleton’s (1982) notion of ‘continuous achievement’ for students. Streaming and assessment are two sides of the one coin. Research suggests that, in terms of academic achievement, streaming does not achieve its intended objectives. It tends to inhibit learning in average and low-achieving children and can have disastrous effects socially. In Victoria there have been moves towards teaching in ‘mixed ability’ groups and eliminating streaming (Hannan, 1982b). Interestingly, such innovations have occurred in science and mathematics classrooms, as well as in English, with apparent success. This is significant, because maths and science are subjects where teachers have often claimed that ability grouping is essential. Mixed ability group teaching (see our reservations on the use of the concept of ‘ability’ in schools in Chapter Six) is of course a challenge: teachers need to think 273

Radical teaching and the adaptive school about catering to the range of student interests, capacities and needs. But many teachers have found they have managed to teach such groups successfully with variation of activities, the use of small groups, a cooperative learning atmosphere and individualised approaches. In thinking about catering for a wide range of interests, teachers have been forced to organise activities which have relevance for the students. As one teacher, in discussing his strategies, said, ‘There has to be meaning and purpose in what the kids do. Without that you get nowhere’ (Hannan, 1982b, p. 10). In a mixed abilities checklist of practical strategies published in The Secondary Teacher (Hannan, 1982b) there is an emphasis on variation of activities, content and methods to allow for student choice based on differing interests. It also suggests making the most of small group work, including encouraging the practice of students helping others to finish work.

Radical teaching From time to time throughout this book we have referred to the work of Paulo Freire, the South American writer and educator. Freire has provided us with some insightful critical writing on traditional educational methods (1972a), as well as models for an alternative pedagogy (1972b, 1978, 1985). Freire’s starting point is that education is never neutral: it is always either a tool for oppression or liberation. Generally, he argues, our ‘banking’ approach to teaching (see Chapter Three) treats students as objects of manipulation who passively receive ‘knowledge’. Freire argues for an alternative, problem-posing approach to education, where students and teachers work together in genuine dialogue to explore aspects of the social world they experience. It is significant that Freire believes that both teachers and students have something to learn from each other: the traffic is not one way only. In his view the prime purpose of education should be to encourage the development of a critical consciousness of the social world, and also of the will to act to transform that world. He believes that only then is education truly liberatory. Freire was born in Recife, Brazil, in 1921 and originally trained as a lawyer. Later when working in the slums there he began to develop adult literacy programs where he put his ideas into practice. Opposition to his programs, and the fact that he was forced to flee from the country when a new conservative regime came to power, demonstrates his contention, with which we would agree, that education is 274

Radical teaching and the adaptive school inescapably political. Space does not permit us to give much attention to the details of his literacy programs. However, a basic feature was the use of certain generative words in the teaching of reading. These were key words which reflected the material conditions of a particular community, and which could then be broken into syllables and used to build up new words. For example, the word FAVELA, which means slum, was used as a generative word. At the same time as they were learning to read, the Brazilian peasants or urban slum-dwellers were critically reflecting on their lives, their social and economic situation, in discussion circles. Although South American literacy programs may seem a far cry from Australia, we think that Freire’s ideas have relevance for us. For Freire believes that everywhere in the world education is used for oppression, and that whenever there are social injustices there is a need for liberatory education. Freire’s ideas are directly applicable to the situation of Aborigines and Torres Strait Islanders in Australia, and his views have influenced the development of some adult literacy programs. But in the sense that much of schooling is about control rather than critical thinking, his ideas have more general relevance in Australia. Certainly they have influenced a number of radical teachers in various parts of the world. Chris Searle initially worked in the East End of London where he attempted to ‘bring the children towards literacy within a real movement of alliance with the oppressed of their own neighbourhood, country and world’ (1975, p. 8). His work had three main emphases: the local neighbourhood, people further afield in Britain or overseas, and the world of work. For example, his students explored the closing down of a local hospital, the living conditions around the docks, and the jailing of some striking building workers in the north of England. At the same time the children were writing down their own reactions and experiences and developing their literacy skills. In a quite different context, Ira Shor (1980) was also influenced by Freire. Shor worked with special entry ‘low achieving’ students at City University, New York. These students who had failed in the school system were mainly minority group students and poor whites who were admitted to the college under an open admissions policy. Shor’s work takes up some of the ideas we have already discussed about the conflict between working-class language, thought, culture and experience on the one hand and those of educational institutions on the other. He 275

Radical teaching and the adaptive school was concerned to help the students with whom he was involved to overcome the powerlessness in their daily lives through what he calls liberatory education, and in particular through critical education. Shor writes especially of the dehumanising effects of mass culture in contemporary life, and also of a narrow vocationalism, which reduces people to ‘trained hands’. He argues that critical education involves a long process of desocialisation but that this is necessary to acquire the foundations for becoming a conscious remaker of social life. His notion of problem-posing education and the changed roles of teachers and students is influenced by Freire. He helps students develop critical consciousness about issues of personal experience such as work through ‘re-experiencing the ordinary’, and at the same time relates this to the development of literacy skills. Recent work has extended projects involving critical thinking into the area of cultural production, for example, community writing groups. Most of the work is influenced by Freire to some degree and is an extension of the idea that education (and particularly literacy) can be used by the oppressed to gain power over their own lives. In work like the British Centreprise project (Worpole and Morley, 1982) there is an emphasis on collective production of books and other materials by the students through interviews with local people and documentation of local history. Johnston (1979) has written about work being done in Sydney which is based on the Centreprise project. (Also see Social Alternatives, 4 (4),1985.) Others have extended these approaches into the use of media. For example, Masterman (1980) advocates demystification of the media by ‘an examination of the rituals, conventions and practices through which a dominant ideology is disseminated via television’. He suggests that this is best done in the context of dialogue about students’ own experiences. Albert Hunt (1981) has also worked with young people in both Britain and Australia making video tapes which help them to reflect critically on their social world and subsequently gain some power over their lives. We recommend his accounts of the innovative approaches he has used to encourage young people to become involved with cultural activity related to their own communities. These approaches seem to be making some headway in the task of building and developing working-class cultural traditions mentioned earlier.

276

Radical teaching and the adaptive school The adaptive school The Schools Commission (1980, p. 5) has stressed the need for schools to redirect their focus ‘towards a more explicit commitment to all students’. It has called for schools to become involved in critical self-appraisal and review of their own performance, and has set out a number of characteristics which it suggests that students should gain from their secondary school experience. These include an understanding of themselves as part of the physical and social world, as well as an understanding of themselves within a continuing culture. The Commission suggests that students should gain a sense of confidence in themselves and a sense of power over their lives. It also adds that all students should gain: ‘skills and knowledge which qualify them to be eligible for what they consider to be appropriate paid employment, and/or to enter further education or training’; and significantly, ‘the ability to question objectively new ideas and experiences and judgements about their relevance to them’ (ibid.). The report suggests that a starting point for school review should be asking whether these characteristics of students have been successfully fostered. The Commission calls for more ‘adaptive schools’: ‘those which have a continuous process of renewal and modification in progress’ (p. 61). The report sets out the desirable organisational features of such adaptive schools, including more humane staff-student relations, based on mutual respect; course options giving emphasis to ‘both practical and theoretical knowledge and to practical and academic skills’; a comprehensive coverage both in the range of students catered for and the services offered; a recognition of their central commitment to all students within the compulsory period of schooling; course options for post-school programs which require students ‘to be able to function autonomously and effectively’; and close links with the local community and the wider society (p. 51). The report also stresses the need for involvement of the whole school community, including students and parents, and highlights the role of the school principal in facilitating the adaptive school. Middleton (1982) has written of the problems of changing school structures which arise because schools tend to function as total entities. He discusses how change can be achieved which is gradual and organic. In his view the adaptive school has a flexible organisational structure, so that change can be made in some areas without disturbing other parts of the structure. He suggests the development 277

Radical teaching and the adaptive school of ‘buffers’ in the school so that changes can occur. For example, a Year 8 team with an integrated approach could bring about change without affecting the whole school, particularly if the physical layout and buildings allowed the development of a ‘mini-school’. In Victoria, several alternative programs have developed in annexes separated from the large, more traditional secondary schools. For example, Sydney Road Community School was an annex of Moreland High School (Freeman, 1982; Middleton, 1982). A consideration of some of the history of the development of Sydney Road, an alternative school within the state system in Victoria, can provide some useful insights relating to school reform. The school began during a time when writers like Ivan Illich were providing critiques of the education system, and an early aim was to change in the direction of more involvement with the community. In reflecting on the ten years of Sydney Road, Freeman (1982) points out that the goals of the school gradually changed from being oriented towards the autonomy of the individual to a focus on the group life of the school. This change was due to a theoretical shift resulting from a good deal of thinking and experience, but also came about because the students sharply rejected individual modes of learning. They also rejected too much moving out into the community and away from the school, because the school served as an important base for their group life. It is significant that most of these students were from working-class backgrounds. Individualistic approaches to learning were inappropriate as they failed to build up cooperative patterns found among students from working-class backgrounds, a point we have discussed previously. As well as focusing on using the community, the group who established Sydney Road were committed to an ideal of small schools. They were concerned about the interpersonal relationships which develop in large schools and the virtual impossibility of creating a community in such institutions. We would agree, and argue that smaller institutional sizes are crucial in improving schooling in Australia. A further evolution in the history of Sydney Road lies in the development of the BRUSEC cluster of schools, of which Sydney Road is a part. The formation into an informal educational (and to some extent political) grouping, calling itself the ‘BRUSEC cluster’, of all the small secondary schools in the general Brunswick inner city area of Melbourne, allowed these schools both the advantages of smaller institutions, alluded to above, plus the advantages of size. So, for example, teachers at BRUSEC schools come together periodically to share ideas on a range of 278

Radical teaching and the adaptive school educational issues, or more formally to formulate joint responses to various educational policy issues (such as the Blackburn Report). In this way, BRUSEC operates as an effective political pressure group within the Victorian education system. BRUSEC teachers and schools also join together for funding purposes on occasions, which in turn allows for the development of curriculum initiatives which sometimes cut across several schools. For example, the highly successful ASCOLTA Community Radio Project, in existence for over eight years, draws on and includes students from all the primary and secondary schools in the area, although the somewhat expensive technical equipment associated with running a recording studio is centred at one school only. In another example, these schools have cooperated in the BRUSEC Equal Opportunity project which aims at improving opportunities for girls in these schools through a variety of curriculum strategies and, importantly, the involvement of parents, particularly mothers. The BRUSEC experience thus illustrates the point we made in the previous chapter about the necessity for teachers to work at a number of levels and to evolve strategies which go well beyond the classroom walls and individual teacherstudent interactions. The New Zealand research study by Ramsay et al. (1983) referred to in Chapter Six provides some useful evidence which suggests that it is possible for schools to effect change with respect to the opportunities made available to working-class students. The study looked at schools (primary, intermediate and secondary) in predominantly Polynesian communities. The schools studied were categorised into ‘successful’ and ‘unsuccessful’ schools on the basis of measures of student performance, rates of vandalism, levels of truancy and levels of problems observed by the researchers. Although Ramsay and his colleagues stressed that there was in fact a good deal of variety among the schools, they were able to draw some interesting conclusions about the successful schools. They found that in the successful schools there was a clearly articulated philosophy or statement of goals which was used as a basis for everyday school practice. In terms of the school philosophy, three aspects were delineated as significant: teacher expectations, discipline policy and a cultural perspective. It was found that teacher expectations were particularly significant because of the working-class and multicultural character of the schools. In the successful schools teachers saw their role as serving the needs of the students: 279

Radical teaching and the adaptive school The children were rarely held to blame, and neither were their home backgrounds nor their ethnic origins used as rationalisations for poor performance. Thus the risk of low teacher expectations and subsequent lowered pupil performance was minimised. It became obvious that the teachers accepted a duty to educate, and that there was considerable optimism about what the end product of this education could be (Ramsay et al., 1983, p. 279). In the successful schools, discipline policies avoided confrontation with children and made certain that children were given alternatives to so-called antisocial behaviour. If behaviour problems did arise, the school programs were seen as needing adjustment to make them more interesting in order to lessen such behaviour. In Chapter Three we discussed conflict between teachers and students, and the way that teachers sometimes promote unnecessary conflict and alienation. For example, we referred to deviance-provocative and deviance-insulative teachers (Hargreaves et al., 1975). Structural features of schooling such as streaming may also contribute to conflict and alienation with ‘non-academic’ classes; and, to extend the concept, schools as a whole can be deviance-provocative or devianceinsulative in terms of their organisation and atmosphere. Reynolds (1976) has described the way schools may structure delinquency in students. He carried out research in nine secondary modern schools in Wales and found differences in attendance rates, academic attainment and incidence of delinquency. Reynolds found that in unsuccessful schools: The conflict between pupils and teachers is continually fuelled by the attempt of the staff to exercise control in areas of the pupils’ lives where they expect autonomy, such as in their behaviour outside the school, and in some aspects of their behaviour inside it (1976, p. 227). Reynolds argues that where there is this sort of conflict in a school there will invariably be vandalism within it, truanting from it, and delinquency outside it (p. 228). In contrast, the successful school does not provide conflict by fighting battles it cannot win. Petrie (1984) also points out that behaviour such as truancy can be facilitated by the organisation of schooling. Schools with a ‘low institutional pride syndrome’ 280

Radical teaching and the adaptive school among staff and students (characterised by high rates of staff turnover, low levels of commitment by staff and the consequent breakdown in organisation procedures and routines) may contribute to the development of delinquent behaviour of students. Tightening up on discipline in such a situation only serves to increase the conflict and alienation. Petrie (1984) suggests some ways in which levels of alienation in schools might be reduced: The reduction of school size, the increase of voluntary choice, the development of clear and consistent goals, the maximisation of opportunities for students to contribute to school policy and school management and the extension of cooperative mutually respecting relationships allied to meaningful, relevant curricula. . . . (p. 84). Returning to the Ramsay et al. study, another aspect of the philosophies of the successful schools was an explicit attempt to cater for the cultural backgrounds of the children. This meant significant departures from official prescriptions for the curriculum and a concern for the wishes of local communities for cultural maintenance. Indeed, the schools were concerned to assist their students to gain competence and the ability to operate in two cultures. Ramsay and his colleagues also found important differences in staff relations between successful and unsuccessful schools. In the successful schools, teachers worked cooperatively. Teachers shared problems and solutions; seeking help was not regarded as evidence of weakness or incompetence. In these schools, staff meetings were regular and allowed for discussion and debate; issues and problems could be raised and resolved by the whole group. School policy was enhanced since all had shared in its construction and agreed to its final form. No decisions were made or actions taken without appropriate consultation. In this process, the quality of leadership from senior staff, and in particular the principal, was crucial in creating appropriate structures for participation in decision-making and in fostering a team spirit amongst the staff. Again, the more successful schools involved their students in a greater amount of decision-making than was the case in the less successful schools. Elected student councils which students saw as having some influence on policy decisions helped create a positive student attitude to these schools and their programs. 281

Radical teaching and the adaptive school Additionally, these schools utilised local community resources heavily and showed a high level of parental involvement. Parents were introduced to teachers, shown around the school, and given explanations for practices such as open-plan teaching. This was followed up with regular newsletters and an ‘open-door policy’ for parents. In consequence home-school relationships were positive and harmonious. Other aspects of the successful schools included their devaluation of competitiveness. Students competed with themselves, seeking to improve their own performances, rather than against others. Associated with this was a careful record-keeping of student progress by the school with an emphasis on positive feedback to students. Successful schools attempted to provide an attractive environment, displayed students’ work prominently and changed it regularly. In short, these schools were ‘transformative’ in their work for students and their local communities. The major factors which contributed to their success were their philosophy or goals for education, their use of appropriately modified curriculum content, their changed pedagogical techniques, and their alternative organisational styles. Clearly, these schools made a difference for their students, and for the communities in which these students are set. Ramsay’s emphasis on school policy, teacher practices and student cultures as key factors in the evolution of successful schools is echoed by other researchers concerned with developing more effective strategies for working with young people in schools (e.g., Bates et al., 1984; Griffin, 1985). Willis (1984), for example, has outlined three levels which need to be addressed when formulating principles for progressive school practices: the official (policy) level, the practical (schools and teachers) level, and the cultural level (relating to the experiences of young people themselves). Willis argues that teachers need to look at the extent of overlap between these levels in attempting to work towards progressive goals under difficult circumstances. Thus he points out the importance of ‘seeking to identify within the “official” what is most progressive and realistic in relation to the cultural and practical levels’ (p. 225). So for example, earlier we stressed the importance of taking young people’s culture seriously. School programs must be based on adequate assumptions about the experience and views of young people or they are doomed to promote further alienation and failure. But there may also be some overlap of these cultural and 282

Radical teaching and the adaptive school practical levels with the official level. For example, ‘work skill’ approaches, now popular at the official level, can be used to deal with studies of the world of work from a working-class and critical perspective. In this way, Willis suggests that with a degree of ‘appearance management’ teachers will be able to work within official frameworks towards more progressive goals. In Australia, this is potentially an easier task than in Thatcherite Britain. At the official level, the Hawke federal government has developed some progressive policies (for example, through the Participation and Equity Program), even though some have been distorted by funding cuts. Thus, it is easier for radical teachers to achieve progressive goals even in quite conservative school situations, and in conservative states, by using official policy frameworks as support and justification for what they do. Additionally, given that official policy statements tend to be compromises between conflicting views and are often quite broad and nebulous, they too can often be utilised to advantage. This is, of course, as we have argued, much easier if there is a group of teachers working together towards change, and also if there are supportive links with teacher unions, subject associations and other professional groups, and parent/community groups.

Concluding remarks For all that we have said here, it needs to be acknowledged that, in Bernstein’s (1970) words, ‘education cannot compensate for society’. We conclude therefore with some brief comments on problems currently affecting Australian education, which result from a number of recent changes in the economy and associated social tensions. Today, many young people in secondary schools throughout Australia find their access blocked to both jobs and tertiary education. For example, in Queensland alone in 1985 there were 32,000 applicants for only 12,000 tertiary places. And as Freeland (1985, p.3), utilising ABS figures points out, there has been a collapse of the full-time teenage labour market: by 1984 only 33 per cent of all teenagers held full time jobs, compared with 60 per cent in 1966. He also points out that the teenage share of total full-time employment has fallen from 14 per cent to 8 per cent over that time span (see also Freeland, 1986). Of course, this collapse of the teenage 283

Radical teaching and the adaptive school labour market has contributed significantly to increased retention rates to the end of secondary schooling, placing considerable pressure upon the number of tertiary places available. This latter pressure has also precipitated some sort of debate concerning appropriate and fair methods of selection for tertiary education. At the same time, increased retention to grade 12 has been an important contributory factor in the contemporary curriculum debate referred to earlier. All of this means that secondary schools are now vastly different sorts of places from what they were 20 years ago: for a start, they have a larger and different upper school clientele. The education debate over the last ten years or so must be seen against this backdrop and as one manifestation of the end of the post-war economic boom from the early 1970s. Up until the early 1970s, students leaving secondary school faced the future with some certainty. The majority who left after grade 10 at about 15 years of age went on to jobs or apprenticeships, while the minority who completed 12 years of schooling either got white-collar jobs (in the banks or public services for example) or went on to tertiary education. (In this period of relatively full employment, the underlying class and gender inequalities were thus obscured.) At present, the ‘transition to work’ is no longer direct, straightforward and certain. Direct transition from school to work has been replaced at the workforce level by the seeming limbo-land of Community Employment Programs, traineeships (a few) and other assorted programs and part-time, temporary jobs. Richard Sweet’s research (1984, p. 21) has shown that in the decade 1971-81, growth in teenage employment has been most notable in ‘marginal, part-time, and low skilled jobs requiring minimal vocational preparation’. At the school level, the transition is being ‘managed’ through a variety of work-experience programs (at a time when increasing numbers of teenage students are taking on part-time work!) and a panoply of ‘lifeskills’ and ‘leisure education’ programs (Bates et al., 1984). In this context however, the Hawke government’s Participation and Equity Program has to be seen as more progressive than Transition Education, introduced in 1979 by the Fraser government. Transition programs were introduced for those returning to upper secondary school who could not get a job after grade 10 and who were thought unable to pursue the traditional academic curriculum. But because ‘transed’ was premised upon the assumption that ‘lack of skills’ was the cause of teenage unemployment, it was doomed to failure. Certainly, while some of the 284

Radical teaching and the adaptive school better transed programs did move beyond the ‘marketing skills’ approach (grooming, interviewing and form-filling), at best transed could do little more than shuffle the places in the unemployment queues. By contrast, with its concern for questions of equity, PEP has at least placed the reform of the total secondary school curriculum on the agenda for debate. However, PEP funding has been drastically reduced and its long term future is somewhat tenuous. In more general educational terms, the response has been (at the level of rhetoric at least) the recognition of the need for a more literate and numerate, more highly skilled and flexible workforce. The assumption here is that a restructured ‘postindustrial’ or ‘post-service’ economy, as Barry Jones (1983) calls it, will no longer require large numbers of low-skilled, manual workers. Rather, so the assumption goes, human labour will be soaked up in the technologically more sophisticated echelons of the service and information industries, in the innovative, ‘high-tech’ entrepreneurial manufacturing industries, or in the rapidly professionalising ‘human care’ industries, ranging from tourism, recreation and leisure through to social welfare, counselling and so forth. This general view has become so widely accepted that Richard Sweet (1984) calls it the ‘new orthodoxy’. Certainly, it does appear now that there is some shortage of skilled labour and middle level management/service personnel in some areas; clearly this is a problem to be addressed in educational terms, particularly in light of Australia’s poor performance in the schooling stakes (Jones, 1983) compared with other comparable industrialised (and even less industrialised) nations. However, there is little sign that a ‘general lift’ of the population into more civilised work is occurring. Sweet (1984, p.21), for example, suggests that: The best available set of Australian data on techological effects upon a wide range of skilled occupations points on balance to a reduced demand for labour rather than to an increase and on balance points to deskilling rather than to an upgrading of skills. What we are seeing then is the strengthening of class divisions (which in Australia at least, because of its particular social and economic history, have been somewhat blurred) based, as we indicated in Chapter Seven, on the possession of capital (ruling class), educational qualifications (middle class), or on access to neither capital nor educational qualifications (working class, including here a 285

Radical teaching and the adaptive school significant ‘under class’ destined, under present economic arrangements, for almost permanent poverty and unemployment). In real educational terms then, we may be seeing the emergence of a ‘new correspondence’ between school and work. Thus on the one hand there are the newwave ‘education for life’, ‘leisure education’ and ‘work skills’ type programs aimed largely at the ‘dole kids’ (Presdee, 1983; Bates et al., 1984; Dwyer et al., 1984). Meanwhile, the traditional academic curriculum in the elite private schools and in the state schools’ ‘A’ streams remains in many ways even further entrenched, and even more competitively sought after by those attempting to find a spot in the middle class future. In this context, Claire Williams’ (1983) observation that ‘leisure’ (and we would add, ‘work skills’) does not seem to be a problem for the ‘able’, is apposite. So to return to some of the central themes of this chapter, and indeed of the whole book, concerns about ‘democratic curriculum’, equal opportunity and so forth may turn out to be barren in the absence of real possibilities for tertiary or other forms of further education, leading ultimately to real jobs. Certainly, if jobs and educational opportunities were to be properly opened up, some of the more pernicious effects of the competitive academic curriculum would be ameliorated, simply because the top of the educational pyramid would have been widened. Thus, while acknowledging the educational gains that have been made under Labor, clearly a great deal more remains to be done if we, as a society, are to avoid ‘writing off whole generations of youth. The end result then should not be that, as at present, females, Aborigines, migrants and so forth get to have equal representation in six-monthly Community Education Programs or twelve-monthly traineeships, which simply provide a bit of breathing space from the dole queue. Rather, the end result of being educated, we would aver, must be that people can take their place in the workforce on terms roughly of their own choosing and in a society that offers dignity to all its citizens. While all this may seem to be a long way from schools and classrooms, it needs to be recognised that these changing circumstances in which young people are involved do have important implications for teachers and all those who are part of the schooling process. For like it or not, as educators we are all involved in the increasingly complex schooling-society dynamic. As we indicated much earlier in this book, we have a choice as to the nature of our involvement. We can remain 286

Radical teaching and the adaptive school passively on the edges of the debate, insulated in classrooms and in schooling processes which offer little to most students and nothing to the accomplishment of a more equitable society. Or we can become involved as active protagonists in the process of change towards a more equitable future. We hope that the ideas, arguments and analyses presented in Understanding Schooling may be viewed as a contribution to just such a process.

Further reading Education Links (formerly Radical Education Dossier). This journal is produced three times a year by a group of teachers, students and university staff working to bring about democratic and socially progressive change in Australian schooling. The journal tends to publish a good deal of critical analysis of policies and programs in education, and also allow for a sharing of ideas by radical teachers. (See also Australian Teacher and other teacher union journals to keep up with issues and progressive change in Australian schooling.) Freire, P. (1972), Pedagogy of the Oppressed, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Freire’s important critique of traditional educational methods from which he developed his alternative ideas and methods. Freire, P. (1985), The Politics of Education, London: Macmillan. A recent collection of Freire’s essays on literacy and the nature of learning. The connections between Freire’s approaches and a range of radical theories on education are developed, together with possibilities for their application in a range of situations. Hannan, B. (1985), Democratic Curriculum, Sydney: Allen & Unwin. A collection of Hannan’s writing about aspects of education and school reform. Hannan’s work on curriculum is founded on the principle of schooling for all; and draws upon many years of active involvement with teacher unions and subject associations, in multicultural education projects and educational innovation. Middleton, M. (1982), Marking Time, Sydney: Methuen. This book looks at some Australian attempts to change schools so that they are more open to their communities. Mills, R. (1978), A Comprehensive Education, London: Centreprise. An example of working class writing produced by the Centreprise Publishing Project. A Comprehensive Education is about the author’s experiences at an East London secondary school. Pettit, D. (1980), Opening up Schools, Ringwood: Penguin. A readable account of community involvement and schooling in Australia.

287

Radical teaching and the adaptive school Searle, C. (1975), Classrooms of Resistance, London: Writers and Readers. A collection of writing produced by children in a school in the East End of London who were taught by the radical teacher Chris Searle. Shor, I. (1980), Critical Teaching and Everyday Life, Boston: South End Press. Here Shor describes his work with special entry students in New York. Influenced by Freire, he developed what he calls liberatory education, and the book includes some examples of the ideas which he put into practice. Worpole, K. and Morley, D. (eds) (1982), The Republic of Letters: Working Class Writing and Local Publishing, London: Comedia. Discusses the setting up of the Centreprise Publishing Project in London and the issues involved in community publishing.

288

Bibliography

Abercrombie, N. and Urry, T. (1983) Capital, Labour and the Middle Classes, London: Allen & Unwin. Ahern, M. Parliamentary Select Committee on Education in Queensland (1979), Second Interim Report, Brisbane, Government Printer. Alexander, K.L., Cook, M. and McDill, E.L. (1978) ‘Curriculum tracking and educational stratification: some further evidence’, American Sociological Review, no. 43, pp. 47-66. Anderson, D. and Vervoorn, A. (1983) Access to Privilege: Patterns of Participation in Australian Post-Secondary Education, Canberra: ANU Press. Anderson, D.S. and Western, J.S. (1970) ‘Attitudes of students entering professional faculties’, in F. Katz and R. Browne (eds) Sociology of Education, South Melbourne: Macmillan, pp. 335-43. Andrews, G. (1977) ‘Testing for order and control’, Radical Education Dossier, no. 4, October, pp. 12-14. Angus, M. (1976) ‘Interaction patterns in open plan and conventionally designed classrooms’, in R. Browne and D. Magin (eds) Sociology of Education, 2nd edition, Melbourne: Macmillan, pp. 235-54. Angus, M. (1979) ‘Reconsidering open area schools’, Education News, vol. 16, no. 10, pp. 813. Anyon, J. (1980) ‘Social class and the hidden curriculum of work’, Journal of Education, vol. 162, no. 1, pp. 67-92. Anyon, J. (1981a) ‘Social class and school knowledge’, Curriculum Inquiry, no. 11, pp. 3-42. Anyon, J. (1981b) ‘Elementary schooling and distinctions of social class’, Interchange, vol. 12, nos 2-3, pp. 118-32. Apple, M. (1979) Ideology and Curriculum, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul.

289

Bibliography Apple, M. (ed.) (1982a) Cultural and Economic Reproduction in Education: Essays on Class, Ideology and the State, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Apple, M. (1982b) Education and Power, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Apple, M. (1982c) ‘Common curriculum and state control’, Discourse, vol. 2, no. 2, pp. 1-10. Apple, M. (1983) ‘Work, class and teaching’, in S. Walker and L. Barton (eds) Gender, Class and Education, Sussex: Falmer Press. Arfwedson, G. (1979) ‘Teachers’ work’, in U. Lundgren and S. Patterson (eds) Code, Context and Curriculum Process, Stockholm: Gleerup. Ashenden, D. (1982) ‘Curriculum and the reform of Australian schooling’, Vise News, no. 31, pp. 7-15. Ashenden, D. (1984) ‘Monday morning in context’, Radical Education Dossier, no. 22, pp. 13-15. Ashenden, D., Connell, R., Dowsett, G. and Kessler, S. (1980) ‘Class and secondary schooling: some proposals for an approach stressing situation and practices’, Discourse, vol. 1, no. 1, pp. 1-19. Ashenden, D. and Costello, R. (1984) ‘Shaping participation in education: a discussion’, unpublished paper, Canberra. Astbury, L. (1985) The City Bushmen, Melbourne: Oxford University Press. Atkinson, P. and Delamont, S. (1985) ‘Socialisation into teaching: the research which lost its way’, British Journal of Sociology of Education, vol. 6, no. 3, pp. 307-22. Bacchi, C. (1980) ‘The nature-nurture debate in Australia, 1900-1914’, Historical Studies, vol. 19, no. 75, pp. 199-212. Banks, O. (1968) The Sociology of Education, London: Batsford. Barnes, D., Britton, J. and Rosen, H. (1971) Language, the Learner and the School, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Bartholomew, J. (1976) ‘Schooling teachers: the myth of the liberal college’ in G. Whitty and M. Young (eds) Exploration in the Politics of School Knowledge, Driffield: Nafferton, pp. 114-24. Bassett, G. (1980) Teachers in Australian Schools 1979, Melbourne: Australian College of Education. Bates, I., Clarke, J., Cohen, P., Finn, D., Moore, R. and Willis, P. (1984) Schooling for the Dole? The New Vocationalism, London: Macmillan. Bates, R. (1983) ‘Educational administration and cultural transmission’ in R. Browne and L. Foster (eds) Sociology of Education, 3rd edition, Melbourne: Macmillan, pp. 73-82. Beazley, K. (1980) ‘The Commonwealth ministry of education, 1972-1975’ in S. MurraySmith (ed.) Melbourne Studies in Education 1980, Melbourne: Melbourne University Press.

290

Bibliography Becker, H.S. (1952) ‘Social-class variations in the teacher-pupil relationship’, Journal of Education Sociology, vol. 25, no. 4, pp. 451-65. Behrens, W. (1978) ‘Schooling and work’ in Commission of Inquiry into Poverty, School Community and Work: Urban and Rural Aspects, Canberra: AGPS. Beilharz, P. (1985) ‘Theorising the middle class’, Arena, no. 72, pp. 92-105. Bennett, D. (1982) ‘Education: back to the drawing-board’, in G. Evans and J. Reeves (eds) Labor Essays 1982, Melbourne: Richmond and Drummond, pp. 161-86. Berg, I. (1972) Education and Jobs: The Great Training Robbery, New York: Praeger Publishers. Berger, P. (1966) Invitation to Sociology, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Berger, P., Berger, B. and Kellner, H. (1981) The Homeless Mind, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Berger, P. and Luckmann, T. (1971) The Social Construction of Reality, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Bernstein, B. (1965) ‘A socio-linguistic approach to social learning’ in J. Gould (ed.) Penguin Survey of the Social Sciences, Harmondsworth: Penguin, pp. 144-68. Bernstein, B. (1970) ‘Education cannot compensate for society’, in B. Cosin et al. (eds) (1977), School and Society, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, pp. 64-9. Bernstein, B. (1971) ‘On the classification and framing of educational knowledge’ in M. Young (ed.), Knowledge and Control: New Directions for the Sociology of Education, London: Collier-Macmillan. pp. 47-69. Bernstein, B. (1977) ‘Sources of consensus and disaffection in education’, in B. Bernstein, Class, Codes and Control, vol. 3, 2nd ed., London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, pp. 37-53. Bernstein, B. (1979) ‘The new pedagogy: sequencing the new pedagogy: underlying assumptions’ in J. Maling-Keepes and B.D. Keepes (eds), Language in Education, Canberra: Curriculum Development Centre. Berry, J.W. (1966) ‘Temne and Eskimo perceptual skills’, International Journal of Psychology, no. 1, pp. 207-29. Berry, J.W. (1971) ‘Ecological and cultural factors in spatial perceptual development’, Canadian Journal of Behaviourial Science, no. 3, pp. 324-36. Berry, M. (1977) ‘Inequality’ in A.F. Davies, S. Encel and M.J. Berry (eds) Australian Society: A Sociologial Introduction, Melbourne: Longman Cheshire, 3rd ed. Bessant, B. (1983) Schooling in the Colony and State of Victoria, La Trobe University: Centre for Comparative and International Studies in Education. Biggins, D. (1978) ‘The social character of time’, Arena, no. 51, pp. 33-46. Biggins, D. (1984) ‘Science: Education for liberation’, Social Alternatives, vol. 4, no. 2, pp. 36-40. Bisseret, N. (1979) Education, Class Language and Ideology, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul.

291

Bibliography Blackburn, J. (1982) ‘Becoming equally human: girls and the secondary curriculum’, in Vise News, no. 31, pp. 16-22. Blackburn, J. (1985) Ministerial Review of Post-Compulsory Schooling, Report, vol. 1, Melbourne: Ministerial Review of Post-Compulsory Schooling. Blau, P. and Scott, R. (1963) Formal Organisation: A Comparative Approach, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Blease, D. (1983) ‘Teacher expectations and the self-fulfilling prophecy’, Educational Studies, vol. 9, no. 2, pp. 123-9. Blum, J. (1978) Pseudoscience and Mental Ability: The Origins and Fallacies of the IQ Controversy, New York: Monthly Review Press. Blumer, H. (1977) ‘Sociological implications of the thoughts of George Herbert Mead’, in B. Cosin et al. (eds), School and Society, Milton Keynes: Open University Press, pp. 11-17. Bourdieu, P. (1973) ‘Cultural reproduction and social reproduction’, in R. Brown (ed.), Knowledge, Education and Cultural Change, London: Tavistock, pp. 71-112. Bourdieu, P. (1974) ‘The school as a conservative force: scholastic and cultural inequalities’, in J. Eggleston (ed.), Contemporary Research in the Sociology of Education, London: Methuen, pp. 32-46. Bourdieu, P. and Passeron, J. (1977) Reproduction in Education, Society and Culture, London: Sage. Bourdieu, P. and de Saint Martin, M. (1974) ‘Scholastic excellence and the values of the educational system’, in J. Eggleston (ed.), Contemporary Research in the Sociology of Education, London: Methuen. Bourke, S.F. and Keeves, J.P. (1977) Australian Studies in School Performance, Volume III, The Mastery of Literacy and Numeracy: Final Report, Canberra: AGPS. Bowles, S. (1976) ‘Unequal education and the reproduction of the social division of labor’, in R. Dale, G. Esland and M. MacDonald (eds), Schooling and Capitalism: A Sociological Reader, pp. 32-41. Bowles, S. and Gintis, H. (1976) Schooling in Capitalist America: Educational Reform and the Contradictions of Economic Life, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Bowles, S. and Gintis, H. (1981) ‘Contradiction and reproduction in educational theory’, in R. Dale et al. (eds), Schooling and the National Interest, Lewes: Falmer Press. Bowles, S. and Nelson, V. (1974) ‘The inheritance of IQ and the intergenerational transmission of economic inequality’, The Review of Economics and Statistics, vol. 56, no. 1. Brake, M. (1980) The Sociology of Youth Culture and Youth Subcultures, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Branson, J. and Miller, D. (1979) Class, Sex and Education in Capitalist Society, Malvern: Sorrett Publishing.

292

Bibliography Braverman, H. (1974) Labor and Monopoly Capital: The Degradation of Work in the Twentieth Century, New York: Monthly Review Press. Brecht, B. (1976) ‘Our poorer schoolfellows from the city’s outskirts’, in J. Willett and R. Mannheim, Bertold Brecht Poems, Part 2, 1929-1938, London: Eyre Methuen, p. 273. Broadfoot, P. (1979) Assessment, Schools and Society, London: Methuen. Brophy, J. and Good, T. (1970) ‘Teachers’ communications of differential expectations for children’s classroom performance: some behavioural data’, Journal of Educational Psychology, no. 61, pp. 365-74. Brophy, J. and Good, T. (1974) Teacher-Student Relationships, New York: Holt, Rinehart & Winston. Brown, D. (1979) Mother Tongue to English, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Browne, R. and Foster, L. (eds) (1983) Sociology of Education, 3rd ed., Melbourne: Macmillan. Bryson, L. (1984) ‘The Australian patriarchal family’, in S. Encel and L. Bryson (eds), Australian Society: Introductory Essays, Melbourne: Longman Cheshire, 4th ed., pp. 11369. Bull, K. and Tons, J. (1985) Multicultural Education, From Practice to Policy, Adelaide: Education Department of South Australia. Buswell, C. (1980) ‘Pedagogic change and social change’, British Journal of Sociology of Education, vol. 1, no. 3, pp. 293-306. Butts, R.F. (1961) Assumptions Underlying Australian Education, Melbourne: ACER. Bycroft, P. (1981) ‘Exploring the world of the classroom’, Education News, vol. 17, no. 6, pp. 16-21. Bycroft, P. (1983) ‘Understanding open plan class rooms’, Education News, vol. 18, no. 3, pp. 23-6. Cameron, L., O’Neill, K. and Wilson, B. (1983) ‘Class and curriculum: a basis for action’. Radical Education Dossier, no. 20, pp. 4-8. Campbell, W. and Robinson, N. (1983a) ‘A social-density explanation of class-size effects’, Department of Education, University of Queensland, unpublished paper. Campbell, W. and Robinson, N. (1983b) ‘What Australian society expects of its schools, teachers and teaching’ in R. Browne and L. Foster (eds), Sociology of Education, 3rd ed., Melbourne: Macmillan, pp. 85-96. Carnoy, M. and Levin, N. (1976) The Limits of Educational Reform, New York: David McKay. Carpenter, P. and Western, J. (1983) ‘The facilitation of attainment aspirations’, Australian and New Zealand Journal of Sociology, vol. 19, no. 2, pp. 305-18. Cashmore, E. (1979) Rastaman, London: Unwin Paperbacks.

293

Bibliography Cass, B. (1986) ‘The case for review of the Australian social security system’, Social Security Journal, Spring, pp. 2-8. Cass, B. , Dawson, M. , Temple, D. , Wills, S. , Winkler, A. (eds) (1982) Why so few? Women Academics in Australian Universities, Sydney: Sydney University Press. Chamberlain, C. (1983) Class Consciousness in Australia, Sydney: Allen & Unwin. Chambers, I. (1980) ‘Rethinking popular culture’, Screen Education, no. 36, Autumn, pp. 113-17. Cicourel, A.V. and Kitsuse, J.I. (1963) The Educational Decision-Makers, Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill. Clark, M. (1980) Occasional Writings and Speeches, Melbourne: Fontana Collins. Clark, M. (1981) A History of Australia V: The People Make Laws 1888-1915, Melbourne: Melbourne University Press. Claydon, L. (ed.) (1975) The Urban School, Carlton: Pitman. Claydon, L. (1986) ‘Closing the gap between technical education and the occupationally disoriented’, Discourse, vol. 6, no. 2, pp. 32-44. Collins, H. (1985) ‘Political ideology in Australia: the distinctiveness of a Benthamite society’, Daedalus, Winter. Collins, J. (1975) ‘The political economy of post-war immigration’, in E. Wheelwright and K. Buckley (eds), Essays in the Political Economy of Australian Capitalism, vol. 1, Sydney: ANZ Books. Collins, J. (1984) ‘Immigration and class: the Australian experience’, in G. Bottomley and M. de Lepervanche (eds), Ethnicity, Class and Gender in Australia, Sydney: Allen & Unwin, pp. 1-27. Collins, R. (1979) The Credential Society: An Historical Sociology of Education and Stratification, New York: Academic Press. Commissioner for Community Relations (1979) Let’s End the Slander, Canberra: AGPS. Congalton, A. (1969) Status and Prestige in Australia, Melbourne: Cheshire. Connell, R. (1972) ‘Class structure and personal socialisation’, in F.J. Hunt (ed.), Socialisation in Australia, Sydney: Angus & Robertson. Connell, R. (1977a) ‘Class’, in A. Davies, S. Encel and M. Berry (eds), Australian Society: A Sociological Introduction, 3rd ed., Melbourne: Longman Cheshire, pp. 2-17. Connell, R. (1977b) Ruling Class, Ruling Culture, Melbourne: Oxford University Press. Connell, R. (1983) Which Way Is Up? Sydney: Allen & Unwin. Connell, R. (1985) Teachers’ Work, Sydney: Allen & Unwin. Connell, R. and Irving, T. (1980) Class Structure in Australian History: Documents, Narrative and Argument, Melbourne: Longman Cheshire. Connell, R., Ashenden, D., Kessler, S., Dowsett, G. (1982) Making the Difference: Schools, Families and Social Division, Sydney: Allen & Unwin.

294

Bibliography Connell, W., Stroobant, R., Sinclair, K., Connell, R. and Rogers, K. (1975) 12 to 20: Studies of City Youth, Sydney: Hicks Smith & Sons. Connell, W.F. (1980) The Australian Council for Educational Research, Melbourne: ACER. Cook, P., Davey, I. and Hick, M (1979) ‘Capitalism and working class schooling in late nineteenth century South Australia’, Australian and New Zealand History of Education Society Journal, vol. 8, no. 2, Spring. Cooley, M. (1980) ‘Architect or bee?’, The Human/Technology Relationship, Sydney: Transnational Co-operative Ltd. Cooper, N. (1982) ‘The politics of educational funding’, Radical Education Dossier, no. 18, pp. 6-9. Cornog, G. (1970) in K. Ryan, Don’t smile Until Christmas: Accounts of the First Year of Teaching, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Corrigan, P. (1979) Schooling the Smash Street Kids, London: Macmillan. Cosin, B. et al. (eds) (1977) School and Society, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Coulter, F. (1975) ‘Professional socialisation and the social background of beginning teachers’, in D. Edgar (ed.), Sociology of Australian Education, Sydney: McGraw Hill, pp. 411-19. Cox, C. and Boyson, R. (eds) (1975) Black Paper 1975, London: J.M. Dent & Sons. Crough, G. , Wheelwright, T. and Wilshire, T. (eds) (1980) Australia and World Capitalism, Ringwood: Penguin. Crough, G. and Wheelwright, T. (1982) Australia: A Client State, Ringwood: Penguin. Cuban, L. (1982) ‘Persistent instruction: the high school classroom, 1900-1980’, Phi Delta Kappan, October, pp. 113-18. Cuff, E.G. and Payne, G.C.F. (eds) (1984) Perspectives in Sociology, 2nd ed., London: Allen and Unwin. Curriculum Development Centre (1980) Core Curriculum for Australian Schools, Canberra: CDC. Dale, R. (1972) The Culture of the School, Milton Keynes: Open University Press. Dale, R. (1977a) Liberal and Radical Alternatives, Milton Keynes: Open University Press. Dale, R. (1977b) ‘Implications of the rediscovery of the hidden curriculum for the sociology of teaching’, in D. Gleeson (ed.), Identity and Structure, Driffield: Nafferton Books, pp. 44-54. Dale, R. (1977c) The Structural Context of Teaching, Milton Keynes: Open University Press. Dale, R. (1982) ‘Education and the capitalist state: contributions and contradictions’, in M. Apple (ed.), Cultural and Economic Reproduction in Education, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Dale, R., Esland, G. and MacDonald, M. (ed.) (1976) Schooling and Capitalism: A Sociological Reader, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul.

295

Bibliography Dale, R. and Esland, G. (1977) Mass Schooling, Milton Keynes: Open University Press. Daniel, A. (1983) Power, Privilege and Prestige: Occupations in Australia, Melbourne: Longman Cheshire. Davey, I. and Miller, P. (1981) ‘Forced to resist’, Radical Education Dossier, no. 16, Spring, pp. 32-6. Davies, A. (1967) Images of Class, Sydney: Sydney University Press. Davies, B. (1980) ‘An analysis of primary school children’s accounts of classroom interaction’, British Journal of Sociology of Education, vol. 1, no. 3, pp. 257-78. Davis, J. (1972) ‘Teachers, kids and conflict: ethnography of a junior high school’, in J. Spradley and D. McCurdy, The Cultural Experience, Chicago: Science Research Associates, pp. 103-19. Deem, R. (1978) Women and Schooling, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Deem, R. (1980) Schooling for Women’s Work, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. de Lacey, P. (1974) So Many Lessons to Learn: Failure in Australian Education, Ringwood: Penguin. Delamont, S. (1976) Interaction in the Classroom, London: Methuen. Delamont, S. (1980) Sex Roles and the School, London: Methuen. deLemos, M.M. (1975) Study of the Educational Achievement of Migrant Children, Hawthorn: ACER. Denscombe, M. (1980a) ‘Keeping ’em quiet: the significance of noise for the practical activity of teaching’, in P. Woods (ed.), Teacher Strategies, London: Croom Helm. Denscombe, M. (1980b) ‘The work context of teaching: an analytic framework for the study of teachers in classrooms’, British Journal of Sociology of Education, vol. 1, no. 3, pp. 27992. Denscombe, M. (1982) ‘The “hidden pedagogy” and its implications for teacher training’, British Journal of Sociology of Education, vol. 3, no. 3, pp. 249-65. Department of Aboriginal Affairs (1984) Aboriginal Social Indicators, Canberra: AGPS. Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet (1984) Affirmative Action for Women Volume 1: A Policy Discussion Paper, Canberra: AGPS. Dewey, J. and Dewey, E. (1915) School of Tomorrow, New York: Dutton. Douglas, J.W. (1964) The Home and the School, London: MacGibbon and Kee. Dreeben, R. (1968) On What Is learned in School, Reading: Mass.: Addison & Wesley. Dunn, T. (1982) ‘An empirical demonstration of bias in HSC examination results’, Australian Journal of Education, vol. 26, no. 2, pp. 190-203. Dwyer, P., Wilson, B. and Woock, R. (1984) Confronting School and Work: Youth and Class Cultures in Australia, Sydney: Allen & Unwin. Eades, D. (1981) ‘That’s our way of talking: Aborigines in South-East Queensland’, Social Alternatives, vol. 2, no. 2, pp. 11-14.

296

Bibliography Edgar, D. (1980) Introduction to Australian Society, Sydney: Prentice-Hall. Edgar, D. (1986) ‘Poverty and its impact on educational life-chances: family-produced or system-produced disadvantage?’, Unicorn, vol. 2, no. 1, pp. 4-12. Edgar, P. (1977) Children and Screen Violence, Brisbane: University of Queensland Press. Educational Review (1978) ‘The Learners’ Viewpoint’, special issue on pupil perspectives on schooling, vol. 30, no. 2. Edwards, R. (1979) The Contested Terrain: The Transformation of the Workplace in the Twentieth Century, New York: Basic Books. Eipper, C. (1982) ‘Class processes: key issues for analysis’, The Australian and New Zealand Journal of Sociology, vol. 18, no. 2, pp. 214-28. Eipper, C. (1984) ‘Which way for analysis?’ Arena, no. 67, pp. 146-58. Elliott, R. (1980) Becoming a Teacher: The Changing Signs, unpublished Ph.D. thesis, University of Queensland. Ely, J. (1978) Reality and Rhetoric: An Alternative History of Australian Education, Sydney: Alternative Publishing Co-operative Ltd. Encel, S. (1970) Equality and Authority: A Study of Class, Status and Power in Australia, Melbourne: Cheshire. Engish, J. (1975) ‘BGHS: A personal view’ in L. Claydon (ed.), The Urban School, Carlton: Pitman, pp. 119-41. Esland, G. (1971) The Construction of Reality, Bletchley: Open University Press. Etzioni, A. (1964) Modern Organisations, Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice Hall. Evans, B. and Waites, B. (1981) IQ and Mental Testing: An Unnatural Science and Its Social History, London: Macmillan. Evans, T. (1979) ‘Creativity, sex-role socialisation and pupil-teacher interactions in early schooling’, Sociological Review, vol. 27, no. 1. Evans, T. (1982) ‘Being and becoming: teachers’ perceptions of sex-roles and actions toward their male and female pupils’, British Journal of Sociology of Education, vol. 3, no. 2, pp. 127-43. Fanshawe, J.P. (1976) ‘Possible characteristics of an effective teacher of adolescent Aboriginals’, The Aboriginal Child at School, vol. 4, no. 2, pp. 3-23. Farber, B. (1984) ‘Teacher burnout: Assumptions, myths and issues’, Teachers College Record, vol. 86, no. 2, pp. 321-38. Fensham, P. (ed.) (1970) Rights and Inequality in Australian Education, Melbourne: Cheshire. Firkin, J., Samms, J. and Spalding, B. (1986) ‘Career education and vocational guidance for women and girls in Australia’, Occasional Paper No. 12, Melbourne: Vise. Fisk, E. (1985) The Aboriginal Economy in Town and Country, Sydney: Allen & Unwin.

297

Bibliography Fitzgerald, R. (1976) Poverty and Education in Australia, fifth main report of the Poverty Commission, Canberra: AGPS. Flanders, N. (1970) Analysing Teaching Behaviour, New York: Addison-Wesley. Floud, J. and Halsey, A. (1961) ‘Social class, intelligence tests and selection for secondary school’, in A. Halsey et al. (eds), Education, Economy and Society, New York: Free Press, pp. 209-15. Floud, J. and Halsey, A. (1961) ‘English secondary schools and the supply of labour’, in A. Halsey et al. (eds), Education, Economy and Society, New York: Free Press, pp. 80-92. Flude, M. (1974) ‘Sociological accounts of differential educational attainment’, in M. Flude and J. Ahier (eds), Educability, Schools and Ideology, London: Croom Helm, pp. 15-52. Fomin, F. (1984) ‘The best and the brightest: the selective function of mathematics in the school curriculum’, in L. Johnson and D. Tyler (eds), Cultural Politics: Papers in Contemporary Australian Education, Culture and Politics, Department of Education, University of Melbourne. Foster, L. (1981) Australian Education: A Sociological Perspective, Sydney: Prentice Hall. Foster, V. (1984) Changing Choices, Sydney: Hale & Iremonger. Foucault, M. (1979) Discipline and Punish, Ringwood: Penguin. Frazier, N. and Sadker, M. (1973) Sexism in School and Society, New York: Harper & Row. Freeland, J. (1979a) ‘Class struggle in schooling: MACOS and SEMP in Queensland’, Intervention, no. 12, pp. 29-62. Freeland, J. (1979b) ‘Stop! Care to come and probe the right-wing pie: Behind the attacks’, Radical Education Dossier, no. 8, pp. 4-7. Freeland, J. (1985) ‘Towards a new educational settlement: schooling in the post-Keynesian period’, Annual conference, Sociological Association of Australia and New Zealand, symposium on Education Policy and the Recession. Freeland, J. (1986) ‘Making the links: Schooling and the labour market’, Education Links, no. 28, pp. 9-16. Freeland, J. (1986) ‘Australia: the search for a new educational settlement’, in R. Sharp (ed.), Capitalist Crisis and Schooling: Comparative Studies in the Politics of Education, South Melbourne: Macmillan, pp. 212-36. Freeman, G. (1982) Small School in a State of Change, Melbourne: Deakin University Press. Freire, P. (1972a) Pedagogy of the Oppressed, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Freire, P. (1972b) Cultural Action for Freedom, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Freire, P. (1978) Pedagogy in Process, London: Writers and Readers. Freire, P. (1985) The Politics of Education, London: Macmillan. Frith, S. (1978) The Sociology of Rock, London: Constable. Frith, S. and McRobbie, A. (1978-9) ‘Rock and sexuality’, Screen Education, no. 29, Winter. Fromm, E. (1963) The Sane Society, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul.

298

Bibliography Game, A. and Pringle, R. (1983) Gender At Work, Sydney: Allen & Unwin. Garvey, T. (1982) ‘Teacher professionalism: an alternative explanation’, Unicorn, vol. 8, no. 3, pp. 234-7. Geer, B. (1968) ‘Teaching’, in B. Cosin, I. Dale, G. Esland, D. Mackinnon and D. Swift (eds), School and Society, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul and Open University Press, pp. 510. Gerth, H. and Mills, C. (1958) From Max Weber: Essays in Sociology, New York: Oxford University Press. Giddens, A. (1976) New Rules of Sociological Method, London: Hutchinson. Giddens, A. (1979) Central Problems in Social Theory, London: Macmillan. Girls, School and Society (1975) Report of a study group to the Schools’ Commission, Canberra: AGPS. Giroux, H. (1981) Ideology, Culture and the Process of Schooling, Lewes: The Falmer Press. Giroux, H. (1982) ‘Power and resistance in the new sociology of education: beyond theories of social and cultural reproduction’, Curriculum Perspectives, vol. 2, no. 3, pp. 1-13. Giroux, H. (1983) ‘Theories of reproduction and resistance in the new sociology of education: a critical analysis’, Harvard Educational Review, vol. 53, no. 3, pp. 257-93. Goffman, E. (1959) The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life, New York: Doubleday. Goffman, E. (1968) Asylums: Essays on the Social Situation of Mental Patients and Other Inmates, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Goodman, D. (1979) ‘Schools, class and culture: a case study of a Melbourne technical school’, Melbourne Working Papers, University of Melbourne, Sociology Research Group in Cultural and Educational Studies, pp. 63-82. Goodman, P. (1962) Compulsory Miseducation, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Gorz, A. (1982) Farewell to the Working Class, London: Pluto Press. Gorz, A. (1985) Paths to Paradise: On the Liberation from Work, London: Pluto Press. Gould, S.J. (1984) The Mismeasure of Man, Ringwood: Penguin. Grace, G. (1978) Teachers, Ideology and Control: A Study in Urban Education, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Grace, G. (1985) ‘Judging teachers: the social and political contexts of teacher evaluation’, British Journal of Sociology of Education, vol. 6, no. 1, pp. 3-16. Green, N. (1982) ‘The classroom teacher’s influence on the performance of Aboriginal children’, in J. Sherwood (ed.), Aboriginal Education: Issues and Innovations, Perth: Creative Research. Griffin, C. (1985) Typical Girls, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Groenewegen, P. (1972) ‘Consumer capitalism’, in J. Playford and D. Kirsner (eds), Australian Capitalism: Towards A Socialist Critique, Ringwood: Penguin, pp. 84-107.

299

Bibliography Gross, D. (1985) ‘Temporality and the modern state’, Theory and Society, vol. 14, no. 1, pp. 53-82. Habermas, J. (1971) Toward a Rational Society, London: Heinemann Educational Books. Habermas, J. (1976) The Legitimation Crisis, New York: Beacon Press. Hacker, R. and Rogers, R. (1982) ‘An analysis of preferred classroom activities in primary and secondary school science lessons’, Filter, no. 54. Hall, S. and Jefferson, T. (1976) Resistance Through Rituals, London: Hutchinson. Hammersley, M. (1976) ‘The mobilisation of pupil attention’, in M. Hammersley and P. Woods (eds). The Process of Schooling, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, pp. 104-15. Hammersley, M. and Woods P. (1976) The Process of Schooling, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Hannan, B. (1982a) ‘Assessment reporting and evaluation in democratic education’, Vise News, no. 31, pp. 24-31. Hannan, B. (ed.) (1982b) The Secondary Teacher, vol. 33, no. 6, August. Hannan, B. (1984) ‘Assessment, streaming, curriculum: a tangled debate’, Radical Education Dossier, no. 22, pp. 22-4. Hannan, B. (1985) Democratic Curriculum, Sydney: Allen & Unwin. Hargreaves, A. (1978) ‘The significance of classroom coping strategies’, in L. Barton and R. Meighan (eds), Sociological Interpretations of Schooling and Classrooms, Driffield: Nafferton Books, pp. 73-100. Hargreaves, A. and Woods, P. (eds) (1984) Classrooms and Staffrooms, Milton Keynes: Open University Press. Hargreaves, D. (1967) Social Relations in a Secondary School, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Hargreaves, D. (1975) Interpersonal Relations and Education, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Hargreaves, D., Hester, S. and Mellor, F. (1975) Deviance in Classrooms, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Harker, R. (1984) ‘On reproduction, habitus and education’, British Journal of Sociology of Education, vol. 5, no. 2, pp. 117-27. Harris, J.W. (1978a) ‘The education of Aboriginal children in New South Wales public schools since 1788’, Part 1, The Aboriginal Child at School, vol. 6, no. 4, pp. 22-34. Harris, J.W. (1978b) ‘The education of Aboriginal children in New South Wales public schools since 1788’, Part 2, The Aboriginal Child at School, vol. 6, no. 5, pp. 20-30. Harris, K. (1979) Education and Knowledge, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Harris, K. (1982) Teachers and Classes, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul.

300

Bibliography Harris, S. (1980) Culture and Learning, Darwin: Northern Territory Department of Education. Harris, S. (1982) ‘Aboriginal learning styles and the teaching of reading’, in J. Sherwood (ed.), Aboriginal Education: Issues and Innovations, Perth: Creative Research, pp. 81116. Hatton, E. (1985) ‘Equality, class and power: a case study’,British Journal of Sociology of Education, vol. 6, no. 3, pp. 255-72. Haug, F. (1985) ‘Why pupils need teachers: to lead experience into crisis’, Education Links, no. 27, pp. 3-8. Hawkins, G. (1982) Resistances to School, Stanmore: Inner City Education Centre. Head, B. (1984) ‘Recent theories of the state’, Politics, vol. 19, no. 1, pp. 36-45. Healy, P. and Ryan, P. (1975) The Female Image – Sexism in Children’s Books, Sydney: University of New South Wales Union. Hebdige, D. (1979) Subculture: The Meaning of Style, London: Methuen. Hebdige, D. (1981) ‘Subculture: image and noise’, in R. Dale, G. Esland, R. Fergusson and M. Macdonald (eds), Politics Patriarchy and Practice, London: The Falmer Press, pp. 8795. Heller, J. (1955) Catch 22, New York: Dell Publishing. Henderson, P. (1976) ‘Class structure and the concept of intelligence’, in D. Dale, G. Esland and M. MacDonald (eds), Schooling and Capitalism: A Sociological Reader, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Henderson, R. (1975) Commission of Inquiry into Poverty, First Main Report, Canberra: AGPS. Henry, M. (1983) ‘Political intervention in Queensland education’ in Haines, W. (ed.) Philosophy Reader in Education, 2nd ed., Kelvin Grove: BCAE Press, pp. 203-16. Henry, M. (1984) ‘Teaching teachers’, Social Alternatives, vol. 4, no. 2, July, pp. 25-6. Henry, M. and MacLennan, G. (1980) ‘From equality to quality in education: shifts in ideology’, South Pacific Journal of Teacher Education, vols. 3 and 4, pp. 91-9. Hill, B. (1977) The Schools, Ringwood: Penguin. Hogan, D. (1982) ‘Education and class formation: the peculiarities of the Americans’, in M. Apple (ed.), Cultural and Economic Reproduction in Education, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, pp. 32-78. Hogan, M. (1984) Public Vs. Private Schools – Funding and Directions in Australia, Ringwood: Penguin. Holt, J. (1965) How Children Fail, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Holt, J. (1970) The Underachieving School, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Horvath, B. (1980) The Education of Migrant Children: A Language Planning Perspective, Canberra: AGPS.

301

Bibliography Hoyle, E. (1969) The Role of the Teacher, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Humphreys, D. and Newcombe, K. (1975) Schools Out! Verdicts by Australian Children, Ringwood: Penguin. Hunt, A. (1981) The Language of Television: Uses and Abuses, London: Eyre Methuen. Hunt, J., Hutton, D. and Lingard, R. (1984) ‘Radicalising schooling: the possibilities’, Social Alternatives, vol. 4, no. 2, pp. 4-8. Hutton, D. (1983) ‘Ideology and history teaching in Queensland’, The History Teacher, October. Illich, I. (1971) Deschooling Society, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Isaacs, E. (1981) Greek Children at School and After, ERDC Report No. 29, Canberra: AGPS. Jackson, B. (1979) Starting School, London: Croom Helm. Jackson, B. and Marsden, D. (1962) Education and the Working Class, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Jackson, P.W. (1968) Life in Classrooms, New York: Holt, Rinehart & Winston. Jakubowicz, A. (1984) Education and Ethnic Minorities – Issues of Participation and Equity, NACCME Discussion Paper No. 1, Canberra. James, B. (1950) The Advancement of Spencer Button, Sydney: Angus & Robertson. Jamrozik, A. (1983) ‘Universality and selectivity: social welfare in a market economy’, in A. Graycar (ed.), Retreat From the Welfare State, Sydney: Allen & Unwin, pp. 171-88. Jencks, C. (1975) Inequality, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Johnson, L. (1984) ‘The uses of the media: an interpretation of the significance of the mass media in the lives of young people’, Discourse, vol. 4, no. 2, pp. 18-31. Johnson, R. (1976) ‘Notes on the schooling of the English working class, 1780-1850’, in R. Dale, F. Esland and M. MacDonald (eds), Schooling and Capitalism: A Sociological Reader, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, pp. 44-54. Johnson, T. (1972) Professions and Power, London: Macmillan. Johnston, K. (1979) ‘Getting working class experience into print – the Centreprise Project’, Radical Education Dossier, no. 10, pp. 22-5. Johnston, K. (1983) ‘A discourse for all seasons? An ideological analysis of the Schools Commission Reports, 1973 to 1981’, The Australian Journal of Education, vol. 27, no. 1, pp. 17-32. Johnston, K. (1985) ‘Teaching, learning and empowerment’, Education Links, no. 27, pp. 1314. Jones, B. (1983) Sleepers Wake! Technology and the Future of Work, new ed., Melbourne: Oxford University Press. Junor, A. (1983) ‘Testing: statistical fetishism’, The Australian Teacher, no. 5, pp. 20-1. Junor, A. (1984) ‘Curriculum: the contestants’, Radical Education Dossier, no. 22, Autumn, pp. 8-12.

302

Bibliography Kafka, F. (1925/1955) The Trial, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Kamin, L. (1977) The Science and Politics of IQ, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Karabel, J. and Halsey, A.H. (1977) Power and Ideology in Education New York: Oxford University Press. Karier, C. (1976) ‘Business values and the educational state’, in R. Dale, G. Esland and M. MacDonald (eds), Schooling and Capitalism: A Sociological Reader, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, pp. 44-54. Karmel, P. (1983) ‘Learning and earning – education and employment as activities for youth’, The Australian Journal of Education, vol. 27, no. 3, pp. 260-73. Keddie, N. (1971) ‘Classroom knowledge’, in M. Young (ed.), Knowledge and Control: New Directions for the Sociology of Education, London: Collier-Macmillan, pp. 133-60. Keddie, N. (ed.) (1973) Tinker Tailor: The Myth of Cultural Deprivation, Ringwood: Penguin. Keeves, J. (1978) ‘Approaches to the goal of educational equality’, in J.V. D’Cruz and P.J. Sheehan (eds), The Renewal of Australian Schools: A Changing Perspective in Educational Planning, 2nd ed., Hawthorn: ACER. Kelly, A. (1985) ‘The construction of masculine science’, British Journal of Sociology of Education, vol. 6, no. 2, pp. 133-54. Kelly, M. and McConnochie, K. (1974) ‘Compensatory education: a subtle form of racism’, The Australian Journal of Education, vol. 18, no. 1, pp. 30-49. Kemeny, J. (1980) ‘Dependent economy, dependent ruling class’, in G. Crough, T. Wheelwright and T. Wilshire (eds), Australia and World Capitalism, Ringwood: Penguin, pp. 191-6. Kemmis, S., Cole, P. and Suggett, D. (1983) Towards the Socially Critical School, Melbourne: VISE. Kemp, D. (1978) Society and Electoral Behaviour in Australia: A Study of Three Decades, St. Lucia: University of Queensland Press. Kenway, J. (1984) ‘The ties that bind: old girls’ and old boys’ associations’, Discourse, vol. 5, no. 1, pp. 1-18. Kincaid, J. (1973) Poverty and Equality in Britain, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Kleinfeld, J. (1972) Instructional Style and the Intellectual Performance of Indian and Eskimo Students: Final Report, Project No. l-J-027, US Department of Health, Education and Welfare. Kleinig, J. (1982) Philosophical Issues in Education, London: Croom Helm. Knight, J. (1985) ‘Creation-science, evolution-science and education: anything goes?’, Australian Journal of Education, vol. 29, no. 2, pp. 115-32. Knight, J. (1986) ‘The right-side: creation-science in Queensland, Australia’, New Zealand Sociology, vol. 1, no. 2, pp. 88-103.

303

Bibliography Knight, T. (1974) ‘Powerlessness and the student role: structural determinants of school status’, The Australian and New Zealand Journal of Sociology, vol. 10, no. 2, pp. 112-17. Knight, T. (1985) ‘An apprenticeship in democracy’, The Australian Teacher, no. 11, February, pp. 5-7. Knight, T. (ed.) (1982) A School Curriculum and Self-Evaluation Project, Task Force Report Seven, School of Education, La Trobe University. Kumar, K. (1978) Prophecy and Progress, Ringwood: Penguin. Labov, W. (1972) ‘The study of language in its social context’, in P. Giglioli (ed.), Language in Social Context, Harmondsworth: Penguin, pp. 283-308. Lacey, C. (1970) Hightown Grammar: The School as a Social System, Manchester: Manchester University Press. Lamb, S. (1984) ‘The study of cultural differences in contemporary Australian educational research’, in L. Johnson and D. Tyler (eds), Cultural Politics, Melbourne Working Papers 5, Melbourne: Melbourne University, pp. 37-73. Lampert, M. (1985) ‘How do teachers manage to teach? Perspective on problems in practice’, Harvard Educational Review, vol. 55, no. 2, pp. 178-94. LaNauze, J.A. (1943) ‘Education for some. . . .’, The Future of Education Series, No. 3, Melbourne: ACER. Lawler, J. (1978) IQ Heritability and Racism, New York: International Publishers. Lawton, D. (1975) Class, Culture and the Curriculum, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Leacock, E.B. (1969) Teaching and Learning in City Schools, New York: Basic Books. Lingard, R. (1982) ‘Queensland: boom for whom?’, in Radical Education Dossier, no. 18, pp. 21-4. Lingard, R. (1983a) ‘Multicultural education in Queensland: the assimilation of an ideal’, in Discourse, vol. 4, no. 1, pp. 13-31. Lingard, R. (1983b) ‘Schooling and capitalism: developments in the Bowles and Gintis thesis’, Forum of Education, vol. 42, no. 1, Autumn. Lingard, R. and MacLennan, G. (1983) ‘Class, culture and the English teacher: beyond reproduction’, English in Australia, no. 63, March, pp. 38-47. Lingard, R. and MacLennan, G. (1984) ‘Radical English teaching: towards the cultural dimension’, Radical Education Dossier, no. 23, Winter, pp. 8-11. Lippman, L. (1981) Generations of Resistance: The Aboriginal Struggle for Justice, Melbourne: Longman Cheshire. Literacy Working Group (1979) ‘A political critique of the educational standards debate’, in Melbourne Working Papers, no. 1, pp. 3-25. Livingston, J. and Galligan, S. (1982) ‘First year out’, Quest, no. 34, pp. 37-40. Llewellyn, M. (1980) ‘Studying girls at school’, in R. Deem (ed.), Schooling for Women’s Work, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, pp. 42-51.

304

Bibliography Lobban, G. (1978) ‘The influence of the school on sex-role stereotyping’, in J. Chetwynd and O. Hartnett, The Sex Role System, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, pp. 50-61. Lortie, D. (1975) School teacher: A Sociological Study, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. MacDonald, M. (1981) ‘Schooling and the reproduction of class and gender relations’, in R. Dale, G. Esland, R. Fergusson and M. MacDonald, Politics Patriarchy and Practice, Lewes: Falmer Press, pp. 159-77. Mackie, F. (1982) ‘The crisis of self-reflection and the uncritical foundations of our system of early childhood education’, in R. Young, M. Pusey and R. Bates (eds), Australian Educational Policy Issues and Critique, Geelong: Deakin University, pp. 39-59. Mackie, F. (1983) ‘A study in some central misrecognitions of the education process’, in R. Browne and L. Foster (eds), Sociology of Education, Melbourne: Macmillan, 3rd ed., pp. 314-21. Macpherson, J. (1983) The Feral Classroom, Melbourne: Routledge & Kegan Paul. McArthur, J. (1981) The First Five Years of Teaching, Canberra: AGPS. McCallum, D. (1979) ‘The educational inequality problematic: a note on Australian education intellectuals, 1935-1945’, in L. Johnson and U. Ozolins (eds), Melbourne Working Papers, Melbourne: Melbourne University, pp. 83-109. McCallum, D. (1984) ‘The theory of social differences in early twentieth century education in Victoria’, Discourse, vol. 5, no. 1, pp. 19-41. McCallum, D. (1985) ‘Educational expansion, curriculum reform and psychological theory: Australia in the 1930s’, The Australian and New Zealand Journal of Sociology, vol. 22, no. 2, pp. 225-37. McConnochie, K. (1982) ‘Aborigines and Australian education: historical perspectives’, in J. Sherwood (ed.), Aboriginal Education: Issues and Innovations, Perth: Creative Research. McGregor, A. (1982) ‘Burn-out: the crisis in Australia’s classrooms’, Weekend Australian, August 21-22. McGregor, C. (1983a) Soundtrack for the Eighties, Sydney: Hodder & Stoughton. McGregor, C. (1983b) Time of Testing: The Bob Hawke Victory, Ringwood: Penguin. McHoul, A. (1984) ‘Writing, sexism and schooling: a discourse-analytic investigation of some recent documents on sexism and education in Queensland’, Discourse, vol. 4, no. 2, April, pp. 1-17. McQueen, H. (1970) A New Britannia: An Argument Concerning the Social Origins of Australian Radicalism and Nationalism, Ringwood: Penguin. McQueen, H. (1982) Gone Tomorrow: Australia in the ’80s, Sydney: Angus & Robertson. McQueen, H. (1986) ‘Cultures and illiteracies: history? we’re making it’, Australian Society, January, pp. 16-21.

305

Bibliography McRobbie, A. (1978) ‘Working class girls and the culture of femininity’, in Women’s Studies Group (eds), Women Take Issue, London: Hutchinson, pp. 96-108. McRobbie, A. and Garber, J. (1976) ‘Girls and subcultures: an exploration’, in S. Hall and T. Jefferson (eds), Resistance Through Rituals, London: Hutchinson, pp. 209-22. Maher, M. (1983) ‘Reproduction theory and the syllabus mechanism in schooling – a case study of the biological science syllabuses in Queensland 1969-1981’, Discourse, vol. 3, no. 2, pp. 58-76. Malcolm, I. (1982) ‘Communicative dysfunction in Aboriginal classrooms’, in J. Sherwood (ed.), Aboriginal Education: Issues and Innovations, Perth: Creative Research. Marcuse, H. (1964) One-Dimensional Man: Studies in the Ideology of Advanced Industrial Society, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Marginson, S. (1982) Review of C. Williams and T. Pepe, ‘The Early Experiences of Students on Australian University Campuses’, Radical Education Dossier, vol. 18, p. 29. Marginson, S. (1986) ‘Selection into higher education’, The Australian Universities’ Review, vol. 29, no. 1, pp. 21-4. Martin, J. (1978) The Migrant Presence, Sydney: Allen & Unwin. Marx, K. (1950) ‘The eighteenth brumaire of Louis Bonaparte’, in K. Marx and F. Engels, Selected Works in Two Volumes, vol. 1, Moscow: Foreign Languages Publishing House, pp. 221-311. Maslen, G. (1982) School Ties: Private Schooling in Australia, Australia: Methuen. Masterman, L. (1980) Teaching About Television, London: Macmillan. Matthews, M. (1980) The Marxist Theory of Schooling: A Study of Epistemology and Education, Sussex: Harvester Press. Matza, D. (1966) Delinquency and Drift, New York: Wiley. Mead, G. (1934) in C. Morris (ed.), Mind, Self and Society, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Meade, P. (1978) Youth, Education and Life Chances, Sydney: School of Education, University of New South Wales. Meade, P. (1981) The Educational Experience of Sydney High School Students, Report No. 2, Canberra, AGPS. Meade, P. (1982) An Evaluation of the Secondary Allowances Scheme, Canberra: AGPS. Meighan, R. (1981) A Sociology of Educating, London: Holt, Rinehart & Winston. Merton, R. (1957) Social Theory and Social Structure, New York: Free Press. Meyers, P. (1985) ‘Primary school teachers in nineteenth century France: a study of professionalisation through conflict’, History of Education Quarterly, vol. 25, no. 112, pp. 21-40. Middleton, M. (1982) Marking Time, Sydney: Methuen.

306

Bibliography Miller, J. (1985) Koori: A Will To Win: The Heroic Resistance, Survival and Triumph of Black Australia, Sydney: Angus & Robertson. Millett, K. (1970) Sexual Politics, New York: Aron Books. Mills, C. Wright (1970) The Sociological Imagination, Ringwood: Penguin. Mills, R. (1978) A Comprehensive Education, London: Centreprise. Moran, P. (1983) ‘Female youth culture in an inner city school’, in Educational Research for National Development: Policy, Planning and Politics, AARE Conference Proceedings, Canberra, pp. 281-90. Musgrave, P. (1965) The Sociology of Education, London: Methuen. Nash, R. (1973) Classrooms Observed, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. National Population Inquiry (1975) Population and Australia, A Demographic Analysis and Projection, Vol. 2, Canberra: AGPS. Nelkin, D. (1976) ‘The science-textbook controversies’, Scientific American, vol. 234, no. 4, pp. 33-9. O’Donnell, C. (1984) The Basis of the Bargain: Gender, Schooling and Jobs, Sydney: Allen & Unwin. Oliver, P. (1976) ‘Blue-eyed blues: The impact of blues on European popular culture’, in C. Bigsby (ed.), Approaches to Popular Culture, London: Edward Arnold, pp. 227-39. O’Neill, K. (1984) Trying new directions . . . a working class school’, Radical Education Dossier, no. 22, pp. 16-18. Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development (1977) Review of National Policies for Education Australia: Transition from School to Work or Further Study, Paris: OECD. Orwell, G. (1925, reprint 1966) Nineteen Eighty-Four, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Orwell, G. (1951) Down and Out in Paris and London, London: Seeker & Warburg. Otto, R. (1982) ‘Teachers and distress’, The Australian Teacher, vol. 1, no. 1, p. 15. Ozolins, U. (1979) ‘Lawton’s “refutation”, of a working class curriculum’, Melbourne Working Papers, University of Melbourne, Sociology Research Group in Cultural and Educational Studies. Ozolins, U. (1981) ‘Victorian HSC examiners’ reports: a study of cultural capital’, in H.Bannister and L. Johnson (eds), Melbourne Working Papers, Melbourne: University of Melbourne. Parsons, T. (1961) ‘The school class as a social system: some of its functions in American society’, in A. Halsey et al. (eds), Education, Economy and Society, New York: Free Press, pp. 434-55. Petrie, S. (1984a) ‘Schools, alienation and delinquency’, Australian Crime Prevention Council Journal, special ed., part 1, vol. 6, no. 4, pp. 79-85.

307

Bibliography Petrie, S. (1984b) Delinquency and the School, unpublished Ph.D. thesis, St Lucia: University of Queensland. Pettit, D. (1980) Opening Up Schools, Ringwood: Penguin. Pollard, A. (1982) ‘A model of classroom copying strategies’, British Journal of Sociology of Education, vol. 3, no. 1, pp. 19-37. Postman, N., and Weingartner, C. (1969) Teaching as a Subversive Activity, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Praetz, H. (1982) Public Policy and Catholic Schools, Hawthorn: ACER. Praetz, H. (1983) ‘The non-government sector in Australian education’, in R. Browne and L. Foster (eds), Sociology of Education, 3rd ed., Melbourne: Macmillan, pp. 34-46. Presdee, M. (1983) ‘Education for the dole: An examination of the relationship between education and unemployment’, in R. Browne and L. Foster, op. cit., pp. 132-9. Presdee, M. (1984) ‘Youth unemployment and young women’, Radical Education Dossier, no. 23, pp. 4-7. Presdee, M. (1985) ‘The consumers who can’t consume’, Australian Society, vol. 4, no. 11, pp. 22-4. Preston, B. (1984) ‘Residualisation: what’s that?’, The Australian Teacher, no. 8, pp. 5-6. Pusey, M. (1980) ‘The legitimation of state education systems’, Australian and New Zealand Journal of Sociology, vol. 16, no. 2, pp. 45-52. Pusey, M. (1981) ‘How will governments strive to control education in the 1980s?’, Discourse, vol. 1, no. 2, pp. 9-17. Pusey, M. (1983) ‘The control and rationalisation of schooling’, in R. Browne and L. Foster, op cit., pp. 401-9. Quality of Education Review Committee (1985) Quality of Education in Australia (The Karmel Report), Canberra: AGPS. Queensland Board of Teacher Education (1981) The Induction of Beginning Primary Teachers, Toowong: Board of Teacher Education. Radical Education Dossier (1981) no. 17 on Discipline. Rado, M. (1975) ‘Education and the bilingual family’, in L. Claydon (ed.), The Urban School, Carlton: Pitman, pp. 48-64. Ramsay, P. (1983) ‘Dialogue, fresh perspectives on the school transformation-reproduction debate: a response to Anyon from the Antipodes’, Curriculum Inquiry, vol. 13, no. 3, pp. 295-320. Ramsay, P., Sneddon, D., Grenfell, J., and Ford, I. (1983) ‘Successful and unsuccessful schools: a study in southern Auckland’, Australian and New Zealand Journal of Sociology, vol. 19, no. 2, pp. 272-304.

308

Bibliography Raskall, P. (1980) ‘Who’s got what in Australia? The distribution of wealth’, in G. Crough, T. Wheelwright and T. Wilshire (eds), Australia and World Capitalism, Ringwood: Penguin, pp. 71-81. Raskall, P. (1986) ‘Who’s got it? Who needs it?’, Australian Society, vol. 5, no. 3, pp. 12-15. Reimer, E. (1971) School is Dead, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Rein, M. (1983) From Policy to Practice, London: Macmillan. Reynolds, D. (1976) ‘The delinquent school’, in M. Hammersley and P. Woods (eds), The Process of Schooling, London: Open University and Routledge & Kegan Paul, pp. 217-29. Reynolds, H. (1981) The Other Side of the Frontier, Townsville: James Cook University Press. Rist, R. (1970) ‘Student social class and teachers’ expectations: the selffulfilling prophecy in ghetto education’, Harvard Educational Review, vol. 40, pp. 411-50. Rist, R. (1972) ‘Social distance and social inequality in a kindergarten classroom: an examination of the cultural gap “hypothesis” ’, Urban Education, no. 7, pp. 241-60. Rist, R. (1977) ‘On understanding the processes of schooling: The contributions of labelling theory’, in J. Karabel and A. Halsey (eds), Power and Ideology in Education, New York: Oxford University Press. Robins, D. and Cohen, P. (1978) Knuckle Sandwich, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Roper, T. (1970) The Myth of Equality, Melbourne: NUAUS. Rose, H. and Rose, S. (1979) ‘The IQ Myth’, in D. Rubinstein (ed.), Education and Equality, Ringwood: Penguin. Rose, S., Kamin, L., and Lewontin, D. (1985) Not in Our Genes, Ringwood: Penguin. Rosenbaum, J. E. (1975) ‘The stratification of socialisation processes’, American Sociological Review, no. 40, pp. 48-54. Rosenthal, R. and Jacobsen, L. (1968) Pygmalion in the Classroom, New York: Holt, Rinehart & Winston. Rowley, C.D. (1972) The Destruction of Aboriginal Society, Ringwood: Penguin. Rowse, T. (1978) Australian Liberalism and National Character, Melbourne: Kibble Books. Rutter, M., Maughan, B., Mortimore, P. and Ouston, J. (1979), Fifteen Thousand Hours, London: Open Books. Ryan, B. (1982a) ‘The gifted child’, The Australian and New Zealand Journal of Sociology, vol. 18, no. 2, pp. 136-61. Ryan, B. (1982b) ‘Accountability in Australian education’, Discourse, vol. 2, no. 2, pp. 2140. Ryan, W. (1976) Blaming the Victim, New York: Vintage Books. Sadker M., and Sadker, D. (1985) ‘Sexism in the schoolroom of the ’80s’, Psychology Today, vol. 19, no. 3, pp. 54-7.

309

Bibliography Sampson, L. (1982) ‘Teacher stress and coping strategies’, unpublished M.Sc thesis, Griffith University. Sampson, S. (1985) ‘Authority and masculinity: some evidence on promotion seeking behaviour of females and males in Australian government school systems’, SAANZ conference, University of Queensland. Samuel, L. (1983a) ‘The making of a school-resister: A case study of working class Australian secondary schoolgirls’, in R. Browne and L. Foster (eds), Sociology of Education, 3rd ed., Melbourne: Macmillan, pp. 367-75. Samuel, L. (1983b) ‘Making the difference – a review essay’, Radical Education Dossier, no. 20, pp. 16-19. Sarup, M. (1982) Education, State and Crisis: A Marxist Perspective, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Sawer, M. (ed.) (1982) Australia and the New Right, Sydney: Allen & Unwin. Schools Commission (1973) ‘Schools in Australia: Report of the Interim Committee for the Australian Schools Commission’ (the Karmel Report), Canberra: AGPS. Schools Commission (1975a) Girls, School and Society: Report by a Study Group to the Schools Commission, Canberra: AGPS. Schools Commission (1975b) Report for the Triennium 1976-1978, Canberra: AGPS. Schools Commission (1979) Australian Students and their Schools, Canberra: Commonwealth of Australia. Schools Commission (1980) Schooling for 15 and 16 Year Olds, Canberra: AGPS. Schools Commission (1984a) Girls and Tomorrow: The Challenge for Schools, Canberra: AGPS. Schools Commission (1984b) Participation and Equity in Australian Schools: The Goal of Full Secondary Education, Canberra: AGPS. Scott, A. (1980) ‘The banning of SEMP in Queensland’, in R. Scott (ed.), Interest Groups and Public Policy, Australia: Macmillan, pp. 116-51. pp. 116-51. Searle, C. (1975) Classrooms of Resistance, London: Writers and Readers. Seddon, T. (1985) ‘Educational restructuring in the 1930s depression – Australia’, paper, SAANZ Conference, Brisbane. Sennett, R. and Cobb, J. (1972) The Hidden Injuries of Class, New York: Vintage Books. Shapiro, H. S. (1984) ‘Ideology, hegemony, and the individualising of instruction: the incorporation of “progressive” education’, Journal of Curriculum Studies, vol. 16, no. 4, pp. 367-78. Sharp, R. (1980) Knowledge, Ideology and the Politics of Schooling: Towards a Marxist Analysis of Education, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Sharp, R. (1980) ‘The culture of the disadvantaged: three views’, School and Community News, vol. 4, no. 2, pp. 5-11.

310

Bibliography Sharp, R. and Freeland, J. (1981) ‘The Williams Report on education, training and employment: the decline and fall of Karmelot’, Intervention, no. 14, pp. 54-79. Sharp, R. and Green, A. (1975) Education and Social Control: A Study in Progressive Primary Education, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Sharpe, S. (1976) Just Like a Girl, Ringwood: Penguin. Sheehan, P. (1980) Crisis in Abundance, Ringwood: Penguin. Shipman, M. (1968) Sociology of the School, London: Longman. Shor, I. (1980) Critical Teaching and Everyday Life, Boston: South End Press. Simon, B. (1960) Studies in the History of Education: 1780-1870, London: Lawrence & Wishart. Skilbeck, M. (1983) ‘Education and change in South Australia’, Australian Journal of Education, vol. 27, no. 2, pp. 99-110. Smail, B. (1984) Girl-friendly Science, London: Schools Council/Longman. Smith, B. (1980) The Spectre of Truganini, Sydney: ABC. Smith, D. (1976) ‘The urban genesis of school bureaucracy: a transatlantic comparison’, in R. Dale et al. (eds), Schooling and Capitalism, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, pp. 6677. Smith, P. (1982) Living on the Edge, Sydney: ACOSS. Smith, R. (1976) ‘On paradigms and problems of palliatives: rethinking teacher education’, SPATE Conference, University of Queensland. Smith, R. (1979) ‘Myth and ritual in teacher education’, in M. Pusey, R. Young, Knowledge and Control, Canberra: ANU Educational Research Unit, pp. 92-123. Smith, R. (1983) The Inequalities Debate: An Interpretive Essay, Geelong: Deakin University Press. Smith, R. and Knight, J. (1978) ‘MACOS in Queensland: the politics of educational knowledge’, Australian Journal of Education, vol. 22, no. 3, pp. 225-48. Smith, R. and Knight, J. (1982) ‘Liberal ideology, radical critiques and change in education: a matter of goals’, British Journal of Sociology of Education, vol. 3, no. 3, pp. 217-34. Spender, D. (1980) Man-made Language, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Spender, D. (1982) Invisible Women: The Schooling Scandal, London: Writers and Readers. Spender, D. and Sarah, E. (eds) (1980) Learning to Lose: Sexism and Education, London: The Women’s Press. Stanworth, M. (1984) ‘Girls on the margins: A study of gender divisions in the classroom’, in A. Hargreaves and P. Woods (eds), Classrooms and Staffrooms, Milton Keynes: Open University Press, pp. 147-58. Stebbins, R. (1977) ‘The meaning of academic performance: How teachers define a classroom situation’, in P. Woods and M. Hammersley (eds), School Experience, London: Croom Helm, pp. 28-55.

311

Bibliography Stewart, D. (1983) The Television Family, Melbourne: Institute of Family Studies. Stockley, D. (1983) ‘Political Ideologies and Australian Education’, in R. Browne and L. Foster (eds), Sociology of Education, 3rd ed., Melbourne: Macmillan, pp. 47-58. Storer, D. et al. (1976) ‘But I wouldn’t want my wife to Work Here’: A Study of Migrant Women in Melbourne Industry, Fitzroy: Cura. Stricker, P. and Sheehan, P. (1981) Hidden Unemployment: The Australian Experience, Melbourne: Institute of Applied Economic and Social Research. Sturman, A. (1985) Immigrant Australians, Education and the Transition to Work, NACCME Discussion Paper no. 3, Canberra. Sullivan, M. (1974) ‘Fifty years of opposition to Queensland’s grammar schools’, in S. Murray Smith (ed.), Melbourne Studies in Education, Melbourne: Melbourne University Press. Summers, A. (1975) Damned Whores and God’s Police: The Colonization of Women in Australia, Ringwood: Penguin. Sweet, R. (1984) ‘Australian trends in job skill requirements. A critique of the current orthodoxy’, US-Australia joint seminar on ‘The Future Impact of Technology on Work and Education’, Monash University. Symes, C. (1984) ‘The fault-finders guide to schooling or prospecting for pernicion in pedagogue-land’, Social Alternatives, vol. 4, no. 2, July, pp. 48-51. Tannock, P. and Punch, K. (1975) A Report on the Education Status of Aboriginal Children in Western Australia, Perth: University of Western Australia. Taylor, S. (1980) ‘School experience and student perspectives: a study of some effects of secondary school organisation’, Educational Review, vol. 32, no. 1, pp. 37-52. Taylor, S. (1982) ‘Schooling and social reproduction’, Australian Journal of Education, vol. 26, no. 2, pp. 144-54. Taylor, S. (1983) ‘School choices and life chances’, in R. Browne and L. Foster (eds), Sociology of Education, Melbourne: Macmillan. Taylor, S. (1984) ‘Reproduction and contradictions in schooling: the case of commercial studies’, in British Journal of Sociology of Education, vol. 5, no. 1, pp. 3-18. Taylor, S. (1985) ‘The politics of street dancing’, Social Alternatives, vol. 4, no. 4, pp. 35-9. Taylor, S. (1986) ‘Teenage girls and economic recession in Australia: some cultural and educational implications’, British Journal of Sociology of Education, vol. 7, no. 4, pp. 37995. Teese, R. (1981) ‘The social function of private schools’, in Melbourne Working Papers, pp. 94-116. Teese, R. (1984) ‘The evolution of the Victorian secondary school system’, in L. Johnson and D. Tyler (eds), Cultural Politics, Melbourne Working Papers 5, Melbourne: Melbourne University, pp. 95-167.

312

Bibliography Thomas, C. (1980) ‘Girls and counter school culture’, in D. McCallum and U. Ozolins (eds), Melbourne Working Papers, Sociology Research Group in Cultural and Educational Studies, University of Melbourne, pp. 125-56. Trainer, T. (1984) ‘Bandaids or fundamental change?’, Radical Education Dossier, no. 22, pp. 4-7. Turney, C. (ed.) (1975) Sources in the History of Australian Education: A Book of Readings, Sydney: Angus & Robertson. Turney, C. and Ryan, C. (1978) Inner-City Teaching, Sydney: Sydney University Press. Turney, C., Inglis, C., Sinclair, K. and Straton, R. (1978) Inner-City Schools, Sydney: Sydney University Press. Turney, C., Sinclair, K. and Cairns, L. (1980) Isolated Schools, Teaching, Learning and Transition to Work, Sydney: Sydney University Press. Tyler, W. (1977) The Sociology of Educational Inequality, London: Methuen. Vulliamy, G. (1976) ‘What counts as school music?’, in G. Whitty and M. Young (eds), Explorations in the Politics of School Knowledge, Driffield: Nafferton, pp. 19-34. Waller, W. (1932) The Sociology of Teaching, New York: Wiley. Walker, J. (1985) ‘Louts and Legends’, SAANZ conference, University of Queensland. Walsh, M. (1979) Poor Little Rich Country: The Path to the Eighties, Ringwood: Penguin. Ward, R. (1978) The Australian Legend, London: Oxford University Press. Watson, I. (1985) Double Depression: Schooling, Unemployment and Family Life in the Eighties, Sydney: Allen and Unwin. Watts, B. (1982) Aboriginal Futures: A Review of Research and Developments and Related Policies in the Education of Aborigines: A Summary, Canberra: AGPS. Werthman, C. (1977) ‘Delinquents in schools: A test for the legitimacy of authority’, in B. Cosin, I. Dale, G. Esland, D. Mackinnon and D. Swift (eds), School and Society, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, pp. 34-43. Western, J. (1983) Social Inequality in Australian Society, Melbourne: Macmillan. Wheelwright, T. (1980) ‘Tax dodgers and dole bludgers’, in G. Crough, T. Wheelwright and T. Wilshire (eds), Australia and World Capitalism, Ringwood: Penguin, pp. 82-5. White, D. (1976) ‘The profession of teaching’, in P. Boreham et al. (eds), The Professions in Australia, St Lucia, Queensland: University of Queensland Press, pp. 156-68. White, D. (1983) ‘Dividing up the school classes’, in Arena, 63, pp. 25-30. White, D., Hannan, B., Blackburn, J. and Ashenden, D. (1984) ‘Manifesto for a democratic curriculum’, Australian Teacher, February. White, R. (1983a) ‘On teachers and proletarianisation’, Discourse, vol. 3, no. 2, pp. 45-57. White, R. (1983b) ‘Teacher militancy, ideology and politics’, Australian and New Zealand Journal of Sociology, vol. 19, no. 2, pp. 253-71.

313

Bibliography White, R. (1984) ‘The media and teachers’ strikes: New South Wales, 1981’, Australian Teachers Federation Research Papers No. 6, Canberra: Australian Teachers Federation. Whiteside, M. et al. (1969) ‘Aspirations, reality shock and entering into schooling’, The Sociological Review, vol. 17, no. 3, pp. 399-414. Whitty, G. and Young, M. (1976) Explorations in the Politics of School Knowledge, Driffield: Nafferton. Whyte, W. (1955) Street Corner Society: The Social Structure of an Italian Slum, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Wild, R. (1978) Social Stratification in Australia, Sydney: Allen & Unwin. Wilenski, P. (1986) Public Power and Public Administration, Sydney: Hale and Iremonger. Williams, C. (1983) ‘The “work ethic”, non-work and leisure’, Australia and New Zealand Journal of Sociology, 19, 2, pp. 216-37. Williams, R. (1976) ‘Base and superstructure in Marxist cultural theory’, in R. Dale et al., op cit., pp. 202-10. Williams, R. (1981) Culture, Glasgow: Fontana. Williams Report (1979) Education, Training and Employment: Report of the Committee of Inquiry into Education and Training, 3 vols., Canberra: AGPS. Williamson, J. (1979) ‘Work experience as social research’, Radical Education Dossier, 10, pp. 17-19. Willis, P. (1975) ‘The expressive style of a motor-bike culture’, in J. Benthall and T. Polhemus (eds), The Body as a Medium of Expression, London: Allen Lane, pp. 233-52. Willis, P. (1977) Learning to Labour, Farnborough: Saxon House. Willis, P. (1978) Profane Culture, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Willis, P. (1981) ‘Cultural production is different from cultural reproduction is different from social reproduction is different from reproduction’, Interchange, vol. 12, nos. 2-3, pp. 4867. Willis, P. (1983) ‘Cultural production and theories of reproduction’, in L. Barton and S. Walker (eds), Race, Class and Education, London: Croom Helm, pp. 107-38. Willis, P. (1984) ‘Conclusion: theory and practice’, in I. Bates et al., Schooling for the Dole, London: Macmillan, pp. 220-7. Willis, P. (1985) Address on ‘Youth Unemployment and Schooling’, 8th International Sociology of Education Conference, Westhill, Birmingham, January (unpublished). Willower, D., Eidell, T. and Hoy, W. (1967) ‘The school and pupil control ideology’, Pennsylvania State Studies Monograph No. 24, University Park, Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania State University. Wilson, B. (1962) ‘The teacher’s role – A sociological analysis’, British Journal of Sociology, 13 (1), pp. 15-32.

314

Bibliography Wimshurst, K. (1983) ‘Child-saving and urban school reform in South Australia at the turn of the century’, in I. Palmer (ed.), Melbourne Studies in Education, 1983, Melbourne: Melbourne University Press. Windschuttle, K. (1981) Unemployment, 2nd ed., Ringwood: Penguin. Windschuttle, K. (1984a) The Media, Ringwood: Penguin. Windschuttle, K. (1984b) ‘Schools for the future’, Australian Society, vol. 3, no. 6, pp. 15-18. Wiseman, R. (1970a) ‘Secondary school and family background – a review of some recent Australian studies’, Australian Journal of Education, 14 (1). Wiseman, R. (1970b) ‘Social class differences in school performance and progress’, in F.M. Katz and R.K. Browne (eds), Sociology of Education, Melbourne: Macmillan. Woods, P. (1976) ‘The myth of subject choice’, British Journal of Sociology, 27, pp. 130-49. Woods, P. (1979) The Divided School, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Woods, P. (1980a) Teacher Strategies, London: Croom Helm. Woods, P. (1980b) Pupil Strategies, London: Croom Helm. Woods, P. (1983) Sociology and the School, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Woods, P. and Hammersley, M. (1977) School Experience, London: Croom Helm. Worpole, K. and Moreley, D. (eds) (1982) The Republic of Letters: Working Class Writing and Local Publishing, London: Comedia. Worsley, P. (1982) Modern Sociology, 2nd ed., Harmondsworth: Penguin. Wright, A., Headlam, F., Ozolins, U. and Fitzgerald, R. (1978) ‘Poverty, education and adolescents’, in Outcomes of Schooling: Aspects of Success and Failure, Poverty and Education Series, Canberra: AGPS. Wright, E. (1978) Class, Crisis and the State, London: New Left Books. Wrong, D. (1970) ‘The oversocialised conception of man in modern sociology’, in G. Stone and H. Farberman (eds), Social Psychology Through Symbolic Interactionism, Walthaus, Mass.: Zerox, pp. 29-40. Young, M. (1971) ‘An approach to the study of curricula as socially organised knowledge’, in M. Young (ed.), Knowledge and Control, London: Collier-Macmillan, pp. 19-46. Young, M. (ed.) (1971) Knowledge and Control: New Directions for the Sociology of Education, London: Collier-Macmillan. Young, M. (1976) ‘The schooling of science’, in G. Whitty and M. Young (ed.), Explorations in the Politics of School Knowledge, Driffield: Nafferton, pp. 47-61. Young, M. and Whitty, G. (1977) Society, State and Schooling: Readings on the Possibilities for Radical Education, Lewes: Falmer Press.

315

Author Index

Abbey and Ashenden, 240 Acker, 38 Ahern Committee, 35 Alexander et al., 182 Anderson and Western, 23-4, 122, 125-6, 135, 170-2, 175-6, 202, 218, 239 Andrews, 202 Angus, 47, 186, 205 Anyon, 73, 186, 205 Apple, 13, 61-2, 64, 69-70, 73, 77-9, 88, 92, 114-16, 135, 152, 232, 236, 240, 246, 262, 267 Arfwedson, 186 Ashenden, 267-8 Ashenden and Costello, 178, 180 Ashenden et al., 168 Astbury, 219 Atkinson and Delamont, 26 Bacchi, 197 Banks, 9 Barnes et al., 44 Bartholomew, 25 Bassett, 22, 23 Bates, I., et al., 257, 282, 284, 286 Bates, R., 37, 51, 111-13, 135, 261-2 Beazley, 167 Becker, 184 Behrens, 169

Beilharz, 216 Bennett, 15, 16, 123, 167, 196 Berdie, 23 Berg, 178 Berger, 8 Berger and Luckmann, 8, 16 Berger, Berger and Kellner, 107-8, 112 Bernstein, 61, 88, 142, 149, 180, 283 Berry, J., 200-1 Berry, M., 82 Bessant, 64-5, 67, 196 Biggins, 63, 78, 249 Bisseret, 193 Blackburn, 188, 279 Blau and Scott, 97, 103 Blease, 184 Blum, 166, 197, 201, 205 Blumer, 42 Board of Teacher Education (Qld), 30 Bottomley and de Lepervanche, 238 Bourdieu, 142, 168-9, 233-4. 240-1 Bourdieu and Passeron, 182, 196, 230-3 Bourdieu and Saint-Martin, 235 Bourke and Keeves, 174, Bowles 35, 62 Bowles and Gintis, 12, 62-4, 70, 72-3, 92, 178, 201, 230-4, 241 Bowles and Nelson, 201 Brake, 158, 164 Branson and Miller, 142, 230-1, 239

317

Author Index Braverman, 73-5 Broadfoot, 80 Brophy and Good, 150, 184 Brown, 147 Browne and Foster, L., 92 Bryson, 188, 219, 238 Bull and Tons, 273 Busswell, 114 Butts, 104 Bycroft, 47 Cameron et al., 268-9 Campbell and Robinson 30, 34, 38 Carnoy and Levin, 230 Carpenter and Western, 169 Cashmore, 153 Cass, 222-3 Cass et al., 172 Chamberlain, 81, 214, 218 Chambers, 160 Cicourel and Kitsuse, 182 Clark, M. 219 Claydon, 141, 163, 242 Collins, J., 81, 173, 213, 238 Collins, R., 178 Commissioner for Community Relations, 79 Connell, R.W., 23, 34, 38, 111, 169, 178, 211, 238, 240, 246-8, 254, 260, 262 Connell, R.W. and Irving, 211, 223, 238 Connell, R.W. et al., 50, 54, 82, 129, 138-9, 142, 150-2, 159, 164, 167-8, 173, 185, 205, 211-12, 214, 216, 225, 230, 235, 237, 239, 256, 268 Connell, W.F., 196 Cook, Davey and Vick, 64, 68 Cooley, 204 Cooper, 127-8 Cornog, 27 Corrigan, 13, 91, 93, 157, 164 Cosin et al., 56 Coulter, 23 Cox and Boyson, 84 Crough and Wheelwright, 219

318

Crough, Wheelwright and Wilshire, 219, 238 Cuban, 47 Cuff and Payne, 16 Curriculum Development Centre, 267 Dale, 16, 28, 42, 51-2, 57, 110, 112, 116, 203 Dale and Esland, 62, 64, 68. 75, 82, 93 Dale et al., 12, 72, 93, 230 Daniel, 24 Davey and Miller, 66 Davies, A.F., 214 Davies, B., 55 Davis, 49-50 de Lacey, 226 de Lemos, 174-5 Deem, 150 Delamont, 28, 41, 44, 46, 150-1 Denscombe, 51-3, 57 Department of Aboriginal Affairs, 175 Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet, 172-3 Dewey, 264 Douglas, 182 Dreeben, 9 Dunn, 169 Dwyer et al., 86, 93, 143, 211-12, 214-15, 229-30, 236-7, 239, 245, 256-7, 268, 271, 286 Eades, 149 Edgar, D., 142, 220-1, 240 Edgar, P., 160 Education Links, 262, 287 Edwards, 75 Eipper, 236-7 Elliott, 26 Ely, 63, 121, 127-8 Encel, 23, 104, 129, 212 Engish, 117, 139 Esland, 96-7 Etzioni, 96, 106-7

Author Index Evans, 150-1, 188 Evans and Waites, 197 Fanshawe, 185 Farber, 31, 38, Fensham, 228 Firkin et al., 188 Fisk, 175, 213 Fitzgerald, R., 142, 145, 148, 169, 174, 176, 216, 221-2, 227, 239 Flanders, 44 Floud and Halsey, 9 Flude, 225-6 Fomin, 171 Foster, L., 42, 225, 229, 233 Foster, V., 188 Foucault, 193-4 Frazier and Sadker, 149-50 Freeland, 84, 87, 229, 283 Freeman, 278 Freire, 71, 88, 93, 247, 274-5, 287 Frith, 162 Frith and McRobbie, 162-3 Fromm, 4 Game and Pringle, 217, 238 Garvey, 34, 38, 203 Geer, 49 Gerth and Mills, 101, 136 Giddens, 8 Giroux, 76, 236, 241 Goffman, 29, 42-3, 57, 97, 136 Goodman, D., 154-5 Goodman, P., 71 Gorz, 244 Gould, 197 Grace 35, 246, 254, 262 Green, 189-90 Griffin, 282 Groenengen, 221 Gross, 63 Habermas, 83, 116 Hacker and Rogers, 188

Hall and Jefferson, 164 Hammersley, 29 Hammersley and Woods, 57, 205 Hannan, 117, 191, 204, 266, 270, 273-4, 287 Hardy, 248 Hargreaves, A., 51-3, 57, 178 Hargreaves, D., 45, 48, 57, 183-4 Hargreaves D., et al., 32, 53, 183, 280 Harker, 233 Harris, J., 176 Harris, K., 18, 24, 38, 61, 203, 214-15, 217, 246, 272 Harris, S., 149 Hatton, 185-6 Haug, 261, 266 Hawkins, 157, 264 Healy and Ryan, 188 Hebdige, 160, 162, 164 Heller, 103 Henderson, P., 198-200 Henderson, R., 144, 213, 221 Henry, 36, 114 Henry and MacLennan, 229 Hill, 141, 164 Hogan, D., 35 Hogan, M., 121-4, 127, 129, 136, 229 Holt, 71, 93, 110, 178-9 Horvath, 147 Hoyle, 45 Humphreys and Newcombe, 50, 97 Hunt, A., 276 Hunt, J., et al., 261 Hutton, 79 Illich, 71-2, 88, 93, 278 Isaacs, 146 Jackson, B., 137, 147. 178, 182 Jackson, P., 178, 182 Jakubowicz, 174-5 James, 40 Jamrozik, 133 Jencks, 12

319

Author Index Johnson, L., 164 Johnson, R., 62, 64-5 Johnson, T., 33, 203 Johnston, 5, 90, 167, 245, 276 Jones, 73, 217, 223, 285 Junor, 88, 196 Kafka, 102 Kamin, 194, 196-8 Karabel and Halsey, 17 Karmel, 22, 170 Karier, 35, 72 Keddie, 11, 184, 226 Keeves, 167 Kelly, A., 151, 187, 188 Kelly, M., and McConnochie, 226 Kemeny, 211, 219 Kemmis et al., 270 Kemp, 217 Kenway, 131, 135 Kincaid, 144 Kleinfeld, 185 Kleinig, 199 Knight, J., 17, 78 Knight, T., 32, 117, 180-2, 240 Lacey, 183 Lamb, 225, 239 Lampert, 31, 38 La Nauze, 169 Lawler, 197-9, 202 Lawton, 269 Leacock, 185 Lingard, 73, 114, 118, 232 Lingard and MacLennan, 179, 235, 249 Lippman, 176, 213 Literacy Working Group, 85, 88 Livingston and Galligan, 1 Llewellyn, 164 Lobban, 151 Lortie, 24, 26, 39, 46 McArthur, 23, 26, 30 McCallum, 195-7, 228

320

McConnochie, 176-7 MacDonald, 163 McGregor, A., 19-20 McGregor, C., 215, 220 McHoul, 118 Mackie, 235 Macpherson, 46, 55 McQueen, 192, 223, 248 McRobbie, 155, 163, 165 McRobbie and Garber, 156 Maher, 79 Malcolm, 148-9 Marcuse, 116 Marginson, 125, 167 Martin, 146 Marx, 8 Maslen, 121, 125-6, 129, 136 Masterman, 276 Matthews, 195, 198, 205 Matza, 153 Mead, 42-3 Meade, 50, 142, 227 Meighan, 17, 45-6, 50, 57, 126, 129 Merton, 107 Meyers, 35 Middleton, 273, 277-8, 287 Miller, 176 Millett, 172 Mills, C. Wright, 5, 17, Mills, R., 287 Moran, 157, 165 Musgrave, 9 Nash, 178 National Population Inquiry, 176 Nelkin, 85 O’Donnell, 64, 239 Oliver, 161 O’Neill, 268-9 Orwell, 43, 102 Otto, 29 Ozolins, 196, 234-5, 269

Author Index Parsons, 7, 9 Petrie, 54, 181, 281 Pettit, 287 Pike, 23 Pollard, 3, 51, 53 Postman and Weingartner, 71, 93 Praetz, 122, 128-9 Presdee, 86, 159, 252, 262, 286 Preston, 133-4, 136 Pusey, 37, 69, 83, 93, 112-13, 136, 254 Radical Education Dossier, 93, 252, 262 Rado, 146 Ramsay, 186-7 Ramsay et al., 186-7, 205, 279-82 Raskall, 221, 223-4 Reimer, 71 Rein, 32 Reynolds, D., 54, 280 Reynolds, H., 176 Rist, 184 Rizvi, 239 Robins and Cohen, 164 Roper, 167, 228, 230 Rose, Kamin and Lewontin, 191, 201, 205 Rose and Rose, 198-9, 201 Rosenbaum, 182 Rosenthal and Jacobsen, 184 Rowley, 175 Rowse, 167, 192, 202, 205 Ryan, B., 5, 21, 115-16, 203 Ryan, W., 27 Sadker and Sadker, 151, Sampson, L., 30 Sampson, S., 23 Samuel, 23, 156, 165, 266 Sarah and Spender, 188 Sarup, 194, 203 Schools Commission, 22, 70, 89-90, 93, 117, 128, 150-1, 168, 171-3, 187, 206, 225, 228, 266-7, 273, 277 Scott, 87

Searle, 275, 287 Seddon, 37 Sennett and Cobb, 143, 223 Shapiro, 203 Sharp, 61-2, 66, 86, 226-8 Sharp and Freeland, 229 Sharp and Green, 178, 260 Sharpe, 165 Shaw, 34 Sheehan, 222-3 Shipman, 9, 42 Shor, 275, 287 Simon, 35 Smail, 188 Smith, B., 176, 220 Smith, P., 144-5 Smith, R., 26, 225, 239, 245, 257 Smith, R. and Knight, J., 73, 87 Social Alternatives, 262 Spender, 151, 188, 239 Stanworth, 151 Stebbins, 49 Stewart, 160-1 Stockley, 127-8 Storer, 213 Stricker and Sheehan, 170 Sturman, 174 Sullivan, 64 Summers, 220 Sweet, 284-5 Symes, 254 Tannock and Punch, 190 Taylor, 8, 70, 79, 151, 158, 162, 170, 182 Teese, 123, 129, 130-2, 151, 158, 162, 228 Terkel, 207 Thomas, 156 Toomey, 240 Trainer, 221, 272 Turney, 64 Turney and Ryan, 140 Turney et al., 140-1 Tyler, 225, 240

321

Author Index Vulliamy, 79 Walker, 155 Waller, 29, 45, 49 Walsh, 215, 223 Ward, 192, 219 Watson, 159, 179, 248, 257 Watts, 176, 189 Werthman, 54 Western, 172, 175-6, 213, 218, 238 Wheelwright, 211, 221 White D., 21, 90, 253, 263 White R., 36-7, 119, 217 White, D., et al., 267-8 Whiteside, et al., 25 Whitty and Young, 70, 94 Whyte, 97 Wild, 212-13, 215, 218, 238 Wilenski, 116 Williams B., Report, 86

322

Williams, C, 286 Williams, R., 79, 86, 236 Williamson, 117 Willis, 13, 54-5, 153-4, 156, 159, 162, 236, 241, 282 Willower et al., 26 Wilson, 34, 39 Wimshurst, 64 Windschuttle, 83, 157-8, 160-1, 164, 170, 213, 244, 268 Wiseman, 169 Woods, 42-3, 48, 51-3, 57, 182 Woods and Hammersley, 58 Worpole and Morley, 276, 288 Worsley, 102 Wright, A., et al., 50, 169 Wright, E.O., 215 Wrong, 8 Young, M.F.D., 10-11, 61, 79, 228

Subject Index

ability, 76, 80, 167-8, 177, 182, 189-204, 255-6, 273; heritability, 195, 198

Australian Schools Commission, see Schools Commission

Aborigines and Islanders, 146, 148-9, 201, 213; educational opportunity, 2, 166,

‘back to Basics’, see debates

168, 175-7, 185, 189-90, 238, 275;

‘banking concept’, 71, 78, 274

language and communication, 148-9;

biological reductionism/determinism,

learning styles, 149; living conditions, 176, 189; poverty, 148, 176; racism and, 148; schooling, 2, 148-9, 175-7, 189-90, 272; teacher expectations, 2, 148, 18990; unemployment, 176, 213, 286

192ff. ‘blaming the victim’, 5, 83, 191, 202, 2078, 251 bureaucracy, 101-5, 252; bureaucratic and professional convergence, 36-7, 111ff.;

academic curriculum, see curriculum

bureaucratic consciousness, 112-13,

accountability in education, 2, 52, 115, 260;

252-3, 261; constraints on teaching and,

see also teachers

34-7, 106-7, 120; goal displacement

advertising, see media

and, 106-10; informal networks and, 96-

agency, 6-8, 15-16, 81, 232, 234; see also

7, 103; tensions between bureaucracy

structure Ahern Committee, 35, 89

and professionalism, 34-7, 106-7, 254; see also education

alienation, 71, 76, 92; see also students; teachers aptitude, see ability

capitalism, 7, 12, 13, 62-3, 67, 72, 74, 1912, 195, 210-11, 231-2, 285

assessment, 11, 179, 247, 273, 282

catholic schools, see schools

Australian: class structure, see class;

change in education, see education;

culture, see culture; ethos,see culture Australian Scholastic Aptitude Test (ASAT), 271

schools; teachers class, 7-13, 56, 137, 152, 163, 207-41; Australian class structure, 209-24;

323

Subject Index background of students, see

conservative backlash, 35-8, 245

students;conflict, 7, 12, 137, 213-14,

contradictory class locations, see teachers

223; consciousness, 81, 218-20, 223-4;

control, see classrooms; teachers; teaching

corporate class, 211; education and, see

correspondence principle, see reproduction

inequalities in educational opportunity;

theory

‘hidden injuries of’, 81, 143, 223-4;

country schools, see schools and schooling

middle class, 213-17, 224, 285-6; nature

cultural: capital, 131, 142, 233ff., 249;

of, 209-24, 236-7; professional class, 2,

deprivation/deficit, 142, 182-3, 189,

214, 216; ruling class, 210-14, 216, 218,

225-6, 251; difference, 145-9, 225-7,

224, 285-6; small business class, 214,

229, 255; milieu, 56, 137, 166;

216; structure, 209-24; working class, 2,

production, 13-14, 236, 276;

10, 212-18, 223-4, 285ff.

reproduction, 13-14, 232ff., 281;

class size, 28-30, 51-2, 244 classroom interaction, 19-20, 28, 41, 43-7,

resistance, 236 culture, 270; academic, 237; Australian,

183-6; sexism and, 151-2, 188-9, 244;

219-20; mateship, 219-20; middle class,

student subcultures, 12, 13, 46-7, 49, 55-

154, 232-3; ruling class, 142, 233, 237;

6

working class, 142, 223-4, 232, 236-7;

classrooms, 3, 40-57; conflict and control, 3, 14, 19-20, 27-9, 31-2, 48-53, 56, 280-

see also students; youth curriculum, 4, 11-13, 47, 59ff., 150, 180,

3; culture of, 41-3, 49, 53, 56-7; open,

245, 248-51, 267ff.; common, 245, 267-

21, 47, 282; physical setting, 40-1, 46-7;

74; core, 26774; competitive academic,

282; teachers and, 10-13, 43-53, 56, 250

131, 195-6, 203, 237, 244-5, 256-7, 266,

common curriculum, see curriculum

286; democratic, 267-74; hidden, 51, 60,

Commonwealth Schools Commission, see

68, 70, 76ff., 150, 155, 170, 179-80, 186,

Schools Commission

218, 250; historical context of, 4, 62ff.;

community and schooling, 138-41, 267ff.

innovations, 120, 265ff.; negotiated,

Community Employment Programs, see

270; organic working class, 256-7, 267-

youth

74; ‘selective tradition’, 79; socially

compensatory education, see education

critical, 270-4; subject choice, 151;

competition, 142, 178-9, 237, 244-5, 273,

subject status, 76; worthwhile

282 Competitive Academic Curriculum:

knowledge, 11, 86, 248-50, 264ff. Curriculum Development Centre, 100, 267

challenging the, 245, 256-7, 264ff.; class basis of, 195-6, 237; see also curriculum

debates in education, 2, 84ff.; ‘back to

comprehensive schools, see schools

basics’, 21, 85;curriculum, 84ff., 120,

conflict, 66, 68; as source of change, 13-14,

267-74; standards, 2, 84-6, 260; state

118-19; theories, 7-8; see also classrooms consensus theories, 7-8, 78

324

aid, 126-9, 167 deficit theory, 2, 11, 12, 142, 182-3, 189, 225-7, 251

Subject Index delinquency, see students

30 equity, see equality of educational

democracy, 4, 10, 15, 208, 264ff.

opportunity; social justice ethnicity,

deviance, see students; teachers

137, 152, 163, 209; ethnic groups, 145,

disadvantage, 11, 245, 272 Disadvantaged Schools Program, 167, 228-9 ‘discipline problems’, 13, 19-20, 28-32, 56,

279ff.; ethnic underclass, 173-5, 213; inequality and, 13, 173-5; schooling and, 12, 13, 140, 145-8, 173-5, 189, 270, 275, 279-82; see also multiculturalism

73, 247-8, 251-2, 280-2 discrimination, 2, 5-6, 14, 144-7

femininity, 150, 155-6, 172-3 Fitzgerald Report, see poverty

economic recession, 12, 210, 219; effect of, 21, 23, 37, 56, 83-4, 145, 157, 283ff.

Fraser government, 284 functionalist theories, see sociology

economy, 4, 6, 7, 8, 15, 16, 210-11, 219; post-war boom, 83, 216-17 education: adult literacy programs, 274-6; alternative, 12, 265, 277-9; bureaucracy, 34-8, 104-6; change, 116-20, 242-63; compensatory, 11, 198; consciousness raising, 274-6; deskilling, 114, 285; funding, 126-9, 133, 260; innovations, 117, 265ff.; multicultural, 147, 273, 289-92; open, 11, 21, 271; policy, 31-2, 89-90, 128-9, 245, 258; progressive, 11, 21, 37, 208, 282; privatisation, 133; reform, 9-11, 14, 16, 117, 257-9, 264ff.; residualisation of, 133-5; scientisation of, 113-16, 254; standards debate, see debates in education; tertiary, 168, 170, 178, 209, 218; transition, 229, 257, 2689, 283-6; transformative, 264-83;

gender, 56, 137, 149-52, 163; class and, 149-50, 169-70, 173, 175, 209, 216, 21819; ethnicity and, 149, 174-5, 209, 213, 218; labour market segmentation and, 170-3, 213; inequality and, 12, 13, 166, 168, 170-2, 187-9; see also femininity; girls; sexism girls, schooling of, 31-2, 149-52, 166, 168, 170-3, 187-9, 272; subcultures, 152, 155-7 Hawke government, 119, 127, 129, 167, 211-13, 229, 283-4 hegemony, 3, 12, 14, 66, 80, 86-7, 236 Henderson Report, see poverty hidden curriculum, see curriculum

universal provision of, 133-4 education system, 95-6, 99-101, 116-20,

ideological conflict, 84ff.

252-3, 255; conflict within, 13-14, 101,

ideology, 2, 61, 70ff.; ‘freedom of choice’,

118-19; in social and political context, 9-

130, 135; individualism, 5, 52, 178-9,

13, 34-7, 101, 117

191-2, 202-4, 207, 218, 237;

equality, see social equality

meritocracy, 4, 80ff.,166-7, 203, 208,

equality of educational opportunity, 9-13,

225, 255, 260; of professionalism, 33-8,

18, 70-1, 82, 167-8, 191ff., 195-6, 201, 203, 208, 264ff.; definitions, 167, 228-

202, 253-5 income distribution, 222-4

325

Subject Index inequalities of educational opportunity, 2,

neo-Marxism, see Sociology

5-7, 9-14, 18, 142, 166-78, 190-1, 207-9,

‘normal curve’, 192-4, 203

224-38, 266, 272; explanations of, 225-

normalisation, 193-4, 202-3

38; see also equality of educational opportunity innovations, see curriculum; education; schools and schooling ‘intelligence’, 191-205; IQ testing, 194ff.

organic working class curriculum, see curriculum organisation, 96; informal, 96-7, 101, 103 organisational structure, 96-7, 277-82

interactionism, see sociology Karmel Report, (1973): 225, 260; (1985): 168, 229, 260 knowledge, 78-9; power and, 11, 61, 84, 88; social control and, 35, 78, 87; see also ‘school knowledge’ labelling, 2, 5-6, 54, 156, 180-1, 184, 255 labour process, 73-5; social control and, 74 language: culture and, 145-6, 148; differences, 148, 174-5; schooling and, 146-8, 174-5; styles, 142 legitimation, 12, 67, 77 ‘legitimation crisis’, 83-5, 87-8, 244 Marxism, see sociology masculinity, 150, 154-5, 172-3 mass schooling, 35, 62ff. media, 2, 159-63, 276 mental/manual split, 75-6, 79, 81, 215, 217 meritocracy, 5, 81-4, 87-8, 166-7, 203, 208, 225, 255, 260; see also ideology

patriarchy, 219-20, 238; schooling and, 170-3, 187-9, 209 Participation and Equity Program, 91, 11718, 168, 229, 258, 265-6, 283-4 Pastoral care, 20, 32 poverty, 143-5, 148, 221-3; definition of, 144, 221; feminisation of, 145, 222-3; Fitzgerald Report, 141, 145, 169, 174, 176, 221-2, 227; Henderson Report, 144, 213, 221-2; poverty line, 144, 222 power, 12, 13, 29, 61, 88, 91-2, 135, 209-10, 213, 274-6 praxis, 14, 246 private schools, 22, 48, 99, 121ff., 129, 167, 180, 195, 245 retention rates, 123-4, 130-2, 169-70; social functions, 129-33; social privilege and, 124-6, 129, 132, 167, 195 production: means of, 210; modes of, 231; relations of, 231 professionalism, 22, 32-8, 106; convergence with bureaucratic

224; definition of, 213-17; nature of

principles, 35-8, 111ff.;as ideology, 338, 253-5; and teaching, 34-8, 202-3, 253-

schooling, 142, 148, 185-6, 236-7

5; tensions with bureaucratic

middle class, 213-17, 224; culture, 215,

migrants, 140, 217, 212-13; schooling and, 145-8, 166, 168, 173-5, 189

organisation, 34-8, 106-7 pupils, see students

migration, 212-13, 217 multiculturalism, 145, 273, 279-83; see also education; ethnicity

326

Quality of Education Review, see Karmel Report, (1985)

Subject Index racism, 148, 153 reproduction theory, 4, 7-8, 12-14, 73, 2308; correspondence principle, 72-3, 76, 232-3, 286; critique of, 73, 234-8; cultural reproduction, 232-4; social/ economic reproduction, 12-14, 231-3, 283-6 resistance, 68, 236; see also students role: definitions of, 42; see also students, teachers ruling class, 210-14, 216, 219; culture, 142; and education, 10, 12-13, 142, 173, 1856, 195; families, 138, 142 ‘school knowledge’, 59-61, 68, 73, 79, 83, 88, 225; see also knowledge school organisation, 157, 252 school system, see education system school-work nexus, 5, 6, 88, 166, 177-8, 208-9, 229, 245 schools and schooling: adaptive, 277ff.; and alienation, 56, 145, 148-9, 158, 244, 250-1, 264; alternative, 265, 273; catholic, 121ff., 169, 180; city, 138-41; community, 267, 282; comprehensive, 9, 10, 180; compulsory, 162ff.; country, 141; historical background, 34-6, 62ff.; innovations, 265ff.; middle class, 156, 185-6; primary, 20-1, 31-2, 150-1, 27983, ruling class, 131, 139, 150, 173, 1856, 195; purpose, 3, 6, 9-13, 34-7, 61-4, 180, 208; secondary, 19-20, 151, 167, 195, 264ff.; size of, 278-9; socialisation, 7, 11, 276; socially critical, 270-1; state, 48, 62ff., 130; successful and unsuccessful, 186ff., 277-83; working class, 18, 139, 141, 150, 156, 159, 169, 173, 180-1, 185-7, 195, 268-74, 279-83; see also education; private schools; mass schooling

Schools Commission, 22, 70, 84, 89-90, 100, 117-18, 128, 150-1, 168, 171-3, 187, 206, 225, 228, 266-7, 273, 277 ‘scientific management’, 74-6 selection and allocation function of schooling, 88, 91, 178-9, 182-4, 204, 265-7 self-fulfilling prophecy, 2, 184-5, 190, 226, 280-2 sexism: classroom interaction and, 31-2, 151-2, 188-9; and schooling, 150-2, 272; teacher attitudes, 150-1 sexuality, 155-6, 159, 162 social class, see class social construction of reality, 7-8 social control, 44-5, 68, 70, 74, 77, 88 social equality, 4, 15-16, 286-7 social inequality, 77-8, 82, 167, 176, 182, 191, 203, 207, 227-8, 248, 259 social justice, 4, 15-16, 70, 77, 225, 261, 270 social mobility, 15, 18, 167 socialism, 15-16 socialisation, 7, 8, 11, 25-7, 44-5, 180; see also schools and schooling society, 4-8, 15-16 sociology, 5-9, critical sociology, 15-16, of education, 9-14, functionalism, 6-11, interactionism, 6-10, 42, 56-7;Marxism, 7-8, 12-14, 72-3, 214-15, 230-1, 236; neo-Marxism, 13-14, 236-7; structuralfunctionalism, 6-10, 42, 44; structuralism, 6-8, symbolic interactionism, 42 standards, see debates in education state, 35-7, 192, 224 ‘state aid’ debate, see debates in education streaming, 11, 180-4, 267, 273 structural-functionalism, see sociology

327

Subject Index structuralism, see sociology

expectations, 2, 46-9, 55, 181-2, 184-5,

structuration, theory of, 8,

189-90, 250, 279; qualifications, 22;

structure, 5-8, 13, 15-16, 232, 234, 272; see

proletarianisation of, 37, 217;

also agency

progressive teachers, 260-1, 283; public

students: Aborigines and Islanders, 2, 148-

servants, 34-7; radical teachers, 16, 243-

9, 166, 168, 175-7, 185, 189-90, 201;

4, 257-62, 287; recruitment, 23-5; roles,

alienation, 56, 145, 148-9, 158, 244,

21, 34, 42-3, 45; salaries, 22-3; social

250-1, 264, 280; behaviour, 19-20, 28-9,

mobility, 18, 22-5; socialisation, 25-7,

43, 48-51, 53-6, 279-82; class

203; status, 24, strategies, 3, 14, 27-9,

background, 140, 142; cultures of, 49,

31-2, 51-3, 184, 252; stress, 19-21, 27-

137, 183-4, 282; ‘delinquent’, 13-14,

32, 37-8, 56; as technicians, 35, 111-15,

19-20, 54, 183, 271-82; early school leavers, 145, 264-5, 284; expectations, 46, 48; middle class, 168; migrant, 1458, 166, 168, 173-5, 189 ‘motivation,’ 247-8, 251-2; reputations, 180-1, 184; resistance, 13-14, 19-20, 49, 68, 73, 91, 150, 157, 236, 287; retention rates, 101, 284; roles, 43-4; ruling class, 168. 268; strategies, 3, 53-6; truancy, 279-82; views of schooling and teachers, 48-51, 53, 57; working class, 2, 10, 18, 142-3, 154-7, 167-8, 170, 265ff. subjects: choice, 182; status of; see curriculum ‘symbolic violence’, 143, 234-5: Taylorism, 74ff. teacher-student relationships, 50-1, 53, 250-2 teachers, 18-39, 41-57; accountability, 28-

254; see also professionalism teacher unions, 22-3, 36, 119-20, 253, 2612, 273, 283 teaching, 48, 91-2, 116, 120-1, 242-63; apprenticeship by observation, 26, career structure, 22-7; experience of, 1921, 27-32; discipline, 19-20, 27-32, 52, 56, 247, 251-2, 260, 280-2; effectiveness training, 26; mixed ability teaching, 273-4; pedagogy, 250-1; practice teaching, 26; preparation for, 1, 22, 25-7, 203; radical teaching, 246-63, 264ff.; theory and practice, 1-3, 14-16, 25-7, 203, 246-7; work intensification, 37; see also praxis; professionalism ‘technical rationality’, 111ff. technological change, 5, 244, 284-6 testing, 194ff., 203 timetables, 28, 47, 151

9, 33-8, 52-60, 279-82; alienation, 30;

total institutions, 29

authority, 54-5; autonomy, 28-9. 33-7,

trade unions, 212-13, 216, 253-4

120, 254; burnout, 29-32, 243; and

transition education, see education

change, 242-63; class position, 24, 214-

truancy, see schooling; students

15, 246; and classroom interaction, 10, 19-20, 27-32, 43-57; conservatism of, 23-5, 35-7, constraints on, 46-8, 52-3, 243, 246-60; demographic data on, 21-5;

328

unemployment, 5-6, 56, 145, 157, 208-9, 219, 222, 286; see also youth unions, see trade unions; teacher unions

Subject Index vocationalism, 86, 90, 284-6

youth, 50, 152-63; Aboriginal, 153; and

wealth: definition, 221; distribution, 191, 220-3 Whitlam government, 89, 126, 167, 228, 230 working class, 152, 212-14, 216, 219, 224; culture, 138, 142-3, 212, 223-7, 231, 236-7; and education, 2, 10-12, 18, 648, 131, 135, 142-3, 166-70, 185-7, 208, 264ff.; families, 12, 138, 142-3, 224; girls, 155-7

youth subcultures, 152-65; ‘bikies’, 153-4;

media, 159-63 ethnicity and, 155; female, 152, 155-7, 162-4; ‘punk’, 162; ‘Rastas’, 152-3; and schooling, 157-8, 163, 282 youth unemployment, 5, 6, 20, 157-9, 167, 170, 172, 208-9, 229, 244, 265, 283-6; Community Employment Programs, 269, 284, 286; effects of, 157-8

329