Learning is Messy (and risky)

Last week I attended the 26th International Conference on the First-Year Experience in Waikoloa, Hawaii.  The conference is sponsored by the National Resource Center for the First-Year Experience and Students in Transition (housed at the University of South Carolina) and is one of the best conferences I attend each year.

Two of the very best sessions I attended were presented by +Delsworth Harnish and his colleagues in the Faculty of Health Sciences at McMaster University.  The focus of the sessions was the "Inquiry 1" (1E106) course that is taught in the first year.  The course is a great example of the type of class experience that should be more prominent in the first-year experience, one that essentially "flips" the undergraduate experience by providing an experience that in most cases isn't provided to students until their third or fourth year.

Essentially, the course embraces a philosophy of "messiness" and "riskiness" (issues I've frequently commented on in past posts) by engaging students in an unstructured problem identification and problem solving process that, rather than focusing on content, emphasizes a set of six foundational skills (known as the 6 Ps at McMaster:  personal awareness, problem identification, problem solving, professional communication, peer collaboration, peer/personal evaluation).  It's a brilliant approach because it equips first-year students with the skills they'll need for the rest of their experience in the Faculty of Health Sciences, and it is the best orientation to academic life at a university that a students can get and extends across their entire first year.  

While the course is specific to a particular discipline (health science), it features a number of curricular best practices that could (and should) be applied across a diversity of courses, particularly in the first-year:

1.  Small Classes:  The sections of the 1E106 (Inquiry 1) course are capped at 20 students, which allows for the creation of a learning community where students know one another well, have plenty of interaction with the faculty "facilitator," and can easily access additional help or support if necessary.  Contrast this with the large lecture courses that first-year students are typically packed into on large campuses (and yes, McMaster is large -- about 25,000 students in total).

2.  Minimal Structure:  There is no formal "syllabus" when students walk into Inquiry 1 on the first day.  There are broad outcomes and a set of pedagogies that facilitators plan to draw upon to facilitate learning; however, the experience is driven by questions and wonderings of students.  This is effective for at least two reasons:  (1) students can take responsibility for their own learning and participate in self-directed process and (2) facilitators can be more responsive to individual and class needs without feeling anchored to a rigid syllabus that was developed years ago by a faculty committee, most of whom have since left the department. Additionally, the "messiness" of this course structure is what drives learning around the 6 Ps and allows students to acquire skill in problem identification/solving.

3.  Active, Collaborative, & Authentic Learning:  Students spend much of their experience in problem-based learning in small collaborative groups.  This structure increases engagement in the learning process, mirrors the type of working/learning they're likely to encounter once they leave the university, and builds inquiry skills much more effectively than independent work.  

4.  High amounts of support, balanced by high expectations.  Del and his colleagues expect a great deal of students.  The type of inquiry experience they are facilitating comes as a bit of a shock to first-year students and they struggle to navigate the ambiguity that comes with the course and to engage in the inquiry process.  But, McMaster can ask a lot of students because they have been very intentional about creating an inquiry space that makes it safe to fail by providing lots of support.  Each section of Inquiry 1 has 3 - 4 peer tutors who support and scaffold students' experience, there is no "high stakes" assessment to dissuade students from taking risks and being innovative, faculty facilitators meet with students individually to provide mentoring and support.

5.  Multiple opportunities for reflection.  Students are frequently provided with opportunities to reflect on their growth and learning.  This is important for any course, but particularly one like Inquiry 1, where the focus is on the development of broad skills, as opposed to content.  And, the reflection takes multiple forms, from written journals, to interviews with facilitators, to self and peer evaluations.

6.  A prolonged, authentic, and integrative capstone experience.  Too often courses are experienced by students as a fragmented journey through disconnected topics on a syllabus, only to end with a poorly designed final that surveys course content.  At McMaster, students have their sights set early on a final project in which they will need to demonstrate their learning across the broad course objectives.  However, the focus of the project (e.g. the question it addresses or explores) and the way students demonstrate their learning is left entirely up to them.  This brings a relevance and urgency to course activities and increases the likelihood that students will walk away being able to tell a coherent story about what they learned in the course.

Clearly, this is a great course.  Here's the rub--it's messy, risky, and students are likely to complain (at least early on).  Facilitators in the Faculty of Health Sciences never know how students will respond, what their projects will look like, or where they'll end up at the end of the experience.  That kind of thing makes most of us cringe because it feels like walking down a blind alley.  And, there's a chance things won't go well and we'll look bad.  What's more, because McMaster is asking students to do hard things, there is resistance and students don't always love the experience or have good things to say about it.  

But, if we're serious about learning, we'll have to be a lot messier, take a lot more risks, and be willing to put up with unhappy students.  The good news is that for institutions like McMaster who are willing to head down this path, the rewards are great.

If you're interested in learning more about McMaster's Inquiry 1 course, this 15 minute video is fun.

Why are we so bad at spotting "talent?" And, what does it mean for colleges?

If I were to show you the picture at right (minus the text at the bottom), what would be your guess at the occupation of this man?  Accountant? Used car salesman? Computer engineer? Nope.

This is +Tom Brady, three-time +Super Bowl Champion, two-time Super Bowl MVP, and eight-time Pro Bowl Quarterback. On paper, in person, and on film, Brady would have been a bust for any team looking for a quality quarterback (here's 30 s. of video evidence further reinforcing how utterly unimpressive Brady was as an NFL hopeful). But, +New England Patriots Head Coach +Bill Belichick can do something most of us can't. He can spot talent.

One of my least favorite parts of my job is interviewing and hiring undergraduate students to be peer mentors in the department where I work. Part of this dislike stems from hours of conversations built around the same eight or ten interview questions, which typically yield the same mundane responses from applicants. But, I've also wondered (out loud at times, which gets me in trouble) whether we might have just as much luck throwing the applicants names in a hat, drawing out 50 names, and hiring them. In short, we often care too much about things that don't matter (high GPA, impressive essays, and well-articulated responses to our questions). And, every year we have a "Tom Brady" who we somewhat grudgingly hired, but who then turns out to be one of our best finds.

The same thing happens in various other parts of the academy, but most notably in admissions. This is particularly true when campuses heavily weight more "visible" factors such as standardized test scores, long lists of service and leadership experiences, and HS GPA (though it's a better predictor than standardized test scores).  We're overly impressed with "achievement" and "performance," while undervaluing more subtle and less visible characteristics like resilience, grit, and the ability to receive and use feedback.  This is what Belichick looked for and noticed in Brady and that allowed him to feel comfortable using a sixth round draft pick on someone no one else really wanted. But, Belichick only learned this because he focused on the right piece of data.

Belichick's method is pretty simple, when the Pats find a player at the NFL Combine that they are slightly interested in, they schedule an interview (which is pretty standard).  But, what he does next is where the genius lies.  Belichick has his staff find footage of one of the player's worst performances from their most recent season.  He turns off the lights, plays the clip, and then asks the player "What happened?"  Then, he listens for how the player responds to and explains poor performance.  The conversation that follows helps him identify whether or not the player has the right mindset to play for him in New England. He is only interested in players who want to get better and have the qualities that make that improvement possible.

My colleagues and I need to be more like Belichick and find ways to use our application and interview process to understand the less visible (but more important) qualities of our peer mentor candidates. And, institutions should move, more and more, towards models that allow them to gain insight into the kinds of qualities that Stanford University has come to value and celebrate in recent years and that have been researched by Angela Duckworth and her colleagues. This isn't to say that Tom Brady's speed didn't matter at all, a peer mentor applicant's well-written essays shouldn't be considered, or that a HS GPA shouldn't be considered when deciding whether or not to admit a prospective student. Rather, we should be looking beyond these attributes and find ways to understand whether or not applicants have the qualities that will allow them to thrive and develop once they get into the system and benefit from the training, coaching, and resources provided by the institution or organization. When we do, we'll start to find a lot more Tom Bradys and avoid bringing in any more Ryan Leafs.

Designing to preserve risk & ambiguity

Typically, risk and ambiguity are things that we try to eliminate from our lives.  We make our kids wear helmets when they ride their bikes to decrease the risk of head injury.  We're given detailed instructions for how to put together complex appliances or pieces of furniture.  And, we make sure plastic storage tubs come with explicit warnings like this, to make sure there isn't any question about the inappropriateness of storing children in such containers.  Clearly, I'm being a bit facetious here, but the point is that most of us operate from the assumption that the more we can get rid of risk and ambiguity, the better things will go.

While this is true in some parts of our lives, there are some aspects of our experience where moderate degrees of risk and ambiguity actually improve our behavior and performance.  Take the design of roads as an example, as reported here and in much more depth in Tom Vanderbilt's interesting book, Traffic: Why we drive the way we do (and what it says about us).  The essence of the argument is that drivers are more cautious, more aware, more considerate, and ultimately more safe when roads are stripped of the features we've long believed make them safer (e.g. signs, dividing lines, large distances between roads and sidewalks, and width to name a few).  Road designers (largely in Europe, those West Palm Beach, Florida has seemed to catch on) have realized this and started to design roads that are just risky enough that drivers have to slow down and drive skillfully (which most of us can do when we are actually thinking about it--the problems occur when we are lulled into autopilot by the "safety" of the road).  It is an incredibly interesting approach and one that will likely revolutionize urban planning and road design in the future (it is a philosophy first pioneered by a Dutch traffic engineer--Hans Monderman)

Risk is a theme I've taken on in this blog a number of times.  I think it has tremendous implications for learning.  My current wondering has to do with what it might mean for higher education institutions to embrace risk and ambiguity in calculated ways.  College campuses are full of the equivalent of road signs and safety features, meant to "protect" students and get them where they're going in a metaphorical sense (be it a job, graduation, or just becoming an engaged citizen).  We have advisement centers and student support services that notify students that they are on academic warning, reminders about graduation deadlines, policies preventing students from enrolling in more than a specified number of credit hours, and course catalogs that attempt to remove ambiguity by clarifying and outlining hundreds of policies and processes relevant to a particular campus.  I'm not ready to say that we should think about getting rid of any or all of those things.  However, I wonder if in our effort to protect students through our various policies, support services, and "clarifications" we might actually be causing more problems than we're solving.  And, are there "risks" that we might allow to become more visible and instructive so students approach their experience with a bit more caution and concern than they might otherwise?

A quick example--the course syllabus.  This great column from Inside Higher Ed (you really should read it, if nothing else, you'll laugh) illuminates the tension instructors face between including so much information that the document becomes laughably long and painfully detailed, and failing to outline the course w/ enough clarity so as to avoid "scandals" that arise when students question policies or procedures.  There is an inherent risk in a faculty member having a thin syllabus.  If the expectations for the course, course policies, and schedule aren't made unambiguous, students may not learn what they need to, we may have an argument with them about absences, or they may not know what to do in the event there is a Tsunami and they aren't able to get to campus for class.  But, when a course is so structured that the syllabus comes to be viewed as a recipe, that if followed leads to learning, we're in trouble.  From my own experience, I can say that when the syllabus outlined exactly what I had to do to earn my "A," I did that and nothing more.  Typically, the course became a hoop jumping exercise.  It was clear and safe, but I didn't learn much.  In contrast, I have had a few classes where ambiguity reigned supreme.  Initially, it was very frustrating for me as a learner because I wanted to know what to do, when to do it, and how to report back that I had done it.  But, the ironic thing is that the ambiguity increased risk and often nudged me to do much more and better work than I would have otherwise.  I don't know that this type of course design is a universal solution; however, designing for learner autonomy can lead to great motivation for some populations of students, particularly high-achieving or self-directed students (see Dan Pink's book Drive for a great discussion of this idea).

Of course, campuses must still be physically safe spaces and be structured in ways that allow students to feel comfortable enough that they aren't perpetually thinking about leaving; however, a little risk might go a long way in improving overall outcomes.

More on risk-taking and learning

In this morning's edition of Inside Higher Ed, Nate Kreuter writes a column about the importance of failure in the classroom.  The ideas in the column (along with those in Brian Croxall's blog which Kreuter links to at the end of his piece) resonated with me both because of what I have said about risk and failure in the past and more so because of some recent experiences I have had with students on my campus.

All but a handful of first-year students at BYU take a course known as American Heritage to fulfill a particular general education requirement.  It is a tough course, particularly for freshmen, because for most students it requires a depth of learning that they are unaccustomed to and which stretches them in what they feel are uncomfortable ways.  Consequently, students frequently voice complaints about their scores on exams and writing assignments.  

Over the last year, those who administer the course have worked closely with BYU's Center for Teaching and Learning to redesign the course, particularly its assessments.  On the whole this process has led to tremendous improvements, which in my estimation are based on very sound pedagogical principles and which are likely to lead to better learning and better attitudes among students.  One of these changes has been to structure writing assignments in a way that initial writing assignments are low stakes (about 10 points each), build students core writing skills by providing valuable feedback on the writing process, and are directly connected to more hefty writing assignments which come later in the semester (i.e. students can use the writing they have done for the initial assignments in later assignments).  It is a good model and likely to lead to good outcomes.

Here's the problem--faculty members and teaching assistants in the course haven't done much to make this visible or public for students.  In other words, they have built the course to encourage students to take early risks in their writing, risks which can ultimately benefit students; however, they haven't attended to what Kreuter argues are two of the most important things educators have to do when creating a "failure-safe" classroom:  they have neither modeled risk taking or publicly addressed the value of "failure." Consequently, over the last few weeks as scored essays have been returned to students with percentages of 30, 40, & 50 (the average across all sections was around 45%), they have panicked and thought "I've never 'failed' a writing assignment before."  This emotional reaction has been so strong in some cases that the student has ignored the useful feedback provided on the essay, feedback that would pay big dividends for later writing assignments, and complained.

Maybe I'm naive, but things may have been different if a couple of things had happened early in the semester and again just before essays were returned


Clear reminders about the truly "low-stakes" of these assignments:  The first two essays were worth a total of 30 points (10 and 20 points respectively).  That is a whopping 5% of the total 600 points available for students to earn across the semester.  One could argue that students could figure this out on their own, but the 30 seconds it would take to explain this in a lab section would do much to help students see the assignments as "safe."  And, if they see them as safe they are much more likely to take productive risks in their writing and learn more.


Frequent discussion w/ students about the type of feedback they are receiving and its value:  Many TAs have mistakenly assumed that students will immediately see value in the feedback provided and use it to improve their writing in the future.  While some students undoubtedly were mature enough to do so, others likely see any degree of critique as a personal attack on their identity as a "good student."  Time spent inducting students to their role as learners (e.g. welcome and receive feedback, use it to improve, etc.) could shift perspectives and help students interpret feedback in more useful ways.  And, this is a message that should be re-iterated to freshmen again and again during their first semester on campus.

Public sharing of risk-taking and failure stories by faculty members:  Students need to know that failure and risk are a part of any good academic experience and that, more importantly, people survive and benefit from them.  Never underestimate the power of a well-told, genuine, and believable story.

Open discussion about the structure of the course and the rationale behind it:  Good course design is much more likely to lead to desired outcomes when learners are partners with teachers in the overall process and understand the pedagogical strategy being employed.  If writing assignments are structured to build upon one another and to provide good feedback on the writing process, that's an important thing for learners to know--it's foolish to assume they will figure it out on their own.  Instructional strategies shouldn't be secrets we keep to ourselves.  Making them visible to students both orients them to the learning experience they will have in our classroom and facilitates metacognitive activity that makes students better learners even after they leave our classes.

To be fair, there is probably little that faculty members or TAs could ever do to completely eliminate student complaints like those I've heard over the last few weeks.  There will always be students who are so wrapped up in being awarded the same coveted "A's" they received in high school that no amount of discussion about deep learning, the value of feedback, or the importance of failure could ever change their perspective.  But, if we were more intentional about helping first-year students adopt revised perspectives about learning--that it is risky, dependent upon failure and feedback, and sometimes painful--we would both hear fewer complaints and see more students becoming the types of scholars we hope leave our campuses when they graduate

What problems does performance pay solve? What problems does it create?

A recent article on Inside Higher Ed. reported on a proposal by the British government to link the pay of vice-chancellors to the degree to which they meet professional targets laid out by the governing bodies of their institutions.  The argument used by those backing the proposal is that because vice-chancellors (the equivalent of university presidents in the U.S.) make so much more money than most on their campuses, there should be added measures of accountability to justify that pay differential.  

It's an interesting idea and not that uncommon in other sectors.  Athletic coaches have bonuses written into their contracts for winning a certain number of games or winning championships.  Salesmen live and die performance pay in the form of commissions.  And, just today, I was in a meeting discussing how to train museum educators where someone proposed that we create monetary incentives for museum staff who interact with a certain number of patrons.  In short, whether we're a parent trying to get a child to do something they may not do on their own--eat their vegetables, mow the lawn, or get good grades--or a manager trying to improve the performance of an employee, incentives are part of the world we live in and can lead to a variety of positive behaviors.

The trouble is that, at times, the incentives or reward structures we put in place are actually incentivizing a set of behaviors very different than what we would hope for.  And, in settings where innovation or creativity are highly valued, performance-based pay has the potential to discourage the calculated risk-taking necessary for make improvements and breakthroughs to occur.  In the case of British vice-chancellors, their governing bodies need to think carefully about what they value in leaders and what constitutes success or "high performance" and then carefully craft their incentives and performance-based pay criteria in alignment with those values.  If what the performance indicators are in conflict with other values, there will be trouble and the government might get something completely different than what they expected when they set out to improve the "performance" of high-level administrators.  

Compensating or rewarding individuals based on performance measures can solve some problems.  By identifying desired behaviors and then "paying out" when they are seen with some consistency, people may start to behave differently.  But, there are often unintended consequences and we sometimes create new problems in our attempt to solve old ones.

The power of vulnerability

I've blogged here a few times in the past on the concept of risk and its value in certain parts of our lives, particularly teaching and learning.  I listened to a TED talk earlier this week that has reinforced this idea for me.

In her TEDxHouston talk, Brene Brown discusses the importance of vulnerablity, particularly as it relates to our relationships with others.  In a nutshell, she argues that in order to feel connected to others and to experience a genuine feeling of love and belonging, we must have the courage to be imperfect and to allow others to see us as we really are.  Almost paradoxically, this act of embracing vulnerability and living with the risks that come with relationships (e.g. being the first to say "I love you," readily admitting personal weaknesses and asking others to help us grow in these ways, etc.) leads to what she terms "wholeheartedness" and a deeper sense of connection to others.

I like this concept.  I'm still trying to make sense of it and think through what it means for me.  But, I think it has serious implications for the kinds of learning that we experience through our relationships with others.  I'm sure that I would learn and change a great deal more from my interactions and relationships with friends, family, and colleagues if I was more transparent and honest about my imperfections.  This might be the most risky thing I could do.  But, it seems to have the potential to lead to more learning than anything else I might do.

Risk, rules, & the need for practical wisdom

We frequently participate in activities that, although necessary and often beneficial, entail risks.  Doctors and hospitals can treat illnesses and help us recover from terrible accidents, but unpleasant or even terrible things can and occasionally do happen in hospitals or medical clinics (e.g. the wrong drug is administered, an unnecessary and very expensive procedure is carried out, or surgeons remove a patients kidney when all they needed was a knee repair).  We invest our money with the help of banks and bankers, but they may mismanage and lose our hard-earned cash.  We send our children to schools where they can learn to function effectively in society and develop a passion for learning, but schools have the potential to become uninspiring places where teachers fail to facilitate learning.  So, what are we to do?

In a TED talk posted earlier this week, professor Barry Schwartz argues that our common response in situations where we want to minimize risk is to (1) make rules aimed at helping people know how to do the right thing (e.g. guidelines or standards for teachers to follow) and/or (2) to incentivize what we believe to be the right types of behavior (e.g. rewards for doctors who save hospitals money or teachers whose students have high test scores).  While Schwartz doesn't advocate for complete elimination of rules or incentives and recognizes that they have value in certain situations, he points out they aren't enough when it comes to finding solutions for complex problems and managing risk.  He calls for a renewed focus on helping individuals and institutions to develop "practical wisdom" (which is pretty close to Artistotle's concept of phronesis).  In other words, preparing people to figure out how to do the right thing when they find themselves in real interactions with unique people in specific circumstances.  

As I was thinking about Schwartz's ideas I recalled a comment that Derek Bitter made in response to a blog posting on what beneficial risk in the classroom might look like:  

I don't think I could walk into a classroom and follow these steps, or any others, and have them work for me and the class, unless there is something more fundamental present within me as a teacher. I have ideas on what this might be, but can't really narrow it down or even specify it. 

Derek's point is well taken.  We can't boil risk-taking in learning down to a set of rules, strategies, or activities that come to be viewed as surefire ways of improving learning.  It seems that what Derek might be calling for here is  Schwartz's concept of practical wisdom.  The success of risk-taking in the classroom depends, in part, upon a wise teacher who knows when and how to bring risk into the learning process.  So, if we want people (particularly teachers) to take risks in learning (or in any other setting where calculated risk could pay off), we have got to help them develop the wisdom to know when to take risks, how to do it without putting themselves (or others) in unreasonable danger, and how to skillfully navigate risky situations so that good things happen.  This is one of the things that seems to be missing in most teacher preparation programs (where the focus is largely on rules and strategies) and governmental programs (large collections of rules & incentives).  Yes, individual teachers may develop wisdom through their own experiences, but the institutions concerned with education (universities, governments, schools) seem to do very little in the way of promoting or encouraging the application of wisdom in the classroom.  

Instead, we largely treat the teaching and learning process as one governed by rules and incentives.  I wonder if this might be because we naively believe that by falling back on rules, policies, and explicitly stated pratices and processes, we minimize the risk that people won't learn.  Indeed, it is "risky" to structure systems where practitioners--be it teachers, doctors, bankers, etc.--are allowed to be "wise" because there is always the chance that they won't.  But, by failing to include the development of wisdom (and the freedom to use it) in conversations about reform will ultimately prove problematic and limit improvements in our institutions.

Learning is risky

Back in September I outlined a number of assumptions that I hold about learning.  One of those ideas was that learning entails some level of risk.  At the time, it was a foggy idea that sounded interesting, so I included it in the post.  But, since then I've continued to chew on it and more and more it seems like an important idea.  

An example that comes to mind immediately is of a child learning to ride a bike.  At some point the training wheels have to come off, which in most cases means at least one or two skinned knees.  While training wheels, riding on the back lawn, and having mom or dad jog along side the bike can move a child towards competent bike riding, there comes a time when further development isn't possible without a higher level of risk-taking.  The same is true of learning a new language--books from the library, Rosetta Stone, and online tutorials will help, but to become proficient, I have to actually speak to other human beings and risk looking stupid.  The good news is that eventually I'll figure it out and get better.

There are examples of this in more formal academic settings as well.  First-year writing courses almost always employ peer reviews or writing groups where students read and critique one another's writing.  While an argument could be made that the feedback students get from peers is often useless (e.g. hollow statements of "great job" or "you need a semicolon here."), the principle still holds true that the point is for students to make their writing public and get feedback--that means the risk of having someone tell you that you have been unclear, boring, etc.  And, of course, scholarly work is frought with risk (submitting papers to peer-reviewed journals, sharing ideas at conferences, etc.).  But, these "risky" behaviors lead to refined ideas and improved academic work.  Our "service" assignments on campus can also lead to tremendous learning as pointed out by Gary Daynes in a recent blog post.   Gary argues that it is those assignments that we are unprepared or slightly unqualified for that lead to the most meaningful learning and growth.  But, again, there is the chance that we'll (at least initially) be viewed as ignorant or incompetent and that scares us (and those that make the assignments as Gary articulates very well).

Aside from my own thinking on this issue, I would argue that there is plenty of supporting evidence from the academic literature including Carol Dweck's work on intelligence (mindset), constructivist descriptions of learning that emphasize the role of social negotiation, and ideas from management literature regarding the role of transitional phases in organizational learning.

I'm convinced that most organizations don't take the right kinds of designed and thoughtful risks necessary for really great learning to occur.