Articles Tamara Lemerise et Brenda Soucy Le point de vue d

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Articles
Tamara Lemerise
et Brenda Soucy
Le point de vue
d’adolescents montréalais sur les musées
Rick Hesch
Culturally Relevant
Teacher Education:
A Canadian Inner-City Case
Lynda Ann Curwen Doige
Beyond Cultural Differences and
Similarities: Student Teachers Encounter
Aboriginal Children’s Literature
Thérèse Hamel, Michel Morisset et
Jacques Tondreau
Les agriculteurs à l’école : les savoirs enseignés
dans les écoles moyennes et régionales au Québec, 1926–69
Lily L. Dyson
Developing a University–School District Partnership:
Researcher–District Administrator Collaboration for a Special Education Initiative
Marie-France Daniel, Louise Lafortune, Richard Pallascio, & Michael Schleifer
Philosophical Reflection and Cooperative Practices in an Elementary School
Mathematics Classroom
Pierre Potvin, Rollande Deslandes, Paula Beaulieu, Diane Marcotte,
Laurier Fortin, Égide Royer et Danielle Leclerc
Risque d’abandon scolaire, style parental et participation parentale au suivi scolaire
Research Notes / Notes de recherche
Pierre Boudreau
The Supervision of a Student Teacher as Defined by Cooperating Teachers
Marilyn L. Westbury
Reliability and Validity of Selected Criteria of Light’s Retention Scale
Contents /
Table des matières
vii
An invitation to celebrate our 25th anniversary /
Une invitation à célébrer notre 25e anniversaire
Articles
Tamara Lemerise et
Brenda Soucy
355
Le point de vue d’adolescents montréalais
sur les musées
Rick Hesch
369
Culturally Relevant Teacher Education:
383
Beyond Cultural Differences and Similarities:
Student Teachers Encounter Aboriginal
Children’s Literature
Thérèse Hamel,
Michel Morisset et
Jacques Tondreau
398
dans les écoles moyennes et régionales au
Québec, 1926–69
Lily L. Dyson
411
Developing a University–School District
Partnership: Researcher–District Administrator
Collaboration for a Special Education Initiative
Marie-France Daniel,
Louise Lafortune,
Richard Pallascio, &
Michael Schleifer
426
Philosophical Reflection and Cooperative
Practices in an Elementary School
Mathematics Classroom
Pierre Potvin,
Rollande Deslandes,
Paula Beaulieu,
Diane Marcotte,
Laurier Fortin,
Égide Royer et
Danielle Leclerc
441
Risque d’abandon scolaire, style parental et
participation parentale au suivi scolaire
Pierre Boudreau
454
The Supervision of a Student Teacher as
Defined by Cooperating Teachers
Marilyn L. Westbury
460
Reliability and Validity of Selected Criteria of
Light’s Retention Scale
Book Reviews / Recensions
Jan Robertson
465
Organizational Learning in Schools, edited by
Kenneth Leithwood & Karen Seashore Louis
Bernard Laplante
467
La formation de la pensée critique : théorie et
pratique par Jacques Boisvert
470
Index to Volume 24 /
Index du volume 24
An invitation
to celebrate our 25th anniversary
The year 2000 marks the 25th anniversary of the Canadian
Journal of Education. From its beginning, CJE has sought
national and international recognition as Canada’s foremost
generalist journal of educational research by encouraging
incisive questioning and rigorous discussion and by featuring the best work of Canadian scholars in Education. We
invite you to celebrate this tradition and CJE’s anniversary
by sending us research papers that shed new light on
enduring questions of education and tackle new issues in
this ever more complex field of enquiry.
Une invitation
à célébrer notre 25e anniversaire
L’année 2000 marque le 25e anniversaire de la Revue
canadienne de l’éducation. Nous vous invitons à célébrer
avec nous en nous faisant parvenir des travaux de recherche
qui sauront jeter un nouvel éclairage sur les questions
persistantes de l’éducation et saisir les problèmes qui surgissent aujourd’hui dans ce domaine. Il est de la première
importance pour la RCE de publier en français des travaux
qui se distingueront par la lucidité des questions et la
rigueur de l’argumentation. En publiant de tels travaux, la
RCE maintiendra sa renommée comme revue généraliste de
pointe et continuera de susciter l’intérêt international pour
la recherche conduite au Canada en langue française.
Le point de vue d’adolescents montréalais
sur les musées
Tamara Lemerise
Brenda Soucy
université du québec à montréal
Cette recherche a pour objet de recueillir les perceptions, les pratiques de visite, les
préférences et les intérêts des adolescents par rapport à divers contextes et projets
muséaux. Un questionnaire a été complété par 1 088 élèves francophones de 4ième et 5ième
secondaire de Montréal et de ses proches banlieues. Plus de la moitié rapportent avoir
fréquenté les musées durant les quatre ou cinq dernières années; plus du quart disent en
avoir visité au cours de la dernière année. Leurs intérêts et préférences vont à des projets
appelant la participation active à des expositions en lien avec leur culture et à des apprentissages réalisables en contexte de divertissement.
We examined adolescents’ perceptions, visiting practices, preferences, and interests in
relation to various museum contexts and projects, using a questionnaire completed by
1,088 Francophone students in Secondary IV and V (Grades 10 and 11) in Montreal and
its inner suburbs. More than half reported having visited museums in the previous four
or five years; more than a quarter said they had visited within the last year. Their interests
and preferences were for projects calling for active participation in exhibits dealing with
their culture and for learning that was also entertaining.
Cet article est le second volet d’une enquête sur la relation musées-adolescents1;
l’ensemble de la recherche s’inscrit dans le courant pro-jeunes récemment
observé dans les musées. Le nouvel intérêt des musées pour les jeunes de 12 à
17 ans et surtout les efforts actuellement déployés pour rejoindre cette clientèle
ne reposent pas sur le seul besoin d’accroître le nombre de visiteurs. Des objectifs éducatifs et sociaux sont aussi en jeu. Depuis le début des années 1990, les
musées ont largement bonifié leur mission éducative, plaçant l’éducation au
centre même de leurs préoccupations (American Association of Museums, 1992;
Anderson, 1997). Dans plusieurs cas, cette mission éducative s’est développée
sur fond de nouvelle mission sociale des musées : le musée est défini comme
ayant aussi une responsabilité sociale à l’égard des membres de la communauté
(American Association of Museums, 1995; Koster, 2000; Nightingale, 1999). Les
adolescents comptent parmi les grands bénéficiaires de cette nouvelle orientation
(Lemerise, 1999a). Au cours des dernières années, les musées ont en effet mis
sur pied différents projets novateurs dans le but de favoriser à la fois le développement individuel et l’intégration sociale des jeunes (Lemerise, 1995, 1999b).
L’impact positif des établissements muséaux sur les adolescents est d’ores et déjà
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REVUE CANADIENNE DE L’ÉDUCATION
24, 4 (1999): 355–368
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TAMARA LEMERISE ET BRENDA SOUCY
reconnu par des associations et des auteurs préoccupés par la question générale
du mieux-être des jeunes dans nos sociétés.
En 1994, le Carnegie Council on Adolescent Development faisait état de la
situation de hauts risques dans laquelle plusieurs jeunes se trouvaient et appelait
les institutions de la communauté à se joindre aux efforts de l’école pour offrir
des environnements, des programmes ou des projets qui puissent aider les jeunes
de 12 à 17 ans à développer les habiletés cognitives et sociales nécessaires à une
bonne adaptation à la vie en société. Dans deux rapports (Carnegie Council on
Adolescent Development, 1994a, 1994b), un projet en musée est cité en exemple
d’environnement favorable aux jeunes. Le projet cité vise à intégrer des jeunes
de la communauté, particulièrement ceux issus de milieux défavorisés ou appartenant à des ethnies minoritaires, en les invitant à jouer des rôles valorisants et
significatifs au musée. Le type de projet décrit par le Carnegie Council existe à
plus d’un exemplaire : l’Association of Science and Technology Centers (1995)
en dénombre 45 aux États-Unis seulement. Ces programmes muséaux offrent la
possibilité à des jeunes à risque de créer des liens à long terme avec le musée
tout en facilitant l’acquisition de connaissances et le développement d’habiletés
sociocognitives, par exemple, en communication, dans les prises de décision et
dans les résolutions de problèmes. Le Carnegie Council qualifie ces programmes
d’élément de protection et de développement pour les jeunes.
Gardner (1991) exprime ses inquiétudes face aux jeunes, compte tenu des
lacunes du système scolaire actuel. Non seulement le taux de décrochage scolaire
au secondaire est-il élevé, mais on y observe aussi, selon l’auteur, de faibles
niveaux de motivation pour les apprentissages scolaires, une quasi absence de
transfert des connaissances apprises à l’école et le maintien, chez plusieurs
élèves, des connaissances naïves dans différents champs notionnels pourtant
abordés en classe. Or les musées sont vus par plusieurs (Gardner, 1991; Giordan,
1998; Hein, 1998; Lemerise, 1994) comme pouvant pallier, en partie du moins,
à certaines des lacunes observées dans le système scolaire. Les musées favorisent
l’utilisation de différentes formes d’apprentissage, dont l’apprentissage informel,
l’apprentissage par l’objet, l’apprentissage social ou encore, dans certains cas,
l’apprentissage de type apprenti; ils privilégient des apprentissages axés sur la
compréhension; ils facilitent l’établissement de liens entre les notions apprises
à l’école et celles apprises en musée.
Plusieurs auteurs ont décrit et commenté le courant pro-jeunes en place dans
les musées (Allard, 1993; Association of Science and Technology Centers, 1995;
Lemerise, 1995, 1999a; Rider et Illingsworth, 1997; Selwood, Clive et Irving,
1995). Il est clair à la lecture de leurs écrits qu’un des buts poursuivis est de
poser des actes concrets en faveur des adolescents; des actes qui vont dans le
sens des propositions de partenariat musées-écoles-communauté formulées par
le Carnegie Council et par Gardner (1991).
LE POINT DE VUE D’ADOLESCENTS MONTRÉALAIS SUR LES MUSÉES
357
LES MUSÉES ET LES ADOLESCENTS
Lemerise (1998a, 1999b) brosse un tableau des types de projets novateurs
récemment offerts aux jeunes de 12 à 17 ans par les musées. Certains de ces
projets s’inscrivent dans le cadre d’un partenariat avec l’école secondaire,
d’autres sont offerts dans le cadre d’activités de loisirs mais tous ont comme but
de favoriser le développement des jeunes et de faciliter leur intégration sociale.
Ces projets, bien qu’en nombre croissant sont, à l’échelle de l’ensemble des
musées, encore très peu nombreux. Ce ne sont pas tous les musées qui ont pris
le double virage social-éducatif. Plusieurs n’ont pas les ressources financières et
humaines nécessaires pour développer ou implanter ce nouveau type de projets
(Lemerise, 1998a; Selwood, 1998); d’autres ont abandonné la partie après quelques essais infructueux auprès des adolescents.
Les adolescents demeurent une clientèle difficile à apprivoiser; ce ne sont pas
tous les projets muséaux qui savent les attirer et les retenir. La petite histoire de
la relation musées-adolescents (Lemerise, 1995) démontre clairement à ce sujet
l’importance de tenir compte des besoins, attentes et intérêts des jeunes lors de
l’élaboration de projets qui leur sont consacrés. Les jeunes ne participent pas aux
programmes ou projets qui ne répondent pas à leurs intérêts et besoins; ils
tendent, par ailleurs, à répondre positivement à ceux qui en tiennent compte
(Lemerise, 1998a, 1999b).
LES ADOLESCENTS ET LES MUSÉES
Que pensent les adolescents des musées? À quel rythme les fréquentent-ils?
Jusqu’à tout récemment, on disposait de très peu d’information au sujet de la
présence des adolescents dans les musées. L’opinion courante était à l’effet
que les jeunes de 12 à 17 ans étaient relativement absents des musées. Une
récente recension d’écrits de Lemerise (1999c) permet de constater qu’un certain
nombre d’auteurs ont amorcé le processus de diffusion d’informations chiffrées
concernant la présence des jeunes dans les musées. Ces données proviennent
majoritairement de programmes novateurs récemment implantés; elles font
généralement état d’une utilisation régulière de ces programmes par un bon
nombre de jeunes. Lemerise (1999c) lance un appel pour une diffusion plus
grande de toutes les données relatives à la présence des jeunes en musée.
En ce qui a trait aux attentes, besoins et intérêts des adolescents face au
musée, là aussi un nombre relativement petit d’études a pu être répertorié. À la
fin des années 1970, seuls deux auteurs avaient abordé cette question; il faut
attendre le début des années 1990 avant que d’autres auteurs prennent la relève.
O’Connell et Alexander (1979) rapportent les commentaires recueillis chez
quelque 500 adolescents après une visite au musée avec leur groupe-classe. La
majeure partie des jeunes évalue positivement la visite bien qu’au préalable
plusieurs s’attendaient à n’en retirer aucun plaisir. Les jeunes mentionnent
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cependant ne pas se sentir à l’aise au musée et ils se décrivent comme étant
nettement plus passifs qu’actifs durant une visite. Andrew et Asia (1979) interrogent, par le biais d’un questionnaire écrit, plus de 500 adolescents new-yorkais
relativement à leurs attentes face aux musées d’art. Les souhaits exprimés sont
de se sentir respectés par le personnel du musée, de pouvoir être actifs et de se
voir offrir plus souvent des projets dans lesquels ils peuvent s’impliquer. Des
jeunes rencontrés dans le cadre de groupes de discussion thématique dressent une
liste des principaux irritants au musée : des adultes condescendants, des gardiens
méprisants, des discours ennuyants, la fatigue trop vite installée, la difficulté à
décoder les messages écrits, l’absence de choix (surtout dans le cadre des visites
scolaires). Ces mêmes jeunes racontent aussi leurs expériences positives : le
plaisir d’aller au musée avec des amis, l’intérêt ressenti lors d’une exposition
vraiment à leur goût, la satisfaction tirée des interactions avec les artistes présents.
L’étude des points de vue des jeunes face aux musées est reprise au milieu des
années 1990. Des jeunes de l’ordre du secondaire interviewés individuellement
par Lemerise et Soucy (1994) s’entendent pour dire que les musées ne sont pas
pour eux mais plutôt pour les adultes et les enfants. Sur le plan des attentes, ils
souhaiteraient pouvoir être plus actifs, c’est-à-dire participer et interagir, plutôt
que de simplement regarder et écouter; ils demandent des thèmes d’exposition
en lien avec leur culture : sports, musique rock, pop, rap, écologie, santé, monde
de demain, etc. Enfin, bien que les jeunes interviewés valorisent la possibilité
d’apprendre au musée; ils jugent tout aussi important de pouvoir s’y divertir. Les
propos rapportés par Rider et Illingsworth (1997) vont dans le même sens. Les
jeunes Anglais de Londres ne se sentent ni aliénés, ni intimidés par les musées;
ils concluent tout simplement que ces derniers n’ont rien d’intéressant à leur
offrir. Ce qu’ils souhaiteraient? Se sentir bienvenus au musée; y trouver une
atmosphère plus rigolote ou moins terne (de la musique ou de la couleur sur les
murs); avoir moins de textes à lire; avoir, par contre, l’occasion de voir les
experts à l’œuvre et de pouvoir interagir avec eux. O’Riain (1997) rapporte les
réponses de 775 jeunes Anglais âgés de 11 à 16 ans à un court questionnaire
complété en classe. À la question « Si on te suggérait d’aller visiter un musée
comment réagirais-tu? » 35 % répondent qu’ils iraient volontiers; 25 % disent
que cela dépendrait du musée; 40 % refuseraient l’invitation. La principale raison
donnée à l’appui de leur refus est le caractère ennuyant (boring) des musées.
Qu’entendent les jeunes par ce terme? Le musée est ennuyant, selon eux, parce
que les choses à faire se limitent à marcher, regarder ou écouter et parce qu’il
est trop exclusivement centré sur la diffusion d’informations didactiques (comme
à l’école). L’auteur rappelle, par ailleurs, que presque tous les jeunes peuvent
rapporter des expériences positives vécues au musée, comme si une fois qu’ils
y étaient, plusieurs s’y plaisaient. Ceci amène O’Riain à conclure que les adolescents portent l’armure de l’ennui (the boring armour) et qu’ils la maintiennent
en place en grande partie à cause d’une certaine pression sociale de la part de
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leurs pairs; selon l’auteur, il serait assez malvenu pour un jeune de déclarer
devant ses pairs que les musées sont intéressants.
Globalement, les perceptions des jeunes ne se sont pas foncièrement modifiées
depuis les 20 dernières années. Bien que des projets novateurs aient été récemment implantés, ils sont soit encore trop peu nombreux, soit trop récents pour
avoir modifié de façon importante la perception de l’ensemble des jeunes. Il
convient de mentionner cependant que lorsque l’on interroge les jeunes ayant
directement participé à l’un ou l’autre de ces nouveaux projets, leur perception
est tout autre; ils font preuve d’enthousiasme, d’excitation, de reconnaissance
(Holland, 1994; Klages, Librero et Bell, 1995). L’adolescent moyen n’est toutefois pas informé de l’existence de ces projets, c’est pourquoi un plus grand
nombre de projets en faveur des adolescents doivent être mis sur pied. Or,
Lemerise (1995) souligne clairement qu’il est essentiel pour les musées qui
souhaitent élaborer des projets pour les jeunes de préalablement bien connaître
les perceptions et attentes de la population chaque fois ciblée.
Au Québec, on connaît encore peu le point de vue des adolescents sur les
musées, de là l’objet de cet article. Des informations relatives aux perceptions,
attentes et intérêts des jeunes Québécois face au musée seront fort utiles pour
guider l’élaboration de projets muséaux qui seront conçus pour eux.
Second volet de l’enquête
Dans le cadre du second volet de notre enquête, un questionnaire a été élaboré
dans le but de recueillir auprès d’un grand nombre de jeunes des informations
relatives à quatre thématiques : (1) connaissances et perceptions des musées;
(2) habitudes de visites scolaires et libres en cours d’adolescence; (3) préférences
pour différents types de musées, styles de visite ou types d’accompagnateurs;
(4) intérêt pour certains projets offerts à des jeunes en contexte scolaire ou de
visite libre. Ce deuxième volet de l’enquête a été réalisé en deux phases : la
première s’adressait à plus de 1 000 jeunes de la région de Montréal et de ses
proches banlieues; dans la seconde phase, 1 000 jeunes habitant six autres
régions du Québec seront sollicités.2 Le présent article décrit la méthode et les
résultats de la première phase.
MÉTHODE
Un questionnaire conçu pour les jeunes
Une première version du questionnaire a été soumise, pour analyse critique à
une trentaine d’experts spécialistes dans l’un ou l’autre des quatre domaines
suivants : élaboration de questionnaires, éducation muséale, psychologie de
l’adolescence et enseignement au secondaire. Quelques adolescents ont aussi été
consultés. Le questionnaire révisé a, par la suite, été soumis à deux groupesclasses de l’ordre du secondaire dans le cadre d’une pré-expérimentation. Quel-
360
ques questions ont été reformulées en réponse aux commentaires des jeunes
répondants.
Le questionnaire comprend quatre sections (Soucy, 1999). La section I vise
à identifier les perceptions et connaissances des adolescents relativement aux
musées (par ex. : Un musée, à quoi ça sert? Qui fréquente les musées? Si tu étais
maire [mairesse] d’une ville, est-ce que tu jugerais important qu’il y ait des
musées dans ta ville?). La section II contient des questions relatives aux pratiques de visite des jeunes depuis le début du secondaire, dans le cadre de sorties
scolaires ou de visites libres (par ex. : Combien de fois es-tu allé[e] au musée
avec ton école ou dans tes temps libres depuis le début de ton secondaire? Pour
ceux qui répondent avoir visité : Combien de fois à chaque niveau? Quels
musées as-tu visités? Pour ceux qui répondent ne pas avoir visité : Quelles
raisons expliquent l’absence de visite au musée?). La section III porte sur les
préférences muséales des jeunes sur le plan des types de musées, des types de
visite, des accompagnateurs ou des thématiques d’exposition. La section IV
mesure l’intérêt suscité par quelques projets présentement offerts aux jeunes dans
différents musées à travers le monde; les projets s’adressant tantôt à des groupes
d’élèves du secondaire, tantôt à des adolescents en contexte de visite libre sont
brièvement décrits.
Le questionnaire comprend en tout 33 questions du type choix de réponses
(échelle de Likert, mise en ordre de préférence, réponses à choix multiples); à
l’occasion, des justifications sont demandées. Le questionnaire a été administré
en classe, chaque élève a répondu individuellement et par écrit. En moyenne, une
trentaine de minutes étaient requises pour compléter le travail.
Les répondants
Au total, 1 088 jeunes du secondaire âgés de 15 à 17 ans ont complété le questionnaire. La moitié des répondants étaient en 4ième secondaire, l’autre moitié, en
5ième secondaire.3 L’échantillon comprenait un nombre relativement équivalent de
garçons (49 %) et de filles (51 %). Les classes participantes provenaient d’écoles
francophones de Montréal et de ses proches banlieues : cinq écoles sont situées
sur l’île de Montréal, cinq autres proviennent de la Rive-Sud et deux écoles sont
de la Rive-Nord de Montréal. La fiche signalétique demandait aux élèves d’identifier le niveau d’éducation de leurs parents : 34 % des répondants ont rapporté
avoir des parents ayant complété des études de niveau universitaire ou collégial;
21 % de niveau collégial ou secondaire et 27 % de niveau secondaire ou primaire. Quelque 18 % des jeunes n’ont pas répondu à cette question.
RÉSULTATS
L’analyse des données est essentiellement de type descriptif : répartition des
répondants (fréquence ou pourcentage) dans les différentes catégories de réponses
361
proposées. Des analyses non paramétriques de type khi-carré ont aussi été
réalisées dans le but de vérifier la présence de différences significatives dans les
réponses selon le sexe des répondants, le niveau d’études des parents ou la
situation géographique de l’école.
L’ensemble des résultats pour chacune des 33 questions est présenté par Soucy
(1999). Nous retenons ici les principaux résultats de chacune des quatre sections
du questionnaire. Puis, nous rapportons les différences observées selon le sexe
section par section. Enfin, nous signalons les différences trouvées en fonction du
niveau d’éducation des parents ou de la situation géographique de l’école.
La section I du questionnaire porte sur les perceptions et les connaissances au
sujet des musées; les questions proposent surtout des réponses de type échelle de
Likert. La quasi totalité des répondants (95 %) croit que les musées servent
surtout à faire connaître le passé. Plus des trois quarts (78 %) affirment qu’ils
peuvent aussi faire connaître le monde d’aujourd’hui; un nombre plus restreint
(69 %) appuie l’idée que les musées peuvent initier au monde de demain. Les
jeunes s’entendent pour dire que les gens vont au musée surtout pour apprendre
(95 %); par ailleurs, 83 % croient qu’on y va aussi pour se divertir. Les touristes
sont clairement jugés comme étant les plus grands utilisateurs des musées, suivis
de près par les spécialistes dans différents domaines. La cohorte adolescente est
jugée la moins présente au musée; celle des adultes, la plus présente. Au chapitre
du rythme idéal de fréquentation, 62 % répondent que l’idéal serait d’aller au
musée au moins une fois par année; 19 % suggèrent une fréquentation de plus
d’une fois par année. Quatre-vingt pour cent des répondants jugent important
d’avoir un musée dans une ville. Les principales raisons apportées à l’appui de
leur réponse sont d’ordre éducatif (le musée est enrichissant et instructif) ou
économique (le musée attire les touristes et fait rouler l’économie). Les trois
quarts des répondants sont en mesure de nommer trois musées; 89 % peuvent en
nommer au moins deux et 96 % au moins un. Plus de la moitié des répondants
nomment des musées qu’ils ont déjà visités; les autres connaissent les musées
pour en avoir entendu parler.
Les garçons et les filles s’entendent sur la fonction éducative des musées, mais
les filles leur accordent plus souvent que les garçons une fonction de divertissement [χ2 (3, N = 1 082) = 16,12, p < 0,001]. Les garçons associent moins
souvent le musée au monde de demain [χ2 (3, N = 1 085) = 8,62, p < 0,05]; ils
jugent aussi moins important que les filles d’avoir des musées dans une ville
[χ2 (3, N = 1 086) = 8,13, p < 0,05). Au sujet de la fréquence idéale de visite,
les garçons optent en plus grand nombre pour des visites espacées (par ex. : une
fois par grande période de vie : enfance, adolescence, âge adulte) [χ2 (3, N =
1 085) = 8,60, p < 0,05]. Les filles sont plus nombreuses à choisir la fréquence
de plusieurs visites au cours d’une année [χ2 (3, N = 1 085) = 8,60, p < 0,05].
La section II du questionnaire porte sur les pratiques de visite au musée. Les
réponses attendues ici sont essentiellement des identifications de fréquences de
362
visite. Les niveaux de satisfaction sont par ailleurs mesurés à partir d’une échelle
de Likert. Soixante-deux pour cent des répondants déclarent être allés au musée
au moins une fois avec leur classe depuis le début de leur secondaire; 20 %
signalent y être allés une seule fois; 23 % entre deux et trois fois; et 19 %
rapportent y être allés quatre fois et plus depuis le début du secondaire. Les
jeunes rapportent un plus grand nombre de visites avec leur école durant les deux
premières années du secondaire. À la question « Avez-vous visité un musée avec
votre école au cours des six derniers mois? » 19 % répondent par l’affirmative.
Au chapitre des pratiques de visites libres, 66 % des répondants rapportent avoir
visité un musée au moins une fois durant leur temps libre au cours de leurs
études secondaires; 13 % des visiteurs disent être allés une fois; 25 % entre deux
et trois fois et 29 % quatre fois ou plus. Concernant la fréquentation des musées
au cours de la dernière année, 25 % des répondants rapportent y être allés au
moins une fois durant leur temps libre; 12 % disent y être allés plus d’une fois.
En contexte scolaire, les musées les plus fréquemment visités sont, par ordre
décroissant de fréquence; les musées de sciences, les musées d’histoire, les
musées d’arts et les musées de civilisation. En contexte de visites libres, les
fréquences rapportées suivent le même ordre. Le niveau de satisfaction exprimé
par les jeunes est plus élevé pour les visites réalisées en contexte de loisir (90 %
des répondants se disent satisfaits ou très satisfaits de leurs visites) que pour
celles faites en contexte scolaire (64 % se déclarent satisfaits ou très satisfaits).
Les adolescents justifient leur appréciation plus favorable des visites nonscolaires par la plus grande liberté d’action dont ils bénéficient, pour le choix du
musée, le moment de visite, le temps de visite, le parcours à suivre, etc.
Seules deux différences liées au sexe sont relevées par rapport aux habitudes
de visite; elles se trouvent uniquement en contexte de visites libres : les filles
rapportent plus souvent aller en musée d’art [χ2 (1, N = 709) = 7,11, p < 0,01];
les garçons qualifient plus souvent leur visite au musée de peu intéressante
[χ2 (3, N = 718) = 8,61, p < 0,05].
Un bon tiers des répondants rapportent n’être jamais allés au musée au cours
de leurs études secondaires. En ce qui a trait aux sorties scolaires, la principale
raison invoquée est l’absence d’offre de ce type de sorties. Pour les sorties libres,
l’utilisation de l’argent de poche à d’autres fins et le peu d’intérêt pour ce genre
d’activités sont les justifications les plus fréquemment rapportées. On mentionne
aussi assez fréquemment l’absence d’information sur ce qui se passe dans les
musées ou encore la faible pratique de ce genre d’activités par les amis. Chez les
non-visiteurs, les garçons déclarent plus souvent que les filles n’être jamais allés
au musée parce que ce genre d’activités ne les intéresse pas; les filles expliquent
plus souvent leur absence par le manque d’informations ou le manque d’argent
de poche.
La section III du questionnaire porte sur les préférences muséales des jeunes.
Les questions posées dans cette section visent la mise en ordre des préférences,
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ou sont de l’ordre des choix de réponses multiples. Les musées de sciences et les
musées d’histoire récoltent les plus grand nombre de premiers choix (rang 1 ou
rang 2) dans les mises en ordre de préférence. Les amis sont les accompagnateurs les plus prisés; suivent, dans l’ordre, les visites avec la famille, avec l’école
et la visite seul. On préfère clairement les environnements muséaux où il est
possible d’être actifs, soit par la manipulation de modules d’exposition, l’utilisation d’ordinateurs ou la participation à des projets. On ne rejette pas d’emblée
le principe de l’exposition « à voir », certains thèmes s’y prêtant mieux que
d’autres.
Certaines questions portaient sur les préférences pour ce qui est de la visite
scolaire. Une courte liste de stratégies éducatives est proposée pour chacun des
trois moments caractérisant une visite scolaire au musée (avant, pendant et après
la visite); les répondants doivent se prononcer à l’aide d’une échelle de Likert
sur l’intérêt de chaque stratégie proposée. La majorité des répondants (61 %)
jugent qu’une visite préparée à l’école par le biais d’informations préalables et
de discussions sur les thèmes pertinents est une excellente stratégie. Pendant la
visite, l’option de laisser les élèves visiter à leur rythme est jugée la meilleure
par la majorité; celle proposant aux élèves de participer à des activités dirigées
récolte des jugements favorables chez 72 % des répondants. La discussion
post-visite, à l’école ou en musée, est évaluée favorablement par 86 % des
répondants; 66 % jugent favorablement l’activité de mettre en lien les messages
principaux de l’exposition et certains apprentissages faits en classe.
Les filles citent plus souvent les musées d’art comme type de musée préféré;
les garçons placent plus souvent les musées de sciences en tête de liste de leurs
préférences. Les filles préfèrent des thèmes d’exposition dans les domaines de
l’écologie, la santé, la musique ou la mode; les garçons ont des préférences pour
les thèmes reliés à l’informatique, les communications ou les inventions scientifiques.
La section IV tente d’évaluer le niveau d’intérêt des adolescents pour différents types de projets muséaux. Sept types de projets sont brièvement décrits
et il est demandé aux jeunes d’indiquer le niveau d’intérêt suscité par chacun
ainsi que leur souhait d’y participer si jamais ces projets étaient offerts dans les
musées de leur région. Certains intérêts ressortent clairement. En contexte
scolaire, le projet de voyages culturels incluant des visites de musées est jugé
très favorablement par la majorité des répondants. Plus de la moitié apprécieraient que leur classe travaille en partenariat avec le musée pour préparer des
expositions ou des événements devant se dérouler en musée. En contexte de
visite libre, la réalisation d’une publicité vidéo sur les musées ainsi que la
possibilité de jouer un rôle de guide au musée sont les projets qui recueillent les
plus haut taux d’appui. Pour chacun des projets, les filles manifestent plus
d’intérêt et rapportent plus d’intentions de participer.
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Différences selon le niveau d’éducation des parents
Les réponses à certaines questions jugées susceptibles d’être influencées par le
niveau d’éducation des parents furent soumises à des tests de khi-carré (par ex. :
les questions reliées aux connaissances et perceptions des musées et celles se
rapportant aux pratiques de visite en tant que visiteurs libres). Quelques différences significatives ont été décelées. Les jeunes dont les parents ont un niveau
d’éducation universitaire ou collégial disent plus souvent qu’il est très important
d’avoir un musée dans une ville [χ2 (6, N = 903) = 25,92, p < 0,001) et qu’il
serait idéal d’aller au musée plus d’une fois par année [χ2 (6, N = 903) = 37,15,
p < 0,001]. Les adolescents dont les parents ont un niveau secondaire ou primaire
de scolarité rapportent plus souvent que les autres n’être jamais allés au musée
dans le cadre de visites libres [χ2 (8, N = 900) = 45,29, p < 0,001]. Ces jeunes
rapportent aussi plus souvent que les autres que l’idéal de visite est une fois au
cours d’une vie [χ2 (6, N = 903) = 37,15, p < 0,001].
Différences selon la situation géographique de l’école
Les participants à la présente enquête sont inscrits dans des écoles de trois
régions : l’île de Montréal, la Rive-Nord et la Rive-Sud de Montréal. Le test du
khi-carré est appliqué aux questions dont les réponses sont jugées susceptibles
d’être influencées par la région d’appartenance (par ex. : les questions relatives
aux connaissances et perceptions des musées ainsi que celles portant sur les
fréquences de visite avec l’école ou comme visiteur libre). Des différences
significatives ont été observées uniquement sur le plan des pratiques de visite.
Les jeunes provenant d’écoles de la Rive-Nord déclarent plus fréquemment que
les autres ne pas être allés dans les musées au cours de leurs études secondaires
et ce, tant en contexte de visites scolaires [χ2 (2, N = 1 083) = 34,06, p < 0,001]
qu’en contexte de visites libres [χ2 (8, N = 1 083) = 50,03, p < 0,001].
DISCUSSION
Les données de la première phase du second volet de notre enquête sur la relation musées-adolescents permettent de constater que les jeunes de la région
étendue de Montréal ont une bonne connaissance des rôles et des fonctions des
musées, ainsi qu’une perception globalement positive de ces établissements. Les
répondants reconnaissent la fonction éducative et économique du musée ainsi que
l’intérêt que lui portent différents sous-groupes de la population. Pour plusieurs
jeunes, une visite annuelle au musée serait l’idéal. Ce ne sont toutefois pas tous
les jeunes qui vivent à la hauteur de leurs idéaux. Seulement le quart des répondants rapportent être allés au musée au moins une fois durant leurs temps libres
au cours de la dernière année; 19 % rapportent avoir visité avec leur école au
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cours des six mois précédant l’enquête. Au chapitre des préférences et des
attentes, celles exprimées par les répondants sont claires; elles confirment et
précisent celles déjà mentionnées dans les études antérieures (Andrew et Asia,
1979; O’Connell et Alexander, 1979; O’Riain, 1997; Rider et Illingsworth, 1997).
Au musée, les jeunes souhaitent être actifs : participer, s’impliquer, interagir. Ils
réclament des thématiques plus reliées à leur culture ainsi que des musées plus
orientés vers le présent. Ils souhaitent apprendre, mais tout en se divertissant. Ils
privilégient les apprentissages d’un autre type que ceux faits en classe, par
exemple des apprentissages basés sur l’action, c’est-à-dire réalisés à partir
d’interactions avec les pairs, avec les modules d’exposition, mais aussi avec des
adultes reconnus pour leurs contributions dans divers domaines. Enfin, la possibilité de choix est importante pour les jeunes non seulement à cause de leur
grand besoin d’autonomie mais aussi à cause des préférences variant, entre
autres, selon le sexe ou le milieu d’appartenance.
Il est clair que la majeure partie des répondants ne perçoivent toujours pas les
musées comme des endroits taillés sur mesure pour eux; cela expliquerait l’absence des uns ou la faible présence de certains autres. On justifie aussi l’absence
ou la faible présence par le manque d’information sur ce qui se passe dans les
musées. Rider et Illingsworth (1997) soulignent à ce sujet l’intérêt d’une publicité axée sur les jeunes, voire même d’une publicité créée par ces derniers.
Enfin, la question du coût d’entrée au musée est aussi assez souvent mentionnée
comme facteur justifiant une présence limitée. Les musées ont déjà commencé
à réagir à ce chapitre, offrant tantôt du travail rémunéré aux jeunes, proposant
tantôt des journées gratuites pour les adolescents, des cartes de membres à prix
réduit ou encore des accès libres à certaines parties du musée conçues spécifiquement pour les jeunes de 12 à 17 ans.
Les données recueillies ici rejoignent celles rapportées par O’Brien (1996),
alors qu’elle interrogeait plus de 4 000 adolescents anglais; le taux de fréquentation de musées avec leur école durant les six derniers mois est de 20 % (le nôtre
de 19 %). Le taux de visites libres de la même cohorte, toujours au cours des six
mois précédant l’enquête est également de 20 %; le nôtre est de 25 % mais pour
l’ensemble de l’année (au cours des 12 mois précédant l’enquête). Dans des
enquêtes menées auprès d’adolescents québécois sur la question générale de leurs
loisirs, Pronovost (1990) et le ministère de l’Éducation du Québec (1994) retenaient une question relative à la visite au musée. Chez l’un et l’autre, 39 % des
jeunes répondants affirment avoir visité un musée au moins une fois au cours de
l’année précédant l’enquête. Ces taux un peu plus élevés que les nôtres cumulent
toutefois les visites libres et celles faites en contexte scolaire et ils couvrent une
année entière. Ces données, une fois pondérées en fonction des différences
méthodologiques observées, ne sont pas si éloignées les unes des autres.
En contexte scolaire, les jeunes rapportent plus de sorties alors qu’ils étaient
en première et deuxième année du secondaire; un constat analogue est fait par
Lemerise (1998b) et par le ministère de l’Éducation du Québec (1994). Les
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jeunes dont les parents sont plus scolarisés fréquentent plus souvent les musées;
en France, le ministère de la Culture et de la Francophonie (1995) rapporte aussi
ce phénomène.
CONCLUSION
Il appert essentiel que les concepteurs de projets visant les adolescents connaissent bien les besoins, attentes et intérêts de ces derniers. Cela est d’autant plus
important lorsque les projets ont comme objectifs d’être à la fois des éléments
de développement et de protection pour les jeunes. Les études de type enquête
doivent se poursuivre non seulement pour connaître plus finement les besoins,
attentes et intérêts des adolescents en tant que sous-groupe particulier de la
population, mais aussi pour en mieux identifier les différences selon les souscultures liées à la langue, la religion, le milieu social d’origine, les sous-groupes
d’âge (12 à 14 ans; 15 à 17 ans) ou le sexe. De telles informations permettront
aux personnels éducatifs des musées d’élaborer une gamme variée de projets
répondant à plus d’un besoin. Par ailleurs, les informations recueillies par le biais
d’enquêtes peuvent aussi servir à la promotion d’autres composantes jugées
essentielles au succès des programmes s’adressant à cette clientèle. On songe ici
à la question de la diffusion de l’information en provenance des musées. Selon
les jeunes, la publicité actuelle ne les rejoint pas. Il conviendrait de mieux
connaître les besoins et intérêts des adolescents à ce chapitre, de les consulter
directement, voire même, de les impliquer dans le processus de diffusion de
l’information auprès de leurs pairs (Rider et Illingsworth, 1997). Travailler à
promouvoir une meilleure relation musées-adolescents demande donc que l’on
connaisse bien le profil des jeunes et que l’on tienne compte de leurs intérêts et
besoins tant sur le plan de l’élaboration et de l’implantation des projets que sur
celui de la diffusion de l’information au sujet des nouveaux projets mis en place.
NOTES
1
En 1995, l’équipe de Lemerise à l’Université du Québec à Montréal a amorcé un projet d’enquête
sur la relation musées-adolescents au Québec. Ce projet comprend trois volets : le premier
s’adresse aux gens des musées (Lemerise, 1998b), le second concerne les perceptions des
adolescents (Soucy, 1999), le troisième s’intéresse au point de vue des enseignants de l’ordre du
secondaire (Matias, 1999).
2
Plus de 1 000 jeunes habitant les régions du Saguenay Lac St-Jean, de l’Estrie, du Bas St-Laurent,
de Québec, de l’Outaouais et de Chaudières-Appalaches compléteront le même questionnaire.
3
Les élèves en fin de parcours du secondaire ont été jugés les mieux placés pour répondre au
présent questionnaire où un accent important est mis sur les expériences de visites au musée
depuis le début de l’adolescence.
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Culturally Relevant Teacher Education:
Rick Hesch
winnipeg, manitoba
This case study of an inner-city teacher education program documents the tensions at
work on a social reconstructionist academic staff attempting to produce a culturally
relevant teacher education program. Cultural relevance here includes three features:
supporting academic achievement, maintaining cultural competence, and developing
critical consciousness. All interests converge on the need to produce academically and
technically competent teachers. Beyond this, the staff remain mindful of the dominant
social and educational context within which they work and at the same time attempt to
meet the longer-term interests of their students and culturally different inner-city
communities. The possibilities for success have lessened in the political economy of the
1990s, but the study provides concrete instances of developing a culturally relevant
teacher education program.
Cette étude de cas portant sur un programme de formation à l’enseignement dans des
écoles de quartiers défavorisés décrit les tensions au sein du personnel enseignant cherchant à produire un programme de formation des maîtres culturellement significatif. Trois
éléments définissent la pertinence culturelle d’un programme : il doit promouvoir la
réussite scolaire, être adapté à la culture et développer une pensée critique. Tous les
intervenants s’accordent sur la nécessité de produire des enseignants compétents. Cela dit,
le personnel doit garder à l’esprit le contexte éducatif et social dominant dans lequel il
travaille tout en essayant de tenir compte des intérêts à long terme des élèves et de
diverses communautés culturelles implantées dans des quartiers défavorisés. L’étude
fournit des exemples concrets de la marche à suivre pour élaborer un programme de
formation à l’enseignement culturellement significatif.
INTRODUCTION
This poem has given me back what the city life was slowly taking away from me. All
around my family circle lived violence and corruption, a life which my grandfather
warned me about. . . . I have learned back my traditional life. Meegwetch [Thank you].
— Lloyd Swampy, Student, Winnipeg Education Centre
In this expression of gratitude to his teacher, Lloyd Swampy, an Ojibway preservice teacher, poignantly summarizes the effects of one Language Arts course
at the Winnipeg Education Centre (WEC) in 1998. Swampy, an accomplished
artist, was a second-year student in a program to produce certified teachers from
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CANADIAN JOURNAL OF EDUCATION
24, 4 (1999): 369–382
370
RICK HESCH
inner-city Winnipeg. Graduates would be skilled at teaching not just in Manitoba
schools generally but in the rich cultural milieu of the city’s core area in particular. This study presents the story of a teacher education program constructed
to meet the perceived needs of Winnipeg’s inner-city communities. The dominant
interests in Canada and those of people in inner cities are antagonistic. They
clash as the staff of the WEC strive to develop a coherent program. Nevertheless,
the politicized agency of those responsible for the program produced results
placing them more or less in alignment with the interests of Canada’s most
marginalized citizens.1
All staff members of the WEC work to implement a university program that
meets conventional standards of academic rigour and technical competence. At
the same time, they aim to make a collective social reconstructionist vision a
concrete reality. Social reconstructionism is a pedagogical and curriculum theory
that claims schools ought to contribute to the creation of a more just society. The
staff’s social reconstructionist orientation thus means that they are concerned
with the social and political context of inner-city schooling and forms of pedagogy that might contribute to greater equity and social justice. Ladson-Billings
(1995), an African-American scholar, has articulated a set of criteria for one
form of social reconstructionism that also counts as effective teaching; she calls
this form “culturally relevant teaching.” “I have defined culturally relevant
teaching as a pedagogy of opposition,” says Ladson-Billings (1995, p. 160),
elsewhere elaborating that “the primary aim of culturally relevant teaching is to
. . . allow [racialized] students to choose academic excellence yet still identify
with [their] culture” (1994, p. 17).
Ladson-Billings defines three criteria essential to culturally relevant teaching.
The first is academic success. Many writers express the view that one of the
greatest problems for minority education is teachers’ low expectations of the
cultural Other. But she asserts that “While much has been written about the need
to improve the esteem of [minority students] . . . culturally relevant teaching
requires that teachers attend to students’ academic needs and not merely make
them ‘feel good’” (1995, p. 160). The second is cultural competence: creating
conditions where students can maintain their cultural integrity while achieving
academic excellence. Thus, “culturally relevant teachers utilize students’ culture
as a vehicle for learning” (1995, p. 160). The third is critical consciousness.
Here, she comes closest to expressing a synthesis of culturally sensitive education and the social reconstructionist mission:
Culturally relevant teaching does not imply that it is enough for students to chose [sic]
academic excellence and remain culturally grounded if those skills and abilities represent
only an individual achievement. . . . students must develop a broader sociopolitical
consciousness that allows them to critique the cultural norms, values, mores, and institutions that produce and maintain social inequalities. (Ladson-Billings, 1995, p. 160)
CULTURALLY RELEVANT TEACHER EDUCATION
371
In 1996, staff in the WEC’s teacher education program (WEC-ED) codified
its social reconstructionist orientation by adopting Ladson-Billings’ criteria. This
article examines the changes that resulted and their effects.
TEACHER EDUCATION AND SETTLER INTERESTS
Historically, the preparation and use of Aboriginal teachers as a policy mechanism in the interests of the settler state2 has precedent in Canada. At precisely the
time when First Nations people were being systematically excluded from opportunities to develop productively as agriculturalists (Carter, 1995) and the notoriously colonial residential schools were being established, indigenous teacher
education became an aspect of settler state strategy. The first university institution in Saskatchewan was established in 1883 to train indigenous interpreters
and teachers who would be familiar with the language and mode of thought of
the Aboriginal people (Littlejohn & Regnier, 1989, p. 6). In the context of
Western expansion into the prairies and “religious imperialism” (Wotherspoon,
1991, p. 258), indigenous teachers familiar with their kin’s “mode of thought”
would be trained to advance the mutual interests of Church and State.
We should make no mistake, then: teacher education is not ideologically and
politically neutral and will be established under appropriate conditions to serve
the interests of European settlement — interests that persist to this day. So we
come to key questions. What ought teacher education that meets the needs of its
inner-city residents look like? Whose interests are being legitimized or illegitimized through the everyday practices of particular teacher educators in
particular times and in particular settings? To what guiding philosophy or ideology do these practices more or less correspond? And given that Winnipeg is one
of the largest Canadian centres of Aboriginal residents, how should WEC-ED
respond to the challenge of the Aboriginal education leadership who charge, for
example, that “Western society’s refusal to acknowledge or respect tribal knowledge . . . is . . . cognitive imperialism” (Battiste, 1993, p. 3 )? How, in other
words, does WEC-ED negotiate the academic terrain to advance the interests of
a non-hegemonic, non-Eurocentric teacher education program? Or does it? These
are, evidently, not politically neutral questions. As Mohanty (1990) argues:
Decolonizing pedagogical practices requires taking seriously the different logics of
cultures as they are located within asymmetrical power relations. It involves understanding
that culture, especially academic culture, is a terrain of struggle. (p. 196)
Aboriginal people and their organizations have historically engaged in a
process of negotiation with the dominant State apparatus to achieve goals that
both meet their inherent rights and needs and adjust to changing material conditions and relations of power (Persson, 1986; Stevenson, 1991; Wotherspoon,
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1991). This is an historical process, and teacher educators are currently working
together with Aboriginal people to prepare Aboriginal teachers to participate in
it. It is not so much that these teacher educators necessarily operate exclusively
on one side or the other of this negotiation process as that their everyday practices tend more or less either to reproduce settler hegemony or to respond
successfully to the articulated needs and demands of Aboriginal interests. For
example, the inability of most academic staff to incorporate elements of Aboriginal spirituality into their courses is perfectly consistent with teacher education
practices in Canada, but it is also a negation of traditional Aboriginal pedagogies
(Kawagley, 1995). At least to some extent, both of these fundamentally opposed
goals may be achieved at the same time.
STRUCTURAL FEATURES AND STUDENT DEMOGRAPHICS
In 1973, a convergence of social democratic government policy interests and the
human rights sentiments of several Jewish cabinet ministers in Manitoba resulted
in a proposal to establish a teacher education program to recruit and train residents of Winnipeg’s inner city to become certified professional teachers (Orlikow
& Young, 1993). The Winnipeg Centre Project (later, the Winnipeg Education
Centre) did not spring out of a vacuum but rather was consistent with plans
originating in the previous decade in the United States to produce “new cadres
of teachers” for U.S. schools, including the training of teachers for the inner
cities (Popkewitz, 1995, p. 60). In 1981, the program was joined by one in social
work (SW) based on the same recruiting and pedagogical principles, so that there
were two programs — WEC-ED and WEC-SW — housed in the same aged school
building on the northeast fringe of a growing inner city.
Through an extensive selection process, potential students are considered in
terms of their suitability for the professions of social work and teaching. Applicants are chosen according to their relevant life experience and work or
volunteer experience in a field linked to education or social work. For example,
applicants who served as teacher aides, worked as volunteers in their neighbourhood school, or served on a parents’ council will be favourably evaluated.
Consistent with prevailing conceptions of disadvantage in North America, which
prioritize “race”3 and ethnicity over social class (Bartolome & Macedo, 1997),
it is also expected that the students will generally reflect the racial and ethnic
demographics of Winnipeg’s inner city. This is interpreted to mean that approximately 50% of the students will be of Aboriginal ancestry, 15%–20% will be
recent immigrants or refugees, and the balance will be socially and economically
disadvantaged Whites.
The two WEC programs were funded by the Government of Manitoba, as part
of a group of provincially funded “ACCESS” programs offering the possibility
of a university education to members of groups historically underrepresented
373
among university students. A particularly devastating policy shift in September
1994 resulted in the termination of these student allowances, which had
supported students throughout their studies. Currently, ACCESS students are
funded through a combination of Canada Student Loans and ACCESS bursaries
administered through the Manitoba Student Financial Aid Program. Of necessity,
therefore, student funding sources have become more diverse in recent years,
with more students receiving financial support from sources such as their Bands
(38%), social assistance programs (15%), Workers’ Compensation, and Vocational Rehabilitation Services, as well as the Canada Student Loan Program. This
privatization of access to post-secondary education has resulted in a dwindling
number of applications for the two WEC programs.
Overall funding for the programs has also declined sharply in the 1990s. For
example, in 1991–92, a “peak year” of the ACCESS programs, the provincial
grant to the teacher education program was $1,049,300 or $89,107 per WEC-ED
graduate. The full amount of grants received in 1997 was $357,800 (Winnipeg
Education Centre, Inner City Social Work Program, 1998). As students now
cover their own tuition fees and purchase textbooks and all other related materials, the cost per graduate to the province has decreased by approximately 50%.
One of the most damaging effects of cutbacks has been a necessary, increasing
dependence on part-time sessional instructors: everyday work like student counselling is now usually divided among a shrinking number of full-time staff.
Likewise, little time is available to organize cultural activities, among them a
community dinner to recognize publicly the achievements of WEC students.
DEVELOPING CULTURALLY RELEVANT TEACHER EDUCATION: THE CONTEXT
Although I have claimed that WEC has always been a social reconstructionist
teacher education program, this has been as much a simple tendency as a coherent mission. Again, it is worthwhile to consider the prevailing ideological conditions in North America when WEC was established in the early 1970s. In the
view of policy makers and corporate leaders at the time, Aronowitz (1997)
claims, the mass social unrest and radical social critique of the day “had to be
redirected to acceptable . . . outcomes, especially mobility” (p. 199). Despite the
record of police violence against groups such as the American Indian Movement
and the Black Panther Party, Aronowitz argues, the preferred tool for re-establishing State legitimacy was “a systematic effort to promote . . . a new class of
managers . . . whose main assignments would be to run the now decimated
‘inner-city’” (p. 199). One institution for imposing this new mode of management would be the school. In the eyes of some, then, the value of WEC may
have lain in the fact that inner-city cultural brokers would be recruited, prepared
to use their background knowledge to turn their gaze on inner-city cultural
values, and then work to secure and maintain social peace. So, the move to an
educational strategy that consciously planned to meet inner-city communities’
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long-term interests required a political, non-hegemonic (at least) choice.
The choice to produce an alternative and responsive teacher education program
necessarily raises issues of cultural difference. By mandate, WEC does not attract
only Aboriginal students. As a program that also recruits descendents of longsettled immigrants from Europe and newcomers from the “Third World,” the
program has both the opportunity and the responsibility to make central the
nature of settler society and the settler state. Between 1996 and 1998, WEC-ED
staff took this to mean the elaboration of an explicitly “culturally relevant”
teacher education program. WEC-ED is a culturally heterogeneous program, with
most of its students being of non-European ancestries but most of its staff being
White (at the time of writing, three of four full-time academic staff of the
WEC-ED program are of European ancestry and the fourth is Irish American–
Nez Percé). Even WEC students of European ancestry live their lives in the
class-based hostility towards them typically associated with the politics of
middle-class suburbia (Rury & Mirel, 1997). But the White academic staff live
comfortably outside the inner core, returning to the suburbs at the end of the
work day. Therefore, their identities are partially rooted in social experience
outside the realm of their students’ non-school experience. Both leisure and
economic activities — from going to an expensive movie to buying clothing and
groceries at some venues economically inaccessible to their students — limit the
instructors’ capacities to draw on similar cultural experiences for more effective
teaching. Nevertheless, most members of the full-time academic staff can point
with pride to long histories of personal engagement in loosely defined antiracism
work.
The current socioeconomic milieu does not provide support for a program
dedicated to honouring cultural difference. The limited but real advances made
by Aboriginal educators and organizations in the field of education have encouraged a reorganization of settler hegemony on new terms. It is now occurring
within the global context of neo-liberal economic and social policy. For example,
budget cutbacks in medical care have meant a crisis in Aboriginal health care,
with the rate of preventable deaths among Aboriginal youths remaining at 42%
(Paul, 1997). In the context of declining full-time employment in Canada, the
general population’s concern about these conditions is diminishing and racist,
victim-blaming attitudes towards Aboriginal people are increasing (Little, 1997;
Paul, 1997). At the same time, the number of immigrants allowed to enter
Canada from “Third World” countries continues to be officially limited, but
without the use of official quotas (Sarick, 1997). In the context of a global
worsening of social conditions for inner-city communities in general (Rury &
Mirel, 1997), the federal government’s limited response to child poverty is
designed to bypass completely those dependent on welfare, those who principally
occupy the inner cities (Maunder & Maracle, 1998). Winnipeg’s response to
consequentially rising physical insecurity and crime rates has been, in part, to
mount surveillance cameras on downtown streets (“New eyes,” 1997).
375
These broad, worsening social and cultural conditions constitute some of the
parameters within which WEC-ED’s educational strategy is now unfolding.
Strategy formation has necessarily paid attention to conditions in the schools if
for no reason other than that program staff depend on sympathetic school staff
to accept field placements and cooperate in preparing WEC students. Ideologically, the staff has also been predisposed to working with inner-city teachers as
colleagues. WEC-ED staff need to pay attention to the fact that a tired, skeptical,
overdrawn, and still predominantly White teaching force might not take warmly
to seeming adventures in the direction of a more focused and public culturally
relevant program.
Nor can the program organizers expect the Winnipeg School Division’s central
administration to provide enthusiastic support to significant initiatives for a
politicized teacher education. When, as Director of the program, I visited the
offices of Human Resources administrators in the fall of 1997, for example, I
was admonished for turning away from a marketplace demand for Science and
Math teachers. The Assistant Director of Human Resources curtly told me that
our provision for allowing students to develop a major in Native Studies would
be good “for the Native schools,” by which she meant the two schools in our
city that have a public mandate to emphasize culturally appropriate teaching for
exclusively Native students. A desire to counterbalance these relatively conservative political forces was one reason why the WEC staff worked to redevelop
a multinational advisory committee and to develop working alliances with
effective minority teacher groups.
THE EFFORT TO IMPLEMENT CULTURALLY RELEVANT TEACHER EDUCATION
Implementing critical and culturally appropriate teacher education is never
complete. However, there are times when it is important to celebrate publicly
limited gains by inserting their record into a continuing dialogue. As Dei (1996)
asserts, “Anti-racism education must always practise what is preached and,
conversely, preach what is practised” (p. 26). The central elements of delivering
the WEC program fall into three categories: course selection, employment
strategy, and pedagogical practice.
Course selection is limited principally to those offered at the parent university
(University of Winnipeg), with their range and potential fundamentally determined by the structure of a program defined by others. Course selection is
further limited by the need to mount transition or bridging courses to increase
students’ capacity to perform at standard university levels. The subordinate
position of this small program in relation to the established academy limits the
creativity with which staff can transform a curriculum to make it less grounded
in Eurocentric abstractions. This subordination also means that creation of an
isolated program that would both accommodate students’ strengths and provide
access to a full range of academic majors is difficult. As Lon Borgerson, former-
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ly a program coordinator for a Métis teacher education program in Saskatchewan,
says, “The whole university structure that we have to deal with is political
because of the departmentalization [and] very inflexible programming from the
university” (personal communication, May 10, 1996). However, within this
framework it became possible to create spaces, that is, to launch teaching majors
we thought most appropriate and to select courses such as North American
Indian History, Introduction to Ojibway, Intermediate Ojibway, Introduction to
World History, and ESL Instruction.
More important is what I call “insurgent recruitment” of instructors. The conscious recruitment of competent insurgents meant, for example, that the World
History instructor struggled to teach “from the perspective of indigenous and
other subaltern cultures” (B. Angel, course outline, 1997). Thus, among other
themes in the course, students learned about “cultures of resistance in the Americas” (B. Angel, course outline, 1997). Similarly, a course entitled General
Science for Elementary Teachers has been taught by a person who has expertise
in the similarities and differences between Western and multicultural science and
who teaches, in part, to dismantle the “symbiotic relationship” (D’Dambrosio,
1997, p. 23) between colonialism and science.
In the final analysis, a program that pragmatically challenges the hegemony
of settler sovereignty and contributes to progressive alternatives to contemporary
inner-city life depends on the everyday experiences that come to inhabit the
bodies and minds of student teachers. To understand what is at work here, I find
the concept of cultural technologies useful. Simon (1992) uses it to refer to the
“sets of organizational, curricular, and teaching practices that frame the ways in
which meaning is produced, identities shaped, and values challenged or preserved” in any given society (p. 40). These practices constitute intentional efforts
at structuring different ways of making meaning as people attempt to give
meaning to their own existence and that of others. This concept provides a
broader range for the idea of pedagogy, allowing us to see it in relation to other
forms of cultural work such as the organizing of feasts, shield-making, and vision
quests. A cultural technology aims to develop an organized process for the
production of meaning.
In an effective program, a central ethos infuses multiple aspects of the program’s daily reproduction. At WEC, the cultural technology includes the ways
in which both support and academic staff do or do not work to support the
growing self-confidence and eliminate the lingering self-hatred of some students.
It includes the micro-politics of democracy, openness, and dialogue that either
does or does not enable students to feel they are in a safe, non-exclusionary
learning environment. It embraces everything from the way the Director breaks
the news to a student teacher that his field experience will not be continued to
the way the custodian holds conversations with students during the day or
hastens them out the door so she can leave early. It extends to the respect the
377
librarian gives students when they ask for help and to the fact that the academic
advisor organized and led smudges with some of our more tradition-oriented
Aboriginal students. The coherence of the cultural technology was seen in the
exceptional efforts of the history professor to coach her students through the
arduousness of writing term papers in standard form and in the response the
Director gave to students who came forward with original antiracism proposals.
The ethos that marginalized students and their families really matter is manifested in the cultural technology practiced by the office administrator who consistently offers her time to lead the organization of family picnics and Christmas
concerts, for example. The cultural technology includes the fact that WEC-ED
graduates are finally being hired to teach for the program from which they
graduated and the practice of selecting, ordering, cataloguing, and shelving the
many books, both academic and practical, purchased over the past two years to
provide resources for the implementation of the Centre’s antiracism principles.
In the WEC-ED program specifically, the most official and organized mode
for the reproduction of a nonhegemonic cultural technology occurred in the
content and teaching practices of courses. For example, as part of a major theme
in our program, literacy, Renate Schulz’s Adolescent Literature course required
students to read the equivalent of 25 works of young adolescent literature, at
least half of which had to be written by minority authors or be about multicultural themes. Students were required to find an Aboriginal or multicultural text,
hold an organized dialogue about it with another person, rewrite at least a part
of the text in a personally contextualized framework, and discuss the meaning of
the text with the WEC student-writer-interviewer. Thus, one Aboriginal student
whose marriage partner is Jamaica-born found an insurrectionary poem written
in Jamaican patois and interviewed her to help him understand the possibilities
and limitations of working with it in a Manitoba setting. A partially Yugoslavian
“mixed-blood” student selected a poem by a Manitoba Métis poet that speaks to
the dilemma of being “caught between two worlds.” She wrote:
I automatically feel that this poem was meant for me. . . . At times I have raised either
the white or the brown flag to better a certain situation for my own benefit and at times
for the others around me. . . . I learned a lot about myself over just one poem.
An urbanized Ojibway man, Lloyd Swampy, selected “Words to a Grandchild”
by Chief Dan George and interviewed his grandmother: “She told me this was
the first time she read about a native writer.” The grandmother admitted her own
lack of knowledge about Aboriginal culture “because of the residential school
system,” he wrote, then continued:
This poem has given me back what the city life was slowly taking away from me. All
around my family circle lived violence and corruption, a life which my grandfather
warned me about. . . . I have learned back my traditional life. Meegwetch [Thank you].
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The introductory Ojibway language course, taught by a WEC-ED graduate,
asked students to prepare bilingual projects. Two students, for example, prepared
children’s books developed after interviews with family elders.
These two courses stand as examples of the meaning of antiracism education
articulated by Dei (1996), who calls for a multicentric approach to education that
starts from “targeting groups for attention and centering the lived experiences of
a diverse student body as a starting point for education” (p. 82). This means,
according to Dei, moving the experiences of the marginalized from the margins
to the centre, producing a balanced curriculum — that is, “locating students
within the context of their own cultural frame of reference so that they can relate
socially, [and] politically to the learning process” (p. 83). The Adolescent Literature and Ojibway courses reinforced or developed students’ cultural competence.
Ladson-Billings’ third criterion for culturally relevant pedagogy is the development of students’ critical consciousness. Charlotte Reid has taught at WEC for
more than 20 years, giving her a deep immersion in the life of inner-city education. The School Organization course was officially meant to be taught to senior
education students. Reid, however, transformed the course into a structured and
intensive dialogue with first-year students around issues central to inner-city
education and what might be done about them inside a classroom. She was
teaching about issues of power and economic exploitation. The course focused
on “who benefits most from [existing school structures] and how they could be
otherwise” (C. Reid, 1997, course outline). A stated objective of the course was
“to begin to construct a method of examining the constraints as well as the opportunities teachers confront.” Another part of the course was given to examining
the roles of “students, teachers, parents, administrators, government, school
boards . . . as [they relate] to . . . Aboriginal education, minority education,
gender equity, [and] standardized testing,” among other issues. As student voice
was encouraged in the course, this course also became an opportunity for the
cultural relevance of lived inner-city life to penetrate what counts as schoolwork
at WEC.
Attention to a multicentric cultural technology was reflected in Birgit Hartel’s
habitual use of the talking stick as a means of managing class discussion during
her Seminar and School Experience course. Hartel’s primary responsibility was
to introduce students to the mechanics of teaching, such as developing a lesson
plan, but students were at the same time required to use culturally relevant
teaching in the field. A multicentric cultural technology was reflected in the
invitations a range of instructors issued to the WEC-ED academic advisor to visit
their classrooms and apply his expertise with Aboriginal epistemologies to course
content. It was reflected in the emphasis in the first-year Mathematics course
when students learned and worked with different number systems, from Mayan
to East Indian.
Limitations to implementing multicentrism (Dei, 1996) at WEC-ED appeared
in courses that depended almost completely on direct instruction. As well, the
379
model for program development was entirely cognitive and linear. No attempt
was made to invite elders into the program. Full-time and part-time staff’s
incorporation of a multicentric approach into their teaching, despite some limited
official encouragement, was left to individual instructors rather than being organized into an ongoing dialogue in relation to the achievement of the unofficial
mandate of WEC-ED. Insufficient attention was given to the implications of
Aboriginal child-rearing practices for what counts as schooling and learning to
teach. Program pedagogy did not attend rigorously to building on the knowledge
students bring into the program rather than focusing almost pathologically on
academic deficits. We did not sufficiently grapple with the differences between
“support service meaning crutch [and] support service meaning solidarity and
community” (S. TeHennepe, personal communication, April 25, 1996). And in
such matters as assessing students’ academic competence to handle a broader
range of subject majors, we did not examine the implications of the fact that
most instructors remained White and middle-class.
Finally, elements of self-directed loathing among students and the “historical
amnesia” described by Freire (1995) are as alive and well in inner-city Winnipeg
as in any other colonial setting. Thus, student consciousness too presented a
limitation to advancing a counter-hegemonic program. The basic necessities of
successful performance as a student, complicated by a life lived in the material
and gendered contexts experienced by all inner-city residents, meant there was
usually not a great deal of energy or time available for taking risks.
CONCLUSION
The contents of a culturally relevant pedagogy are academic achievement, cultural competence, and critical consciousness (Ladson-Billings, 1995). Possibilities
for academic success in the two WEC programs were heightened through structural, psychological, and cultural means. Structurally, the bridging courses, which
aimed to upgrade students’ academic skill levels, were indispensable. Making the
improvement of library holdings a budgetary priority provided students with
access to more relevant, current, and motivational learning materials. However,
the consistent effort given to creating a non-alienating place to work and learn
may have been equally important. This aspect of WEC’s cultural technology
included all staff members, academic and non-academic, who endeavoured to
share “ownership” of the building and program through the creation of an easy,
informal work place for adult learners. For example, librarian Alem Asghedom’s
respect for students who came for help may have contrasted with the childhood
school experiences of many of the students. Similarly, reducing students’ anxiety
and stress by, for example, organizing family picnics and Christmas concerts
helped make a parent’s and marriage partner’s new role as an unwaged learner
more acceptable. Such activities and events were therefore important for building
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necessary psychological and cultural foundations for adult learners. It is now
conventional wisdom that role models of their own “race” and/or ethnicity are
important for the academic success of minority students. Consequently, the hiring
of an Ojibway WEC-ED graduate was meaningful.
Developing academic success includes more intentional and focused strategies,
however, such as the willingness of an instructor to spend extra time coaching
students through the arduous task of meeting academic expectations. Entire
literacy programs are built on the notion that making personal meaning of texts
is essential. Students’ opportunities to select their own content and interview
family members in both their Language Arts and Ojibway courses thus provided
heightened incentive for academic achievement. The selection of topics and the
dependence on effective dialogue in the School Organization course were also
premised, in part, on the belief that making personal meaning is essential to
academic achievement at all levels.
These latter examples also help show that Ladson-Billings’ three criteria cannot be artificially separated from one another. I argue, as she does, that developing cultural competence is essential for academic success. This is especially true
for students previously excluded by conventional academic cultural practices,
such as studying to enter a profession many young minority students already
know is not accessible to them. How much was gained, for example, by Renate
Schulz’s capacity to grasp the personal value of helping students strengthen their
own identities as part of their course work? Reading multicultural texts helps
even non-Aboriginal students to explore the meaning of White cultural identities
constituted in a context of difference. The use of a talking stick in class and the
organization of smudges were acts that helped to create the psychological security essential for effective learning at the same time that they helped to develop
cultural competence.
Finally, in the context I described earlier in this article, the teaching of critical
consciousness is only a natural aspect of teaching a full-fledged sense of cultural
competence. Historically marginalized students cannot gain the kind of cultural
understanding that will promote academic achievement unless they possess an
authentic understanding of the history of this marginalization, oppression, and
exploitation. Otherwise, liberal explorations of cultural identity can easily return
a student to a sense of shame and self-hatred. Thus, the teaching of a radical
interpretation of history is simply congruent with the other criteria of cultural
relevance. At a less intense level, it is difficult to enrich a library with holdings
on Aboriginal experience without at the same time contributing to critical consciousness. It may be impossible, finally, to organize an academically legitimate
course around inner-city educational issues without examining themes that both
are culturally meaningful to inner-city inhabitants (e.g., WEC-ED students) and
contribute to critical understandings of power and domination. These have been
WEC-ED’s achievements.
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NOTES
1
Since this article was drafted in Spring 1998, WEC-ED has been transferred to the University of
Winnipeg and a centralized mode of operations. The extent to which the promise and practices
identified in this article will be continued remains undetermined.
2
Settler societies are those in which Europeans have settled, initially as land-holders, where their
descendants have remained politically and economically dominant over indigenous peoples, and
where in terms of class, ethnicity, and “race,” a pluralistic society has developed (Stasiulis &
Yuval-Davis, 1995).
3
There is disagreement within the antiracism movement and the scholastic literature about whether
the term “race” should be used in quotation marks only. I support the position that because “race”
does not empirically exist and because the assumption that it does exist has historically proven
harmful, its nonexistence must be always recognized by placing it in quotation marks.
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Stevenson, W. L. (1991). Prairie Indians and higher education: An historical oveview. In T. Wotherspoon (Ed.), Hitting the books: The politics of educational retrenchment (pp. 215–234). Toronto:
Garamond Press.
Winnipeg Education Centre, Inner City Social Work Program. (1998, March). Turning the circle.
Paper presented at the meeting of the Canadian Association of Schools of Social Work, St. John’s,
Newfoundland.
Wotherspoon, T. (1991). Indian control or controlling Indians? Barriers to the occupational and
educational advancement of Canada’s indigenous population. In T. Wotherspoon (Ed.), Hitting
the books: The politics of educational retrenchment (pp. 249–273). Toronto: Garamond Press.
Rick Hesch can be contacted at 109 Buxton Road, Winnipeg, Manitoba, R3T 0H1.
Beyond Cultural Differences and Similarities:
Student Teachers Encounter Aboriginal Children’s
Literature1
university of new brunswick
This article examines teacher education students’ interactions around a course in Aboriginal children’s literature. Observations of these students suggest that expressing and exploring ideas and feelings about issues like stereotyping helps them develop a supportive
kinship, which promotes learning that transforms attitudes. Some questions explored in
this article are: (1) What is effective learning in a multicultural classroom? (2) How can
teachers and students become learning partners in the multicultural classroom? (3) What
is the difference between understanding culture and valuing people? This exploration may
assist teachers to identify changes in students’ social, cognitive, and emotional development within the context of a growing community of learners from various cultures.
Teachers may also find the students’ evaluation of the classroom atmosphere and dynamics useful in gathering and preparing material for multicultural settings.
Dans cet article, l’auteure analyse les interactions d’un groupe d’étudiants-maîtres au sujet
de la littérature pour enfants en milieu autochtone. Les remarques de ces étudiants
donnent à penser que le fait d’exprimer et d’explorer des idées et des sentiments sur des
questions comme les stéréotypes les aident à tisser des liens qui favorisent l’apprentissage
et transforment les attitudes. L’article aborde les questions suivantes : (1) Qu’entend-on
par un apprentissage efficace dans une classe multiculturelle? (2) Comment les enseignants et les élèves peuvent-ils créer des partenariats d’apprentissage dans une classe
multiculturelle? (3) Quelle est la différence entre comprendre une culture et valoriser les
personnes? Cette réflexion peut aider les enseignants à identifier les changements dans
le développement social, cognitif et émotif des élèves au sein d’une communauté grandissante d’apprenants de diverses cultures. Les enseignants peuvent également trouver
l’évaluation de l’atmosphère et de la dynamique de la classe par les élèves utile pour la
recherche et la préparation de matériel destiné à des classes multiculturelles.
A multicultural classroom may be defined as a setting in which students of
various ethnic origins are grouped to learn together. Although some student
teachers may understand intellectually the problems and difficulties of a multicultural classroom, they can also benefit from effective classroom models that
translate abstract ideas about multicultural issues and ways of learning into
concrete practices that value learners and their ideas. In this article I provide an
account of such a model, a course in which Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal
student teachers are grouped together.
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24, 4 (1999): 383–397
384
LYNDA ANN CURWEN DOIGE
The goal of the course is to help student teachers learn about Aboriginal
children’s literature and how to use it to best advantage in primary and intermediate classrooms. My account emphasizes interrelationships among five
aspects of the course: (1) the inspiration that framed the content and format of
the course, (2) the educative and training function of the course for student
teachers, (3) the theories of learning in which the practices of the course are
grounded, (4) the definition of effective learning environment in a multicultural
classroom, and (5) the dynamics between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal students
as they attempt to resolve conflicts that emerge when they discuss the literature.
Clearly, the content of Aboriginal children’s literature is worthy of attention
in its own right; however, the purpose of this article is to examine how student
teachers come to focus on reading as an interpretive, public, and discursive activity and how they evaluate these processes for themselves as potential teachers.
The concern here is with ways of reading, the pedagogical process, rather than
specifically with what is read.
The teaching and learning I describe took place in ABRG 3688, “Aboriginal
Children’s Literature,” a course taught at the University of New Brunswick to
Aboriginal (primarily Micmac and Maliseet) and non-Aboriginal students. My
experience with this course highlighted issues and principles having broad
significance for multicultural education in language for learning (linguistics),
teaching methods (pedagogy), and ways of reading (literary/cultural studies).
ORIGIN OF THE COURSE
I was motivated to develop ABRG 3688 by my first experience teaching Aboriginal literature in a university English course for First Nations students. The need
for Aboriginal content was clear, so I included several stories written by Canadian First Nations authors. The students’ positive responses to reading and
writing about Tomson Highway’s Rez Sisters (1988) and Beatrice Culleton’s
April Raintree (1984), for example, confirmed the appropriateness of these
materials. Some students wept openly with April as she gathered us into her
struggle to find her personal identity. We laughed with the Rez sisters over their
bingo addiction and their resolve to attend “the Best Bingo in the World” in
Toronto. The students were excited and very much involved as they studied the
material. Then the unit on Aboriginal literature ended.
I felt disappointed that we had only begun to explore Canadian Aboriginal
literature and that we had not stopped to examine the shared narratives developing as we responded to the literature and to one another. Our discussions
indicated that the Aboriginal content did what Hardy (1977) says the novel does:
it “heightens, isolates, and analyses the narrative motions of human consciousness” (p. 12). Stories and plays by First Nations authors were a catalyst for the
classroom dynamics as the students expressed thoughts and feelings evoked by
STUDENT TEACHERS AND ABORIGINAL CHILDREN’S LITERATURE
385
the shared experiences that the texts articulated. This fascinated me; although I
could not explain it at the time, something unexpected and valuable had happened in that English course. I felt compelled to design a course on Aboriginal
literary content that would be relevant to student teachers’ future careers. During
my research, I discovered a body of literature I had not known existed, literature
written for children by Aboriginal authors and authors whose sensitivity to First
Nations people was realistic, positive, and informative (e.g., Grant, 1990; Lutz,
1991; Moses & Goldie, 1991; New, 1990; Petrone, 1990, 1991; Stott, 1995;
Taylor & Jaine, 1992). I first offered the new course in fall 1993 and continue
to teach it annually.
CLASSROOM DYNAMICS
The Crucial First Class
The first class establishes the pattern for learning during the rest of the course.
Usually ABRG 3688 has 14 to 20 students, with an even mix of Aboriginal and
non-Aboriginal students. If possible, the course is held in a small room where we
all face each other. I sometimes know the Aboriginal students from previous
classes but seldom know the non-Aboriginal students. Some non-Aboriginal
students find this situation perplexing because they are accustomed to being the
ones known by the teacher and to being in the majority; in ABRG 3688 they sit
quietly wondering, as one student said, whether they have chosen the right
course. One student wrote about the complexity of her feelings at the outset of
the course:
At the beginning of this term I was essentially afraid of facing certain feelings and
insecurities I have had regarding Native people all my life. Because I have never really
gotten to know Native people personally, I was very much afraid that I might offend them
by my ignorance.2
This student was able to identify her own limitations very early and recognized
the value of knowing an individual, rather than just having information about a
people or culture. Aboriginal students, on the other hand, are often quiet even
though they know me, because the course and the circumstances are new.
Despite my confident manner, I, too, come to the first class with butterflies.
The unknown looms before me, and I enter the classroom aware that students
may decide not to cooperate. I know that for this course to be beneficial to
everyone, I must help create a supportive climate as quickly as possible. It will
not just happen; I must work at this with focused determination. So, the beginning moments are laden with anticipation and apprehension for all of us.
I start by introducing myself by name, not by a university title. If I recognize
people in the class I welcome and introduce them; then I have others follow my
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example. In my experience, students are curious about their teacher, so I ask
what they would like to know about me. No one is forced to ask questions but
anyone is free to do so. From the beginning I seek to establish the kind of
atmosphere that Bochner (1982) says reduces tension and hostility in inter-group
contact. He describes the atmosphere as one including “equal status of the
participating persons . . . interdependent activity . . . cooperation with superordinate goals . . . and . . . a social climate that favours inter-group contact and
harmony” (p. 16).
Harmony is crucial. Competition between students or cultures is not permitted
to enter the dynamics. Treating all questions with the same respect and answering them honestly helps establish equal status for all students. Students’
questions help to create an air of intimacy: I am often asked whether I am
married and have children. While I answer these questions I can, for example,
talk about how I feel about being a wife, mother, teacher, and researcher, about
how I am often frustrated because the days are too short. As they listen to my
responses I involve them in conversation by asking, “Has anyone else ever felt
like that?” As we move from facts about ourselves to feelings, I am always
amazed at how candid and open that introductory discussion is. Within that first
90-minute class, the students and teacher relate to one another at an affective
level. Because we have begun to share ourselves by sharing our stories, we make
a commitment that we will keep personal discussion confidential. Usually one
student suggests that we agree on confidentiality, and the other students take that
commitment very seriously. Already the seeds of mutual respect are sown, even
though they lie shallow in the soil of inexperience.
The Learning Process
The stated goals of ABRG 3688 are to have students examine books written or
illustrated by Aboriginal authors (especially those written by Canadian Aboriginal
authors) for primary and elementary school aged children to gain an understanding of why this literature would be an asset in any classroom, and to plan some
effective ways to use the books in the classroom and with individual children.
However, students need to be permitted to be themselves, without pretence, so
that they can acknowledge genuine knowledge and genuine ignorance rather than
produce simulated knowledge based on what they think the teacher wants to hear.
An unstated goal of the course, for me, is to focus on social interaction as an
indispensable part of academic performance. The social action is often displayed
in what Mezirow (1992) calls “rational discourse as a means of validating
beliefs” (p. 250): students are permitted to discuss their beliefs in an open forum
while exploring the views of others. The learning process, though informative,
ought to be liberating for both the teacher and students. Wells (1986) says that
learning resides within learners and not within a decontextualized body of
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knowledge. So students need to be permitted to grapple with content in such a
way that they come to think and feel differently about themselves and how they
fit into their surrounding worlds and are set free to discover and to change their
perceptions and their feelings.
The constructivist theory of cognitive dissonance (e.g., Festinger, 1957) helps
explain how some learning occurs in ABRG 3688. In the classes, there are
moments when we suddenly discover that things are not the way we thought they
were in the Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal worlds. Such revelations are not new
to Aboriginal students, who seldom find a comfortable place in a controlled educational environment. In the class, however, they can pursue their reactions
because class members are concerned for each other and because non-Aboriginal
students share those feelings of being on unknown emotional ground in an academic setting. The non-Aboriginal students are unfamiliar with such discomfort
and draw heavily on Aboriginal support. For example, when faced with the
reality that some non-Aboriginal teachers discriminate against Aboriginal
children, the non-Aboriginal students are appalled: “Do some teachers actually
treat Aboriginal children like that? They need an attitude check, big time!”
During the first two weeks of the course, we read and discuss articles such as
those by Swisher and Deyhle (1989), Cronin (1982), Zarry (1991), Lake (1990),
Lee (1982), Rhodes (1988), Cattey (1980), and Armstrong (1987). At the same
time that students are thinking and writing about how to eliminate racism from
the classroom and from themselves, they begin to read the children’s books.
Articulating the learning process for oneself and others is in itself educative.
Barnes (1976) states that “not only is talking and writing a major means by
which people learn, but what they learn can hardly be distinguished from the
ability to communicate it” (p. 20). As I facilitate honest dialogue among the
students, the learning advances. Communication is to be valued and examined
in the classroom because it reveals learning. So I model specific communication
skills, such as listening, interacting, and giving positive feedback, and the students take time to practice these as they share their thoughts and feelings about
points where Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal cultures intersect. Reflexive learning
takes place at these intersections, says Barnes, who believes they compel a
student,
if he is to continue his proposed action, to bring to sharp awareness parts of his world
which were upon the periphery of his consciousness, and to construct for himself understanding which did not previously exist. . . . Learning from disjunction can be generated
by two equals . . . if they trust one another sufficiently to work towards mutual understanding, and if they find subject-matter which falls within the range of their purposes.
(p. 106)
Aboriginal children’s literature provides that subject matter.
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LITERATURE AS A FOCUS FOR LEARNING
The use of literature as a basis for enhancing self-concept is not new (e.g., Ehle,
1982; Frye, 1988). In ABRG 3688, reading and talking about cultural issues
reveals more than differing traditions. Saravia-Shore and Arvizu (1992) say that
“cross-cultural literacy extends beyond ‘cultural literacy’ — the knowledge and
understanding of one’s national culture — to encompass knowledge and understanding of other cultures’ patterns of interaction, values, institutions, metaphors
and symbols as well as cross-cultural communication skills” (p. xi). I believe
people can move through their initial emotional and intellectual responses, which
in many instances are barriers, to a genuine acceptance and appreciation of one
another and change individual thinking and attitudes. I envision student teachers
learning about others’ cultures in such a way that what Saravia-Shore and Arvizu
advocate can be a reality for them: “that diversity be grounded in understanding
human differences as well as universals, and that such an understanding be
translated into behavior which supports respect for and among people and their
many forms of interacting” (pp. xv–xvi). But, if educational content is all that
is needed to come to understand and value others’ cultures, then why not leave
the students and Aboriginal children’s literature alone to do their own work?
When I taught a unit on Aboriginal literature focused on the content alone, I
missed the opportunity to permit people to confront their thoughts and feelings
about controversial issues and to learn from sharing those thoughts and feelings
with one another. I did not want this to happen in ABRG 3688.
Through the rapport that develops among them and the issues they discuss,
students in ABRG 3688 begin to articulate both how and what they are learning.
Initially, I did not expect this: I had thought that was my task, not theirs. Instead,
the students became the living dynamic of the learning process. Of one session,
an Aboriginal student said that real learning takes place when we are able to
admit to ourselves what thoughts and feelings we have. “Dealing with me,” as
another student put it, “is real learning.” I cannot decide what that “dealing with
me” means for each student. They know themselves better than I do. However,
with the focus on reading, I can create a safe environment that allows personal
responses to be formulated, explored, and developed.
In reference to young learners, Barnes (1976) states that the “more a learner
controls his own language strategies, and the more he is enabled to think aloud,
the more he can take responsibility for formulating hypotheses and evaluating
them” (p. 29). This is true for adult learners as well. For example, student
teachers in ABRG 3688 talk among themselves about what words are most
appropriate to describe the creation figure in Aboriginal mythology. The western
Canadian term “trickster” is unacceptable to Micmac students when applied to
Glooscap. They insist on using Glooscap’s name and not labelling him in any
way. In the process of determining which words to use, students have to formu-
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late appropriate, non-threatening questions. They take care to choose words that
free others to think aloud so that they can reach agreement. They take responsibility for creating word pictures representative of the ideas and traditions
important to Micmac and Maliseet students as well as to non-Aboriginal students.
Being able to deal with themselves and others in a “think aloud” format moves
the learning forward through discovery.
In addition to creating a safe learning environment, another thing I can do as
a facilitator is be clear to myself and to students how such processes are grounded in theories of reading, learning, and conceptual development (e.g., Appleyard,
1994; Barnes, Britton, & Torbe, 1990; Bruner, 1975; Kimberley, Meek, & Miller,
1992; Meek, 1988; Mezirow, 1994; Potter, 1996; Rogers & Freiberg, 1994;
VonGlasersfeld, 1995; Wells, 1986). Students need to know that their discoveries
arise not from sentimentalism but from a credible learning process that can be
adopted as a format for lifelong learning.
Students make these discoveries in ABRG 3688 through consultation and
discussion with classmates and the facilitator, individually, in small groups, and
with the whole class. Students must be responsible for their own learning if they
are to maintain their individual creative selves. A systematic, curriculum-centred
education does not ensure this. According to Au (1993), “students of diverse
backgrounds find themselves in the position of having to choose between school
success and their cultural identity” (p. 13). In fact, Ogbu (1982) and Philips
(1983) suggest, under a Euro-Canadian curriculum-based education, Aboriginal
students will automatically be assimilated into the mainstream culture and lose
part of their Aboriginal heritage. This happens when “who people are” is not
acknowledged as fundamental to academic performance. If ethnicity and equality
are to survive in the classroom and in the Canadian mosaic, it is crucial to
maintain individual identity. Ogbu questions the validity of teaching Aboriginal
students a curriculum that has no relevance to their Aboriginal experience. The
results of using Aboriginal children’s literature attest to the effectiveness of
relevant material. One Aboriginal student wrote that listening to and studying
stories about her culture made her “feel good” about her own identity. “After
all,” she said, “if you never hear anything — or anything good — about your
culture, you learn to be ashamed of it. These books really help me to deal with
my own feelings that were suppressed for as long as I can remember. This is the
first time I can really open up and express how I am feeling inside.”
Because the topics in the children’s books are relevant to general human
experiences, the students do not need to help one another accept their relevance.
Instead, the students are motivated by an inner need to explain themselves and
the need to have others understand them. One said, “Talking out my thoughts
helps me know what I am feeling.” The result is that the sessions move to a
more deeply personal perspective on Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal cultures.
How and why they think and feel as they do become the paramount questions
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in students’ effort to understand, to relate to, and to accept one another. When
one becomes “bogged down” in a discussion, another often asks a helpful,
leading question — for example, “Was that situation because of your upbringing?” — and the first is then freed to continue to explore his or her thoughts. The
students listen to and support one another. When their experiences differ, as they
often do across cultures, they examine their responses and seek ways to communicate. Often this takes time and, as facilitator, I bite my tongue a lot. For
example, the non-Aboriginal students often do not know how to refer to their
Aboriginal classmates as a cultural group. They talk about possible descriptors
and arrive at what feels comfortable. During one such discussion an Aboriginal
student said, “Sometimes I call myself an Indian, sometimes Aboriginal, sometimes Native. I hear all these terms on the news. But I guess I like Aboriginal
because it means ‘first to the land.’ ” From then on, we used Aboriginal very
easily because the students had agreed upon it. I could not legislate such an
open, caring exchange, with its goal of mutual acceptance. The intricate process
of human interaction based on course content is carefully monitored and directed
by a facilitator open to self-discovery. An epiphany takes place as students
become emotionally involved in what they share as human beings.
ASSESSMENT AND EVALUATION IN THE COURSE
The means by which progress in ABRG 3688 is assessed also helps trace how
learning occurs. Three major assignments assist students to become acquainted
with the course content, to interact with one another about the books’ content,
and to express freely their thoughts and feelings about anything pertaining to the
course.
First, students keep a weekly journal that they submit for feedback. I collect
the journals and interact with their observations and ideas by writing my own
comments and questions. I ask that they make their writing autobiographical and
reflective. The journal thus contains their thoughts, feelings, questions, observations, and some interpretations, not merely summaries or reviews of content. The
entries presented earlier show how the journal assists students to “open up” for
the purpose of personal commentary and evaluation. They also demonstrate that
they are learning to integrate theory, pedagogical practice, and their own experience. For example, students often reflect on my oral reading of stories. As they
recognize that reading stories aloud is crucial to children’s literacy and their own,
they think and write about the benefits of this activity and how they plan to use
it in their own classrooms.
Once the students learn through my written responses that they not only can
but must be honest and true to themselves in their journal entries, their writing
changes. For example, they admit and accept that they feel animosity towards
other cultures. They are true to their feelings by standing by them in discussion
391
until they resolve the negative ones and refine and accept the positive ones,
if possible. If resolution is not immediate, they leave class with a new selfawareness. Being able to face those feelings in a journal entry is beneficial for
future reflection. One student wrote, “It amazes me to see that I am truly dealing
with me. Journal writing is helping me to heal some of the concerns I have had
for a long time.” This Aboriginal student found the courage to face her feelings
of not fitting into either the Aboriginal or the White world because she had been
raised off the reserve.
When students feel secure in themselves they willingly discuss new concepts.
My evaluation of their journal entries is based on how well they marry theory
and practice. The journal writing assists them to progress from individual thought
to the more extended public forum of classroom discussion crucial to individual
development and change (Fullan, 1993, p. 15). Reticence gives way to a new
attitude of enquiry. Journal writing is pivotal to the direction of the course in that
the students decide which issues and which pedagogy are most beneficial for
their purposes.
The second assignment requires students to participate in a group presentation
designed to explore a topic or a genre, such as stereotyping or picture books, and
to evaluate the effectiveness of Aboriginal children’s books in developing any
child’s literacy. By the eighth week of the course, when these presentations
begin, students have learned that their acquisition of knowledge depends on
group interactions as much as on their individual learning. While helping students
continue to explore the literature, this assignment gives them the opportunity to
explore and develop interactively in a setting they control entirely. In mixed
groups of four, Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal students meet to fashion a format
for their ideas. They perpetuate the bond that has developed among them even
though they are now working in groups outside the safety of the classroom.
When an upset occurs within a group, the members negotiate until they feel the
problem is resolved. Their presentations indicate that this group work, as another
type of public forum, helps to advance learning.
The third assignment gives students a variety of options. Some write a critical
analysis of a series of books of their choosing. Some write integrated units on
conflict studies, social studies, or cross-cultural studies. Others read several
books to children to determine how children respond to those by Aboriginal
authors and those about Aboriginal people by non-Aboriginal authors. A popular
final assignment is to write a children’s story and explain why and how it would
assist a child’s literacy development. In this task, students look at the elements
of a “good” story and the characteristics of books that engender literary growth,
such as “intertextuality, polysemics, multilayeredness, and entitlement” (Meek,
1988).
In addition to completing assignments, students discuss such topics as how
people learn, how to develop a language to facilitate learning, oral literature, the
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history of Aboriginal literature in Canada, acculturation, appropriation, assimilation, and Aboriginal authorship.
STUDENT RESPONSES TO ABORIGINAL LITERATURE
In the books selected for the course, Aboriginal voices speak boldly and directly
to Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal readers about traditional beliefs and crosscultural interests. The students hear those voices and reflect on them. The books
give all students, Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal, the foundation on which to
base questions. I remember asking, after a class had read Iris Loewen’s My
Kokum Called Today (1995), if Aboriginals are condemned by members of their
community if they leave the reserve. Because the story deals with this topic, I
felt less apprehensive about asking such a question. As one student said, “I feel
that my [asking this] question might be misinterpreted by my Native peers, but
the book is the vehicle which permits me to ask.”
Through the readings, other significant issues are confronted, including stereotyping. For example, when studying Jan Truss’s Peter’s Moccasins (1987), one
non-Aboriginal student said that “assuming that the blond, blue-eyed girl is not
Native also brings to light a stereotype that I did not realize I possess, and for
this I am grateful.” The issue of Aboriginal people’s trying to live in two worlds
is poignantly presented in Peter’s Moccasins and in Esther Sanderson’s Two
Pairs of Shoes (1990). One non-Aboriginal student observed that Peter’s Moccasins “doesn’t dismiss either culture, as that would be harmful, if not impossible.
It asks the reader to consider and value both.” An Aboriginal student said of the
same book that:
It tells of the experiences I live through all my life. . . . When I go off the reserve, I
become someone else to keep up with the people and when I am on the reserve I am
home. I can relax and be myself. And that’s the message I get from the grandmother
when she says, “There is a special time to wear each pair of shoes.” When I am home
I wear my moccasins and when I am at school or university I wear my patent shoes.
This student responded to the story at an affective level whereas the non-Aboriginal student had responded to it intellectually by focusing on the story’s purpose.
During class discussion, these students interacted in such a way that they helped
each other come to a more holistic response.
Other topics of concern to students include maintaining a healthy relationship
to Mother Earth (e.g., Jen and the Great One, by Peter Eyvindson, 1990; The
Big Tree and the Little Tree, by Mary Augusta Tappage, 1973), preserving
cultural traditions (e.g., Cheryl Bibalhats/Cheryl’s Potlatch, by Sheila Thompson,
1991; Where Did You Get Your Moccasins? by Bernelda Wheeler, 1986/1992),
recording traditional myths and legends (e.g., the Nanabosho stories by Joe
McLellan and the Keeper series by Joseph Bruchac and Michael Caduto;3 North-
393
ern Lights: The Soccer Trails, by Michael Kusugak, 1993), and maintaining
Native spirituality (e.g., The Crying Christmas Tree, by Allan Crow, 1989; Little
White Cabin, by Ferguson Plain, 1992; My Kokum Called Today, by Iris Loewen,
1995).
These themes are universal, although culturally specific in their presentation
of traditional beliefs. It is as if the authors provide a voice for both Aboriginal
and non-Aboriginal students. One student noticed that:
The discussions all begin by exploring a more general human characteristic or situation,
rather than cultural issues. For example, the true meaning of Christmas for each of us, the
concerns of grandparents and parents, allowing children to make their own choices,
feelings, and handicaps. . . . The cultural issues are there, are significant and are discussed, but the books have more depth than a cultural documentation.
The concerns that emerge enable the students to speak eloquently and passionately and to come to know each other as individuals, representative of cultural
histories but not limited by them.
THE TEACHER AS LEARNER
ABRG 3688 has helped me trace the evolution of my own learning and teaching.
Regardless of the composition of a class, the adventure of teaching for me lies
in discovering how my students learn, how we can best learn together, and how
I can facilitate the learning. When I began teaching the course, I focused on
“how to teach this book” and the intellectual implications of the themes. Soon,
however, I realized that while I was preoccupied with the content of the literature, the students had broader concerns. However well-meaning my focus, it
was short-sighted because it missed what the students were actually learning. I
needed to stay attuned to students’ dynamic engagement with their learning.
Because the essential business is a series of connected and evolving interactions,
stepping out of that discourse and interchange may isolate the teacher from it,
which is what happened to me the first time I taught ABRG 3688.
To be literate is to be able to interpret information and create meaning, rather
than simply to extract meaning. I learned that this pedagogical principle applies
to group dynamics as well as to reading theory. All readings are individual, but
they can only be articulated socially. Students come to see that the knowledge
that will help them to understand themselves and their worlds is both individually
and socially constructed. In other words, understanding is negotiated. This is
exactly why Fullan (1993) says that “there is a ceiling effect to how much we
can learn if we keep to ourselves. . . . People need one another to learn and to
accomplish things” (p. 17) and that “people must behave their way into new
ideas and skills, not just think their way into them” (p. 15). Fullan asserts that
effective learning can occur only when people are permitted to interact with the
394
information they have received and with their developing ideas. In ABRG 3688,
I have experienced the truth of Fullan’s assertions.
Reading and discussing literature offers a rehearsal of potentially real experience, what Harding (1977) calls “virtual experience” (p. 379). At the same time,
it imposes an imaginative and valuable distance from the immediately personal.
Paradoxically, reading the content of Aboriginal children’s literature allows attention to the personal. To teach student teachers to discover the interpretational
learning process and apply it to their own classrooms is my fundamental goal.
OUTCOMES: A WAY FORWARD
Many educators are working to develop effective teaching methods in multicultural classrooms. An evaluation of classroom dynamics may prove useful. For
example, for Aboriginal students, in particular, to benefit from formal education,
they must be respected as responsible learners. What they bring to the class must
be valued. They must be trusted to construct their learning. When students are
given the opportunity for genuine, open interaction about issues crucial to
culture, not only do they make meaning of their worlds but often they also
willingly make changes in their thinking and perception (Bruner, 1990; Shweder,
1990), as non-Aboriginal students in ABRG 3688 did with the term “trickster,”
for example. Effective learning results.
Classroom dynamics may seem an unusual basis on which to analyze the
effectiveness of a course. The point is that whatever causes a teacher to stop and
think about a class ought to be pursued beyond mere reflection. Once a constructive evaluation is made, the format and content of a course can be framed. The
pedagogy evolves as teachers ground the learning process in learning theory.
Educators must continue to find effective ways to respect ethnicity and equality
in all classrooms. I believe that this depends partly on valuing who the students
are, assisting them to value one another and what they bring to the class, and
allowing them to be responsible for their learning. How to accomplish that
remains the challenge for each teacher in each classroom.
NOTES
1
An earlier version of this article was presented at the annual meeting of the Canadian Society for
the Study of Education in Montreal, June 1995.
2
This and the following excerpts are from recent student assignments. I am greatly indebted to
these students for welcoming me into their learning experiences and for sharing their insights into
teaching with me.
3
Joe McLellan’s Nanabosho stories are published by Pemmican Publications in Winnipeg; Joseph
Bruchac and Michael Caduto’s Keeper series are published by Fifth House in Saskatoon.
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dans les écoles moyennes et régionales
au Québec, 1926–69
Thérèse Hamel
Michel Morisset
Jacques Tondreau
université laval
Depuis 1926, le Québec s’est doté d’institutions scolaires appelées écoles moyennes et
régionales d’agriculture, vouées à la formation d’agriculteurs « cultivés ». Contrairement
aux écoles supérieures d’agriculture qui visaient la formation d’agronomes, les écoles
moyennes et régionales, de niveau secondaire, cherchaient à doter les futurs agriculteurs
de connaissances utiles leur permettant d’exercer leur métier dans le contexte du développement de l’agriculture québécoise. Nous retraçons l’évolution des programmes des écoles
moyennes et régionales d’agriculture de leur création en 1926 jusqu’à leur abolition en
1969. Après avoir présenté succinctement l’avènement de ce type particulier d’institutions
sous l’égide du ministère de l’Agriculture, nous analysons les savoirs enseignés au moyen
d’un échantillon des programmes utilisés dans ces écoles.
Beginning in 1926, Quebec created intermediate and regional agricultural schools for
educating farmers. Unlike the university or college schools of agriculture that produced
agricultural professionals, the intermediate and regional agricultural schools, which were
at the secondary level, tried to equip future farmers with useful knowledge that would
enable them to do their job in the context of the development of Quebec agriculture. We
trace the evolution of these programs from their creation in 1926 to their abolition in
1969. After outlining the creation of this particular kind of institution under the aegis of
the Department of Agriculture, we analyze what was taught in these schools, using a
sample of their programs.
En 1926, le Québec s’est doté d’institutions scolaires communément appelées
écoles moyennes et régionales d’agriculture spécifiquement vouées à la formation
d’agriculteurs « cultivés ». Contrairement aux écoles supérieures d’agriculture
(Sainte-Anne-de-la-Pocatière, Oka et le Collège MacDonald), qui visaient la
formation d’agronomes, les écoles moyennes et régionales d’agriculture, de
niveau secondaire, cherchaient à doter les futurs agriculteurs de connaissances
utiles leur permettant d’exercer leur métier dans le contexte changeant du développement de l’agriculture québécoise. L’enseignement agricole qui se met en
place en 1926 cherche à répondre à de nouveaux impératifs liés au passage d’une
agriculture domestique à une agriculture à dominance marchande. De plus, cette
filière particulière d’enseignement opère un changement majeur dans le mode de
398
24, 4 (1999) : 398–410
LES AGRICULTEURS À L’ÉCOLE
399
transmission des savoirs et des savoir-faire, faisant passer la transmission des
savoirs de l’apprentissage sur le tas à une formation de type scolaire, l’agent
principal de socialisation passant des mains de la famille à l’institution scolaire.
Nous retraçons ici l’évolution des programmes des écoles moyennes et régionales d’agriculture de leur création en 1926 jusqu’à leur abolition en 1969.
L’objectif de cet article est double : D’abord, rappeler quelques-unes des principales transformations dont est l’objet l’agriculture du Québec au vingtième siècle.
Que représentent ces transformations sur les besoins en formation des futurs
exploitants de ferme? Ensuite, au moyen d’un échantillon de programmes utilisés
dans ces écoles, identifier les savoirs jugés nécessaires pour répondre aux nouveaux besoins.
ÉVOLUTION DE L’AGRICULTURE ET NOUVELLE DEMANDE DE FORMATION
L’abolition du régime seigneurial en 1854 favorise l’émergence d’une agriculture
domestique caractérisée par une prépondérance de la production à des fins
domestiques au détriment d’une activité marchande. La Première Guerre
mondiale fera apparaître les limites de ce type d’agriculture. Avec la reprise
convaincante de 1939, l’agriculture marchande s’établira comme dominante.
L’agriculture québécoise au début du vingtième siècle se transforme également
en regard de l’urbanisation et de l’industrialisation de la province. En effet,
l’agriculture de la première moitié du vingtième siècle se voit dans l’obligation
de fournir tout à la fois deux marchandises antinomiques. Les denrées alimentaires nécessaires à la couverture des besoins des villes constituent la première
de ces marchandises, les quantités exigées de l’agriculture croîtront à la mesure
de l’urbanisation. La force de travail agricole est la seconde marchandise que
l’industrie sollicitera de plus en plus.1 Dans un pays encore principalement rural
comme le Québec, cette force de travail sera constituée à même les ponctions
faites dans la main-d’œuvre agricole. Dès lors, un dilemme se pose avec force :
comment augmenter la fourniture de denrées alimentaires pour les villes alors
que la force de travail nécessaire à cette augmentation est récupérée au profit de
l’industrie?
Deux solutions sont alors possibles. Soit que l’augmentation de la production
agricole puisse être obtenue par l’accroissement du nombre de fermes, ce qui
demande de pouvoir retenir au sol des contingents suffisants de jeunes prêts à
s’engager dans la colonisation de nouvelles terres. Soit que les rendements de la
terre puissent être suffisamment accrus par l’apport de nouvelles pratiques
culturales nécessitant l’adoption des techniques issues des progrès dans les
domaines de la chimie, de la phytologie et de la machinerie. Au Québec, on
privilégiera successivement la colonisation et la voie technique.
Les transformations de l’agriculture et la demande de formation agricole qui
en découlent rendent compte également des changements qui s’opèrent dans la
dynamique des rapports de force entre les acteurs collectifs de la société qué-
400
THÉRÈSE HAMEL, MICHEL MORISSET ET JACQUES TONDREAU
bécoise des premières décennies du vingtième siècle. Pour l’Église, la formation
agricole est un moyen de retenir au sol une jeunesse agricole attirée par les
mirages des villes. Pour l’État, cette formation favorisera le développement de
meilleurs citoyens qui contribueront au bien-être général de la société. Pour les
agriculteurs marchands, la formation agricole constitue un bon moyen d’augmenter la rentabilité des fermes. Pour les agronomes enfin, cette formation est
garante d’une éducation scientifique favorisant la transmission des principes
d’une agriculture tournée vers des pratiques modernes de culture. Nos propres
travaux nous ont d’ailleurs permis de mesurer toute l’ardeur que mirent Monseigneur Ross, évêque de Gaspé, le ministère de l’Agriculture du Québec,
l’Union Catholique des Cultivateurs et bon nombre d’agronomes afin de développer des écoles d’agriculture sur tout le territoire de la province.
À temps nouveaux, écoles nouvelles
La première école moyenne d’agriculture de Rimouski est fondée en 1926. La
création de ce nouveau type d’institution ne doit cependant pas nous faire oublier
que des instituts supérieurs d’enseignement agricole existent au Québec depuis
1859, institutions s’adressant plus spécifiquement à la formation d’agronomes.
Contrairement aux écoles d’agriculture de Sainte-Anne de la Pocatière, d’Oka et
du Collège MacDonald, c’est en tant que nouvelle filière de formation professionnelle spécifiquement adaptée aux futurs exploitants de ferme que la création
de l’école intermédiaire d’agriculture de Rimouski est un événement.
De 1926 à 1969, vingt et une écoles intermédiaires sont fondées sur tout le
territoire de la province de Québec.2 Elles accueillent dans les meilleures années
autour de huit cents élèves. Ces écoles ont plusieurs particularités comme par
exemple le fait que chacune d’elles s’adapte aux besoins du milieu dans lequel
elle est implantée. De plus, afin de respecter les contraintes de la production
agricole, les cours s’échelonnent de novembre à avril.
L’apparition et l’évolution de la filière de l’enseignement agricole se sont
effectuées dans un monde où l’utilisation des nouvelles technologies agricoles
s’est répandue à une cadence accélérée dans les campagnes. Les statistiques sur
l’évolution du nombre de tracteurs sur les fermes québécoises de 1931 à 1961
sont révélatrices à ce chapitre. En 1931, on comptait 2 417 tracteurs sur les
fermes québécoises; en 1941, on en trouvait 5 869. De 1941 à 1951, plus de
31 971 tracteurs sont comptabilisés. Enfin, en 1961, les fermes du Québec
possèdent dans l’ensemble 70 697 tracteurs. L’électrification rurale modifiera
profondément la façon de produire sur les exploitations agricoles. Par exemple,
en 1939, seulement 20 % des fermes ont l’électricité. En 1960, la presque totalité
des établissements agricoles sont électrifiés, soit 98 % des fermes.3 Tous ces
changements posent le problème de l’acquisition des nouvelles connaissances
liées à l’utilisation de machines de plus en plus perfectionnées sur la ferme. Pour
401
l’agriculteur de la fin du dix-neuvième et du début du vingtième siècle, les
savoirs reliés à la manipulation de la charrue, de la houe et de la faux, ainsi qu’à
l’utilisation des animaux de trait, constituaient des savoir-faire fondamentaux.
L’apparition du tracteur et des équipements mus par l’électricité commanderont
l’apprentissage de nouvelles habiletés reliées à la réparation, à l’entretien, au
réglage et à la conduite de ces nouvelles machines.4
Les écoles d’agriculture seront un des instruments permettant d’acquérir la
nouvelle science agricole qui prend place graduellement dans l’univers des
cultivateurs. Les matières enseignées dans ces écoles reflètent à cet égard les
changements qui s’effectuent dans l’agriculture québécoise; c’est ce que l’analyse
des programmes de ces écoles tend à confirmer.
LE PROGRAMME SCOLAIRE AGRICOLE
Le programme qui est dispensé dans les écoles intermédiaires d’agriculture
constitue un reflet de la représentation idéale que l’on se fait de l’agriculture
dans un monde où le mode de production agraire séculaire est profondément
modifié par les découvertes scientifiques et techniques. Ce programme est construit en tenant compte du milieu d’origine des élèves et de ce que l’on entend
faire d’eux. Enfin, l’état du monde agricole, tel qu’il est perçu par les élites, sera
la jauge qui permettra d’évaluer le programme.
L’évolution du programme scolaire dans le cadre du cours moyen agricole
s’est faite lentement au cours des décennies. Identique dans sa structure pendant
la période étudiée, le programme est formé de quatre champs du savoir (ou
matières) : (1) les matières de formation générale; (2) les matières essentielles;
(3) les matières accessoires et (4) les matières spéciales.
Les matières de formation générale
Les matières de formation générale comprennent la religion, le français, les
mathématiques et, dans certaines écoles, l’anglais. Le programme de Rimouski
pour 1933–34 montre que les matières de formation générale absorbent 27,5 %
du temps, soit l’équivalent de 910 heures pour les deux périodes de six mois que
dure le cours moyen agricole. Les matières de formation professionnelle accaparent 72,5 % du temps disponible. Quoiqu’il fournisse déjà de bonnes indications sur une première répartition du temps au sein du programme, et donc un
certain ordre des priorités, le programme de Rimouski diffère en quelques points
de certains autres programmes utilisés dans les écoles d’agriculture. Par exemple,
l’école de Rimouski, dans son programme de 1933–34, consacre 100 heures au
français réparties également sur les deux années du cours moyen alors que dans
les autres institutions, on y consacre seulement 50 heures. Il est donc nécessaire
de regarder de manière plus générale l’ensemble des programmes disponibles.5
402
Dans l’ensemble, le temps consacré aux matières de formation générale n’a
pas varié au fil des ans, si ce n’est quelques différences entre institutions d’enseignement comme dans le cas de Rimouski. Environ cinquante heures (6,25 %) de
cours sont allouées à l’instruction religieuse sur un total de huit cents heures de
théorie que compte en moyenne le cours agricole des années trente à soixante.
Pour le français, cinquante heures (6,25 %) en première année du cours moyen
sont réservées aux exercices de grammaire et à la compréhension de la langue.
Finalement, soixante heures (7,50 %) en moyenne sont allouées aux mathématiques. La prépondérance de cette dernière matière sur le français et la religion
se comprend dans la mesure où les jeunes élèves des écoles d’agriculture devront
apprendre beaucoup de notions reliées aux sciences naturelles telles la botanique,
la chimie, la physique et la géologie. Si le temps alloué à chacun de ces cours
varie d’une école à l’autre, cela tient pour une bonne part à deux facteurs bien
précis liés à la préparation scolaire de l’élève entrant à l’école d’agriculture, soit
la provenance et l’âge.
Ainsi, dans les régions excentriques, les matières de formation générale
peuvent absorber tout près de 35 % du temps alloué au programme du cours
moyen alors qu’en moyenne, on y consacre 25 %6; dans un cas, cette proportion
descend à 20 %.7 Dans ces conditions, les écoles d’agriculture semblent avoir été
un lieu de rattrapage scolaire pour plusieurs jeunes ruraux. Cette première difficulté est augmentée en raison de l’âge des élèves admis au cours moyen. L’école
d’agriculture aura eu dans ce cas un rôle supplétif aux études secondaires. C’est
que bien souvent, l’élève qui arrivait à l’école d’agriculture à dix-huit ans était
moins formé que celui qui y entrait à seize ans. Cette situation paradoxale s’explique par le fait qu’ à la sortie du cours primaire, plusieurs jeunes, aînés de leur
famille, devaient s’impliquer pendant quelques années sur la ferme parentale
avant d’entreprendre le cours moyen agricole. Par ailleurs, d’autres élèves entraient immédiatement à l’école d’agriculture à la fin de leur scolarité primaire
avec un bagage de connaissances encore frais à la mémoire.8
À mesure que les exigences de l’agriculture se feront de plus en plus grandes,9
notamment à la faveur de l’introduction de la rationalité économique comme
critère de gestion des exploitations agricoles, les autorités gouvernementales,
comme celles des écoles au demeurant, prendront conscience de la nécessité de
majorer les critères d’admission au cours agricole. Qui plus est, on acceptera de
moins en moins que l’école d’agriculture ait un rôle supplétif aux études secondaires. C’est dans les années soixante que le coup de barre définitif sera donné
dans le resserrement des conditions d’admission. On voudra de plus en plus que
les jeunes se présentent aux portes des écoles d’agriculture avec une formation
scolaire adéquate; les jeunes insuffisamment préparés devront parfaire leur
formation dans les écoles techniques.
403
Les matières essentielles
Constituant le cœur du programme des maisons d’enseignement intermédiaire
agricole, les matières essentielles occupent en moyenne huit cents heures du
programme. Cette catégorie de matières renferme les savoirs liés aux quatre types
de pratiques agricoles au Québec : la grande culture, les cultures fruitière ou
maraîchère, l’industrie animale (l’élevage) et l’industrie laitière. Elles contiennent
également tous les cours de sciences naturelles tels que la chimie, la botanique,
l’étude des sols et la physique. Dans les programmes des écoles d’agriculture des
années trente, seules la chimie, la botanique et l’étude des sols figurent dans le
programme du cours moyen dans des proportions de vingt heures (2,5 %) pour
la botanique, de cinquante heures (6,25 %) pour les sols et de vingt heures
(2,5 %) pour la chimie. On ne sait à quel moment les cours de physique apparaissent au programme; dans le programme type élaboré en 1957 par la Commission de l’enseignement intermédiaire agricole, ce cours fait l’objet de quinze
heures (1,87 %) de théorie.
Dans les années soixante, le programme comprendra pour toutes les écoles
d’agriculture un cours de physique occupant entre quinze (1,87 %) et vingt-cinq
(3,1 %) heures du temps total accordé à la théorie. Les cours de botanique et de
chimie, qui sont au programme dans les années trente, augmenteront leur part de
temps dans le programme durant les décennies subséquentes. Reflet de l’importance grandissante que tient ce type de savoir dans un monde agricole qui doit
suivre le rythme des nouvelles découvertes scientifiques et des progrès techniques
dans l’agriculture, les cours de sciences naturelles (botanique, chimie) enseignés
dans les écoles d’agriculture passeront de vingt (2,5 %) à vingt-cinq (3,1 %)
heures dans les années trente à une moyenne de trente-cinq (4,37 %) heures dans
les années cinquante.
Les autres types de savoirs incorporés aux matières essentielles touchent
directement la pratique de l’agriculture. Conséquemment, les cours d’industrie
animale et laitière et les cours de grande culture maraîchère et fruitière absorbent
la plus grande part du temps alloué à la théorie dans le cadre du programme du
cours moyen agricole. En se référant au programme de l’école d’agriculture de
Sainte-Martine pour l’année scolaire 1934–35, on observe par exemple que les
cours d’industrie animale accaparent une somme très importante du temps alloué
à la théorie : 170 heures (24,1 %) sont consacrées à l’industrie animale (zootechnie générale, du porc, de la vache laitière, etc.) dont trente périodes de pratique. Dans l’ensemble, pour l’école de Sainte-Martine, les matières essentielles
accaparent 405 heures (57,4 %) de théorie sur un total de 705. En ce qui concerne la pratique, les matières essentielles ne représentent que quarante périodes
sur une possibilité de deux cent, la grande part de ces périodes étant réservée
pour les matières spéciales telles la sellerie, la forge, la mécanique, etc.
404
Les matières accessoires
Les matières accessoires renferment deux ensembles de savoirs particuliers, soit
ceux reliés aux pratiques culturales et aux spécialités d’une région particulière
et ceux touchant à l’administration et à la formation civique dans son ensemble,
notamment les cours de droit rural, d’économie rurale, de comptabilité, de sociologie, de doctrine sociale de l’Église, de coopération. De plus, les matières accessoires tiennent compte d’un des aspects fondamentaux de l’école d’agriculture,
à savoir son adaptation au milieu environnant. L’harmonisation du programme
des écoles d’enseignement agricole aux spécificités de la région a toujours été
considérée par les autorités des institutions en cause comme une priorité. Ce que
savaient également les autorités du Service de l’enseignement agricole, c’est que
l’agriculture est « art de localité ».
Cette importance accordée aux matières accessoires a une incidence sur plus
d’un point. En premier lieu, elle donne une couleur particulière au programme
d’études dans une école d’agriculture. En fait, l’école se crée une identité propre
dans la filière de l’enseignement moyen. Ensuite, l’adaptation du programme
d’études aux spécificités de la région permet d’attirer une clientèle strictement
régionale, quoique les écoles d’agriculture aient pu tenter à maintes reprises
d’attirer une clientèle extérieure à la région, notamment lorsque l’institution
éprouvait des difficultés de recrutement. De plus, et cela est important, l’élève
retournait chez lui avec des compétences techniques bien adaptées aux pratiques
culturales de la ferme parentale. Enfin, cette synergie entre le milieu et l’école
profite aux agriculteurs concernés puisque les techniques élaborées à l’école sont
mises à la disposition des agriculteurs de la région, intéressés à augmenter le
rendement de leur ferme. Prenons un exemple. L’école d’agriculture de SaintBarthélemy (1933–69) est située dans le comté de Berthier où prédomine une
culture mixte, dirigée vers l’industrie laitière. On retrouve dans ce comté plusieurs productions complémentaires telles le sirop d’érable, la pomme de terre,
la betterave à sucre. Le comté de Berthier compte également une spécialité dans
la culture du tabac jaune (à cigarettes) dans les paroisses de Lanoraie, Lavaltrie
et Berthier.10 Or le programme de cette école d’agriculture inclut des cours sur
le tabac et la betterave à sucre.
Les matières accessoires comprennent aussi les cours de comptabilité, d’économie rurale, de droit civil, politique, municipal et rural. Ces cours ne subissent à
peu près pas de changements des années vingt aux années soixante. Les cours
de formation civique, pour leur part, évoluent rapidement à la fin des années
quarante. Au cours des années trente, on ne trouve qu’un cours de sociologie au
programme des écoles d’agriculture. Dans la seconde moitié des années quarante,
la formation civique au programme des écoles d’agriculture sera augmentée de
cours sur le civisme comme tel, l’éducation familiale, la doctrine sociale de
l’Église, l’hygiène, la bienséance et la préparation au mariage.
405
Les matières spéciales
Les matières spéciales comprennent principalement les cours d’artisanat, c’est-àdire tout ce qui touche la menuiserie, la forge, la sellerie ou les autres formes
d’artisanat pouvant être utiles sur une ferme. Elles comprennent également les
formations ponctuelles offertes sur des sujets spéciaux par des conférenciers ou
des professeurs itinérants couramment appelés les agronomes dans le champ. Ces
cours varieront beaucoup d’une école à l’autre et dans le temps. Liés aux équipements disponibles à l’école, notamment les ateliers, les cours d’artisanat auront
souffert dans bien des cas de l’insuffisance d’équipements ou même de leur
inexistence dans certaines écoles. Par exemple, Rimouski fut longtemps sans
posséder d’ateliers d’artisanat. Ce n’est qu’en 1948–49 que l’institution se dote
des équipements nécessaires à cette formation.
Aux matières spéciales s’ajoutent les cours spéciaux; ils apparaissent au
programme des écoles d’agriculture à mesure que les besoins de développer les
connaissances des jeunes élèves agriculteurs se font sentir. On sait, par exemple,
que l’électrification des fermes se fera à un rythme accéléré à partir des années
quarante. C’est dans la même période que les cours d’électrification rurale feront
leur apparition dans les écoles d’agriculture.
VERS L’UNIFORMISATION DU PROGRAMME SCOLAIRE AGRICOLE
Assez stable somme toute dans sa structure, le programme connaîtra toutefois des
transformations importantes pour tout ce qui se rapporte à ses fondements, c’està-dire à cette partie essentielle du programme qui est révélatrice de l’ordre des
intentions et qui permet de mettre au jour les représentations qu’ont des jeunes
ruraux les concepteurs du programme scolaire agricole.
Ce n’est qu’à partir de 1933 que la première politique touchant le programme
scolaire dans les sept écoles d’agriculture alors existantes est mise en place par
le ministère de l’Agriculture. Louis-Philippe Roy, alors directeur des services
agricoles au ministère, cherche à établir, avec le concours de tous les professeurs
des institutions d’enseignement intermédiaire agricole, une « distribution définitive des matières essentielles d’un cours agricole pratique ».11 L’année suivante,
le pointage des examens au cours agricole fait l’objet d’une concertation entre
les professeurs des écoles d’agriculture et le Service de l’Économie rurale, au
ministère de l’Agriculture, sous la direction de Henri C. Bois. La formule adoptée consiste à allouer 75 % des points à l’examen final pour les matières agricoles et 25 % pour les matières de formation générale. Quant à la fréquence des
examens, les autorités des écoles demeurent libres de choisir la méthode la plus
appropriée à leur établissement.
En ce qui concerne le programme, ce sont les seules directives connues que
le ministère de l’Agriculture appliquera dans les établissements d’enseignement
intermédiaire agricole entre 1926 et 1937. La création du Service de l’enseigne-
406
ment agricole, en 1937, viendra modifier profondément le visage des écoles
d’agriculture en mettant de l’avant une véritable formalisation du programme au
cours moyen.
La place grandissante de l’État dans l’enseignement agricole
Le Service de l’enseignement agricole est créé le 16 janvier 1937. Jean-Charles
Magnan assure le premier la direction de ce service aidé de plusieurs jeunes
agronomes qui feront leur marque dans le champ de l’enseignement agricole.12
Par l’entremise de ce service, Magnan verra à la formation des jeunes agriculteurs par le biais des cercles d’études paroissiaux. Il aura également la charge de
la Division des Expositions agricoles de la Province.13 À la demande de Bona
Dussault, ministre de l’Agriculture, Magnan organise le Premier congrès de l’enseignement agricole, tenu à l’Hôtel du Parlement à Québec, à l’automne de 1937.
Cet événement revêt une grande importance, notamment parce qu’il réunit pour
la première fois tous les spécialistes de l’enseignement agricole tant de niveau
primaire que des niveaux secondaire et universitaire. Le Service de l’enseignement agricole est à l’origine de plusieurs initiatives. Deux d’entre elles sont particulièrement importantes, compte tenu de leur impact sur le développement et la
structuration de la filière de l’enseignement agricole, soit le Congrès des professeurs d’agriculture de 1941 et la création de la Commission de l’enseignement
intermédiaire agricole en 1946.
Le premier congrès des professeurs d’agriculture a lieu en 1941 et est présidé
par J.-A. Proulx, agronome et chef du Service de la propagande au ministère de
l’Agriculture. Étaient également présents à ce congrès Victor Doré, surintendant
de l’Instruction publique, J.-C. Miller, inspecteur général des écoles de la Province et plusieurs autres personnages clés du monde de l’éducation au Québec.
De ce congrès devait sortir la première publication destinée à mettre les bases
d’une pédagogie et d’un programme bien adaptés aux conditions de la classe des
jeunes agriculteurs étudiant dans les écoles d’agriculture. Dans son avant-propos
au Programme général à l’usage des écoles moyennes et régionales d’agriculture, Jean-Charles Magnan exprime clairement les intentions du nouveau programme :
Cette brochure a été publiée à la demande des autorités du Ministère de l’Agriculture pour
éclairer ou aider les directeurs et les professeurs de nos Écoles d’agriculture du degré intermédiaire, et aussi pour simplifier, rajuster, coordonner les programmes et les méthodes,
selon les données de l’expérience et de la pédagogie. Notre prétention n’est pas de faire
une étude approfondie de chaque système ou méthode employée par les diverses institutions. Au contraire, nous nous sommes inspirés des idées et des disciplines générales qui
devraient dominer tout notre enseignement. Au cours de ce programme, nous nous
sommes efforcés d’indiquer les meilleurs principes et les plus sûrs moyens de réussir cette
œuvre importante de formation rurale. Il s’agit ici d’un programme général applicable à
407
toutes les institutions; son adaptation locale repose sur le jugement des autorités de
l’École et des agronomes régionaux intéressés.14
Les conceptions éducatives sous-jacentes au programme
Le programme de 1941 jette les bases de la première formalisation du programme agricole. Il insiste particulièrement sur les fondements de la pratique
pédagogique auxquels devront adhérer toutes les écoles d’agriculture. S’appuyant
sur une conception de la nature humaine et sur les perceptions que l’on se fait
de la jeunesse à ce moment, cette pédagogie est fondée d’abord sur la psychologie : « Plus que jamais, le personnel enseignant a besoin de s’appuyer sur la
psychologie pour donner sa pleine mesure. C’est pourquoi nous avons voulu
l’aider en publiant ce guide-manuel qui tient compte de la mentalité, de l’esprit,
des aptitudes et des déficiences de notre jeune classe rurale ».15 Le caractère
pratique de l’enseignement agricole doit primer sur la théorie car la « pratique
d’aujourd’hui n’est que la théorie d’hier, appliquée et sanctionnée déjà par la
tradition. Le caractère pratique de l’enseignement signifie l’adaptation du programme aux réalités de la ferme et de la vie rurale ».16 Le but premier de l’enseignement agricole consiste à créer un « type idéalement parfait de l’agriculteur
québécois ».17 Dit plus généralement, le but de l’école d’agriculture est « de
compléter [l’éducation des jeunes ruraux] et leur instruction générale, pour les
hausser au niveau des exigences actuelles de leur profession, c’est-à-dire, former
des cultivateurs plus éclairés, plus coopérateurs, et en faire une élite qui contribue à l’émancipation économique et sociale de nos campagnes ».18
L’autonomie que laisse aux établissements d’enseignement agricole le programme d’études de 1941 dans l’application des principes et des méthodes sera
de plus en plus restreinte à mesure que le Service de l’enseignement agricole se
donnera les outils nécessaires à l’élaboration de la filière de l’enseignement
intermédiaire agricole. Parmi ces outils, on compte la Commission de l’enseignement intermédiaire agricole.
Vers une normalisation du programme scolaire
La Commission de l’enseignement intermédiaire agricole fut créée en octobre
1946 à la suggestion de Jean-Paul Lettre, adjoint de Jean-Charles Magnan, au
congrès de l’enseignement agricole tenu la même année. Ces statuts ne furent
toutefois adoptés qu’en juillet 1951, lors du congrès général de l’enseignement
agricole tenu à Oka. La Commission est un organisme de coordination, sous le
contrôle du Service de l’enseignement agricole, qui traite de tous les problèmes
relatifs à l’enseignement agricole et qui a un pouvoir de recommandation.19
Dès la première réunion de l’organisme en octobre 1946, les membres définissent un mandat très large touchant tous les aspects de l’enseignement agricole,
notamment les critères d’admission des élèves au cours moyen agricole, les
408
règlements disciplinaires, le nombre d’heures devant être consacrées aux matières
agricoles, les problèmes de la pédagogie, les manuels scolaires, les cours spéciaux d’agriculture, etc.
La Commission travaille à l’élaboration d’un horaire et d’un programme type
pour toutes les écoles d’agriculture à partir de 1957. À cette fin, elle fait appel
aux autorités des institutions d’enseignement agricole afin que ces dernières lui
envoient leur horaire et leur programme. Il résultera de cette consultation un
programme et un horaire uniforme pour toutes les écoles d’agriculture. Les compétences physiques, morales et intellectuelles requises des candidats à tous les
postes au sein d’une école d’agriculture feront partie des préoccupations de la
Commission dès 1958. Cette recherche d’une définition plus stricte dans les
qualifications nécessaires pour œuvrer dans les institutions d’enseignement
agricole découlent d’une prise de conscience de la complexité croissante de
l’agriculture et des responsabilités toujours plus grandes rattachées à la bonne
marche d’une école d’agriculture. Par exemple, en 1961, donnant suite aux
recommandations du Comité Régis,20 tous les directeurs d’école d’agriculture
doivent détenir un baccalauréat en agronomie.
C’est donc dire que le Service de l’enseignement agricole agira de plus en
plus à partir de la fin des années cinquante comme le seul concepteur des politiques des écoles d’agriculture et du programme qui en découle. Cette situation est
un bon indicateur de la place respective des acteurs dans le champ de l’enseignement agricole. Si au départ (1933 à 1941), le ministère de l’Agriculture laisse
une grande latitude aux congrégations religieuses et aux épiscopats diocésains
dans la planification de l’action pédagogique dans leur école d’agriculture, il en
va tout autrement dans la décennie des années cinquante alors que le ministère
semble avoir une emprise définitive sur l’organisation et la gestion d’ensemble
du programme scolaire agricole.
CONCLUSION
L’évolution du programme scolaire des écoles intermédiaires d’agriculture, dans
sa structure comme dans ses fondements, constitue une illustration révélatrice des
changements qui s’opèrent dans l’agriculture au Québec au cours du vingtième
siècle. Plus encore, l’idéal pédagogique au fondement de ce programme rend bien
compte de l’état de la société à un moment donné. Quelques éléments retiennent
particulièrement l’attention.
Dans un premier temps, il faut souligner la congruence entre, d’une part,
l’intégration de l’agriculture au marché économique et les impératifs de production et de rentabilité qui en découlent et, d’autre part, la nouvelle demande de
formation agricole. Si dans les années vingt, le discours sur la formation agricole
prend la forme d’une exhortation, dans les années cinquante, compte tenu l’intégration de l’agriculture aux marchés économiques, ce discours prend la forme
d’un impératif.
409
Dans un second temps, cette nouvelle demande de formation agricole est
soutenue par les grands acteurs du champ agricole, soit l’Église, l’État, les agriculteurs marchands et les agronomes. Pour les deux derniers acteurs surtout, c’est
la nécessité de s’ajuster à un monde en pleine transformation sociale et économique qui motive cette demande. Or cette nouvelle demande de formation n’est
pas neutre : on veut une formation scientifique agricole basée sur les principes
d’une agriculture tournée vers des pratiques de culture modernes. En ce sens, elle
est en continuité à la fois avec les intérêts des agriculteurs marchands qui veulent
éliminer l’agriculture domestique et ceux des agronomes qui font petit à petit leur
place comme nouveaux experts dans le champ de la formation agricole, notamment par l’entremise du ministère de l’Agriculture.
Enfin, l’ajustement du programme scolaire des écoles intermédiaires d’agriculture aux changements dans l’agriculture québécoise se manifeste par une place
grandissante faite aux sciences naturelles et au génie rural dans les contenus du
programme.
NOTES
1
Michel Morisset, L’agriculture familiale au Québec (Paris : l’Harmattan, 1987), p. 184.
2
Thérèse Hamel, Michel Morisset et Jacques Tondreau, De la terre à l’école : Histoire de
l’enseignement agricole au Québec, 1926 et 1969 (Montréal : Hurtibise HMH, 2000).
3
Morisset, L’agriculture familiale au Québec, p. 60–61.
4
Henri Mendras, La fin des paysans suivi d’une réflexion sur la fin des paysans vingt ans après
(Paris : Actes Sud, 1984), p. 119.
5
Nous ne possédons pas tous les programmes de formation des établissements d’enseignement
intermédiaire agricole dans la période de 1926 à 1969. Notre analyse porte tout de même sur un
échantillon représentatif d’une dizaine de programmes provenant de différentes écoles et pour des
périodes différentes.
6
Bruneau Houle, Rapport du Congrès de l’enseignement agricole (Québec : Ministère de l’Agriculture, 1963), p. 64.
7
C’est le cas de l’école d’agriculture de Sainte-Martine dans son programme d’enseignement de
1936. Cette école est située dans une région agricole très prospère et tout près de Montréal.
8
Gouvernement du Québec, Enquête sur la situation des diplômés des écoles d’agriculture, 1948–
1963 (Québec : Ministère de l’Éducation, 1965), p. 5.
9
On peut mesurer l’ampleur de ces nouvelles exigences par le biais des recommandations de la
Commission Héon (1955) qui avait pour mandat d’enquêter sur la protection des agriculteurs et
des consommateurs. À travers cette commission, les agriculteurs marchands réussirent à convaincre les autorités gouvernementales de la nécessité de promouvoir et de protéger le type
d’agriculture qu’ils mettaient de l’avant. C’était selon eux une question d’intérêt national. Ils
réussirent à faire mettre de l’avant un ensemble de mesures tout à leur avantage dont la disparition
accélérée des fermes traditionnelles; la restriction de l’accès aux marchés aux seules fermes de
marché; le contrôle des prix agricoles en fonction de leurs coûts de production. Le résultat fut la
disparition de 100 000 fermes sur un total de 150 000 fermes. Voir Morisset, L’agriculture familiale au Québec, p. 113–18.
410
10
Paul Boucher, Monographies économico-sociales des comtés ruraux du Québec : la région de
Montréal (Québec : Ministère de l’Agriculture et de la Colonisation, 1962).
11
Louis-Philippe Roy au directeur de l’école d’agriculture de Saint-Rémi, Québec, 30 août 1933,
Archives Nationales du Québec à Québec.
12
Jean-Charles Magnan, Souvenirs : fleurs et chardons . . . (St-Romuald, QC : les Éditions
Etchemin, 1976), p. 82.
13
Ibid., p. 82.
14
Jean-Charles Magnan, Avant-propos, dans Programme général à l’usage des écoles moyennes et
régionnales d’agriculture (Québec : Ministère de l’Agriculture, 1941).
15
J.-A. Proulx, Préface, dans Programme général à l’usage des écoles moyennes et régionnales
d’agriculture (Québec : Ministère de l’Agriculture, 1941).
16
Ibid., p. 12.
17
Ibid., p. 10.
18
Ibid., p. 9.
19
Ministère de l’Agriculture du Québec, Statuts de la Commission de l’enseignement intermédiaire
agricole, E13, boîte 2890, Archives Nationales du Québec à Québec.
20
Comité Régis, Rapport du Comité d’étude sur l’enseignement agricole et agronomique (Québec:
Ministère de l’Agriculture, 1961).
Thérèse Hamel est professeure au département d’orientation et d’administration de la faculté des
sciences de l’éducation; Michel Morisset et Jacques Tondreau sont membres du Groupe de recherche
en économie et politique agricoles (GRÉPA), Université Laval (Québec) G1K 7P4.
Developing a University–School District
Partnership: Researcher–District Administrator
Collaboration for a Special Education Initiative
Lily L. Dyson
university of victoria
This case study examined the development of a university–school district partnership
designed to support a special education initiative with 156 students of middle socioeconomic backgrounds in Grades 4 to 7 using critical-sampling, single-case, and documentation methods. It identified four essential elements of researcher–district administrator
collaboration: a developmental process led by the partners’ mutual goals and a gradual
building of support for the project, a communication protocol dominated by professionalism and parity, a collaborative structure marked by complementary relationships and
accountability between the partners, and outcomes benefitting all stakeholders (teachers,
students, and researcher). The most important outcome was students’ increased understanding of disabilities and empathy with persons with disabilities. The author proposes
a conceptual framework for developing university-school partnerships and makes recommendations for future practice and research.
Cette étude porte sur l’élaboration d’un partenariat entre l’université et une circonscription
scolaire en vue d’un projet d’éducation pour des enfants atteints de diverses déficiences.
L’auteure identife certains éléments essentiels d’une collaboration entre le chercheur et
l’administrateur de la circonscription, soit : (a) un processus d’élaboration axé sur les
objectifs mutuels des partenaires et l’établissement progressif d’un appui au projet, (b) un
protocole de communication accordant la priorité au professionnalisme et à la parité entre
les partenaires, (c) une structure de collaboration caractérisée par des relations de complémentarité et une responsabilisation de tous les partenaires et (d) des résultats dont tous
les intéressés puissent bénéficier. L’auteure propose un cadre conceptuel pour l’élaboration de partenariats entre l’université et l’école ainsi que des recommandations pour des
expériences et recherches futures.
University-school partnerships and collaboration have been the most frequently
recommended approaches to educational reform (R. W. Clark, 1988; Kersh &
Masztal, 1998). One reason is that universities and schools provide each other
with resources and benefits in research and practice (Stump, Lovitt, & Perry,
1993) and need each other to reach their common and respective goals (De
Bevoise, 1986; Goodlad, 1988; Lasley, Matczynski, & Williams, 1992). There
is, however, little information about how a university-school partnership is
developed and how effective such a relationship is (Smith, 1992).
A university-school partnership represents a planned effort to establish a
411
24, 4 (1999): 411–425
412
LILY L. DYSON
formal, mutually beneficial, interinstitutional relationship (Goodlad, 1988). The
purpose of the partnership is to create a process and an accompanying structure
that allow partners to draw on one another’s complementary strengths to advance
their interests (Goodlad, 1988). According to Hord (1986), collaboration implies
that “the parties involved share responsibilities and authority for basic policy
decision making” (p. 22). In collaboration, decision making in governance,
planning, delivery, and evaluation of programs is shared (Hord, 1986). Collaboration thus serves to create and achieve partnership (Sirotnik, 1988). This raises an
important question: How may universities and schools collaborate to achieve
partnership?
De Bevoise (1986) suggests that “top-level institutional support and cooperation is essential for significant university-school personnel collaboration to occur”
(p. 11). Collaboration at the administrative level is thus essential in developing
university-school partnerships. Collectively, the literature suggests that a successful university-school partnership would result from a model of collaboration
integrating at least the following elements: an effective developmental process
led by mutual goals and gradual building of support for the project, efficient
communication among the partners, a viable collaborative structure including
accountability, and beneficial outcomes for the partners (Goodlad, 1988; Sirotnik,
1988). The developmental process refers to the activities undertaken in initiating
the collaboration. Barnett (1990) wrote that “Studying the collaborative process
may provide insights about critical features that may promote or impede the
successful collaboration” (p. 155).
Because a university-school partnership takes place at the intersection of two
cultures with differing aims and values (Brookhart & Loadman, 1992; Knight,
Wiseman, & Smith, 1992), development of partnership is often difficult (Goodlad, 1993; McDaniel, 1988–1989). Thus, the process of developing a partnership
should begin with the partners establishing mutual goals. Moreover, researchers
should be prepared to encounter the uncertainty that occurs in school administration as a result of continuous cultural changes and politics in the school
(De Bevoise, 1986; Oja & Pine, 1987). Developing a university-school partnership is also a gradual process of building a foundation and trust (Trubowitz,
1986) that requires approval from top-level administration (Goodlad, 1988). But
with these supports in place, it is possible to formalize the partnership.
Efficient means for communicating and sharing information are also crucial
to collaboration (Goodlad, 1988). De Bevoise (1986) notes that “a shared language helps break down traditional institutional barriers” (p. 11).
Sirotnik (1988) further suggests that structural considerations in a universityschool collaboration include recognizable and viable structures for making
decisions and organizational arrangements within the partnership. Although “there
probably is no best way to organize school-university partnership,” one structural
arrangement is an orderly process of endorsing and encouraging activities undertaken in the partnership (Goodlad, 1988, p. 27). Such a structural arrangement
DEVELOPING A UNIVERSITY-SCHOOL PARTNERSHIP
413
may involve each collaborator in complementing the other’s responsibilities with
his/her expertise and exercising accountability. Accountability is best acted on
as a system of shared responsibilities among the partners in the educational
leadership activity (Sirotnik, 1988).
The final element required in a university-school partnership is an outcome
that benefits the partners. As a university-school partnership is motivated by the
partners’ self-interests (Goodlad, 1988), successful partnership must produce
gains for each partner; these may include increased curriculum services for
schools (R. W. Clark, 1988) and research potential for the university (Lieberman,
1986).
This model of collaboration, however, is yet to be developed and tested. In
one study, incongruent goals caused an initial impasse in the researcher-teacher
collaboration (Hattrup & Bickel, 1993). Another study found that the researchers’
misinterpretation of the school’s needs resulted in an unsuccessful universityschool collaboration (Shulha & Wilson, 1993). In still another study, a lack of
a collaborative structure resulted in ambiguous and undifferentiated roles being
assumed by the collaborators, forcing an initially enthusiastic teacher to terminate
a collaborative venture with a researcher (Cole & Knowles, 1993). Shulha and
Wilson (1993) further attributed their failed school-university collaboration to the
researchers’ lack of accountability and the absence of benefits to the school as
perceived by the teachers.
My research examined the development of a university–school district partnership in which a researcher and a district administrator collaborated in a special
education project. In particular, I identified and tested these four essential elements of collaboration leading to partnership.
METHOD
I used critical sampling (Morse, 1994) to identify key incidents, the single case
study method (Merriam, 1988) to describe and analyze the partnership as it
unfolded over time, and the documentation method (T. A. Clark, 1988) to systematically monitor “appropriate components, processes, and interactions of
program implementation” (p. 21). The documentation approach allows broad,
continuous collection of documents such as proposals, reports, memoranda and
other correspondence, meeting agendas and minutes, and accounts of related
events (T. A. Clark, 1988). I was both researcher and participant, a practice
applied successfully in educational research by Beck and Black (1991) and Crow,
Levine, and Nager (1992).
Participants
The study took place in a mid-sized, western Canadian city. The primary study
participants were a school district administrator and a university researcher (the
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LILY L. DYSON
author). The collaboration was initiated to facilitate a project to promote the
social integration in schools of children with disabilities. The project included
156 children from six classes, Grades 4 to 7, in two schools situated in primarily
middle-socioeconomic neighbourhoods. Both the district administrator and the
researcher possessed professional expertise and interest in special education. Prior
to the collaboration, the administrator was an assistant student-service coordinator but after the project began he became the coordinator of Student Support
Services. In that position, he provided administrative support to schools and
teachers. I was teaching special education. To develop this partnership, the two
participants collaborated for three years until the administrator left his district
administrative position.
Data Sources
As researcher, I collected data and took field notes on researcher-administrator
interaction, which took place in formal and informal meetings, letters, memoranda, and telephone discussions. Minutes of meetings, notes, letters, and
memoranda thus became the major sources of data. I also collected learning logs
from the children in the project. These logs showed what they had learned in the
program and were used to evaluate the school outcome.
Data Analysis
In addition to numerous conference papers, I collected 41 documents pertinent
to the researcher–district administrator interaction, with 2 of these documents
(a field note and written correspondence) having been collected during a brief
period prior to the collaboration. I read and reread the data to identify major
elements current theory says are essential to university-school collaboration and
extracted events from the data for each element, using the constant comparative
method (Peck, Hayden, Wandschneider, Peterson, & Richarz, 1989; Strauss &
Corbin, 1990). To validate the data and interpretation, the administrator reviewed
activities and events related to him in the completed report. He made no corrections except to the specific title he held.
Similarly, using the constant comparative method, an assistant and I analyzed
data from the children’s learning logs with the computer program HyperQual
Version 3.0 (Padilla, 1990). Main themes in the children’s learning were derived
and quantified following recommendations by Strauss and Corbin (1990) for a
large set of qualitative data. To examine the reliability of our classification of the
themes, we independently classified the children’s responses in one randomly
selected class of 26 children and compared our separate classifications theme by
theme. Reliability was calculated by dividing the total number of agreements of
415
the two coders by the total number of agreements and disagreements and multiplying the result by 100. The average intercoder reliability was 96%.
RESULTS
The Developmental Process Towards Partnership
Critical activities took place as the researcher and the district administrator
developed a university–school district partnership. Major activities included:
establishing mutual goals, managing uncertainty, building support, and formalizing partnership.
Establishing Mutual Goals
This study began when a special education coordinator from a local public school
requested help with her regular teachers’ concern over the social isolation of
children with disabilities. My faculty assigned me to provide that assistance
because I had a professional research interest in the integration of children with
disabilities in the regular class.
To assist the school’s special education coordinator, an intervention plan to
promote social integration of children with disabilities was designed. The plan
called for developing and delivering a series of educational programs to raise
nondisabled peers’ awareness of disabilities. I then evaluated the programs’ effect
(Dyson, 1997). This intervention plan was chosen because research indicates that
the negative attitudes of nondisabled children’s towards those with disabilities
results from their lack of understanding of their peers’ disabilities (Graffi &
Minnes, 1988). These negative attitudes lead to social isolation of children with
disabilities. Negative attitudes towards people with disabilities have been improved through educational programs that raise awareness of disabilities (Donaldson, 1980; Florian & Kehat, 1987).
The intervention plan required collaboration between the researcher and
teachers. Because interested teachers had to be released from regular duties to
participate in the collaboration, I requested that the district provide such release.
In granting one day’s release time to be shared by the five teachers, the District
Special Education Director gave the following reasons.
This plan goes along with our District’s policy in integrating children with special needs.
It would also help train new teachers. So often we have practicum students starting
teaching who don’t know much about mainstreaming. This project would help future
teachers. When you bring back to your university classes ideas about how to integrate
children with special needs, pre-service teachers will have some skills with mainstreaming
when they come to our schools (for their practicum). (meeting notes: November 28, year
prior to the collaboration)1
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LILY L. DYSON
Although limited, the release time enabled the teachers and me to collaborate
on the development of the social integration program. My assistants and I
delivered the program to the teachers’ classes. The program and the evaluation
constituted a project called Friend-making.
Managing Uncertainty
The initial stages of the collaboration were marked by uncertainty about the
project’s future. This uncertainty began at the end of the first year, when I
attempted to report the results and to seek continued support from the district for
the next year. When I arrived at the District Special Education Office, I found
a disordered office, with packing boxes scattered all over (field notes: June 15,
year 1) and soon learned that the office and the position of the Director were
being dissolved due to district re-organization and budget cutbacks. I was directed to a new administrator, the Coordinator of Student Support Services, who
would be responsible for general support services for students in the new academic term. A brief meeting marked the beginning of the interaction between the
researcher and the new district administrator. Despite uncertainty about future
support for the project, I followed his instruction to contact him in the new
academic year.
A similar setback occurred midway through the second year of the collaboration. At a scheduled meeting, the district administrator announced that further
budgetary cuts and school re-structuring might eliminate his position. Pessimism
thus coloured the meeting, despite his assurance that the district’s support for the
Friend-making project would continue for the rest of the year (meeting notes,
field notes: May 31, year 2). I became concerned that the administrator might
lose his position and about the uncertainty of future support for the project.
Nonetheless, I accepted his advice that we should continue with the project and
wait for the district to complete its re-organization before engaging in further
discussion about the collaboration.
By exercising patience and following the administrator’s direction during his
district’s transition, I, as the researcher, gave the administrator time to clarify
his position and to re-organize his work. This approach proved effective when,
in the new school term, the administrator affirmed the continuation of his position and specified continuing funding for the project (meeting notes: September 26, year 2).
Building Support
Beginning with the district’s provision of limited release time for the teachers
from one school to collaborate with me, the district’s contribution gradually
increased. After my first meeting with the new district administrator, the district
granted additional release time for teachers from another school. There was a
417
small fund for videotaping the educational program but no funding for editing
the videotape. In the second year of the project, the district granted 8 days of
release time to be shared by the teachers from five schools but no funds for
editing the videotape. In the third year, with increased provincial funding for special education programs, the district increased the release time for the teachers’
collaboration to 10 days and provided funding to edit the videotape. A small
amount was also designated for honoraria for people with disabilities to serve as
guest speakers for the program. The district’s support for the teachers’ release
time continued even after the administrator departed. I also generated funds at
different stages to support the project, from minor research grants from my university and regional funding agencies to major federal funding. The funds from
the school district and the research grants enabled the project to expand.
Formalizing Partnership
After two years of collaboration and with a major research grant to support the
Friend-making project, the district administrator proposed that a partnership be
formed between the university and the school district. Because creation of such
a partnership required the approval and support of the Board of School Trustees,
he proposed that he and I make a joint presentation to the Education Policy
Committee of the Board. To prepare for the presentation, we held telephone discussions, exchanged memoranda, and, finally, met. At the meeting, he presented
a typed outline of his intended presentation (undated document). And he suggested that a collaborating teacher also attend the Board meeting to provide
support for the project. I invited two teachers to the meeting, one of them
providing a proxy letter of support.
At the meeting of the Education Policy Committee, the district administrator
outlined the project’s history and summarized its accomplishments, using documents and products that I, as researcher, had submitted. In turn, I explained the
project described in the hand-outs (document: April 13, year 3) and the attending
teacher provided his support for the project. The joint presentation resulted in a
motion to recognize the researcher’s work and to propose the project to the
general Board meeting for approval as a partnership between the university and
the school district (field notes: April 13, year 3). The partnership, formalized
with the final approval by the Board of School Trustees, legitimized the project
as a joint initiative between the two institutions. It also established a process for
ongoing support and funding by the district to allow teachers to collaborate with
the researcher (meeting notes: June 23, year 3).
Effective Communication
The district administrator and I engaged in an effective communication protocol
marked by professionalism and parity. This protocol typified the collaboration at
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LILY L. DYSON
our meetings, in which he responded to my prepared agenda with a summary of
what had been agreed upon, what I was to deliver, and what action he was to
take (e.g., meeting agenda, notes: September 10, year 1; December 9, year 2;
September 26, year 3).
The pattern of professionalism and parity in communication was set in our
first meeting when, with the departure of the Special Education Director, we
needed to negotiate a new collaborative relationship. Prior to the meeting, I
mailed the administrator a copy of the project proposal that requested ongoing
support for the project and release time for the teachers’ participation (documents: August 12 and September 21, year 1). At the meeting, I did not have to
reiterate the content of the proposal because he had studied the materials. Further, with a clear agenda and sufficient details already in hand, the meeting was
devoted to identifying new school participants and exploring funding resources.
Professionalism and parity were maintained to the end of each meeting, when
he and I would exchange requests or assignments. For example, at one meeting,
I presented written requests for release time for the teachers, funds to make a
videotape, and the district’s support for the project. In exchange, he requested
that I provide an itemized budget to justify the requests (meeting notes: September 21, year 1).
In our communication, the foundation of collaboration was thus explicit to us
both. Out of the professional exchange there also emerged parity in the control
of the collaborative process. Yet, in exercising parity, each clearly acted to
protect the interest he or she represented.
Collaborative Structure
Complementary Roles
Although the district administrator and I did not initially specify a collaborative
structure, a structure evolved as the collaboration unfolded. In that structure, we
assumed complementary roles. Initially, the administrator took over his predecessor’s stance by supporting the project by providing release time for the teachers;
gradually, his role became facilitative. Thus, when funds were not immediately
available, he found “seed money” for things such as videotaping. He hoped, he
said, that that “small amount will help you find other funds to finish the videotape” (meeting notes: October 10, year 1). He also helped identify community
and provincial government funding possibilities. His efforts stimulated me to
consider other sources of support, such as research grants, for the project.
The district administrator also facilitated the recruitment of schools by identifying potentially interested schools and by publicizing the project. A memorandum he distributed to schools (October 10, year 1; November 9, year 2) proved
to be an unplanned but effective form of collaborative support. His screening and
support of the project gave it credibility and reassured school staff. As one
419
school principal commented, “This project is supported by the district, I feel
good about this, and so we will go along with it” (undated field note). The
administrator’s facilitation particularly increased my confidence in securing
research participants and motivated me to apply for research funding to support
the project.
As researcher, I assumed a different set of roles in the collaboration. I contacted schools in person and recruited teacher participants. I also designed the
intervention program in collaboration with the teachers, directed the delivery of
the program, and evaluated its effect. These roles were within a researcher’s
regular functions but were carried out with the district administrator’s support.
Thus, in the apparent absence of a clearly defined collaborative structure, he and
I clearly assumed different responsibilities but worked towards the common goal
of promoting the social integration of children with disabilities.
Accountability
Throughout the collaboration, each partner was accountable for specific tasks.
The administrator identified my accountability for completing designated tasks
and delivering specific products. For example, he requested that I submit a yearly
proposal for teacher release time, justifying and specifying the amount required
(meeting notes: September 10, year 1; September 16, year 2; September 22,
year 3). He also requested that I provide details about the videotape and a written
promise that the tape would be used only for educational purposes (meeting
notes: September 26, year 3). Another example of his expectation for my accountability is a letter he wrote requesting specific information to clarify the
ongoing support for the project (administrator’s letter: September 23, year 2).
I responded to his requests for accountability with specific information such
as budgets and completion dates for tasks (documents). When unable to meet a
deadline, I arranged an alternative date. Moreover, I submitted yearly requests
to continue the project with action plans and justifications for the budgets (documents). My response to his request for accountability is exemplified by a letter
in which I confirmed the funding requested for completion of the videotape
($3,500), the content of the videotape, and that the videotape would be used
only for educational purposes (researcher’s letter to administrator: November 25,
year 3).
To address accountability issues, I further provided the administrator with
progress reports summarizing each year’s results (e.g., document: September 22,
year 3). Products such as booklets made of children’s discussions were also
compiled and copies sent to the administrator, as were copies of publications,
conference papers, and other reports related to the project (documents).
Although less apparent, the district administrator exercised similar accountability in the collaboration. He released funds soon after receiving a report of the
completion of the videotaping and the written guarantee requested (document:
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LILY L. DYSON
June 8, year 2). The release time for the collaborating teachers was also provided
as promised. Likewise, memoranda or letters of support for the project were
promptly prepared to assist in the researcher’s recruitment of participating
schools or applications for research grants.
We thus developed a complementary collaborative structure with accountability. Each of us drew on our respective expertise and professional jurisdiction
to contribute to the collaboration while each also remained accountable to the
other. This collaborative structure proved effective when more schools joined the
project. The collaborative structure also indirectly contributed to my success in
securing research grants which, in turn, sustained the project and so benefitted
the teachers and students. Meanwhile, the collaborative structure allowed me
considerable freedom to pursue independent research and to collaborate with
teachers in schools.
Outcomes of the Collaboration
The researcher–district administrator collaboration led to a number of outcomes,
the most important being that it met the teachers’ need for a program to promote
the social integration of children with disabilities (Dyson, 1997). Other schools
whose classes later joined the project benefitted, too. More schools may also
have benefitted from the completed videotape about the method of promoting social integration of students with disabilities, which was publicized internationally
and distributed locally (Dyson, 1996). Of further significance was the formation
of a partnership between the university and the school district to continue to
support a project for promoting social integration of students with disabilities.
The partnership and collaboration resulted in professional growth. As reported
elsewhere (Dyson, 1997), I benefitted from my interaction with the collaborating
teachers. Tangible scholarly gains took the form of international, national, and
regional professional papers, two of which were presented with participating
teachers (Dyson, Nanni, & Skolsky, 1994; Dyson, Rothnie, & Dryden, 1995).
And the major research grants I received as a result of the collaboration further
extended training opportunities for my university research assistants.
Children in the local schools especially benefitted from this researcher–district
administrator collaboration. They received a series of four educational programs
about disabilities, the types of disabilities typically being those found in their
class or school — physical disability, learning disability, and sensory impairment.
Each program contained information about a disability and methods of interacting
with individuals with disabilities. Table 1 gives an example of the results, the
major themes the children’s logs record they learned from the program and their
frequencies.
Table 1 shows that the children gained a new understanding of learning
disability, accurately understood as a perceptual difficulty, not as a sensory
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TABLE 1
Themes and Frequencies of Children’s Reports of What They Learned
About Learning Disabilities (N = 156)
Theme
n
%
1. Content and meaning of learning disabilities (e.g., learning
disability implies perceptual differences: “People with a [learning]
disability see things differently [than other people]”)
63
40
2. Empathetic understanding of difficulty (e.g., “[I learned] how
difficult it is to have a learning disability”)
43
28
3. Emotional references to learning disabilities (e.g., “I learned how
it feels to have learning disability”)
13
8
4. The ability and strength of individuals with learning disabilities
(e.g., “People with learning disabilities must be pretty smart”)
9
6
5. The way to interact with people with learning disabilities (e.g.,
“You have to go slow”)
9
6
6. General learning (e.g., “I learned a lot of things”)
5
3
7. Nothing
3
2
11
7
8. Not interpretable
impairment (e.g., “being deaf and blind is not a learning disability”). They also
developed empathy for those with disabilities (e.g., “I learned mostly about how
it feels to be different and the frustration in it”) and an appreciation of the
affective aspect of having such a disability (e.g., “it’s hard for people with
learning disabilities to get around”). Only 9% of the children reported no learning
or did not specify their learning.
DISCUSSION
In this study, I examined the collaboration between a university researcher and
a school district administrator in a special education project in order to study the
development of a university–school district partnership. In contrast to reports of
failure (Cole & Knowles, 1993; Shulha & Wilson, 1993), this study demonstrates
a successful university–school district partnership. The benefits to the major
participants (teachers, children, and researchers) confirm claims in the literature
(R. W. Clark, 1988; Lieberman, 1986) that university–school district partnerships
can generate instructional programs for schools and advance university research.
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LILY L. DYSON
More importantly, the partnership increased social competence and cognition in
the children involved.
A pivotal element in this partnership’s success was the developmental process,
a series of activities leading to the partnership. Key among these was establishing
a match between the researcher’s goal and the school district’s policy. A shared
goal of promoting social integration of children with disabilities allowed the
school district to implement its policy for mainstreaming children with disabilities and was the major reason for the district’s initial support. Clearly, in
contradiction to concerns about the mismatch of goals of universities and schools
that poses barriers to partnership (R. W. Clark, 1988), this study demonstrates
that establishing mutual goals for researchers and school districts is not only
possible but crucial to the development of partnership.
Our partnership’s success also was due to the patient management of the
uncertainty created by a changing district administration. In contrast, Cole and
Knowles (1993) showed that a researcher’s insensitive pressing for collaboration
caused a teacher to withdraw from a potential collaboration. Our successful
partnership was further built on financial support obtained by both the district
administrator and the researcher. Perhaps crucial to formalizing this partnership
was the Board of School Trustees’ support, won through collaborative efforts by
the district administrator and the researcher.
The partnership also was facilitated by an effective and efficient pattern of
communication marked by professionalism and parity. Parity leads to successful
collaboration (Crow et al., 1992). The communication protocol the district
administrator and I used minimized the bureaucratic entanglement common in
university-school collaboration (Sirotnik, 1988). Further contributing to the
success was a collaborative structure in which we assumed complementary roles
to achieve a common goal. Accountability grew out of such a harmonious structure. In particular, the presentation of the researcher’s work to the Board of
School Trustees suggests that the researcher’s exercise of accountability was
valuable in gaining support from the district administrator and the Board of
School Trustees.
The development of this university–school district partnership is an accomplishment in view of the potential for tension and conflict involved in researcherschool collaboration (Brookhart & Loadman, 1992; Hattrup & Bickel, 1993;
McDaniel, 1988–1989). However, this collaborative structure evolved gradually
and was actively cultivated in a professional way by the collaborators.
CONCLUSION
The outcome of this study supports a conceptual model that university–school
district partnerships are developed from elements including: an effective developmental process, efficient communication between the collaborators, a complementary role structure with accountability, and beneficial outcomes for all partners.
423
The developmental process involves identifying the partners’ common goals,
managing uncertainty in the school district, building support, and formalizing the
partnership.
The fruitfulness of this partnership warrants further development and study of
university-school partnering. Although partnership has to be based on the practical needs of teachers and school districts, other methods of developing partnership must be explored. Collective experiences involving university-school
partnership would further validate the results of this case study. Finally, future
research should examine the collaborative experiences of the administrators, as
information about these is presently lacking.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This study was funded by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada in partnership with the Secretariat of State for Persons with Disabilities and by the Vancouver Foundation,
the Scottish Rites Charitable Foundation of Canada, and the Victoria School District, British
Columbia. I greatly appreciate the collaboration of the district administrator.
NOTE
1
Based on the method of reporting in Scruggs and Mastropieri (1994), sources of data with dates
are specified in parentheses with the year of the stage of the project (e.g., year 2 of the project).
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Faculty of Education, University of Victoria, Victoria, British Columbia, V8W 3N4.
Philosophical Reflection and Cooperative Practices
in an Elementary School Mathematics Classroom
Marie-France Daniel
université de montréal
Louise Lafortune
université du québec à trois-rivières
Richard Pallascio
Michael Schleifer
université du québec à montréal
Following Matthew Lipman (Lipman, 1991; Lipman, Sharp, & Oscanyan, 1980), we
introduced philosophical dialogue (PD) about mathematics in an elementary school to help
pupils consider mathematical and meta-mathematical matters. This article describes the
social and cognitive activity when pupils engage in PD and some pedagogical conditions
necessary to foster the development of PD. Changes in pupils’ discussions from the beginning to the end of the test period showed that the dynamic evolved from monological
exchanges to dialogical exchanges. Whereas early pupil responses could be characterized
mainly as simple answers, later responses displayed more lower-order and even higherorder thinking skills. The data suggest that for PD about mathematics to develop, the
teacher must be proficient in the role of mediator.
À la suite de Matthew Lipman (Lipman, 1991; Lipman, Sharp et Oscanyan, 1980), les
auteurs ont introduit le dialogue philosophique (DP) dans une école primaire afin d’aider
les élèves à réfléchir aux questions d’ordre mathématique et méta-mathématique. Cet
article décrit l’activité sociale et cognitive à laquelle donne lieu le DP ainsi que certaines
des conditions pédagogiques qui doivent être réunies pour favoriser le développement du
DP. L’analyse des discussions des élèves du début à la fin de la période d’essai a révélé
une évolution de la dynamique, des échanges monologiques aux échanges dialogiques. Si
en premier les élèves donnent de simples réponses, par la suite ils démontrent des capacités de raisonnement élémentaires et même de plus haut niveau. Ces données semblent
indiquer que pour que le DP au sujet de la mathématique se développe, l’enseignant doit
devenir un médiateur efficace.
Some studies suggest that the mathematics curriculum is not sufficiently meaningful for pupils (Baruk, 1992), does not foster critical thinking (Lipman, l991),
and allows no place for philosophical discussion (Smith, 1995). On this last
point, in mathematics classes the use of discussions among pupils is increasingly
widespread, to the point that these contribute to improvement of pupils’ mathematical comprehension (e.g., Bauersfeld, 1980; Hoyles, 1985; Sfard, Nesher,
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24, 4 (1999): 426–440
PHILOSOPHICAL REFLECTION AND ELEMENTARY SCHOOL MATHEMATICS
427
Streefland, Cobb, & Mason, 1998). However, we judge that discussions among
pupils are generally organized from the perspective of problem-solving. The goal
is to find solutions to mathematical problems submitted by the teacher or to
discover the most efficient methods for solving these problems (Cobb, Wood,
Yackel, & McNeal, 1992; Lampert, 1990). “Analyzing the adequacy of methods
and searching for better ones are the activities around which teachers build the
social and intellectual community of the classroom” (Hiebert et al., 1996, p. 16).
Although this type of discussion improves pupils’ mathematical performance
(Cobb et al., 1992; Hiebert & Wearne, 1993; Lampert, 1990; Wood & Sellers,
1996), we judge that the emphasis placed on solving problems risks becoming
too utilitarian and, for this reason, insufficiently stimulating of reflection and
ideas among the pupils. “When useful mathematics becomes synonymous with
learning strategies for solving problems, attention shifts to procedures and away
from ideas” (Prawat, 1991).
Inspired by the works of Matthew Lipman and Ann Margaret Sharp (Lipman,
Sharp, & Oscanyan, 1980), which has its foundations in the “reflexive inquiry”
proposed by John Dewey (1933), we consider that significant teaching of mathematics should promote not only the acquisition of disciplinary knowledge but
also the development of pupils’ curiosity about the field, their critical thinking,
and their social sense. Schools should give as much importance to ideas and
concepts as to procedures for solving problems. That is, we suggest that regular
mathematics teaching in primary school be complemented (for one hour each
week) by reflection and dialogue among pupils on philosophico-mathematical
concepts that interest them and meta-mathematical ideas that concern them.
Philosophico-mathematical describes concepts whose essence is philosophical
and whose content is mathematical; meta-mathematical is used here to describe
events of everyday life that have a more or less direct relationship to mathematical notions. Basically, according to Dewey, schools should not distinguish
between scientific problems and everyday problems (Dewey, 1929/1960).
We do not pretend that a pedagogical approach emphasizing philosophical dialogue (PD) is more appropriate than the functionalist and structuralist approaches
discussed above for fostering the learning of mathematics among pupils; both
types of approach are socio-constructivist, and they seem more complementary
than competitive.
PHILOSOPHY FOR CHILDREN ADAPTED TO MATHEMATICS
The Philosophy for Children (P4C) Approach
P4C, a philosophical approach to education pioneered in the 1970s by Lipman
and Sharp, has been implemented in almost 50 countries. Its primary goal is to
teach youngsters to think critically (Lipman, 1991; Lipman et al., 1980) along
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the lines of Dewey’s (1933) reflective thinking. According to Lipman, critical
thinking does not involve an exclusionary (for example, Platonic) perspective but
rather seeks to establish a distinction between basic or lower-order thinking
skills (description, explaining, giving examples, making statements, etc.) and
higher-order thinking skills (justifying opinions, offering criticism, being sensitive
to context, self-correction, following criteria, etc.) (Lipman, 1995).
P4C is distinguished by the philosophical quality of the dialogue that develops
within a peer “community of enquiry.” PD centres on philosophical concepts and
ambiguous meanings; it deals with uncertainties, challenges, and compromises
(see Richards, 1991). It presupposes the use of natural language (as opposed to
formal language or mathematics) (see Sfard et al., 1998); its points of departure
and arrival are found in daily experience (Dewey, 1916/1983). Yet it is not
synonymous with conversation, in which participants’ comments relate personal
facts or events. Neither is dialogue synonymous with argumentation, the rhetorical game in which each participant’s primary goal is “win the battle of wits.”
The dialogue in question emphasizes constructing ideas from points of view
presented by peers to solve a common problem or to achieve a common goal
(see Vygotsky, 1984). Also, in the dialogue, pupils learn together to question
ideas, experiences, and events (Lipman et al., 1980). For the dialogue to become
philosophical, regular practice in the classroom is required (Richards, 1991).
The community of philosophical enquiry, considered to be a micro-society, has
a structure similar to that of other communities of enquiry (see Siegel & Borasi,
1996) but characterized by its dialectical nature and its aim of making participants think philosophically. By philosophy (and its various word-forms) we
mean the deconstruction of assumed beliefs, prejudices, and concepts. Philosophy, on this view, rejects basic truths located in doctrinaire knowledge and
promotes the subject’s search for individual and social meaning. To say that
pupils engage in the community of philosophical enquiry is to imply that they
use higher-order thinking skills and cooperative behaviours (Splitter & Sharp,
1995).
Although the pupils lead the game (group discussions develop around their
interests and their needs), the mediator assists the pupils to clarify and formulate
their ideas and to set up dialogue and interaction. The mediator is usually the
regular class teacher, who plays Socrates’ role, asking pupils questions to help
them deepen their ideas, find justifications for their opinions, and so on. The
mediator believes that knowledge exists in the learner’s ability to organize
thoughts and actions, and values the learner’s commitment to interpreting reality
(Smith, 1995). The fact that the mediator has more experience and knowledge
than the pupils does not make that person the sole source of authority; the
mediator is a member of the community of enquiry that thinks and that questions
itself (see Richards, 1991).
429
Briefly, the pedagogy of PD differs from the pedagogy of group discussions
in that it is not teacher-directed but is instead centred on student problems. It
takes students’ questions and students’ interests as the starting points for enquiry.
Students’ concerns set its agenda for discussion. PD works on open problems
(philosophical concepts), not closed problems (problem-solving strategies). It is
aimed not at training high-performance pupils but at educating individuals who
are curious, autonomous, critical, and responsible at school and in everyday life.
Epistemologically, PD differs from group discussion in that it is dialectical.
It is a method of enquiry that exploits both the complexity of a discipline and
real-life situations, focuses on non-traditional topics where uncertainty and
limitations are common, uses errors as springboards for enquiry among peers,
exploits the surprise elicited when one works with new concepts or with anomalies, creates ambiguity and conflict by proposing alternatives to the status
quo, and provides occasions for reflecting on the significance of one’s enquiry
(Borasi, 1992, p. 190).
Philosophy for Children Adapted to Mathematics
Inspired by the program of Lipman and Sharp, we developed philosophicomathematical course material (P4CM) for pupils aged 9 to 13 years.1 As evaluation of the course material by experts and by pupils aged 9–13 was very
positive (Daniel, Lafortune, Pallascio, & Sykes, 1994), we undertook a preliminary research project.
The material consists of two philosophical novels for pupils and a manual
intended for P4CM mediators, usually the mathematics class teachers (Daniel,
Lafortune, Pallascio, & Sykes, 1996a, 1996b, 1996c). The novels, each of which
develops a narrative involving young people of the same age as the readers/
pupils, present the thoughts of a group of friends on ideas about mathematics and
learning mathematics. The mathematical content of the novels evolves in parallel
with the school curriculum. The mediator’s manual works in tandem with the
two novels and is intended to assist P4CM mediators in their role by suggesting
philosophical discussion plans and mathematical activities or exercises. The
questions implicit in the narrative are dealt with explicitly in the mediator’s
manual. These questions are of two types: philosophico-mathematical (e.g., Does
a perfect cube exist? Does zero signify nothing? What are the similarities and
differences between a digit and a number? Was mathematics invented or discovered?) and meta-mathematical (e.g., What use is mathematics? Does the math
teacher have to know everything?).
In the classroom, the P4CM approach amounts to pupils reading a chapter in
the novel, collecting pupils’ questions arising from the reading, and philosophical
dialogue within a community of enquiry on one question chosen by the group.
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RESEARCH METHOD
Experimental P4CM sessions took place from mid-October to the end of May.
Weekly sessions lasted one hour and involved an entire Grade 6 class of 30
pupils from an underprivileged socio-economic background. Prior to the experiment, the class teacher participated in a two-day training course on the P4CM
approach. For P4C to work well, teachers must learn to mediate a philosophical
dialogue in class, that is, to question pupils in a way that revamps their ideas
with a view to deepening them and exploiting them, without knowing all the
answers.2 Teacher training continued throughout the school year in that each
week a resource expert in P4CM assisted the teacher to prepare her lessons,
monitored the exchanges with the pupils, and presented the teacher with a review
of the session.
Our research project is qualitative in orientation; it aims to describe “what is”
in a group-class, not to verify a theory or even to state “what should be” in all
communities of enquiry. Nevertheless, certain data were analyzed quantitatively
to allow us to observe whether changes took place in the class between the
beginning and the end of the school year (Van der Maren, 1995, pp. 85–87).
We examine two discussions using transcripts of two video recordings, one at
the beginning and one at the end of the school year. For each transcript, we
compiled the data and studied the percentage of interventions belonging to each
of the three types. Two research assistants helped to validate and code the pupils’
interventions. The principal researcher suggested the definition of the codes for
the transcripts and did the initial coding. Coding focused on the general character
of the exchanges, the dynamics of the exchanges, the behaviour and roles of the
mediator, and the thinking skills that pupils demonstrated. Conformity of coding
between the two research assistants exceeded 85%.
General Character of the Exchanges: Anecdotal, Monological, Dialogical
To analyze the character of the exchanges, we classified pupils’ interactions in
the transcripts into three types. Anecdotal exchanges are based on elaboration of
anecdotes or of pupils’ personal experiences. Monological exchanges involve
individual pupils discoursing on a particular theme. Pupils scarcely listen to each
other; each pursues his or her own idea without being influenced by peers’ points
of view. Dialogical exchanges are based on interrelationships. They emphasize
the construction of ideas from points of view expressed by a group of peers
while attempting to solve a common problem or to achieve a common goal.
Dynamics of the Exchanges: Pupil-Pupil or Pupil-Mediator
To study the dynamics of the exchanges, we examined the content of pupil
interventions to determine whether each dealt with a question or a comment
431
expressed by either the mediator or another pupil. The relationship may be
explicit, such as “to answer so-and-so’s question” or “in reference to what
so-and-so just said,” or implicit. In the latter case, we were guided by the flow
of logic.
Behaviour and Roles of the Mediator
We examined the roles played by the teacher as mediator (management and
control of discipline, fostering the community of enquiry, etc.) and the type of
questions she asked the pupils (seeking simple answers or stimulating cognitive
conflict).
Pupils’ Thinking Skills
We coded every pupil intervention (defined as any verbal utterance by a pupil)
according to the thinking skills the pupils displayed. Interventions were classified
into three types. Answers are interventions of one or a few words (as opposed
to a complete sentence). They do not represent the statement of an idea as such
but rather are simple responses to questions or comments. Interventions displaying lower-order thinking skills involve basic cognitive skills that emerge
spontaneously among pupils of this age, including stating a point of view,
questioning (to obtain a specific answer), description, explanation, illustration
with examples, comparison, and providing a simple definition. Interventions
displaying higher-order thinking skills involve complex cognitive skills that do
not usually appear in Grade 6 pupils’ discourse unless specifically encouraged.
They include defining in a complex way, justifying, expressing a nuance, formulating a question (in a search for meaning or perspective), developing logical
relationships (part-whole, means-end, etc.), searching for criteria, proposing
hypotheses, and criticizing. To distinguish lower-order from higher-order thinking
skills, we used the categorization proposed by Dewey (1933, 1916/1983) and
Lipman (1991, 1995).
ANALYSIS
Comparison of the Character of the Exchanges
The first recording followed pupils’ reading of the first chapter of one of the
P4CM novels. The teacher collected pupils’ questions. Then came the choice (by
consensus) of the question the pupils wanted to discuss: “Why don’t we like
mathematics?” The teacher chose to have the pupils discuss their different
strategies for learning mathematics, perhaps because she assumed that if pupils
dislike mathematics, it is because they lack pertinent learning strategies.
During the first half of the session, she asked pupils to memorize a number
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of words, then verified pupils’ recollections. The exchanges can be characterized
as linear, following the traditional “question-answer” archetype:
Mediator:
P:
Mediator:
A:
Mediator:
S:
Mediator:
G:
So, P, you remembered how many words?
20.
A?
Me? 19.
S?
12.
G?
15.
Later in the session, the mediator sought to determine what memorization strategy the pupils had used:
Mediator: Did you use a particular strategy?
K:
I said “addition” in my head, so immediately I thought of addition, division,
multiplication. When I said “square,” I thought of all the shapes I know. When
I said “denominator,” I immediately thought of numerator.
Mediator: K?
K:
I repeated [the words] in my head.
Mediator: That’s the strategy you used. Did you repeat them in your head, M?
M:
I repeated the words in my head, then hid the sheet and repeated them again.
If I forgot, I started over.
Mediator: So you repeated them in your head, then said them again. P?
P:
I looked at my paper, then repeated all the words in order. Then I covered the
paper and tried to say them again. Not in order, but I tried to re-say them in
my head.
We classify these communications as monological because the brevity of their
answers does not allow the pupils to participate in a dynamic situation characterized by the co-construction of knowledge. This, plus the fact that they rarely
interact with their peers, indicates that each pupil pursues his or her own idea
without being influenced by peers’ points of view and that they actually disregard peers’ points of view when stating their own opinions. For example, when
asked to define “strategy,” each proposed an independent definition.
At the end of the school year, a second video recording was made. After
reading a chapter from the same novel, the pupils chose the following question
for discussion: “Why would we ever invite a math-brain to a party?” The nature
of this question is meta-mathematical, even ethical, in that it deals with the
prejudices the pupils have towards those who do well in school. To exploit this
question, the teacher asked the pupils to break up into teams and to draw their
representation of a math-brain; afterwards, the class came together again to
engage in dialogue on the subject.
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General analysis of the second transcript shows that the exchanges were conducted in the dialogical mode, with each pupil developing his or her own intervention based on the previous intervention, thus adding to the complexity of the
exchanges. So K states that she would never invite a math-brain to a party, and
justifies her remarks as follows:
K:
. . . Because math-brains, if they go to a party, they talk about nothing but
math.
J:
Me, if I had a party, I would invite the math-brains anyway, since P and M
[two pupils in the class] are good in math, and . . .
E:
So we don’t really know if they’re math-brains.
J:
So what if they’re math-brains. I would still invite them to a party because
they’re no different from others in personality. Maybe they like math, and do
a lot of math, but I really doubt if they’d be thinking of math at a party. I
don’t think so.
T:
But math-brains aren’t the only ones listening to Céline Dion, because K
listens to Céline Dion too, and she’s not a math-brain.
P:
I agree with A, a math-brain is a person like everyone else. Me, I would invite
them to my party. That wouldn’t bother me. . . . They don’t think about
nothing except mathematics. Me, I’m good in mathematics, but when I’m at
home, I don’t only think about that.
Mediator: I see a drawing here of a math-brain [shows a drawing by one of the pupils].
Would you invite him to a party? And what difference is there between a
math-brain and another person?
T:
There are math-brains who think only of math. And there are math-brains who
are good in math but who are like everybody else. But some of them are
really, really math-brains. It’s mostly the ones with glasses, you know.
Pupils:
That [wearing glasses] doesn’t make any difference!
M:
Me, I don’t think it’s just math-brains who wear glasses. Look at G [a pupil
in the class]. . . .
J:
Glasses are just for appearance, because even in the movies when you see
math-brains in class, they add them. . . . It makes them look intellectual, but
really, it’s just something they add for the intellectual look, that’s all.
A:
You know, that doesn’t make any difference. Math-brains who look the most
intellectual could also go to parties because when you go to a party, it means
that the person who’s having the party is your friend if they invited you.
J:
They’re your friend, so you invite them. So, if a math-brain in your class isn’t
your friend, you sure wouldn’t invite them to your party. I mean, it’s just a
matter of friendship.
In this extract, J is not afraid to state a criticism that runs counter to the
opinion of K. Her criticism is nevertheless weak, in that she bases it on two
specific examples. In doing so, J takes for granted that there is an implicit
relationship between her definition of a math-brain and the two pupils in the
class she used for her example. E points out her lack of critical sense, and J
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accepts the remark. She starts over, basing her new criticism on justification of
the distinction between people and their academic abilities. From a philosophical
point of view, this distinction shows the fundamental difference between being
and doing.
Then T supports J’s criticism, using an example that could be considered a
concrete syllogism: K listens to Céline Dion, K is not a math-brain, therefore
math-brains aren’t the only people who listen to Céline Dion. P also reinforces
J’s criticism by presenting his point of view and giving a personal example.
Next, the mediator asks the pupils to use their drawings to support their arguments. T states a preconceived idea: “Math-brains . . . it’s mostly the ones with
glasses,” which provokes howls of protest from the class. M contradicts him
using a concrete syllogism: G doesn’t have glasses, G is a math-brain, therefore
not all math-brains wear glasses. J goes even further in this sense with a criticism that highlights the distinction between “being” and “seeming.” The truth,
the real truth, is in being; seeming is only an “add-on,” an illusion. Finally A,
perhaps inspired by J’s interjection about being, reorients the problem and injects
the idea of friendship into the discussion, an idea taken up and abstracted by J,
who maintains that the central element in the question is “friendship,” not
whether someone is a math-brain.
The use of the dialogical mode of communication between peers is seen as
pupils question each other, request nuances, base their statements on criteria or
examples, criticize one another, and correct themselves. In other words, the
exchanges were based on the construction of ideas arising from points of view
enunciated by peers to solve a common problem. Such exchanges presuppose
reciprocity and cooperation among pupils, and because the meta-mathematical
dimension is involved, both the origins and the conclusions can without doubt
be found in young people’s everyday experiences.
Comparison of the Dynamics of the Exchanges
The final set of exchanges appear much more autonomous than the first, with
pupils typically addressing their peers rather than the mediator (see Table 1). At
the beginning of the school year, just over 87% of pupils’ interventions were
directed to the mediator and barely 13% to peers. At the end of the school year,
the exchanges occurred mostly among peers, with slightly more than 71% of
total pupil interventions made in light of a peer’s comment or directed to peers
and just under 29% directed to the mediator.
We also see indications of a relationship between these results and the mediator’s roles. During the first P4CM session (mid-October), the mediator adopted
the following roles: managing or controlling the activity, the work methods, and
the means to attain goals; managing discipline; and questioning pupils. Managing the class and the activity constituted a major part of the first session. The
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TABLE 1
Comparison of the Dynamics of the Exchanges
Total
Number of
Interventions
Number (and
Percentage) of
Interventions Directed
to the Mediator
Number (and
Percentage) of
Interventions Directed
to Another Pupil
First
109
95 (87%)
14 (13%)
Final
133
38 (29%)
95 (71%)
Transcript
“Socratic art” was demonstrated only in mediator’s reformulation of pupils’
statements, as all questions asked were the question-answer type.
By contrast, complete analysis of the final transcript shows that the mediator
suggested the activity and the work methods, managed discipline and ensured the
class atmosphere was respectful, questioned pupils, asked them to define the
terms they used, took advantage of divergence of opinion among pupils to foster
discussion, confronted them with cognitive conflicts, fostered objectivity of
remarks and intersubjectivity, questioned the consequences of pupils’ remarks,
and questioned pupils’ biases. In other words, in this last session, the mediator,
in addition to managing activities and the classroom, created a community of
enquiry within the classroom.
Comparison of Intervention Types
Comparison of the two transcripts is also informative about the thinking skills
pupils displayed during the two sets of exchanges (see Table 2). At the beginning
of the school year, answers (Type 1) represented 61% of all pupil interventions,
interventions displaying lower-order thinking skills (Type 2) represented 30% of
interventions, and those displaying higher-order thinking skills (Type 3) represented 9% of pupil interventions. Analysis of the second transcript reveals a
decrease in simple answers (Type 1) from 61% to 26%, an increase in interventions displaying lower-order thinking skills (Type 2) from 30% to 39%, and, of
special note, a jump in interventions displaying higher-order thinking skills (Type
3) from 9% to 35% at the end of the school year, after some seven months of
work with the P4CM approach.
Chi-square analysis of the results rules out a hypothesis of homogeneity of
observed values; we conclude that there exist significant differences between the
sets (χ2 = 34.8, df = 2, p < .001).
Measuring variations in terms of rates of increase and decrease for each type
of intervention, we found that answers (Type 1) decreased by 42%, interventions
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TABLE 2
Comparison of Intervention Types: Number and Percentage of Interventions
Transcript
Total
Number of
Interventions
Number (and Percentage) of Different Types of
Interventions
Type 1
Type 2
Type 3
First
109
66 (61%)
33 (30%)
10 (9%)
Final
133
35 (26%)
52 (39%)
46 (35%)
displaying lower-order thinking skills (Type 2) increased by 13%, and interventions displaying higher-order thinking skills (Type 3) increased by 39%.
Specific analysis reveals that in the first transcript, three lower-order thinking
skills occurred more often than others: statement of opinion (10 times), explanation (9 times), and description (7 times). We also noted the occurrence of simple
definition (2), observation (2), precision (2), and example (1). Among higherorder thinking skills, formulation of a hypothesis and doubt appeared twice and
three times, respectively. Appearing once were comparison, categorization,
justification, criticism, and counter-example.
The final transcript is characterized mainly by interventions displaying lowerorder thinking skills: statement of an opinion (18), use of examples (13), simple
definition (9), description (4), simple question (4), explanation (3), and precision
(1). Interventions displaying higher-order thinking skills in the final transcript
were use of nuance (9), criticism (6), contradiction (6), use of criteria (6), concrete syllogism (4), categorization (4), comparison (3), hypothesis (3), counterexample (2), doubt (1), search for meaning question (1), and justification (1).
DISCUSSION
Did pupils philosophize about mathematics in the second transcript to the point
where we can speculate about young people aged 11 or 12 entering into this
mode of communication? What are the cognitive and social components inherent
in this type of communication? What conditions favour development of a community of philosophical enquiry about mathematical or meta-mathematical
matters?
Our comparison provided some evidence about these questions. This study
shows once again the complexity of philosophy, which remains open and rooted
in a perspective on learning. Because we define philosophical dialogue in terms
of questioning beliefs, deconstructing experience and prejudices, and searching
collectively for meaning, we claim that in the second class pupils philosophized
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more than in the first. Basically, although the themes that pupils discussed were
not philosophical, pupils nevertheless questioned and thought much more critically about their prejudices with respect to “math-brains.” In fact, the question
discussed, while itself trivial, becomes more complex with the search for the
origins and consequences of our prejudices and when such searching leads to
pangs of conscience and the deconstruction of experience. On the other hand, in
parallel with philosophical dialogue, analysis of the second transcript indicates
that later in the year pupils used several complex thinking skills (nuances and
criteria, criticism, self-correction, etc.), that their language was more articulate,
that their interventions were more focused on the common goal, and that dialectical argumentation developed among them.
Can we thus conclude that these young people have become “philosophers”?
Nothing concrete supports such a conclusion, as what is philosophical is a
question of degree (philosophical compared to what or to whom?). We can
nevertheless assert that most of the pupils began learning to philosophize, showed
complex thinking skills, and experienced dialogical argumentation.
Did the pupils philosophize about mathematics? The philosophical, as we
present it, concerns form rather than content, whereas philosophizing about what
mathematics is brings us to the discipline of mathematics. In the two transcripts,
we see more spontaneous movement among pupils towards philosophical exchange about everyday experience (prejudice against “math-brains”) than about
a mathematical idea (for example, “Does a perfect cube exist?”). This class had
difficulty centring their philosophical questions on mathematics; this type of
question did not arise in either of the two recordings made. In other classes,
however, pupils did ask questions such as “Does a perfect cube exist?” (Daniel
& Pallascio, 1997). This type of discussion arises regularly, but it does require
that the teacher guide the pupils further in this direction — which not all teachers
can do.
This observation highlights the role of the mediator. Within a community of
philosophical enquiry, the mediator must stimulate pupils’ curiosity about mathematical matters and develop their desire to engage in critical thinking and
dialogical communication.
From an initial role essentially centred on management of both the class and
the activity, the mediator successfully transformed a conventional pedagogical
role into a “Socratic role” by basing activities primarily on questioning. The state
of doubt constructed by this questioning provokes a cognitive conflict in the
pupil, which is the starting point in reflection. And to the extent that this individual questioning is shared among a few or even many members of the group,
another process is set into motion — communication. The pupils are then likely
to enter into authentic dialogue.
When the mediator expects homogeneous, even ready-made, answers from pupils, arising from a textbook or from an idea in the mediator’s world, pupils lose
part of their intrinsic motivation. However, when they feel that their creativity,
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judgment, and life experiences are not only respected but required, they gain
interest and strive to surpass themselves (Dewey, 1916/1983). In this state, their
thinking and their communication capacities are activated and actualized.
CONCLUSION
We do not consider the teaching of mathematics as an end in itself but as a
means to the overall education of pupils. The introduction of PD in mathematics
courses is aimed at stimulating pupils’ curiosity and at developing their critical
sense and their sense of social responsibility.
Adapting the approach of Lipman and Sharp to mathematics in a Grade 6
class, we studied two sets of exchanges among pupils, one at the beginning of
a school year, the other at the end of the same school year. Pupils in this class
evolved both cognitively and in how they exchanged ideas, from simple responses of one or a few words at the beginning of the year (responses directed
mainly at the mediator) to a dynamic in which pupils’ interventions at the end
of the year occurred in a dialogical context and involved higher-order thinking
skills.
To become dialectical and foster pupil evolution, the exchange requires the
mediator to provide systematic and guided learning. Our analysis highlighted the
fact that the quality of philosophical leadership by the mediator constitutes a
prime condition for pupils’ cognitive and dialogical evolution: such leadership
is a fundamental requirement for this type of evolution.
This project did not include a comparative test to measure whether pupils’
scholastic results improved after their community of enquiry in P4CM. Neither
did it study the impact of this approach on the development of positive attitudes
to mathematics. Both these questions are part of a separate research project
currently underway.3
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The preliminary research on which this article is based was funded by the Social Sciences and
Humanities Research Council of Canada (1995–1998).
We thank the reviewers of this text, who provided us with pertinent suggestions and asked
questions that helped us greatly.
NOTES
1
Our development of these materials was subsidized through the Étalez votre science program of
the former Quebec Ministry of Industry.
2
A description of the overall training model is beyond the scope of this article; for further details
about the model, see Daniel (1992), Lebuis (1987, 1990), and Schleifer, Lebuis, and Daniel
(1990).
3
This research project is supported by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of
Canada (1996–1999).
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Marie-France Daniel is a professor in the Département de Kinésiology at the Université de Montréal,
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Département des sciences de l’éducation, Université du Québec à Montréal, C.p. 888, Succ. Centreville, Montréal (Québec), H3C 3P8.
Risque d’abandon scolaire, style parental et
participation parentale au suivi scolaire
Pierre Potvin
Rollande Deslandes
Paula Beaulieu
Diane Marcotte
Laurier Fortin
université sherbrooke
Égide Royer
université laval
Danielle Leclerc
La présente étude vise à vérifier les liens entre le risque d’abandon scolaire au secondaire,
le style parental et la participation parentale au suivi scolaire. L’échantillon se compose
de 810 élèves de première secondaire (12–13 ans). Le risque d’abandon scolaire est
mesuré à l’aide du questionnaire Décisions (P. Quirouette, 1988); le style parental et la
participation parentale au suivi scolaire sont évalués au moyen des questionnaires de
L. Steinberg, S. D. Lamborn, S. M. Dornbusch et N. Darling (1992) et J. L. Epstein,
L. J. Connors et K. C. Salinas (1993), traduits et validés au Québec par R. Deslandes
(1996). Les analyses de régressions multiples permettent d’identifier deux dimensions du
style parental et deux dimensions de la participation parentale au suivi scolaire qui
expliquent 23 % de la variance du risque d’abandon scolaire. Les dimensions les plus
significatives sont, en ordre d’importance, le soutien affectif parental, l’engagement et
l’encadrement parental et la communication avec les enseignants.
This study analyzes the correlation of the risk of dropping out in high school with parenting style and parental involvement in schooling. The study sample comprised 810 adolescents (12–13 years old). The risk of dropping out was assessed using the questionnaire
Décisions (P. Quirouette, 1988). Parenting style and parental involvement in schooling
were evaluated using questionnaires developped by L. Steinberg, S. D. Lamborn, S. M.
Dornbusch, and N. Darling (1992) and by J. L. Epstein, L. J. Connors, and K.C. Salinas
(1993), translated and validated in Québec by R. Deslandes (1996). Multiple-regression
analyses identified two dimensions of parenting style and two dimensions of parental
involvement in schooling that together explained 23% of the variance in the risk of dropping out. In order of importance, the most significant dimensions are parental affective
support, warmth, supervision, and communication with teachers.
441
24, 4 (1999) : 441–453
442
PIERRE POTVIN ET AL.
Il semble que le système d’éducation québécois soit incapable, à ce jour, d’atteindre un taux supérieur à 73 % de délivrance des diplômes d’études secondaires
(Ministère de l’Éducation du Québec, 1997). En 1996, 27 % des adolescents
québécois étaient sans diplôme après sept années d’études; chez les filles, le taux
d’abandon était de 20 %; chez les garçons il atteignait 33 %. Il y a donc plus de
garçons que de filles qui décrochent (Beauchesne, 1991; Ekstrom, Goertz, Pollack, et Rock, 1986; Potvin et Rousseau, 1996). L’abandon scolaire est devenu
un problème social majeur au Québec, donnant lieu à de nombreux travaux de
recherche (par ex. : Hrimech et Théorêt, 1997; Janosz, 1995; Langevin, 1992;
Le Blanc, Janosz et Langelier-Biron, 1993; Potvin et Paradis, 1996; Royer,
Moisan, Saint-Laurent, Giasson et Boisclair, 1992; Vallerand et Sénécal, 1992;
Violette, 1991).
Les conséquences de l’abandon scolaire sont bien connues : sur le plan personnel, plusieurs adolescents présentent des troubles de comportement et de la
délinquance; sur le plan économique, ils éprouvent de grandes difficultés à
s’insérer dans le monde du travail. Depuis 1982, le taux de chômage de ces
adolescents est le plus élevé parmi les catégories d’âges de la population active
(Langlois, 1992). Comme le rapportent Rumberger (1995) et Franklin et Streeter
(1992), il serait réducteur de croire que l’abandon scolaire ne regarde que l’école.
Au contraire, la décision d’abandonner l’école résulte d’une longue évolution et
d’un cumul de frustrations engendrées par les échecs scolaires et par les difficultés relationnelles avec les pairs (Parker et Asher, 1987), les enseignants et les
parents (Potvin et Paradis, 1996). La famille, tout comme l’école et le comportement de l’élève sont les variables les plus souvent associées au décrochage
scolaire (Doucet, 1993; Garnier, Stein et Jacobs, 1997; Janosz, 1995; Le Blanc
et al., 1993; Rumberger, 1995; Rumberger, Ghatak, Poulos, Ritter et Dornbusch,
1990). Les variables familiales peuvent se regrouper en deux catégories : le style
parental et la participation parentale au suivi scolaire. La présente étude vise à
vérifier le lien entre le risque d’abandon scolaire au secondaire, le style parental
et la participation parentale au suivi scolaire.
VARIABLES FAMILIALES
Le style parental
Grolnick et Ryan (1989) définissent le style parental comme étant un support à
l’autonomie, une sorte d’engagement parental et de structure d’éducation. Darling
et Steinberg (1993) précisent que les styles d’éducation des parents sont des constellations d’attitudes et d’expressions non verbales qui définissent la relation
entre parents et enfants, au gré des différentes situations. Baumrind (1978) est,
sans contredit, la pionnière dans l’étude des styles parentaux. Elle a élaboré trois
styles parentaux différant sur le plan des valeurs et des comportements, soit les
styles autoritaire, démocratique et permissif. En ce qui a trait plus particulière-
RISQUE D’ABANDON SCOLAIRE ET IMPLICATION PARENTALE
443
ment au décrochage scolaire, Rumberger et ses collaborateurs (1990) estiment
que les décrocheurs proviennent davantage de foyers caractérisés par un style
parental permissif. Doucet (1993) démontre que les élèves identifiés comme étant
potentiellement décrocheurs perçoivent leurs parents comme étant plus permissifs, ce qui corrobore les résultats d’études antérieures à ce sujet (Alpert et
Dunham, 1986; Rumberger et al., 1990; Waddel, 1990). Aussi, ces résultats
démontrent que les familles des élèves identifiés comme n’étant pas à risque de
décrocher ont plus tendance à être démocratiques. D’autres travaux récents ont
également vérifié le lien entre les styles parentaux et l’ajustement ou l’adaptation
de l’adolescent (par ex. : Eccles, Early, Frasier, Belansky et McCarthy, 1997;
Herman, Dornbusch, Herron et Herting, 1997).
C’est l’analyse des dimensions du style démocratique qui retient notre attention dans la présente recherche puisque ce style est considéré par la majorité des
chercheurs comme favorisant le mieux le développement de l’enfant et contribuant de façon remarquable à la réussite scolaire. Le style démocratique est
caractérisé par un ensemble de normes claires établies par les parents; par la
mise en application de ces normes; par l’utilisation de sanctions lorsque cela
s’avère nécessaire; par l’encouragement à l’autonomie et par la communication
ouverte entre les parents et les enfants (Dornbusch, Ritter, Leiderman, Roberts
et Fraleigh, 1987; Lamborn, Mounts, Steinberg et Dornbusch, 1991; Steinberg,
Elmen et Mounts, 1989; Steinberg, Mounts, Lamborn et Dornbusch, 1991).
Dans le cadre d’une étude américaine portant sur les liens entre le style
parental démocratique et les résultats scolaires, Steinberg et al. (1989) ont identifié trois dimensions du style parental : l’engagement parental, l’encadrement
parental et l’encouragement à l’autonomie. Ainsi, le style parental démocratique
est caractérisé par de hauts niveaux d’engagement, d’encadrement et d’encouragement à l’autonomie et est en lien avec de meilleurs résultats scolaires (Paulson, 1994; Steinberg et al., 1989; Steinberg et al., 1992).
Du côté québécois, Deslandes (1996) a réalisé une recension des écrits sur
l’influence du milieu familial sur la réussite scolaire. Elle a également effectué
des travaux de recherche portant sur la relation entre, d’une part, le style parental
démocratique et la participation parentale au suivi scolaire et, d’autre part, la
réussite scolaire au secondaire (Deslandes et Potvin, 1998; Deslandes et Royer,
1997). Des analyses ont également été réalisées en comparant la perception
du style parental chez les filles et chez les garçons (Deslandes, Bouchard et
St-Amant, 1999). Ainsi, lorsque l’étude des dimensions du style parental prend
en considération le sexe de l’adolescent, l’engagement parental semble prédire
la réussite chez les filles; chez les garçons, ce sont l’encadrement et l’encouragement à l’autonomie qui prédisent la réussite. Il y a donc lieu de s’interroger sur
l’influence différentielle des dimensions du style parental en lien avec la réussite
scolaire des adolescents.
La recension des écrits n’a permis de relever aucune étude portant spécifique-
444
ment sur la contribution relative de chacune des dimensions du style parental
démocratique à la décision de quitter prématurément l’école.
La participation parentale
Un grand nombre de recherches ont mis en évidence les liens positifs entre la
participation parentale au suivi scolaire et les résultats scolaires (Dornbusch et
Ritter, 1992; Grolnick et Ryan, 1989; Paulson, 1994; Steinberg et al., 1992;
Stevenson et Baker, 1987). Les formes de participation des parents peuvent
varier, cette participation allant de la lecture à la maison jusqu’aux activités
scolaires. Selon Dornbusch et Ritter (1992), les manifestations d’encouragements
des parents qui soutiennent, complimentent et offrent leur aide, sont associées à
de meilleurs résultats scolaires ou à une amélioration de la performance scolaire.
Les résultats de Keith et al. (1993) ajoutent à ce que tous ces chercheurs ont
démontré, confirmant l’effet puissant de la participation parentale sur les résultats
scolaires des élèves de huitième année.
Du côté québécois, Deslandes (1996) a identifié cinq dimensions inhérentes
à la participation parentale au suivi scolaire : soutien affectif; communication
entre parents et enseignants; interactions axées sur le quotidien scolaire; communication entre les parents et l’école; communication entre parents et adolescents.
À l’aide d’une version francophone de l’instrument conçu par Epstein, Connors
et Salinas (1993), Deslandes démontre la relation entre les résultats scolaires et
la participation des parents. Deux dimensions se sont avérées particulièrement
significatives, soit, en corrélation positive, le soutien affectif des parents et, en
corrélation négative, la communication avec les enseignants.
Plusieurs facteurs influencent le niveau de participation parentale au suivi
scolaire. Les parents semblent plus enclins à participer au suivi scolaire de leurs
enfants si ceux-ci sont performants à l’école (Baker et Stevenson, 1986; Dauber
et Epstein, 1993; Keith et al., 1993). Par ailleurs, Alpert et Dunham (1986)
montrent qu’une plus grande surveillance des activités des jeunes aide à réduire
les taux de décrochage. Rumberger et al. (1990) suggèrent aussi que, comparés
aux parents des autres adolescents plus ou moins performants, les parents des
décrocheurs participent beaucoup moins aux activités scolaires de leurs enfants.
Cette recension de la documentation a mis en évidence d’une façon particulière la contribution de certaines des dimensions du style parental et de la participation parentale au suivi scolaire et à l’adaptation scolaire des adolescents. Il
ressort que les trois dimensions du style parental, soit l’engagement, l’encadrement et l’encouragement à l’autonomie sont positivement associées aux résultats
scolaires. L’encadrement semble favorable à une réduction du taux de décrochage
scolaire. Concernant la participation parentale au suivi scolaire, il apparaît que
la communication entre parents et enseignants est reliée négativement aux résultats scolaires; le soutien affectif des parents leur est relié positivement.
445
Parmi les études qui ont été réalisées sur l’abandon scolaire, il n’en existe
aucune, à notre connaissance, qui porte spécifiquement sur la contribution relative des dimensions du style parental et de la participation parentale au risque
d’abandon scolaire au secondaire.
VARIABLES FAMILIALES ET RISQUE D’ABANDON SCOLAIRE
L’objectif de la recherche est de vérifier les liens entre, d’une part, les dimensions du style parental et la participation parentale au suivi scolaire et, d’autre
part, le risque d’abandon scolaire au secondaire. Plus spécifiquement, il s’agit de
vérifier : (a) la contribution respective du style parental et de la participation
parentale au risque d’abandon scolaire; (b) si cette contribution est la même selon
le sexe de l’élève. Les analyses portent sur la relation entre les dimensions du
style parental telles que définies par Steinberg et al. (1989, 1992), les dimensions
de la participation parentale au suivi scolaire telles que définies par Deslandes
(1996) et le score total du questionnaire Décisions.
MÉTHODE
L’échantillon est composé de trois cohortes provenant de quatre écoles secondaires de trois grandes régions du Québec : Sherbrooke, Québec et Trois-Rivières
et compte 810 élèves de la première secondaire (12–13 ans) dont 54 % sont des
garçons et 46 % des filles. Les élèves qui ont accepté de participer à l’étude
étaient inscrits en première secondaire, en septembre 1996. Ils ont complété les
questionnaires lors de deux périodes régulières de cours, après avoir donné leur
consentement écrit et celui de leurs parents.
L’instrument d’évaluation du risque d’abandon scolaire des adolescents est le
questionnaire Décisions mis au point par Quirouette (1988). Il est composé de
39 questions à choix de réponses fermées réparties en six dimensions : (1) milieu
familial (huit items); (2) traits personnels (huit items); (3) projets scolaires (six
items); (4) habiletés scolaires (six items); (5) relations enseignant-élève (six
items); (6) motivation pour l’école (cinq items). La valeur prédictive du questionnaire est de 88 % auprès d’une cohorte de 1 015 adolescents suivis pendant
quatre ans. La fidélité de l’instrument, évaluée par la méthode test-retest, donne
une corrélation de 0,90. Pour ce qui est de l’analyse d’items des six dimensions,
les corrélations se situent toutes à environ 0,80 et plus. Diverses méthodes
peuvent être utilisées pour traiter les données de l’instrument. Nous avons utilisé
le score total aux 39 items du questionnaire Décisions comme mesure du risque
d’abandon scolaire. Dans cette perspective, plus le score est élevé, plus l’élève
présente un risque d’abandon scolaire. L’instrument présente un coefficient de
consistance interne élevé égal à 0,89. Étant donné que le questionnaire Décisions
est la variable dépendante et qu’il comprend une dimension nommée milieu
446
familial, nous nous sommes assurés que cette dimension ne mesurait pas la
même chose que les variables indépendantes, soit le style parental et la participation parentale.
Le style parental a été mesuré à l’aide d’un instrument d’abord élaboré par
Steinberg, Lamborn, Dornbusch et Darling (1992) et validé en contexte québécois
(Deslandes, 1996; Deslandes, Bertrand, Royer et Turcotte, 1995). Le questionnaire comprend trois sous- échelles correspondant aux trois dimensions du style
parental, telles qu’identifiées par Steinberg et al. (1989, 1992), soit : encadrement, engagement et encouragement à l’autonomie. L’échelle de l’engagement
parental est constituée de 12 énoncés (α = 0,83) évaluant jusqu’à quel point un
adolescent perçoit ses parents comme étant chaleureux, sensibles et engagés.
L’échelle de l’encadrement parental est composée de 6 énoncés (α = 0,78)
mesurant la supervision parentale ainsi que les limites établies par les parents.
L’échelle d’encouragement à l’autonomie comporte 6 énoncés (α = 0,64) mesurant l’importance de la discipline démocratique exercée par les parents et incitant
l’adolescent à exprimer son individualité.
Les différentes dimensions de la participation parentale au suivi scolaire ont
été évaluées à l’aide d’un instrument élaboré par Epstein, Connors et Salinas
(1993), tel que traduit en français et validé en contexte québécois (Deslandes et
al., 1995). Ce questionnaire est composé de 20 énoncés évaluant la participation
des parents dans 20 activités à la maison ou à l’école. Ces énoncés sont répartis
en cinq sous-échelles. La première, portant sur le soutien affectif des parents, est
composée de six items; par exemple : « un de mes parents m’encourage dans
mes activités scolaires » (α = 0,78). La deuxième sous-échelle, la communication
avec les enseignants, comporte quatre items; par exemple : « un de mes parents
parle au téléphone avec mes enseignants » (α = 0,68). La troisième sous-échelle,
les interactions axées sur le quotidien scolaire entre parents et adolescents, est
composée de quatre énoncés; par exemple : « un de mes parents me demande si
j’ai fait mes travaux scolaires (devoirs ou études) » (α = 0,73). La quatrième
sous-échelle, la communication parents-école, comprend trois énoncés; par exemple : « un de mes parents va aux rencontres de parents à l’école » (α = 0,56). La
cinquième sous-échelle, la communication parents-adolescents, comporte trois
énoncés; par exemple : « un de mes parents discute avec moi de mes projets
d’avenir (travail, études) » (α = 0,64).
RÉSULTATS
Les données ont été traitées par des analyses de régression multiple à l’aide du
logiciel SPSS, version 8,0. Le seuil de signification a été fixé à 0,05. Les plus
fortes corrélations entre, d’une part, les dimensions du style parental et la participation parentale et, d’autre part, le risque d’abandon sont, par ordre d’importance : le soutien affectif, r(804) = –0,40, p < 0,000; l’engagement parental,
447
r(804) = –0,40, p < 0,000; l’encadrement parental r(803) = –0,34, p < 0,000. Les
corrélations ne sont pas toutes significatives, ce qui indique que seules certaines
dimensions du style parental et de la participation parentale sont associées au
risque d’abandon scolaire.
Pour vérifier la contribution respective des dimensions du style parental et de
la participation parentale sur le risque d’abandon, nous avons effectué une
régression multiple en intégrant dans le modèle l’ensemble des dimensions du
style parental et de la participation parentale au suivi scolaire. Comme le présente le tableau 1, deux dimensions du style parental ainsi que deux dimensions
de la participation parentale ressortent comme facteurs les plus associés au risque
d’abandon scolaire. Ainsi, le modèle comprend quatre variables qui expliquent
23 % de la variance dans les résultats, au score total du questionnaire Décisions,
avec une valeur de F(8, 801) = 31.316, p < 0,000. Le facteur qui correspond au
soutien affectif des parents ressort comme étant le plus associé au risque d’abandon scolaire (β = –0,255, p < 0,000); il est suivi par l’engagement parental (β =
–0,205, p < ,0000), puis l’encadrement parental (β = –0,190, p < 0,000) et la
communication avec les enseignants (β = 0,09, p < 0,01). Ces résultats signifient
que plus les adolescents perçoivent leurs parents comme des personnes qui leur
apportent un soutien affectif, s’engagent auprès d’eux et les encadrent, moins ils
présentent des risques d’abandon scolaire. De plus, moins les parents doivent
communiquer avec les enseignants, moins le risque d’abandon scolaire est élevé.
TABLEAU 1
Régressions multiples des variables indépendantes du style parental et de la
participation parentale au suivi scolaire sur le risque d’abandon scolaire
(N = 800)
Variables
Engagement parental
Encadrement parental
Encouragement à l’autonomie
Interaction scolaire parent-adolescent
Communication parent-école
Communication parent-adolescent
Soutien affectif
Communication avec enseignants
R2 = 0,23, F(8, 801) = 29,609, p < 0,000.
*p < 0,01. **p < 0,000.
β
ET β
Bêta
–9,594
–9,206
1,340
0,452
2,328
–0,410
–9,211
3,219
1,923
1,695
1,264
1,448
1,362
1,408
1,752
1,302
–0,205
–0,190
0,034
0,012
0,066
–0,012
–0,255
0,090
t
–0,990**
–5,431**
1,061
0,312
1,710
–0,291
–5,258**
2,472*
448
Ce dernier résultat s’explique par le fait que règle générale, la communication
entre enseignants et parents est particulièrement fréquente lorsque l’élève présente des difficultés à l’école.
Pour vérifier la contribution respective des dimensions du style parental et de
la participation parentale sur le risque d’abandon scolaire selon le sexe de
l’élève, nous avons réalisé séparément, pour chaque sexe une régression multiple
en intégrant dans le modèle l’ensemble des dimensions du style parental et de la
participation parentale au suivi scolaire. Chez les filles, les mêmes dimensions
du style parental et de la participation parentale ressortent et expliquent 28 % de
la variance dans les résultats, au score total du questionnaire Décisions, avec une
valeur de F(8, 350) = 16,681, p < 0,000. Cependant, l’ordre d’importance des
dimensions diffère du modèle global. Ainsi, chez les filles, le facteur qui ressort
le plus associé au risque d’abandon scolaire est l’engagement parental (β =
–0,266, p < 0,000). Suivent, dans l’ordre, l’encadrement parental (β = –0,221,
p < 0,000), le soutien affectif parental (β = –0,189, p < 0,01) et la communication avec les enseignants (β = 0,177, p < 0,002). Par contre, chez les garçons,
les résultats ressemblent davantage au modèle global. Les mêmes dimensions du
style parental et seulement une dimension de la participation parentale ressortent et expliquent 22 % de la variance avec une valeur de F(8, 412) = 14,283,
p < 0,000. Ainsi, chez les garçons, le facteur le plus associé au risque d’abandon
scolaire est le soutien affectif des parents (β = –0,278, p < 0,000); suivent, dans
l’ordre, l’engagement parental (β = –0,78, p < 0,002) et l’encadrement parental
(β = –0,167, p < 0,001).
DISCUSSION
La recension des écrits a permis d’estimer la façon dont les trois dimensions du
style parental contribuent à prédire les résultats scolaires. Ainsi, les jeunes qui
décrivent leurs parents comme des personnes qui les traitent avec chaleur, démocratie et fermeté, ont de meilleurs résultats scolaires que leurs pairs (Deslandes
et Potvin, 1998; Deslandes et Royer, 1997; Herman et al., 1997; Paulson, 1994;
Steinberg et al., 1989, 1992). D’autre part, un grand nombre de recherches ont
mis en évidence les liens positifs entre la participation parentale au suivi scolaire
et les résultats scolaires (Dornbusch et Ritter, 1992; Grolnick et Ryan, 1989;
Paulson, 1994; Steinberg et al., 1992; Stevenson et Baker, 1987). Comme nous
l’avons mentionné, peu de recherches se sont intéressées au lien entre le risque
d’abandon scolaire ou l’abandon scolaire, les dimensions du style parental et les
dimensions de la participation parentale. L’originalité de la présente recherche
réside justement dans le fait d’expliciter la contribution relative de chaque dimension, tant du style que de la participation parentale, au risque d’abandon scolaire.
Les résultats de la présente recherche corroborent de nombreux résultats des
travaux antérieurs ayant pour cible le rendement scolaire (Deslandes, 1996;
449
Deslandes et Potvin, 1998; Deslandes et Royer, 1997; Dornbusch et Ritter, 1992;
Grolnick et Ryan, 1989; Herman et al., 1997; Keith et al., 1993; Paulson, 1994;
Steinberg et al., 1989, 1992; Stevenson et Baker, 1987), de même que les résultats de quelques travaux ayant pour cible l’abandon scolaire (Alpert et Dunham,
1986; Rumberger et al., 1990). Mais le facteur le plus important a trait à une
dimension de la participation parentale au suivi scolaire, à savoir : le soutien
affectif parental. Cette dimension est importante pour les deux sexes, mais tout
particulièrement pour les garçons. Ce résultat va dans le même sens que ceux
observés par certains chercheurs au niveau du rendement scolaire (Deslandes,
1996; Deslandes et Royer, 1997; Dornbusch et Ritter, 1992). L’adolescent qui
perçoit que l’un de ses parents lui apporte du soutien affectif présente moins de
risque d’abandon scolaire. Ceci se manifeste par le fait que, selon l’adolescent,
ses parents l’aident à faire ses devoirs quand il leur demande, l’encouragent dans
ses activités scolaires, assistent à des activités scolaires auxquelles il participe,
discutent avec lui d’options de cours à choisir. En somme, le parent est positivement actif envers son enfant et son expérience scolaire. Il s’implique, renforce
positivement son enfant et il peut l’aider en cas de besoin.
Les deux autres facteurs les plus importants du style parental sont l’engagement et l’encadrement. L’engagement parental est important pour les deux sexes,
mais tout particulièrement pour les filles. L’adolescent qui perçoit que ses
parents, ou l’adulte avec qui il vit, manifestent de l’engagement à son égard,
présente moins de risques d’abandon scolaire. Dans ce cas, l’adolescent se représente le parent comme quelqu’un sur qui il peut compter pour l’aider lorsqu’il
a un problème personnel, quelqu’un qui l’incite à faire de son mieux dans tout
ce qu’il fait, qui l’aide quand il ne comprend pas quelque chose dans ses travaux
scolaires, etc.
L’encadrement parental est aussi important pour les garçons que pour les
filles. Ce résultat va dans le sens des observations de Alpert et Dunham (1986)
sur le plan du décrochage scolaire : Les auteurs affirment qu’une plus grande
supervision des activités des élèves aide à réduire les taux de décrochage.
L’adolescent qui perçoit que son parent le supervise présente moins de risque
d’abandon scolaire. Dans ce cas, l’adolescent voit ses parents comme des personnes qui essaient de savoir, ou qui savent exactement, où il va à chaque soir, et
ce qu’il fait durant son temps libre. Les résultats permettent aussi de constater
que chez les filles, le degré d’explication de la variance des scores de risque
d’abandon scolaire est plus élevé (28 %) comparativement à celui des garçons
(22 %). De plus, l’on observe que chez les filles, les dimensions particulièrement
importantes se retrouvent sur le plan du style parental. Chez les garçons, c’est
une dimension de la participation parentale qui ressort comme premier élément,
à savoir, le soutien affectif. Ces différences observées chez les filles et chez les
garçons suggèrent des orientations pour l’intervention. Nous croyons qu’il serait
important, dans les programmes de prévention de l’abandon scolaire, de tenir
compte de ces différences reliées au sexe de l’adolescent.
450
Les résultats révèlent que 23 % de la variance du risque d’abandon scolaire
s’explique par les dimensions du style parental et de la participation parentale au
suivi scolaire. Ainsi, 77 % de la variance reste à expliquer par d’autres variables.
Les écrits sur le sujet montrent que de nombreux autres facteurs peuvent expliquer le risque d’abandon scolaire, à savoir, les capacités scolaires du jeune, le
milieu socio-économique de la famille, la qualité du milieu scolaire, etc. De plus,
les résultats de la présente recherche, comme d’autres travaux en cours (Fortin,
Potvin, Royer et Marcotte, 1999) nous portent à croire que les différentes variables associées au risque d’abandon scolaire sont en interaction. Par exemple, les
variables familiales, celles du milieu socio-économique, et celles du milieu
scolaire, sont intimement liées entre elles. L’un des défis importants pour les
travaux futurs consistera à établir ce réseau de liens et la contribution relative de
chaque variable.
CONCLUSION
Les résultats de la présente étude ont des implications tant pour les parents dans
leur rôle d’éducateur que pour le développement des programmes d’intervention
préventive s’adressant aux parents d’adolescents à risque d’abandon scolaire. En
effet, il est de la première importance de tenir compte du rôle que jouent le
soutien affectif parental et l’engagement parental dans le risque d’abandon
scolaire. En fait, ces résultats nous suggèrent d’investir dans les fondements de
la relation éducative parentale, à savoir, participer et partager le vécu de son
adolescent, l’aider dans son cheminement, l’encourager dans ses réalisations,
l’accompagner dans certaines activités, être disponible, s’intéresser à ce qui lui
arrive, avoir des attentes élevées mais réalistes à son égard. L’autre dimension
importante dont il faut tenir compte est l’encadrement parental. À ce niveau, le
parent est actif dans la supervision de son adolescent, il est au courant de ses
activités, connaît ses amis, les lieux qu’il fréquente, etc. Finalement, l’intervention préventive devrait tenir compte des réalités différentes vécues par les
filles et les garçons.
La principale limite de cette étude est le fait que les résultats soient tirés des
seules perceptions des adolescents. Ceci concerne tant le style parental, la participation parentale au suivi scolaire que le risque d’abandon scolaire. Dans la
poursuite des travaux sur l’abandon scolaire et le rôle des parents, il serait
intéressant d’intégrer dans les analyses, les caractéristiques familiales (structure
familiale, statut socio-économique, scolarité des parents, etc.). De plus, il serait
important d’augmenter la validité des résultats de la présente étude, par une
triangulation des sources de données. On pourraît mettre en relation, d’une part,
la perception qu’ont les adolescents du style parental et de la participation de
leurs parents, et, d’autre part, la perception des parents au sujet de leur style
parental et de leur participation. Pour ce qui est du risque d’abandon scolaire,
quelques données considérées comme facteurs de risque (par ex. : taux d’absen-
451
téisme, taux de redoublement, taux d’échecs dans les matières de base) pourraient
être ajoutées aux résultats du questionnaire Décisions.
REMERCIEMENTS
La présente recherche fait partie d’une étude longitudinale intitulée « Validation d’un modèle multidimensionnel et explicatif de l’adaptation sociale et de la réussite scolaire des élèves à risque ». Les
auteurs tiennent à remercier le Conseil Québécois de la Recherche Sociale et le Conseil de Recherches en Sciences Humaines du Canada pour les subventions accordées à cette étude. Des remerciements particuliers aux personnels des écoles ainsi qu’aux parents et aux adolescents participants.
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Pierre Potvin est professeur au Département de psychoéducation, Université du Québec à TroisRivières, C.P. 500, Trois-Rivières (Québec) G9A 5H7. Rollande Deslandes est professeure au
Département des sciences de l’éducation, Université du Québec à Trois-Rivières, C.P. 500, TroisRivières (Québec) G9A 5H7. Paula Beaulieu est étudiante à la maîtrise en psychologie et Diane
Marcotte est professeure au Département de psychologie, Université du Québec à Trois-Rivières, C.P.
500, Trois-Rivières (Québec) G9A 5H7. Laurier Fortin est professeur, Département d’éducation
spécialisée, Université de Sherbrooke, Sherbrooke (Québec) J1K 2R1. Égide Royer est professeur à
la Faculté des sciences de l’éducation, Université Laval, Cité universitaire, Sainte-Foy (Québec) G1K
7P4. Danielle Leclerc est professionnelle de recherche au Département de psychoéducation, Université
du Québec à Trois-Rivières, C.P. 500, Trois-Rivières (Québec) G9A 5H7.
The Supervision of a Student Teacher as Defined
by Cooperating Teachers
Pierre Boudreau
university of ottawa
How do cooperating teachers define the supervision of a student teacher? Is this
definition coherent with the development of reflective teaching, “a widely used
term in current discussion about the nature of professional training” (Calderhead,
1989, p. 43)? These questions oriented the qualitative research presented here.
The notion of reflection and reflective teaching is almost everywhere in
teacher education. Bengtsson (1995), in terms very close to those of Calderhead
(1989), writes that “reflection has grown massively in Anglo-Saxon pedagogy
and has become a key concept in discussion about teacher education and the
teaching profession” (p. 23). Teacher education programs are, at the same time,
devoting more and more time to practical experiences in schools. In these
practical experiences, teachers in schools take on the role of cooperating teacher
when they supervise student teachers. Their behaviour in this role greatly influences what the student teacher learns (Taylor, Borys, & Larocque, 1992), and
it is oriented by the definition these teachers give to this role. It is therefore quite
appropriate to enquire into the definition to find out whether a concern with
reflective teaching is present.
Often teachers say that they learned to teach through trial and error in their
classroom and that experience is the only valid way to learn to teach (FeimanNemser, 1983; Lortie, 1975). One might then assume that this personal method
of learning to teach by trial and error would predominate in their definition of
the cooperating teacher’s role.
Field (1994) says that supervision of student teachers has been seen in many
instances as socialization and enculturation in the school context. Cooperating
teachers contribute to student teachers’ development of survival skills and tricks
of the trade. Field reccommends that cooperating teachers act more as mentors
and demonstrate skills such as being able to help student teachers reflect on their
teaching.
In a more theoretical article, Housego and Grimmett (1983) identify two
different conceptual frameworks used by supervisors of student teachers: a
performance-based direct one and a more inductive developmental one. The
performance-based approach emphasizes the cooperating teacher’s provision of
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24, 4 (1999): 454–459
RESEARCH NOTES
/
NOTES DE RECHERCHE
455
instructions about what to do and when to do it. The developmental one focuses
on the quality of the cooperating teacher’s relationship with the student and the
creation of a supportive working environment. Each approach has many shortcomings, and Housego and Grimmett propose a “metadeliberative” perspective
in which supervisors constantly monitor “the variables and needs that impinge
on practicum supervision in order that the appropriate variability of approach
associated with supervisor flexibility becomes possible” (p. 333).
METHOD
Guyton and McIntyre (1990) strongly urge qualitative investigations of teachers’
conceptions of the role of supervising student teachers: “role behaviors are
greatly influenced by the way one conceptualizes or thinks about that role.
Qualitative research provides better access to thinking and behavior” (p. 524).
These authors also add that written role definitions represent appropriate data for
uncovering such conceptualization. But cooperating teachers have rarely been
asked to respond to direct open-ended questions about how they define the role
of student-teacher supervisor.
The participants in this study were 36 cooperating teachers taking a course in
supervision. Twenty-one were from elementary schools (15 women and 6 men)
and 15 were from junior and senior high schools (12 men and 3 women). Various disciplines were represented. All participants had experience supervising
student teachers, ranging from 3 to 20 years. Their teaching experience varied
from 5 to 32 years. At the time, more than 90% of them were teaching in urban
or suburban schools that varied in size from 200 to 1,200 students; the remainder
were teaching in small rural schools. As an introductory exercise in the first class
of the course, participants were asked to complete the sentence “For me, supervising a student teacher means. . . .”
The written responses were analyzed using a technique proposed by Tesch
(1990). The content was broken down into meaningful pieces of information
called “meaning units.” These units were then regrouped based on similarities.
The first phase of analysis involved independent categorization of the data by
two researchers. In the second phase, the researchers discussed ambiguities
critically and arrived at a consensus in the elaboration of the final categories.
RESULTS
From the analysis of responses, the role of cooperating teacher was defined by
the five categories of tasks. Following each category are representative phrases
taken from the participants’ written responses.
1. Integrating the student teacher into the school system (“inviting the student
teacher to staff and parent meetings,” “introducing the student teacher to the
class”)
456
RESEARCH NOTES
/
NOTES DE RECHERCHE
2. Establishing a relationship with the student teacher (“welcoming a collaborator,” “planning lessons and learning activities with him,” “establishing a
helping relationship”)
3. Offering professional self-development opportunities (“leading him towards
the development of his personal qualities,” “allowing him to develop his own
theories on teaching”)
4. Organizing a practicum (“preparing with the student teacher the progression
in the work to be accomplished,” “identifying objectives and means that will
help in reaching these objectives”)
5. Exchanging ideas and feedback (“discussing, exchanging ideas with a person
who shares the same goals and ideals,” “discussing his success and failures
after a lesson”)
Deeper analysis of the data revealed other interesting details about the words
and expressions that cooperating teachers used most often and least often to
define the supervision of a student teacher. The words “help,” “guide,” “advise,”
and “encourage” were used most often, along with the expressions “offer opportunities” and “allow him/her.” Interestingly, the words “teaching” and “reflection” were used only once in the definition of supervision.
DISCUSSION
Participants in this research often conceived of supervising a student teacher as
predominantly offering personal and professional self-development opportunities
in a positive relationship. This definition resembles what Housego and Grimmett
(1983) call a “developmental model of supervision using an indulgent mode”
(p. 327). In their model, the cooperating teacher concentrates on a facilitative
function and is primarily concerned with providing encouragement and the
opportunity to learn by trial and error. The cooperating teacher’s main focus is
therefore to assist student teachers in their personal and social development in
a school situation. In this context, the term facilitator probably best describes the
cooperating teacher’s role. This view of the cooperating teacher’s role implies
that “learning to teach is treated as a developmental process, one in which the
student is encouraged to create his or her own unique style of teaching while
working through the problems which emerge as the field experience proceeds”
(Housego & Grimmett, 1983, p. 326). This role is exemplified in participants’
responses such as “letting the student teacher be himself in his pedagogical style”
and “allowing the student teacher the opportunity to elaborate his or her own
theories about teaching.”
The category of tasks “integrating the student teacher into the school system”
pertains directly to the socialization process Field (1994) mentions. The small
number of meaning units referring in one way or another to the term reflection
RESEARCH NOTES
/
NOTES DE RECHERCHE
457
confirms that participants in this research do not define supervising student
teachers as a mentoring function oriented towards the development of reflective
teaching, as defined by Field (1994). However, one participant described part of
the role of the cooperating teacher as “making the student teacher conscious of
what he does, why and how he does it,” and another described it as “to further
the student teacher’s reflection on the children’s learning.”
After an extensive review of definitions of reflective teaching, Calderhead
(1989) states that the only uniting theme in these definitions is “the general
emphasis on the cognitive, and to some extent moral or affective, aspects of
learning to teach” (p. 45). Feiman-Nemser and Buchmann (1987) postulate that
the central task of teacher preparation is to help prospective teachers recognize
the difference between “going through the motions of teaching . . . and connecting these activities to what pupils should be learning over time” (p. 257). The
development of the skill to recognize this difference, and to connect activities to
learning, represents a cognitive aspect of reflective teaching (see Calderhead,
1989), in which cooperating teachers could intervene during their supervision.
But the level of “automaticity” teachers develop in their everyday routines and
the implicit connections they make between the motions of teaching and pupil
learning constitute a serious obstacle to effective intervention as a reflective
teacher educator.
Teachers are mainly “situational decision makers” (Bolster, 1983). In the
same way, Perrenoud (1994) defines the practice of teaching as a succession of
micro-decisions (p. 23). These micro-decisions and the actions that follow are
based on schemes teachers construct mainly from their experiences. Teachers are
not necessarily conscious of these schemes and of the fact that these schemes
orient their decisions and actions. All these schemes are organized and constantly
working as a matrix of perceptions, evaluations, and actions (Perrenoud, 1994,
p. 24), making it possible for teachers to accomplish many different tasks simultaneously. If this is a plausible definition of part of the act of teaching, conscious
reflection is not part of this process. Here we are talking more of “automaticity”
(Bloom, 1986) and implicit connections which are essential in some phases of
a teacher’s life in a classroom.
To help the student teacher recognize the difference between motions of
teaching and the connections between these motions and pupil learning, teachers
would have to bring their routine actions back to a conscious level and consider
them carefully before being able to explain them to a student teacher and to
present the reflective process used to develop the routine. The “automaticity”
teachers develop represents an obstacle when they assume the role of cooperating
teacher, especially in developing a reflective teacher.
Some authors question the emphasis given to reflective teaching. Reflection,
in the sense of appraising one’s own work, requires complex knowledge as well
as critical and analytical skills (Calderhead, 1989). Russell (1988) suggests that
the early stages of learning to teach are characterized by concerns to master
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classroom routines and to develop a sense of confidence. Russell also suggests
that it may be only after achieving a basic mastery of these routines and after
developing a sense of confidence that students can be expected to be able to
reflect on their own work. This suggestion does not diminish the importance of
developing reflective skills in the overall process of learning to teach, but it
draws attention to the fact that student teachers may have other priorities in the
first stages of their learning. They would probably not have the complex knowledge and the skills to be able to reflect on or appraise their own teaching.
Furlong and Maynard (1995) examined student teachers’ development of
professional knowledge during a practicum and concluded that this knowledge
acquisition occurs in numerous stages. They confirmed Russell’s findings about
the importance of classroom control in the early stages of learning to teach in a
practicum. They also observed that student teachers are uncomfortable during
these early stages because they dislike seeing themselves as authority figures.
Therefore, the role of the cooperating teacher in these stages might better be to
support the student teacher’s personal transition. The developmental model of
supervision that emerged from our data seems particularly appropriate to the idea
of supporting this personal transition.
CONCLUSION
Many teacher educators in colleges and universities seem to favour a reflective
approach in the supervision of a practicum. Teacher educators in schools (cooperating teachers) seem to favour a trial-and-error approach or a developmental
model (Housego & Grimmett, 1983). This discrepancy between the reflective
approach and the trial-and-error approach should be considered in an effort to
increase the effectiveness of the practicum in teacher education programs. A first
step in this direction would be acknowledgement and communication of these
different approaches.
Both of these approaches can contribute to preservice teachers’ learning in a
practicum. In schools, effective teachers develop numerous teaching strategies
and choose the most appropriate, taking into consideration many essential factors,
one of which is the pupil’s prior knowledge. In the same way, effective school
and university teacher educators will have to develop numerous supervision
approaches and choose the most appropriate, taking into consideration the student
teacher’s previously acquired knowledge.
REFERENCES
Bengtsson, J. (1995). What is reflection? On reflection in the teaching profession and teacher education. Teachers and Teaching: Theory and Practice, 1(1), 23–32.
Bloom B. S. (1986). Automaticity. Educational Leadership, 43(5), 70–77.
Bolster, A. S. (1983). Toward a more effective model of research on teaching. Harvard Educational
Review, 53, 294–308.
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459
Calderhead, J. (1989). Reflective teaching and teacher education. Teaching and Teacher Education,
5, 43–51.
Feiman-Nemser, S. (1983). Learning to teach. In L. S. Shulman & G. Sykes (Eds.), Handbook of
teaching and policy (pp. 150–170). New York: Longman.
Feiman-Nemser, S., & Buchmann, M. (1987). When is student teaching teacher education? Teaching
and Teacher Education, 3, 255–273.
Field, B. (1994). The new role of the teacher: Mentoring. In T. Field & B. Field (Eds.), Teachers as
mentors: A practical guide (pp. 63–77). London; Falmer Press.
Furlong, J., & Maynard, T. (1995). Mentoring student teachers. London: Routledge.
Guyton, E., & McIntyre, D. J. (1990). Student teaching and school experiences. In W. R. Houston
(Ed.), Handbook of research on teacher education (pp. 514–534). New York: Macmillan Publishing.
Housego, B. E. J., & Grimmett, P. (1983). The performance-based/developmental debate about
student teaching supervision: A typology and tentative resolution. Alberta Journal of Educational
Research, 29, 319–337.
Lortie, D. (1975). Schoolteacher. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
Perrenoud, P. (1994). La formation des enseignants: entre théorie et pratique. Paris: Éditions de
l’Harmattan.
Russell, T. (1988). From pre-service teacher education to first year of teaching: A study of theory
and practice. In J. Calderhead (Ed.), Teachers’ professional learning (pp. 132–145). London:
Falmer Press.
Taylor, G., Borys, A., & Larocque, L. (1992). Reforming teacher education: Toward an alternative
model of practicum. International Journal of Educational Reform, 1, 376–391.
Tesch, R. (1990). Qualitative research: Analysis types and software tools. New York: Falmer Press.
Pierre Boudreau is a professor in the Faculty of Education, University of Ottawa, 145 Jean-Jacques
Lussier, Ottawa, Ontario, K1N 6N5.
Reliability and Validity of Selected Criteria
of Light’s Retention Scale
Marilyn L. Westbury
concordia university college of alberta
Grade retention is an old and persistent practice in North American schools.
Estimates vary from region to region, but the proportion of elementary students
repeating a grade appears to have altered very little over the past two decades
(Canadian Education Association, 1989, p. 3). Meanwhile, researchers have
questioned whether grade retention improves students’ performance. A large
volume of research suggests that the potential for positive outcomes of grade
retention is consistently outweighed by the potential for negative outcomes
(Holmes & Matthews, 1984). Still, a minority of students do benefit (Shepard &
Smith, 1989; Westbury, 1994). Both educators and parents would be less anxious
if they could determine in advance which students would benefit from retention.
Light’s Retention Scale (hereafter, LRS; Light, 1986a) is meant to provide “a
format that aids the school professional in determining whether the elementary
or secondary school student would benefit from retention” (Light, 1986b, p. 5).
The scale includes 19 criteria: sex, age, knowledge of the English language,
physical size, present grade placement, previous grade retentions, number of
siblings, parents’ school participation, experiential background, transiency, school
attendance, estimates of intelligence, history of learning disabilities, present level
of academic achievement, attitude towards possible retention, motivation to
complete school tasks, immature behaviour, emotional problems, and history of
delinquency. Parents and/or teachers rate the potential candidate from 0 to 5 on
the 19 items; a score of 0 indicates a strong belief that the child would benefit
from retention and 5 indicates a strong belief that he or she would not. The sum
of the ratings is used to categorize the student’s suitability for retention as
excellent, good, fair, marginal, poor, or unsuitable (Light, 1986b, p. 11).
Neither LRS nor the accompanying manual (Light, 1986b) provides norms.
Light explains that LRS is not a psychometric instrument and should be used
only as a counselling tool (Light, 1986a, p. 1). He does, however, state that the
weights assigned to each of the 19 categories were determined after careful
analysis of the research on each (Light, 1986b, p. 12).
Several researchers investigated earlier editions of LRS. Watson (1979) suggested that the scale may not predict achievement gains during the repeated year.
Sandoval (1980) demonstrated that an earlier edition of the scale lacked validity
and reliability. Sandoval (1982) further found that Light’s scores did not correlate
with the academic performance, self-concept, or mental health of retained stu460
24, 4 (1999): 460–464
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461
dents. Harrison (as cited in Vasa, Wendel, & Steckelberg, 1984) cautioned about
the use of some of the 19 criteria. Vasa, Wendel, and Steckelberg (1984) asked
325 school personnel to rate their use of 12 of the 19 LRS criteria in making
retention decisions. Only 3 of the 12 items were used by more than 50% of
respondents to either a considerable extent or a great extent; a large majority of
school personnel stated that they never used some LRS categories.
Light revised the LRS in 1986. The new scale items, nevertheless, remained
fairly consistent with those in earlier editions. Fourteen of the 19 criteria have
weight parameters of 0 to 5, and the remaining 5 criteria have weights from 0
to 4. I undertook a study of the 1986 LRS, which was not used in earlier studies,
because of evidence that the scale is currently in use in North America. Compelling evidence is provided in the Canadian Education Association’s survey of 122
school divisions across Canada, which documented use of Light’s scale in grade
promotion and retention decisions. One large Ontario school district used a
weighted 21-item scale that included all of Light’s criteria under different descriptors (Canadian Education Association, 1989, p. 10). It is crucial to determine
if the scale is reliable and valid before it is used on even one school population.
METHOD
The study sample consisted of 93 randomly selected students, from several
schools, who were one-time elementary grade repeaters. Most had repeated
Grade 1 or 2; they ranged in age from 6 to 8 at the time of retention.
Two-thirds of the students were males, which is consistent with statistics on
elementary school retention. The students were selected after elementary school
completion, and historical profiles of the students were recorded from student
record cards. Eleven of the 19 categories on the LRS were consistently available
across the schools: sex, age, knowledge of the English language, present grade
placement (grade repeated), previous grade retentions, transiency, school attendance, estimate of intelligence, history of learning disabilities, present level of
academic achievement, and emotional problems. Two categories were inapplicable to the sample: “history of delinquency” was omitted because no student
had such a history, and “immature behaviour” was omitted because it was
considered to be redundant as teachers of the sample children used immature
behaviour as an indicator of another category, emotional problems. The remaining 6 categories were not consistently recorded. Using Light’s weights, I
calculated the sum of the 11 variables for each student to determine the number
of students in each retention category. Interpretation of the total score was
prorated to account for 11 rather than 19 variables.
The internal consistency of the scale items was measured using coefficient
alpha. To assess the predictive validity of the selected criteria, I used the Canadian Cognitive Abilities Test (hereafter, CCAT; 1982) gains in standard age
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scores for verbal, quantitative, and nonverbal ability because an earlier study
revealed gains on the test among repeaters (Westbury, 1994). I assumed that
cognitive ability gains indicated an increase in achievement since the two tend
to be positively correlated. My intention was to ascertain if the LRS categories
correlated with cognitive ability standard age scores over time.
Since the LRS manual cautions that “it is unusual for a pupil with even one
or two 5s on the scale to benefit by retention” (Light, 1986b, p. 12), I also tested
prediction validity by contrasting two groups of students: the good and excellent
candidates with no 5s and the remaining poor candidates.
RESULTS AND DISCUSSION
Most students in the sample were identified as good retention candidates after
summing the 11 Light’s criteria. Fully 68.7% were good or excellent candidates
likely to benefit from retention; another 30.2% of the students fell into the fair
or marginal retention category. The mean score was 16.5. No student scored in
the “student should not be retained” category.
Internal Consistency
Cronbach’s alpha, a measure of internal consistency, was computed for the scale
items. The obtained LRS alpha of .04 falls far short of any acceptable standard.
An alpha of .90, the minimum recommended by Salvia and Ysseldyke (1978),
would be unattainable even if the 6 remaining usable categories were included
and were highly consistent.
Predictive Validity
Predictive validity is used here to measure whether the selected LRS criteria
effectively identify students likely to benefit from retention as measured on the
CCAT. Long-term gain or loss (difference) in cognitive ability was measured by
comparing the standard age scores at the time of retention with those three years
after the retention.
The selected LRS criteria totals did not correlate significantly with differences
in verbal cognitive ability. The LRS totals did show significant positive correlations with improvement in quantitative (p < .05) and nonverbal ability (p < .001)
over time; however, this means that the poor candidates for retention (students
with higher LRS scores) showed greater improvement in achievement.
The predictive validity of the scale was also tested on the basis of Light’s
(1986b) assertions that students obtaining any rating of 5 would be unlikely to
benefit from retention. I found no significant, long-term improvement differences
in verbal and quantitative ability between the good and the poor retention can-
RESEARCH NOTES
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463
didates. Consistent with the full-scale results, however, the poor retention candidates had a significantly higher average gain on the CCAT nonverbal scale. The
mean for good candidates was –0.24; the mean for poor candidates was 9.0
(t = –3.48, df = 77, p < .005).
SUMMARY AND IMPLICATIONS
Results showed that the modified LRS is not a reliable or valid instrument. The
selected scale items did not predict improvement in cognitive ability among the
sample of elementary school students. The results were the opposite of what
would be expected, with poor retention candidates showing significant improvement in nonverbal cognitive ability over time. Neither the simple scale totals nor
the revised totals when students with 5s are deleted should be used to make
decisions about individual students. These findings, added to earlier research,
emphasize the difficulties of deciding which children, if any, should spend a
second year in a grade.
Much of the research supports the view that most students do not benefit
academically or socially from retention (Shepard & Smith, 1989). However,
many educators continue to advocate retention because a minority of students do
benefit. Research provides little support for this view. First, there is no way to
determine, a priori, if the same minority of students would have benefited or
improved had they been continuously promoted. Variables other than grade
retention may affect the improvement in student performance. Second, this study
and others suggest there is currently no way to predict reliably which students
will benefit from retention. Given the potential negative consequences of retention, it may be preferable to abandon the practice until reliable and valid
indicators are developed. In the meantime, educators should continue to seek
ways, such as offering remedial instruction, to help students improve their
performance while keeping them with their age peers.
REFERENCES
Canadian Cognitive Abilities Test: Multilevel edition. Examiner’s manual. (1982). Scarborough, ON:
Nelson Canada.
Canadian Education Association. (1989). Grade promotion and retention: Practices in Canadian
school boards (CEA Information Note). Toronto: Author.
Holmes, C. T., & Matthews, K. M. (1984). The effects of nonpromotion on elementary and junior
high school pupils: A meta-analysis. Review of Educational Research, 54, 225–236.
Light, H. W. (1986a). Light’s Retention Scale (Rev. ed.). Novato, CA: Academic Therapy Publications.
Light, H. W. (1986b). LRS: Light’s Retention Scale Manual (Rev. ed.). Novato, CA: Academic
Therapy Publications.
Salvia, J., & Ysseldyke, J. E. (1978). Assessment in remedial and special education. Boston:
Houghton Mifflin.
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Sandoval, J. (1980). Reliability and concurrent validity of Light’s Retention Scale. Psychology in the
Schools, 17, 442–445.
Sandoval, J. (1982). Light’s Retention Scale does not predict success in first grade retainees.
Psychology in the Schools, 19, 310–314.
Shepard, L. A., & Smith, M. L. (Eds.). (1989). Flunking grades: Research and policies on retention.
London: The Falmer Press.
Vasa, S. F., Wendel, F. C., & Steckelberg, A. L. (1984). Light’s Retention Scale: Does it have
content validity? Psychology in the Schools, 21, 447–449.
Watson, D. (1979, October). The relative efficiency of the Light Retention Scale in identifying
children for retention. Paper presented at the annual convention of the National Association of
School Psychologists, San Diego, CA.
Westbury, M. L. (1994). The effect of elementary grade retention on subsequent school achievement
and ability. Canadian Journal of Education, 19, 241–250.
Marilyn L. Westbury is Dean of Continuing Education and a professor at Concordia University
College of Alberta, 10537 44 Street, Edmonton, Alberta, T6A 1W1.
Organizational Learning in Schools
Edited by Kenneth Leithwood & Karen Seashore Louis
Lisse, The Netherlands: Swets & Zeitlinger, 1998. v+290 pages. ISBN 90-2651540-5 (pbk.)
REVIEWED BY JAN ROBERTSON, UNIVERSITY OF WAIKATO, HAMILTON, NEW ZEALAND
“LOs” and “OL” — Learning Organizations and Organizational Learning — are
key descriptors internationally for educators who are looking to change from the
“bottom up” to facilitate new organizational practices. Leithwood and Louis
present a valuable collection of challenges, concepts, strategies, and examples
rather than a recipe for distinguishing schools that are learning organizations.
They focus on processes and relationships within schools and explore ways to
maximize them to enhance the professionalism and power of educators committed to new learning and new ways of working with their classrooms. Key
concepts are collaboration, common purpose, collective commitment, creation of
new learning, and constructivism.
The authors highlight the uniqueness of schools as they address the first of
their identified “problems,” the context problem. This book does not ignore the
fact that much literature on organizational learning has not been related to
research in schools, but it brings many case studies to illustrate what organizational learning in schools looks like and how teachers talk about it.
In Chapter 2, Louis and Kruse take a cognitive perspective on teachers’ work
and challenge us to reflect that as much unlearning as new learning is required
to initiate change in schools. They state that “learning schools” are schools that
“know themselves” (p. 19) and that any school can become a learning organization in unique ways and on different paths. They illustrate with two case studies
rich with teachers’ voices as they focus on intellectual leadership from teachers
and principals, leadership that their studies show is not accidental or incidental
but structured and focused. They remind us that building learning organizations
is hard work and requires resources and “a sense of connection with a higher
agenda” (p. 44) if it is to harness teachers’ energy.
In Chapter 3, Ben-Peretz and Schonmann challenge the oft-cited claim that
teaching is an isolated activity, arguing that the teachers’ lounge — which Lortie
overlooked in his study — provides a unique environment for nurturing the
“interconnectedness of teachers” (p. 54). They studied the teachers’ lounge in
five Israeli schools, and their focus on relations and interactions provides both
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rich evidence of professional communities and insights into the cultures of these
schools as learning organizations.
In Chapter 4, Leithwood, Jantzi, and Steinbach present a framework that can
be used to guide enquiry about organizational learning in schools. School cultures, structures, and strategies were most often cited by the teachers they studied
as related to collective learning. Teachers commented on the outcomes of their
organizational learning, and most could provide examples of their new practices.
The authors provide eight dimensions of transformative leadership they developed from teachers’ perceptions of what had influenced “their individual and
collective learning” (p. 80) either directly or indirectly.
The evidence problem of schools as learning organizations is dealt with
thoroughly in this collection. Eight chapters are rich with research data about the
processes, practices, and outcomes of OL in particular schools. But Leithwood
and Louis are well aware that theory and evidence alone will not necessarily give
life to OL in schools: that requires the systematic efforts outlined throughout the
chapters as the editors confront the strategy problem.
Chapters 5, 6, and 7 provide the reader with an in-depth account of strategies
used in restructuring schools and developing learning organizations. King, Allen,
and Nhguyen illustrate the power of using concept mapping and show how to
bring it to life in a school with actual examples of maps developed from teacherleader interviews and group interviews. They critique their work with rigour and
leave the reader feeling that their ending with more questions than answers will
lead to further exciting research. Cousins considers the potential of participatory
evaluation as an organizational learning system and uses a case study of a high
school to explore the contribution that this type of collaboration can make. He
too talks about the need for further case studies but concludes that his study did
provide evidence of individual and collective learning. The professional development schools presented by Darling-Hammond, Cobb, and Bullmaster challenge
teacher educators, teachers, and principals to view leadership not as a formal
position that a person holds but as restructured time and relationships that make
opportunities for leadership available to all teachers. Their chapter provides an
exciting model for collaborative participation in the construction of knowledge
around learning and is a must-read for those interested in university-school
partnerships and a wider view of the importance of teacher leadership in the
change process.
Mitchell and Sackney present the phases and indicators of organizational
learning in an elementary school. The three phases, “Naming and framing,
Analysing and integrating, and Applying and experimenting” (p. 188), provide
an important framework for facilitators of the change process in schools. They
highlight the importance of action research methods to foster organizational
learning.
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467
The third part of the book presents valuable theorizing about team learning
and the processes and effects of organizational learning. Each chapter explores
the relationships between change and OL processes and presents guidelines and
frameworks to enhance schools’ learning capacities.
The final chapter brings the reader full circle, as Louis and Leithwood, like
many theorists before them, again consider the paradox of whether we should be
thinking about Organizational Learning or Professional Learning Communities.
They explore the conditions under which teachers would be willing to “commit
themselves to continuous, collective, professional learning” (p. 276) and conclude
that schools must live with the complexity of their nature — the need for both
“change and disorderliness,” both “stability and cohesiveness,” and both “risky
and fundamental learning” (p. 283) within caring, trusting communities — and,
perhaps most importantly of all, collective responsibility and clear shared values.
This entire book is well worth reading as the authors’ exploration of the
process of change in teachers’ work offers a journey of discovery, critique, and
challenge to our ways of working. All those who labour in schools to develop
communities of lifelong learners and bring about changes in teachers’ practices
will find this book rich with practical ideas and critical theorizing.
La formation de la pensée critique : théorie et pratique
Par Jacques Boisvert
Saint-Laurent : ERPI, 1999. 152 pages. ISBN 2-7613-1090-X
RECENSÉ PAR BERNARD LAPLANTE, UNIVERSITÉ DE REGINA
Dans cet ouvrage, Jacques Boisvert aborde les fondements théoriques et les
principes d’enseignement de la pensée critique. Il décrit également une stratégie
d’enseignement tout en suggérant des moyens d’évaluation propres à ce mode de
pensée. Ce livre, d’une présentation particulièrement soignée, est destiné aux
enseignants de niveaux secondaire et collégial ainsi qu’aux étudiants en formation à l’enseignement qui s’intéressent à la pensée critique.
Au premier chapitre, Boisvert présente une définition de la pensée critique en
tant que stratégie, comme investigation et comme processus de pensée. Puis, il
fait une synthèse de la recherche nord-américaine sur le sujet, en présentant les
conceptions que s’en font les membres de ce qu’il appelle le « Groupe des
Cinq » (p. 12). Ceci lui permet d’aborder les différents aspects théoriques de la
formation à la pensée critique : les capacités et les attitudes qui en sont caracté-
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ristiques (Ennis); les quatre aires d’habiletés cognitives qui y sont reliées et le
rôle essentiel de la « communauté de recherche » (Lipman); la question du
transfert de la pensée critique (McPeck); les traits de caractère et les stratégies
affectives et cognitives (Paul); le rôle de la rationalité (Signel). Les positions de
ces chercheurs servent de toile de fond à l’élaboration des trois autres chapitres.
Au chapitre 2, Boisvert propose « l’adoption d’un modèle global d’enseignement de la pensée critique » et en justifie le choix tout en retraçant l’historique
de son développement. Ce modèle d’enseignement « se caractérise par l’application des habiletés et des processus de pensée à une diversité de situations du
monde scolaire et de la vie des élèves », mais aussi par une insistance « sur
l’utilisation créative et le transfert de ces habiletés et de ces processus de pensée
au moyen de la réflexion métacognitive » (p. 33). Boisvert inclut une section fort
pertinente sur la métacognition. Puis, il explore les principes et les conditions
d’application de ce modèle dans la salle de classe. Il insiste sur l’importance de
la présentation d’activités structurées, l’augmentation de la métacognition chez
les élèves et la facilitation du transfert de l’apprentissage.
Au chapitre 3, l’auteur décrit de façon précise comment intégrer à un cours
une stratégie d’enseignement de la pensée critique. Il suggère un modèle de planification en cinq étapes : le choix des dimensions à enseigner, leur description,
l’organisation d’un environnement propice, la planification de l’enseignement et,
finalement, l’évaluation. Ce chapitre clé inclut une quinzaine d’exemples illustrant l’enseignement de plusieurs dimensions de la pensée critique à l’intérieur
de différentes disciplines, et ce, aux divers niveaux d’enseignement (intermédiaire
à universitaire).
Le chapitre 4 aborde plus en détail la dernière étape de cette démarche de
planification, c’est-à-dire l’évaluation de l’enseignement et de l’apprentissage de
la pensée critique. Après avoir discuté de certains principes d’évaluation, Boisvert présente des moyens d’évaluation variés qui vont de l’observation à l’aide
de grilles, aux tests à choix multiples, en passant par l’entrevue et la rédaction
d’un essai critique.
Boisvert offre un livre qui aborde de façon détaillée les aspects tant théoriques
que pratiques de la formation à la pensée critique; un livre écrit dans un langage
clair et précis et dont la présentation soignée et aérée facilite grandement la lecture. Ainsi, l’auteur fait appel à de nombreux titres et sous-titres; des encadrés
lui permettent de faire ressortir les idées essentielles; des tableaux récapitulatifs
l’amènent à faire des synthèses importantes. Trois des quatre chapitres se terminent par des exercices et des questions de réflexion qui pourraient se montrer
particulièrement utiles aux étudiants en formation à l’enseignement. Le livre
contient également deux annexes, un index et une importante bibliographie.
Comme le souligne Boisvert, l’enseignement de la pensée critique doit faire
l’objet d’une planification structurée. L’auteur décrit en détail, au chapitre 3, les
cinq étapes de l’élaboration d’une stratégie d’enseignement de la pensée critique
à l’intérieur d’un cours disciplinaire. Il fournit également de nombreux exemples
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469
de l’enseignement de plusieurs dimensions de la pensée critique. Cependant, il
aurait été souhaitable d’illustrer cette démarche d’intégration au moyen d’exemples montrant comment un cours entier pourrait être modifié de façon à inclure
les dimensions de la pensée critique qui doivent être enseignées tout en respectant les objectifs d’apprentissage caractéristiques de la discipline en question. De
la même façon, il aurait été souhaitable que l’auteur donne une plus grande place
aux chercheurs du monde francophone bien que les travaux de Guilbert et
Ouellet et de certains autres (dont Develay, Grangeat et Merieu et Tardif) soient
cités et que l’ouvrage tout récent de Lafortune, Mongeau et Richard soit mentionné.
Il reste que le livre de Boisvert devrait devenir un ouvrage de référence pour
tous ceux et celles qui reconnaissent l’importance de la pensée critique dans la
formation de tout citoyen éduqué et qui voudraient contribuer à développer cette
forme d’autonomie de la pensée chez leurs propres étudiants.
Index to volume 24 /
Index du volume 24*
Articles
Beaulieu, Paula. Voir Potvin, Pierre, Rollande Deslandes, Paula Beaulieu, Diane
Marcotte, Laurier Fortin, Égide Royer et Danielle Leclerc.
Bercier-Larivière, Micheline et Renée Forgette-Giroux. L’évaluation des apprentissages scolaires : une question de justesse, 169.
Brodeur, Monique, Pierre Valois, Marc Dussault et Paul Villeneuve. Validation
d’un questionnaire sur les croyances et les pratiques des enseignants de la
maternelle à propos d’habiletés métaphonologiques, 17.
Chambers, Cynthia. A Topography for Canadian Curriculum Theory, 137.
Cole, Ardra L. Teacher Educators and Teacher Education Reform: Individual
Commitments, Institutional Realities, 281.
Daniel, Marie-France, Louise Lafortune, Richard Pallascio, & Michael Schleifer.
Philosophical Reflection and Cooperative Practices in an Elementary School
Mathematics Classroom, 426.
Davies, Scott. See Guppy, Neil, & Scott Davies.
Deslandes, Rollande. Voir Potvin, Pierre, Rollande Deslandes, Paula Beaulieu,
Diane Marcotte, Laurier Fortin, Égide Royer et Danielle Leclerc.
Doige, Lynda Ann Curwen. Beyond Cultural Differences and Similarities:
Student Teachers Encounter Aboriginal Children’s Literature, 383.
Dunlop, Rishma. Beyond Dualism: Toward a Dialogic Negotiation of Difference, 57.
Dussault, Marc. Voir Brodeur, Monique, Pierre Valois, Marc Dussault et Paul
Villeneuve.
Dyson, Lily L. Developing a University-School District Partnership: ResearcherDistrict Administrator Collaboration for a Special Education Initiative, 411.
Forgette-Giroux, Renée. Voir Bercier-Larivière, Micheline et Renée ForgetteGiroux.
Fortin, Laurier. Voir Potvin, Pierre, Rollande Deslandes, Paula Beaulieu, Diane
Gagnon, Jocelyn. Voir Martel, Denis, Jocelyn Gagnon, Joanne Pelletier-Murphy
et Johanne Grenier.
Gambell, Trevor J., & Darryl M. Hunter. Rethinking Gender Differences in
Literacy, 1.
*
Key to pagination/Références aux numéros du volume : (1) 1–120; (2) 121–234; (3) 235–354;
(4) 355–474.
INDEX TO VOLUME
24 /
INDEX DU VOLUME
24
471
Gervais, Colette. Le stage d’enseignement. Représentations des principaux
acteurs, 121.
Giasson, Jocelyne et Lise Saint-Laurent. Lire en classe : résultats d’une enquête
au primaire, 197.
Grenier, Johanne. Voir Martel, Denis, Jocelyn Gagnon, Joanne Pelletier-Murphy
et Johanne Grenier.
Guppy, Neil, & Scott Davies. Understanding Canadians’ Declining Confidence
in Public Education, 265.
Hamel, Thérèse, Michel Morisset et Jacques Tondreau. Les agriculteurs à
l’école : les savoirs enseignés dans les écoles moyennes et régionales au
Québec, 1926–69, 398.
Hanley, Betty. See Mather, David, & Betty Hanley.
Hesch, Rick. Culturally Relevant Teacher Education: A Canadian Inner-City
Case, 369.
Hrimech, Mohamed. Voir Théorêt, Manon et Mohamed Hrimech.
Hunter, Darryl M. See Gambell, Trevor J., & Darryl M. Hunter.
Lafortune, Louise. See Daniel, Marie-France, Louise Lafortune, Richard Pallascio, & Michael Schleifer.
Leclerc, Danielle. Voir Potvin, Pierre, Rollande Deslandes, Paula Beaulieu, Diane
LeeSing, A. Curtis, & Carol A. Miles. The Relative Effectiveness of Audio,
Video, and Static Visual Computer-Mediated Presentations, 212.
Lemerise, Tamara et Brenda Soucy. Le point de vue d’adolescents montréalais
sur les musées, 355.
Marcotte, Diane. Voir Potvin, Pierre, Rollande Deslandes, Paula Beaulieu, Diane
Martel, Denis, Jocelyn Gagnon, Joanne Pelletier-Murphy et Johanne Grenier.
Pygmalion en éducation physique : un mythe bien réel, 42.
Mather, David, & Betty Hanley. Cohort Grouping and Preservice Teacher Education: Effects on Pedagogical Development, 235.
Miles, Carol A. See LeeSing, A. Curtis, & Carol A. Miles.
Morisset, Michel. Voir Hamel, Thérèse, Michel Morisset et Jacques Tondreau.
Mura, Roberta. Voir Noël, Lise-Marie et Roberta Mura.
Noël, Lise-Marie et Roberta Mura. Images des mathématiques chez des futurs
maîtres, 296.
Norquay, Naomi. Social Difference and the Problem of the “Unique Individual”:
An Uneasy Legacy of Child-Centred Pedagogy, 183.
O’Sullivan, Brian. Global Change and Educational Reform in Ontario and
Canada, 311.
Pallascio, Richard. See Daniel, Marie-France, Louise Lafortune, Richard Pallascio, & Michael Schleifer.
472
INDEX TO VOLUME
24 /
INDEX DU VOLUME
24
Paquette, Jerry. Educational Attainment and Employment Income: Incentives and
Disincentives for Staying in School, 151.
Pelletier-Murphy, Joanne. Voir Martel, Denis, Jocelyn Gagnon, Joanne PelletierMurphy et Johanne Grenier.
Potvin, Pierre, Rollande Deslandes, Paula Beaulieu, Diane Marcotte, Laurier
Fortin, Égide Royer et Danielle Leclerc. Risque d’abandon scolaire, style
parental et participation parentale au suivi scolaire, 441.
Royer, Égide. Voir Potvin, Pierre, Rollande Deslandes, Paula Beaulieu, Diane
Saint-Laurent, Lise. Voir Giasson, Jocelyne et Lise Saint-Laurent.
Schleifer, Michael. See Daniel, Marie-France, Louise Lafortune, Richard Pallascio, & Michael Schleifer.
Senyshyn, Yaroslav. Perspectives on Performance and Anxiety and Their Implications for Creative Teaching, 30.
Soucy, Brenda. Voir Lemerise, Tamara et Brenda Soucy.
Théorêt, Manon et Mohamed Hrimech. Les paradoxes de l’abandon scolaire :
trajectoires de filles et de garçons du secondaire, 251.
Tondreau, Jacques. Voir Hamel, Thérèse, Michel Morisset et Jacques Tondreau.
Valois, Pierre. Voir Brodeur, Monique, Pierre Valois, Marc Dussault et Paul
Villeneuve.
Villeneuve, Paul. Voir Brodeur, Monique, Pierre Valois, Marc Dussault et Paul
Villeneuve.
Beaudoin, Charlotte. Integrating Somatic Learning into Everyday Life, 76.
Boudreau, Pierre. The Supervision of a Student Teacher as Defined by Cooperating Teachers, 454.
Field, James C., & Lori J. Olafson. Understanding Resistance in Students at
Risk, 70.
Olafson, Lori J. See Field, James C., & Lori J. Olafson.
Westbury, Marilyn L. Reliability and Validity of Selected Criteria of Light’s
Retention Scale, 460.
Discussion / Débat
Clifford, Patricia. See Jardine, David W., Patricia Clifford, & Sharon Friesen.
Friesen, Sharon. See Jardine, David W., Patricia Clifford, & Sharon Friesen.
Jardine, David W., Patricia Clifford, & Sharon Friesen. “Standing Helpless
Before the Child”: A Response to Naomi Norquay, 326.
Norquay, Naomi. Still Standing! A Reply to David Jardine, Patricia Clifford, and
Sharon Friesen, 332.
INDEX TO VOLUME
24 /
INDEX DU VOLUME
24
473
Review Essays / Essais critiques
Lefebvre, Marie Louise. Garçons et filles, stéréotypes et réussite scolaire sous
la direction de Pierrette Bouchard et Jean-Claude St-Amant et Modèles de sexe
et rapports à l’école : guide d’intervention auprès des élèves de troisième
secondaire sous la direction de Pierrette Bouchard, Natasha Bouchard, JeanClaude St-Amant et Jacques Tondreau, 81.
Neufeld, Jonathan. What’s Worth Loving in Your School: Teacher Development
and Universal Benevolence (Changing Teachers, Changing Times: Teachers’
Work and Culture in the Postmodern Age, by Andy Hargreaves), 87.
Newman, Judith M. Reading Instruction: A Never-Ending Debate (Reading
Instruction That Works, by Michael Pressley), 337.
Piper, David. Education for Literacy: Learning About Standard Codes Versus
Learning How to Use Them (Multicultural Literacies: Dialect, Discourse, and
Diversity, by Patrick L. Courts), 94.
Boudreau, Pierre. Pygmalion en classe : les enseignants accordent-ils une chance
égale d’apprendre à tous leurs élèves? par Linda Morency, 228.
Bourassa, Michelle. Voir Ducharme, Daphne et Michelle Bourassa.
Charbonneau, Benoît. Apprentissage et développement des adultes sous la direction de Claudia Danis et Claudie Solar, 107.
Covaleskie, John F. The Changing Curriculum: Studies in Social Construction,
by Ivor F. Goodson, 101.
Ducharme, Daphne et Michelle Bourassa. Lecture, écriture et surdité. Visions
actuelles et nouvelles perspectives sous la direction de Colette Dubuisson et
Daniel Daigle, 341.
Dunlop, Rishma. Race-ing Representation: Voice, History, and Sexuality, edited
by Kostas Myrsiades & Linda Myrsiades, 344.
Ettayebi, Moussadak. La recherche appliquée en pédagogie : des modèles pour
l’enseignement par Jean-Marie Van der Maren, 352.
Foreman, Kathleen. On the Subject of Drama, edited by David Hornbrook, 112.
Gambell, Trevor J. Schooling Desire: Literacy, Cultural Politics, and Pedagogy,
by Ursula A. Kelly, 105.
Harris, Carol E. Muriel Duckworth: A Very Active Pacifist, by Marion Douglas
Kerans, 229.
Jacobsen, D. Michele. Points of Viewing Children’s Thinking: A Digital Ethnographer’s Journey, by Ricki Goldman-Segall, 114.
Laplante, Bernard. La formation de la pensée critique : théorie et pratique par
Jacques Boisvert, 467.
474
INDEX TO VOLUME
24 /
INDEX DU VOLUME
24
Levin, Benjamin. Perspectives on the Unity and Integration of Knowledge, edited
by Garth Benson, Ronald Glasberg, & Bryant Griffith, 226.
Marzouk, Abdellah. Enseignants de métier et formation initiale : des changements dans les rapports de formation à l’enseignement sous la direction de
Danielle Raymond et Yves Lenoir, 224.
Meunier, Anik. La visite scolaire au musée : stratégies pédagogiques pour une
participation active des élèves de l’élémentaire par Maryse Paquin, 103.
Mujawamariya, Donatille. Pratiques de formation en didactique des sciences par
J.-P. Astolfi, É. Darot, Y. Ginsburger-Vogel et J. Toussaint et Mots-clés de la
didactique des sciences : repères, définitions, bibliographies par J.-P. Astolfi,
É. Darot, Y. Ginsburger-Vogel et J. Toussaint, 350.
Munk, Jan-Léopold. Pour mieux comprendre la lecture et l’écriture sous la
direction de Clémence Préfontaine, Lucie Godard et Gilles Fortier, 346.
Randhawa, Bikkar S. Assessment of Classroom Learning, by Claudio Violato,
Anthony Marini, & Dan McDougall, 232.
Robertson, Jan. Organizational Learning in Schools, edited by Kenneth Leithwood & Karen Seashore Louis, 465.
Royer, Chantal. L’encadrement des étudiants : un défi du XXIe siècle sous la
direction de Louise Langevin et Louise Villeneuve, 348.
Saint-Germain, Michel. Introduction à la qualité totale en éducation par Clermont Barnabé et La gestion totale de la qualité en éducation par Clermont
Barnabé, 116.
Savoie-Zajc, Lorraine. Métacognition et compétences réflexives sous la direction
de Louise Lafortune, Pierre Mongeau et Richard Pallascio, 99.
Schleifer, Michael. Repenser l’éducation : repères et perspectives philosophiques
sous la direction de Aline Giroux, 109.
Segal, Alan. Masculinity Goes to School, by Rob Gilbert & Pam Gilbert, 222.
Trudelle, Denis. Psychomotricité et pédagogie : favoriser le développement de
l’enfant par René Bolduc, 343.

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