CJE Vol. 19, No. 1

Transcription

CJE Vol. 19, No. 1

Rosonna Tite
Detecting the Symptoms
of Child Abuse:
Classroom Complications
Kirk A. Beck, James R. P. Ogloff, & Anne Corbishley
Knowledge, Compliance, and Attitudes of Teachers Toward
Mandatory Child Abuse Reporting in British Columbia
Hélène Poissant, Bruno Poëllhuber et Mireille Falardeau
Résolution de problèmes, autorégulation et apprentissage
Claudine Baudoux
Stratégies de carrière et promotion en éducation
William Bruneau
Toward a New Collective Biography: The University of British Columbia
Professoriate, 1915–1945
Roland Case
Our Crude Handling of Educational Reforms: The Case of Curricular
Integration
Table de matières /
Contents
Articles
Rosonna Tite
Kirk A. Beck,
James R. P. Ogloff, &
Anne Corbishley
Hélène Poissant,
Bruno Poëllhuber et
Mireille Falardeau
Claudine Baudoux
William Bruneau
Roland Case
1 Detecting the Symptoms of Child Abuse:
15 Knowledge, Compliance, and Attitudes of Teachers
Toward Mandatory Child Abuse Reporting in
British Columbia
30 Résolution de problèmes, autorégulation
et apprentissage
45 Stratégies de carrière et promotion en éducation
65 Toward a New Collective Biography:
The University of British Columbia Professoriate,
1915–1945
80 Our Crude Handling of Educational Reforms:
The Case of Curricular Integration
Note de recherche / Research Note
Nathalie Savard,
Christian Savard et
Colette Dufresne-Tassé
94 Comparaison de deux façons d’identifier
les questions et les hypothèses formulées
par le visiteur de musée
Débat / Discussion Note
Peter Seixas
99 A Discipline Adrift in an “Integrated” Curriculum:
History in British Columbia Schools
Essai Critique / Review Essay
Eric Ricker
108 Collective Negotiations, Policy Bargaining, and the
Prospect of Devolution: Bryan Downie and the
Politics of Teacher-Trustee Relationships in Ontario
Recensions / Book Reviews
Suzanne Pouliot
117 Le roman de l’amour à l’école: l’amour
de la lecture par Clémence Préfontaine
Suzanne Pouliot
118 L’Hétérogénéité des apprenants: un défi
pour la classe de français sous la
direction de M. Lebrun et M.-C. Paret
Detecting the Symptoms of Child Abuse:
Rosonna Tite
memorial university of newfoundland
Despite the fact that teachers are generally considered to be among those best situated to
detect abuse symptoms in the classroom, little research has explored those aspects of
teachers’ work that are problematic in identifying abuse indicators. This paper draws on
data collected as part of a larger study of Ontario teachers. The study focused on the difficulties associated with detection and the initial decision to proceed with a report. The
findings demonstrate that detection is profoundly affected by the main activity of classrooms, that is, concerns about academic learning, and by teachers’ haphazard exposure
to child abuse information. Complicating detection is a general preoccupation with maintaining discipline, the need to sustain close working ties with children and their families,
and teachers’ concerns for the “whole child.”
En dépit du fait que les enseignants sont généralement considérés comme les mieux
placés pour dépister les symptômes de mauvais traitements dont feraient l’objet leurs
élèves, peu de chercheurs ont exploré les facettes du travail de l’enseignant qui nuisent
à l’identification des signes de violence. Cet article repose sur des données colligées dans
le cadre d’une vaste étude portant sur les enseignants de l’Ontario. Cette étude se penchait
principalement sur les difficultés associées au dépistage des cas d’enfants maltraités ainsi
qu’à la décision initiale de signaler ces cas. Les conclusions de l’étude démontrent que
le dépistage est profondément affecté par la principale activité qui a lieu en classe, à
savoir l’apprentissage, que l’on veut assurer, et par la mise en contact aléatoire de
l’enseignant avec des informations ayant trait à la violence à l’égard des enfants. Autres
facteurs qui compliquent le dépistage : la volonté de maintenir la discipline, le besoin
d’établir des liens efficaces avec les enfants et leurs familles, et le souci de l’“enfant
global” chez les enseignants.
Increasing concern about the low number of child abuse referrals originating
from school personnel has focused new attention on how teachers make the
decision to report. Recent American data suggest that only 10% to 15% of all
filed reports to Child Protection Services (CPS) come from school personnel, and
further, that teachers tend to report fewer than one-quarter of suspicious cases
they encounter (Abrahams, Casey, & Daro, 1992; Kleemeier, Webb, Hazzard, &
Pohl, 1988; McIntyre, 1987). These low reporting rates seem puzzling in light
of the time teachers spend with potential victims (current estimates indicate that
from 50% to 60% of abused children are of school age), and especially in view
of the school’s general concern for the development of the “whole child”
(Fairorth, 1982; Volpe, 1980). Little attention has been given, however, to
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CANADIAN JOURNAL OF EDUCATION
19:1 (1994)
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understanding those aspects of teachers’ work that complicate the initial detection
of symptoms.
Explanations for under-reporting tend to focus on teachers’ lack of knowledge
of child abuse and the procedures for dealing with cases (Batchelor, Dean,
Gridley, & Batchelor, 1990; Baxter & Beer, 1990; Hazzard & Rupp, 1986;
Kleemeier, Webb, Hazzard & Pohl, 1988; McIntyre, 1987; Pelcovitz, 1980). In
an early example, Pelcovitz’s (1980) study of 135 Philadelphia elementary
teachers revealed that the majority were not aware of their reporting responsibilities; 51.5% of respondents did not know that teachers are legally required to
report, and 80% did not know that there is a penalty for failing to report.
Follow-up interviews with a subsample of seven teachers and two principals led
Pelcovitz to conclude that reporting seemed to depend on the attitude of the
school principals and the administrative procedures they employ.
In a more recent survey of 440 Illinois teachers, McIntyre (1987) found that
most teachers were not able to recognize the symptoms of abuse; only 4%
indicated being very aware of the signs of sexual abuse and less than one-quarter
said they were very aware of the indicators of physical abuse, emotional abuse,
and neglect. Although 60% of those surveyed demonstrated some awareness of
their legal responsibilities, only 22% said they would file a report as required,
if the parent denied the abuse and the principal wished to avoid the issue.
Abrahams, Casey, and Daro’s (1992) national study of 575 teachers from 40
American school districts underlines the lack of information and legal and
administrative support. Two-thirds of the teachers surveyed revealed that their
child abuse training was insufficient, 63% said they fear legal reprisals for false
allegations, and only 57% demonstrated awareness of school child abuse policies.
Although most experimental training models indicate that exposure to child
abuse information has some beneficial effect on teachers’ awareness of abuse
symptoms (Hazzard, 1984; Kleemeier et al., 1988; Volpe, 1981), follow-up
studies so far reveal little change in teachers’ reporting rates. In one example,
Hazzard (1984) first surveyed 104 elementary and junior high school teachers
concerning their knowledge and experience of abuse, and then conducted a
one-day training workshop on child abuse for half the teachers. Following up six
weeks later, she found no significant difference in reporting rates between the
control and experimental groups. Treatment group teachers did appear more
likely to talk with individual students and colleagues about abuse symptoms, but
they agreed with control teachers on several obstacles to reporting. These included problems associated with gathering sufficient evidence before reporting, the
need to discuss the case with school administrators, and the perception that
school officials are not likely to take the appropriate action when requested.
Other barriers seem to arise out of teachers’ concerns for maintaining good
relationships with children and between the home and school. In the national
study cited above, Abrahams and her colleagues found that 52% of teachers
surveyed were concerned that reporting could damage parent-teacher and child-
DETECTING THE SYMPTOMS OF CHILD ABUSE
3
teacher relationships. Some teachers (35%) also indicated a reluctance to invade
family privacy.
Abrahams and her colleagues also asked teachers about their use of corporal
punishment, which is frequently seen as conveying the negative message that
physical punishment is an appropriate way to deal with conflict (Erickson,
McEvoy, & Colucci, 1984; Health and Welfare Canada, 1989; Hyman, 1990;
Robertshaw, 1980). Their findings reveal that many teachers do not consider
corporal punishment as an issue related to child abuse; only 57% rated banning
corporal punishment as a high-priority child abuse prevention strategy.
By implying that teachers may not be as well placed for reporting as their
concern for the “whole child” might suggest, these findings focus attention on
how teachers’ reporting decisions take shape in the classroom and in the context
of the other demands of their work. Herzberger (1988) claims that a professional’s judgement that a certain act of parental violence is “serious” does not
necessarily always lead to a judgement that “abuse” has occurred, and furthermore, that even those who use the abuse label may not always proceed with a
report. This suggests several stages of decision-making, beginning with the initial
arousal of suspicion and culminating in an official report. I focus on only the
first stages: the factors affecting the detection of symptoms, and the initial
decision to proceed with a report.
DESCRIPTION OF THE STUDY
The information which follows comes from a larger study of Ontario women
teachers who taught in the elementary grades in 1987/88.1 I collected data in
three stages, as outlined below.
Phase 1: Exploratory Interviews
The first phase involved an availability sample of 10 teachers (eight women and
two men). Questions posed at this stage were exploratory, but generally focused
on attitudes and knowledge of abuse and reporting requirements. Two questions
were also posed about each item in a list of 51 behaviours drawn from Giovannoni and Becerra’s (1979) study of child abuse definitions: (1) Would you
consider the item an example of abuse? (2) How would you see yourself getting
involved? The interviews were tape-recorded, transcribed, and analyzed prior to
constructing the questionnaires for Phase 2.
Phase 2: Survey of Teachers and Principals
In the second phase, I distributed questionnaires to 500 women teachers and 100
principals (90 men and 10 women). Teachers were selected by a computerized
random sampling from the membership list of the Federation of Women
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Teachers’ Associations of Ontario (FWTAO), which represents more than 31,000
female elementary teachers, the largest group of teachers who deal with children
protected by Ontario child abuse reporting laws (i.e., children under 16).
Teachers’ response rate was 52.5%. Compared to the full membership of
FWTAO, the sample is representative by age, marital status, regional distribution,
grade levels, years of teaching experience, and type of teaching assignment
(FWTAO, 1985). The majority of the teachers were between 30 and 49 years of
age (75.2%), married (72.4%), and from the East, West, and Central regions of
the province (75.7%). Two-thirds of the sample had taught between 10 and 27
years (the mean experience was 17.1 years). Most classified themselves as
classroom teachers (66.7%). Of those, 58% taught in the primary grades (1 to 3),
21.5% in the junior grades (4 to 6), and 10.5% in the intermediate division (7 to
9). About one-third of the teachers listed themselves as special instructors, that
is, responsible for a specific subject area rather than a classroom or grade level.
More than 10% of those sampled had Master’s Degrees.
Principals were drawn randomly from the Ontario Directory of Education,
1987/88; their response rate was 48.5%. Respondents were predominantly male
(42 men, 5 women), over 40 years of age, and in the teaching profession for
more than 19 years. Three-quarters held a Master’s Degree. Although it was not
possible to reach men teachers through their professional association, it should
be noted that a random sample of men would likely have resulted in a large proportion of principals (or vice-principals) in any case, since one in four men hold
positions of added responsibility, and men hold more than 90% of the principalships in Ontario public elementary schools (FWTAO, 1985; Ontario Ministry of
Education, 1987).
Survey questions covered a wide range of items, including definitions of
abuse, interventions, and the difficulties associated with detection and reporting.
A key part of the questionnaire consisted of ten vignettes, drawn from the
interviews at Phase 1. Each vignette was designed to determine how teachers
define abuse, how much experience they have had in dealing with such
situations, and what action they took in each case.2 Throughout the survey,
respondents were asked to rate the various aspects of decision-making as “easy”
or “difficult”; those selecting the “difficult” option were then asked to check off
specific problems listed in multiple-choice format, and encouraged to add other
problems or comments of their own. In addition, teachers who said that they had
suspected child abuse (N=187) were asked whether they had ever made an
official report and if so, to describe the results of their case.
The main task in analyzing the survey data was to explore teachers’ experience of cases and to consider how the decision to report might be explained by
the independent variables. Besides difficulties with detection, which form the
focus of this paper, the independent variables included: definitions of abuse,
knowledge of reporting legislation and school policies, curriculum emphasis,
discipline role, and demographic differences. The analysis was mainly descrip-
5
tive, involving simple frequencies, cross-tabulations, and Chi-Square tests where
appropriate. All written comments or remarks added to the questionnaire were
also transcribed and analyzed along with the interview data.
Phase 3: Follow-up Interviews
The third phase involved follow-up interviews with a subsample of eight teachers
and two principals, drawn at random from those whose questionnaire revealed
that they had reported abuse. Questions posed at this stage focused on the actual
experience of reporting. The discussion below focuses primarily on teachers’
difficulties with detection (Phase 2) and draws on interview data (Phase 3) where
appropriate.3
RESULTS
In Ontario, abuse is legally defined as physical harm, sexual molestation or
exploitation, emotional harm, and situations where the child requires treatment
to cure, prevent, or alleviate a physical, mental, emotional, or developmental
condition (Ontario Ministry of Social and Community Services, 1984; Section
37). Teachers and principals are specifically named in the legislation as professionals responsible for reporting; most reports are made through the principal’s
office, but teachers retain the primary legal responsibility (FWTAO, 1983;
Ontario Teachers’ Federation [OTF], 1984).
Although the law appears straightforward, providing a fine of $1,000 for those
who knowingly fail to report, the results of this study reveal a range of complications arising out of teachers’ classroom role. Beginning with the initial arousal
of suspicion, these include: lack of time and opportunity; lack of knowledge
about the definitions and indicators of abuse; the difficulty of trying to establish
appropriate grounds for reporting while continuing with normal school/child/
family relationships; and confusions associated with the use of physical punishment.
Time and Opportunity
Presumably, since abused children are surrounded in the classroom by many
children who are not abused, the abused child should stand out obviously to the
teacher; careful documentation of symptoms that are pervasive and long-lasting
should then result in the development of a well-founded suspicion (OTF, 1984).
Instead, what seems to happen is one sudden and shocking incident:
This little girl, during a lesson one day about sexual abuse, and about saying “no” and
not permitting people to touch your person, I said, “If anybody ever does, tell. You can
tell me and we can talk about it.” This was with the whole group, and she put up her
hand and very slowly and deliberately said, “My daddy does that to me.” [IH]
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Most teachers interviewed reported such sudden shocks. In one case, a little boy
went to his teacher’s home at night, knocked on the front door, and signalled her
to follow him. She found three children there, alone in a filthy apartment, with
no adults and no food. In other cases, it a was “a large swelling on the side of
the head,” or “marks on his face,” or a “a bruise on her temple,” all injuries
sufficiently serious and noticeable to draw instant response.
A few cases involved disclosure. One young teenager wrote of sexual abuse
as part of her regular writing assignments. In another case, also involving an
adolescent, the disclosure came from a younger sibling, who confided that his
father and his sister had had a fight which ended when the girl’s arm was broken
with a board. Another youngster told her teacher that she was often left at home
alone.
Of the 10 follow-up interviews, only three represented cases where teachers
followed a pattern of becoming gradually suspicious about relatively minor
incidents as they accumulated over time, implying that classrooms hold no
particular advantage for detecting abuse. This is reflected in the survey data. The
vast majority (98.4%) of the teachers surveyed said it is difficult to detect sexual
abuse, 93.7% said it is difficult to detect physical abuse, 88.5% said it is difficult
to detect symptoms of emotional abuse, and 62.7% said they would have trouble
picking up on indicators of neglect.
In the classroom, many children present themselves with minor injuries at one
time or another and abused children apparently avoid disclosure, cover up the
abuse, and generally try to blend in with the crowd. The majority of teachers
(87.7% and 89.0%, respectively) said that children rarely disclose information
about sexual abuse, and that physical abuse symptoms are hard to detect because
most children have cuts, scrapes, and bruises at some time or other, suggesting
that a child who is sporting stitches or a fresh black eye will not necessarily
stand out. Furthermore, as several respondents remarked, dressed for school,
most children do not present their injuries for easy viewing.
The majority (85.8%) also stated that, where they do notice an unusual injury,
the child or parent may offer a plausible explanation. Frequently teachers’ first
reaction is to question the child. A simple, “Oh my, what happened to your
face?” is a typical response. Clearly, though, “I fell off my bike” or “I was
wrestling with my brother” may sound completely reasonable. Apparently, as one
teacher commented, “Abused children are adept at answers that satisfy adults.”
As for other clues, it is clear that even the most astute teacher can miss them
under normal classroom conditions:
The mother came in and told the principal that this little boy had been sexually abused
during the school year by the father. It was a real shock to me. I hadn’t suspected
anything. [AT]
7
The majority of those surveyed said that if the child is not having any trouble in
school, the teacher is not likely to notice that anything is wrong. These figures
stand at 75.2% for physical abuse, 75.4% for sexual abuse and, remarkably,
perhaps, 70.8% for emotional abuse, which frequently has behavioural consequences that might be expected to show up in the classroom.
Many teachers move around the school and from class to class each day, so
they have little time for intensive, reflective observation of individuals. A full
one-quarter of teachers in this sample reported holding more than one teaching
assignment (e.g., classroom teaching and part-time music, physical education, and
so on); 58% work with more than one grade level; and almost 10% of the sample
teach only part-time. In practical terms, these figures mean considerable shifting
of children and teachers throughout the school day, implying, as one teacher
remarked, that “Many times, the opportune moment to pursue the topic slips by
because the teacher is scheduled to be elsewhere.”
Knowledge of Abuse
As Table 1 shows, too often teachers do not know what they are looking for.
Although the majority of teachers surveyed had received reporting law
information from their school boards, less than half had been required to attend
child abuse in-service programmes during the past five years, and almost 40%
stated that they did not know whether their school board had a child abuse
policy. Of the teachers whose school boards do have a reporting policy, many
are unable to articulate the document’s definitions of abuse, offering only a
general statement, such as “detrimental treatment.” Remarkably, one teacher said:
“I only know they have a policy. I have never seen it or heard what it contains.”
Teachers are not unaware of the gaps in their knowledge. Most feel
comfortable about detecting the symptoms of neglect, but the majority said they
are not sufficiently well-trained for detecting sexual, physical, or emotional
abuse. Many reveal that they could easily misinterpret an abused child’s injury
or distress in the classroom as related to other family difficulties (84.2%),
medical problems (51.5%), or the influence of television (69.0%). Interestingly,
however, analysis of these items by education and training differences indicates
attendance at child abuse in-service programmes has only a marginal effect, a
finding that leaves some doubt as to the benefit of current training programmes.
Establishing Grounds for Reporting
According to their responses to the vignettes and the cases described in the
interviews, once teachers’ initial suspicions are aroused, many investigate the
abuse informally before making their reports. This usually involves questioning
the child, and, although less often, the parents, other teachers, the public health
nurse, and occasionally other knowledgeable people in the community.
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TABLE 1
Educators’ Exposure to Child Abuse Policy and Related Information (N=254)
n
Existence of school board child abuse policy
Yes
No
Not sure
Total
Missing
Attendance at child abuse in-service training session
At least once in five years
No/Cannot remember
Total
Missing
Source of child abuse information
School board
Professional association
Children’s Aid Society
Ministry of Education
Ministry of Community and Social Services
Community organizations
University course
Colleagues
The media
Other source
None/Cannot remember
Missing
Exposure to prevention programmes
Curriculum programme
Comprehensive family violence
Sexual abuse/Street-proofing
Parenting skills
Informal in-school programme
Developed by school staff
Developed by individual teacher
Police/Community group programme
Comprehensive family violence
Sexual abuse/Street-proofing
Parenting skills
Missing
%
145
6
97
248
6
58.5
2.4
39.1
100.0
120
123
243
11
49.4
50.6
100.0
189
142
69
92
30
42
73
61
74
22
57
2
75.0
56.3
27.4
36.5
11.9
16.7
29.0
24.2
29.4
8.7
22.6
28
55
40
11.4
22.4
16.3
29
37
11.8
15.0
68
79
36
8
27.6
32.1
14.6
9
This process of attempting to obtain some sort of unofficial proof is not
surprising, given the difficulties associated with classroom detection and the legal
requirement that teachers report only on reasonable grounds. These investigations
are fraught with difficulties, however. Almost all the teachers surveyed (96.8%)
said it is difficult to probe for information from parents; 89.3% said it is difficult
to get information from children.
Although teachers who maintain close links with parents may be expected to
hold a unique vantage point for detecting the potential for abuse, it is clear that
parent-teacher relationships complicate the issue considerably. Of teachers
surveyed, 53.6% said they worry about disturbing the parent-teacher rapport, a
concern which, unfortunately, seems rooted in grim experience. One teacher
described an angry mother who stormed into the classroom and backed her
forcefully into the door. Another teacher mentioned being advised to leave her
car at home after a family promised revenge. Others commented on unpleasant
calls to the principal and school board. Describing a different kind of experience,
one teacher said:
I think the mother felt that I didn’t believe her, and that sort of strained things. I sort of
had to regain her trust. I used to call her a lot about different things that had happened,
and we always were able to chat very easily, but if I had to call her about marks on her
little girl, there would be a lot of tension in the conversation. [PS]
Analysis of the concern for disturbing parent-teacher rapport by the past
experience of discussing suspicious symptoms with parents revealed sexual abuse
as a particularly dangerous area, implying that parent-teacher relationships may
be especially vulnerable in these cases.
Another concern has to do with family privacy: 72.2% of the teachers
surveyed said it is hard to talk to parents without worrying about invading the
privacy of their family life. A substantial number (58.1%) said it is difficult to
question children about private family issues. Although some concern about
questioning children seems connected to the fear that “the parents will find out,”
it is also evident, by the concern for “nosy peers,” that crowded classrooms offer
little in the way of appropriate, private time with individuals.
Teachers who attempt close student-teacher relationships encounter other
difficulties. One teacher said: “The ideal is to offer the child a secure classroom
environment where disclosure of fears, pain, and anger is accepted and
encouraged.” Without an outright disclosure, however, many teachers tend to
worry that talking about abuse will destroy the student-teacher relationship;
59.3% said they were concerned about disturbing the child’s trust in their
teacher. But even when children do tell their teachers what is happening, the
dilemma may be no less difficult. As one teacher asked, what should teachers do
when “Children beg you not to tell?” This is a tough question, one that obviously
brings some nasty images to mind; more than 90% of respondents said they are
afraid of angry parents taking out their anger on the child. One teacher remarked:
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It’s easy to say, “I’m sure there’s incest,” but you have to be sure you can support this
child. If they’ve blabbed, they’re going to get their heads knocked off or you have to be
able to protect them, and I never felt there was enough protection there to go through
with anything. [MC]
Abuse or “Just Discipline”?
Opponents of corporal punishment have long suggested that the main problem
with it is the effect is has on the norms of child-rearing and the confusion it
causes in attempts to determine the boundary between discipline and abuse
(Hyman, 1990; Robertshaw, 1980). These confusions are reflected in the data
summarized in Table 2. Although less than 10% of this sample use corporal
punishment themselves, the majority (68.8%) are clearly in favour of spanking
as a disciplinary measure. Furthermore, although most teachers draw the line at
bruising (one teacher called it “the kind of discipline that leaves marks”), it is
interesting that approximately one-quarter of the teachers in this sample remain
undecided about the abusiveness of both spanking and bruising. Finally, when
asked whether it is easy or difficult to determine whether a child’s injury is a
sign of physical abuse, close to half (41.7%) indicated that it might be difficult
to distinguish between abuse and discipline. Thus, although there is no clear
statistical relationship between teachers’ use of corporal punishment and confusions with regard to the boundary between abuse and discipline, the general
pattern of the data suggests detection may be complicated by teachers’ perception
that they need to weigh children’s “need for discipline” against their “need for
protection” from parents who use physical punishment.
DISCUSSION
This study highlights some of the problems associated with teachers’ surveillance
role. One critical aspect is the lack of appropriate time and opportunity for
reflective observation. While it is often assumed that teachers are ideally placed
for detection, because of their ostensible concern for the “whole child” (Fairorth,
1982; Volpe, 1980), it is evident that in the crowded and intense daily work of
the classroom, teachers may be unable to engage individual children on a level
sufficiently close and personal to notice when a child has been abused. Added
to a general lack of knowledge of abuse definitions and shared understandings
with regard to policy, it may seem a wonder that any abused children get
detected at all.
Even when teachers do become suspicious, there are clearly some other issues
at work. The majority of teachers seem not only reluctant to intrude on family
privacy, as the findings of Abrahams and her colleagues suggest (Abrahams et
al., 1992), but also quite frightened about the consequences of doing so. As
shown, 90% of my sample feared that such intrusions could result in angry
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TABLE 2
The Distinction Between Discipline and Physical Abuse
n
%
I. Defining physical abuse: two vignettes
1. A teacher suspects that a bruise on Jimmy’s face may
have been inflicted by his mother.
Abusive
Undecided
Not abusive
Total
Missing
172
64
16
252
2
68.2
25.4
6.4
100.0
2. Sally has told her teacher that her father spanked her for
going to her friend’s house without permission.
Abusive
Undecided
Not abusive
Total
Missing
22
57
174
253
1
8.7
22.5
68.8
100.0
106
148
254
41.7
58.3
100.0
II. Difficulty with determining physical abuse
It is difficult to determine whether a child is suffering
from physical abuse because the injury may have come
about as a consequence of a parent’s attempts to
discipline a difficult child.
Agree
Disagree
Total
parents taking out their anger on the child, and more than half are concerned
about disturbing parent-teacher rapport. Whether their fears are rooted in genuine,
realistic concerns for abused children, or are merely an attempt to avoid conflict
between the home and school, serious questions remain about the difficulty of
reporting while continuing with normal home and school relationships. Although
the OTF (1984) claims that it is perhaps time for teachers to begin questioning
the “disputed border between home and school” (p. 5), it seems clear that reporting may be inconsistent with the traditional expectation that schools should not
interfere with parents’ authority to treat their children in the ways that they prefer
(Erickson et al., 1984).
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Closely related to this is the central importance of student-teacher relationships, as evidenced by the majority of teachers in this sample who expressed
concern about disrupting the children’s trust in their teacher. Teachers are among
the few professionals who can be expected to be in contact with the child and
the family from the time of initial suspicion through the reporting process, treatment, and follow-up. Thus, the difficulty of reporting while maintaining close
relationships with children should not be underestimated, particularly since
abused children may have additional special classroom needs (Broadhurst, 1980;
Rose, 1985).
Beyond the problems related to maintaining good working relationships are the
confusions associated with drawing the line between discipline and physical
abuse. Although the school’s role as disciplinarian reflects a tradition of physical
punishment (Erickson et al., 1984), the majority of teachers in this sample do not
use corporal punishment. Even so, there appears to be considerable disagreement
about what constitutes appropriate discipline, both at home and at school. It is
important to note that these disagreements are reflected in school policy; Ontario
teachers are frequently reminded, for instance, about the importance of fostering
a sense of “self-worth and self-discipline” (Ontario Ministry of Education, 1986,
p. 30), while Section 43 of the Criminal Code still provides teachers with justification for the use of force “by way of correction” provided the force does not
exceed what is “reasonable” under the circumstances. Teachers’ disagreements
are perhaps not surprising in this context; however, they do seem to reflect the
significance of the school’s traditional role in discipline and the historical
tendency to equate discipline with physical punishment.
Although it seems obvious that improved detection cannot come about without
more effective delivery of information about child abuse, the development of
pre-service and in-service training should be approached with some caution.
Perhaps new programs might begin by reconsidering the assumption that abused
children stand out in the classroom, and the idea that teachers are particularly
well-placed for detection. While improving teachers’ knowledge of indicators
may improve the situation somewhat, criticisms of teachers who claim they are
teaching the “whole child” and who yet fail to respond to child abuse cannot be
resolved without recognition that the work of teaching may itself stand in the
way of appropriate decisions in many cases.
NOTES
1
For further information about the larger study, please see my articles in Child Abuse
and Neglect (Tite, 1993) and Interchange (Tite, in press).
2
From the original list of 51 behaviours presented at Phase 1, I selected the 10 items
that drew the lengthiest discussion; with some minor modifications, the vignettes were
written in the actual language used by the teachers interviewed at Phase 1. For a
complete analysis of the vignettes, see Tite (1993).
3
13
Where quantitative information is provided, these data were derived from the survey
responses (Phase 2); qualitative data were derived from interviews (Phase 3) and
comments added to the questionnaire (Phase 2). Throughout the paper, interview
information is identified by initials representing a fictional name assigned to each
respondent.
REFERENCES
Abrahams, N., Casey, K. & Daro, D. (1992). Teachers’ knowledge, attitudes and beliefs
about child abuse and its prevention. Child Abuse and Neglect, 16, 229–238.
Batchelor, E., Dean, R., Gridley, B., & Batchelor, B. (1990). Reports of child sexual
abuse in the schools. Psychology in the Schools, 27, 131–137.
Baxter, G. & Beer, J. (1990). Educational needs of school personnel regarding child abuse
and/or neglect. Psychological Reports, 67, 75–80.
Broadhurst, D. (1980). The effect of child abuse and neglect on the school-aged child. In
R. Volpe, M. Breton, & J. Mitton (Eds.), The maltreatment of the school-aged child
(pp. 222–226). Toronto: D.C. Heath and Co.
Erickson, E. L., McEvoy, A., & Colucci, N. D. (1984). Child abuse and neglect: A guidebook for educators and community leaders (2d ed.) Florida: Learning Publications Inc.
Federation of Women Teachers’ Associations of Ontario. (1983). In terms of the law: A
teacher’s glossary. Toronto: Federation of Women Teachers’ Associations of Ontario.
Federation of Women Teachers’ Associations of Ontario. (1985). Affirmative action
report. Toronto: Federation of Women Teachers’ Associations of Ontario.
Fairorth, J. W. (1982). Child abuse and the school. California: R & M Research Associates.
Giovannoni, J., & Becerra, R. (1979). Defining child abuse. New York: The Free Press.
Hazzard, A. (1984). Training teachers to identify and intervene with abused children.
Journal of Clinical Child Psychology, 13, 288–293.
Hazzard, A., & Rupp, G. (1986). A note on the knowledge and attitudes of professional
groups toward child abuse. Journal of Community Psychology, 18, 219–223.
Health and Welfare Canada. (1989). Family violence: A review of theoretical and clinical
literature. Ottawa: Health and Welfare Canada.
Herzberger, S. D. (1988). Cultural obstacles to the labelling of abuse by professionals. In
A. Maney & S. Wells (Eds.), Professional responsibilities for protecting children: A
public health approach to child sexual abuse (pp. 33–44). New York: Praeger Publishers.
Hyman, I. (1990). Reading, writing, and the hickory stick: The appalling story of physical
and psychological abuse in American schools. Lexington, MA: Lexington Books.
Kleemeier, C., Webb, C., Hazzard, A., & Pohl, J. (1988). Child sexual abuse prevention:
Evaluation of a training model. Child Abuse and Neglect, 12, 555–561.
McIntyre, T. (1987). Teacher awareness of child abuse and neglect. Child Abuse and
Neglect, 11, 133–135.
14
ROSONNA TITE
Ontario Ministry of Community and Social Services. (1984). Child and Family Services
Act. Toronto: Government of Ontario.
Ontario Ministry of Education, (1986). Discipline: Intermediate and Senior Divisions:
resource guide. Toronto: Government of Ontario.
Ontario Ministry of Education. (1987). Ontario directory of education (1987/88). Toronto:
Government of Ontario.
Ontario Teachers’ Federation. (1984). A childhood for every child: A handbook on child
abuse for Ontario teachers. Toronto: Ontario Teachers’ Federation.
Pelcovitz, D. A. (1980). Child abuse as viewed by suburban elementary school teachers.
Saratoga, CA: Century Twenty-One Publishing.
Robertshaw, C. (1980). Outline of key legislative issues relating to child abuse: A
discussion paper. Ottawa: Health and Welfare Canada.
Rose, B. C. (1985). Child abuse and the educator. In N. Colangelo, D. Dustin, & C. H.
Foxley (Eds.), Multicultural non-sexist education: A human relations approach (2d ed.;
440–457). Dubuque, IA: Kendall/Hunt Publishing Co.
Tite, R. (1993). Defining abuse: The distinction between theoretical and reportable cases.
Child Abuse and Neglect, 17, 591–603.
Tite, R. (in press). Muddling through: The procedural marginalization of child abuse.
Interchange.
Volpe, R. (1980). Schools and the problem of child: An introduction and overview. In R.
Volpe, M. Breton, & J. Mitton (Eds.), The maltreatment of the school-aged child (pp.
103–110). Toronto: D.C. Heath and Co.
Volpe, R. (1981). The development and evaluation of a training model for school-based
professionals dealing with child abuse: The University of Toronto Interfaculty Child
Abuse Prevention Project, 1978–1979. Child Abuse and Neglect, 5, 103–110.
Rosonna Tite is in the Faculty of Education, Memorial University of Newfoundland, St.
John’s, Newfoundland, A1B 3X8.
Knowledge, Compliance, and Attitudes
of Teachers Toward Mandatory Child Abuse
Reporting in British Columbia1
Kirk A. Beck
James R. P. Ogloff
Anne Corbishley
simon fraser university
Research indicates that teachers, among other professionals, continue to underreport cases
of suspected child maltreatment. To better understand factors associated with noncompliant behaviour, we investigated teachers’ knowledge of, compliance with, and attitudes
toward mandatory child abuse reporting in British Columbia. Results showed that virtually
all the participating teachers were aware of the existence of the mandatory reporting law;
they were, however, only moderately knowledgeable about the specific components of the
legislation. Teachers’ tendency to respond varied as a function of type of maltreatment,
with sexual abuse being most likely to be reported and emotional abuse being least likely
to be reported.
Les recherches indiquent que les enseignants, entre autres, continuent à ne pas signaler
tous les cas présumés d’enfants maltraités qu’il y aurait lieu de signaler. Afin de mieux
comprendre les facteurs associés à ce comportement, les auteurs ont cherché à savoir si
les enseignants connaissent la loi qui les oblige, en Colombie-Britannique, à signaler les
cas d’enfants maltraités, s’ils la respectent et quelles sont leurs attitudes vis-à-vis de cette
loi. Les résultats démontrent que pratiquement tous les enseignants participants savent que
cette loi existe, mais en connaissent plus ou moins les dispositions précises.
Child abuse and neglect is still a serious social and public health problem. The
damage to a child from maltreatment can range from minor to extensive physical,
psychological, and behavioural problems. In the most severe cases, child abuse
and neglect results in the tragic death of a child. To protect children from
ongoing abuse, jurisdictions in both Canada and the United States have enacted
mandatory child abuse reporting laws. These laws explicitly or implicitly require
school personnel to report suspected child abuse (Foster, 1991). Teachers are in
a unique position to identify and report abuse because of their daily contact with
young children. Given that a large percentage of abusive parents were themselves
abused as children, school personnel can help break cycles of abuse by
recognizing signs of abuse and neglect and reporting such cases.
Although the Carnegie Foundation (1988) estimates that 89% of teachers see
abused and neglected children in their classrooms, less than 20% of filed reports
15
19:1 (1994)
16
K. A. BECK, J. R. P. OGLOFF,
& A.
CORBISHLEY
of suspected child abuse come from school personnel (Broadhurst, 1978; Camblin & Prout, 1983; Volpe, 1981; Zgliczynski & Rodolfa, 1980). To account for
teachers’ low reporting levels, researchers have investigated teachers’ knowledge
of their reporting responsibilities: McIntyre (1987) found that of 440 responding
teachers in Illinois, only 33% reported knowing the existence of their state law;
similarly, Baxter and Beer (1990) reported that 16% of teachers were unaware
there is a law regarding child abuse reporting — their study also found that less
than one-fourth of school personnel had read the Kansas state law regarding child
abuse, and only 28% of respondents knew that all school personnel were required
to report suspected abuse; in another study, Levin (1983) found that 61% of
teachers said they did not know the legal consequences of failing to report
suspected child abuse, and 40% did not know the proper reporting procedure.
Before reports can be filed, however, teachers must be able to identify the
symptoms of child abuse. To date, much of the research suggests that teachers
receive minimal training in detecting child abuse. According to Hazzard (1984),
68% of elementary and junior high school teachers surveyed reported three or
fewer hours of education about child abuse, and 62% reported no prior professional experience with child abuse cases. Similarly, McIntyre (1987) found that
81% of teachers received no child abuse training during their college career, and
61% had not received information on child abuse or neglect during in-service
training sessions. Bavolek’s (1983) study of school personnel in Wisconsin found
that 56% of respondents had never received any training about child abuse and
neglect.
Due to their lack of adequate training, many teachers are unaware of the
important symptoms of child abuse. Thus, child maltreatment may go unrecognized and unreported by many school personnel. In McIntyre’s (1987) study,
only 30% of the teachers said they were very aware of the symptoms of neglect,
21% of the symptoms of physical abuse, 19% of the signs of emotional abuse,
and 4% of the symptoms of sexual abuse. These findings mirror Levin’s (1983)
study, where teachers perceived themselves as having most knowledge in detecting the symptoms of physical abuse and neglect, and least of sexual abuse.
On a larger scale, the National Committee for Prevention of Child Abuse
(NCPCA) in the United States conducted a nationwide survey of teachers’
knowledge, attitudes, and beliefs about child abuse and its prevention (Abrahams,
Casey, & Daro, 1992). The sample consisted of 568 (34% response rate) teachers
in 40 school districts across the country. The survey found two-thirds of teachers
indicated that their schools are not sufficiently educating them on identifying,
reporting, and preventing child abuse and neglect. Ninety percent of teachers who
suspected child abuse reported the case, but only 23% reported directly to child
protective services. Almost two-thirds of teachers felt that a significant obstacle
to child abuse reporting was the lack of sufficient knowledge on how to detect
and report cases of suspected child abuse.
MANDATORY CHILD ABUSE REPORTING
17
Other research findings, however, suggest that teachers fail to report child
abuse for reasons other than lack of awareness or inadequate training. For example, some teachers are hesitant to report because they believe that the child’s
punishment is legitimate parental discipline (Levin, 1983; Turbett & O’Toole,
1983), whereas other teachers are concerned about interfering with family
privacy (Abrahams et al., 1992; Manley-Casimir & Newman, 1976). Baxter and
Beer (1990) reported that many teachers were apprehensive about reporting for
fear of parental retaliation. Other studies have found that teachers fail to report
because they fear legal ramifications for making false allegations (Abrahams et
al., 1992; Baxter & Beer, 1990; Hazzard, 1984; Wurtele & Schmitt, 1992).
Investigating the potential barriers to child abuse reporting, Abrahams, Casey,
and Doro (1992) concluded that 52% of responding teachers were concerned
about potential damage to the parent-teacher and teacher-child relationships, and
that a lack of support from the school in making a report was a significant reason
for failing to report. Bavolek (1983) found that the most frequent reason for
school personnel failing to report child abuse was the fear of getting involved
(40%); further, almost one-fifth of school personnel felt that a report would not
make a difference.
This review suggests that teachers are not fully aware of their reporting
responsibilities and do not consistently comply with mandatory child abuse
reporting laws. Although various reasons are offered to explain why teachers fail
to report suspected child abuse, research to date has not sufficiently explored
these factors. In this article we examine teachers’ knowledge of the British
Columbia child abuse reporting law and evaluate specific factors in teachers’
decisions to report or not to report suspected child abuse.
METHOD
Participants
Participants were 216 registered teachers from the Lower Mainland of British
Columbia. The sample’s demographic and background characteristics are summarized in Table 1.
Survey Instrument
The survey we developed for this study contained five sections.2 The first section
elicited respondents’ demographic and background characteristics such as sex,
age, highest degree attained, grade(s) mostly taught, and number of years of
teaching experience. The second section asked respondents to answer eight
multiple-choice questions assessing their knowledge of B.C.’s child abuse reporting law. We developed each question to reflect the essence of B.C.’s current
reporting legislation — British Columbia’s Family and Child Service Act (1980):
18
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TABLE 1
Demographics and Background Characteristics of Respondents
Teachersa
(n=216)
Characteristics
Sex
Male
Female
Unknown
Highest degree attained
Masters
Bachelors
Grade(s) taught
K–3 (Primary)
4–7 (Intermediate)
8–12 (Secondary)
K–7
K–12
Unknown
Level of information about child abuseb
Little
Moderate
Substantial
Source of information
Seminars
Literature
Discussion with colleagues
University courses
Media
Professional experience
Age (years)
Years of teaching experience
a
n
%
80
129
7
37
60
3
40
173
19
81
38
41
101
24
4
8
17.6
19
46.8
11.1
1.8
3.7
46
127
37
22
60
18
131
157
156
33
23
20
25.5
30
30
6
4.5
4
M
SD
42
15
8.8
8.4
The total number of teachers does not equal 216 for all variables
because data were missing for some respondents.
b
This item reflects respondents’ self-reported level of information about
child abuse issues (e.g., definition, recognition, legal aspects, procedures), rather than an objective measure.
19
Duty to report
7. (1) A person who has reasonable grounds to believe that a child is in need of
protection shall forthwith report the circumstances to the superintendent or a person designated by the superintendent to receive such reports.
(2) The duty under subsection (1) overrides a claim of confidentiality or privilege by
a person following any occupation or profession, except a claim founded on a solicitor
and client relationship.
(3) No action lies against a person making a report under this section unless he makes
it maliciously or without reasonable grounds for his belief.
(4) A person who contravenes subsection (1) commits an offence. [1980–11–7]
The third section asked respondents about their reporting experiences during the
past year (Zellman & Antler, 1990). Specifically, respondents were asked
whether they had reported any child abuse cases in the last 12 months, and if so,
to whom they reported, the type(s) of abuse they reported, and the reason(s) why
they had decided to report. Respondents were also asked whether they had suspected any child abuse cases in the last year but decided not to report. Similarly,
the type(s) of abuse not reported, and the reason(s) for not reporting were
collected.
According to Zellman (1990a), professionals report various types of child
maltreatment differentially. So long, however, as a child is “in need of protection,” teachers are required to report all types of child maltreatment, regardless
of the type of abuse. To determine whether teachers would report child abuse
differentially across type of abuse, the fourth section provided respondents with
four vignettes of child maltreatment: physical abuse, emotional abuse, sexual
abuse, and neglect. The content of the vignettes was held constant but the type
of abuse was systematically manipulated. To control for severity of abuse across
vignettes, descriptive data were drawn from research conducted by Giovannoni
and Becerra (1979). To assure validity of child maltreatment, the vignettes were
previewed by two psychologists and one university professor, each of whom had
read B.C.’s child abuse reporting law. They were asked to indicate if the vignettes met the legal definition of child maltreatment, as well as to check the
wording of each vignette. All three persons agreed that each vignette represented
a reportable incident of child maltreatment. The vignettes presented to participants read as follows:
The custodial parents of a seven-year-old child tell you that their child is not sleeping
well at night. During your conversation with the family, the information emerges that the
parents . . .
. . . usually punish their child by spanking him/her with a leather strap leaving red
marks on the child’s skin. (Physical Abuse)
. . . are constantly screaming at their child, calling him/her foul names, and the child
does not play with other children. (Emotional Abuse)
. . . repeatedly show the child pornographic pictures. (Sexual Abuse)
20
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. . . regularly leave the child alone inside the house after dark. Often they do not return
until midnight. (Neglect)
After each vignette, respondents were asked to rate their degree of certainty
that child maltreatment was occurring, and their tendency to report this incident
to the authorities. Responses were coded on 7-point Likert scales, ranging from
1 (Definitely Not Certain/Definitely Would Not Report) to 7 (Definitely Certain/
Definitely Would Report).
The survey’s final section was designed to measure participants’ attitudes
toward child abuse reporting. Five statements were developed from a review of
the literature (Kalichman, Craig, & Follingstad, 1989; Reisenauer, 1987). The
specific statements were:
(1) I believe that the child abuse reporting law in British Columbia is necessary.
(2) In my professional opinion, I can conceive of a case when I would not report suspected child abuse.
(3) To me it seems that the child abuse reporting law is insensitive to the possibility
that reporting can cause more harm than good for the child.
(4) People in my profession should not be required to report all cases of suspected
child abuse.
(5) I believe that the current reporting law/system in British Columbia is effective in
addressing cases of child abuse.
Responses to these statements were coded similarly to the questions from the
fourth section of the survey.
Procedure
To ensure respondent anonymity, we researchers were not permitted direct access
to the pool of teachers; instead, the British Columbia Teachers’ Federation
(B.C.T.F.) selected the sample of teachers and distributed the surveys on our
behalf. The sample of teachers was derived by randomly selecting teachers listed
in the 1992 computer-base directory of the B.C.T.F. Teachers actively working
full-time in Kindergarten through Grade 12 were specifically included in the
selection pool of potential respondents. Each teacher in the sample pool was
mailed a covering letter, a survey, and an addressed, postage-paid return envelope in the first week of November 1992. The covering letter was printed on
Simon Fraser University letterhead and identified the project as
university-sanctioned. Three weeks after this mailing, all potential respondents
were sent a follow-up “thank you” and “reminder” postcard. To maximize
response rates, in the first week of January 1993 all of the original sample were
mailed another covering letter, survey, and postage-paid return envelope.
Of 400 surveys mailed to teachers, 17 were returned by the post office as
undeliverable. Of the 383 teachers who received the survey, 219 returned them,
21
yielding 57% of potential respondents. Three teachers returned their surveys with
a note indicating that they did not feel qualified to participate, so the final sample
consisted of 216 teachers (a 56% response rate). According to Kerlinger (1973),
this response rate is acceptable for survey research.
RESULTS
Preliminary analyses investigated the effects of six demographic factors (sex,
age, educational background, grades taught, years of teaching experience, and
level of information about child abuse reporting issues) on teachers’ knowledge
score, past reporting experience, tendency to report the vignettes, and attitudes
toward B.C.’s reporting law. Results indicated that teachers’ age, educational
background, grades taught, and years of teaching experience were not significantly related to any aspects of child abuse reporting we surveyed. Respondents’ sex
and level of information about child abuse issues, however, were significantly
related to their knowledge score and tendency to report the vignettes of child
abuse.
Knowledge of British Columbia’s Reporting Law
When asked, “Are you aware that a child abuse reporting law exists in British
Columbia?” 94% (203 of 216) of teachers said “yes.” When asked about their
specific knowledge of the components of the reporting law, teachers averaged
60% (4.8 of 8; SD=1.77) correct responses on the knowledge items (see Table
2).
A two-tailed t test was used to determine whether there were significant
differences between men and women on their overall knowledge score. Because
the variance was homogeneous, pooled variance estimates were used. Results
indicated that women obtained a higher mean score than men on the knowledge
items, t(206)=–2.07, p<.05. Women’s mean score was 5.0 (SD=1.78), men’s was
4.44 (SD=1.77).
A one-way ANOVA revealed a significant relationship between teachers’
(self-reported) level of information about child abuse issues and their knowledge
score, F(2, 206)=23.88, p<0001. Tukey’s post-hoc analysis showed teachers
reporting substantial levels of knowledge about child abuse issues scored significantly higher on the knowledge items than teachers reporting moderate or little
knowledge. Similarly, teachers reporting moderate levels of knowledge scored
significantly higher than those reporting little information.
Past Reporting Experience
In answering the question, “In the last 12 months, have you reported any child
abuse cases?” 15% (n=32) of teachers indicated that they had reported child
22
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abuse in the last year. Over one-half (53%, n=17) of these reports were made
directly to the Ministry of Social Services (hereafter, Social Services); the
remainder were most commonly made to other school personnel such as the
school principal, counsellor, or nurse. Physical abuse was the type of child
maltreatment reported most frequently by this sample. Of 32 reported cases of
maltreatment, 69% (n=22) involved physical abuse. Emotional abuse was the
type of abuse least reported, being mentioned by just under 38% (n=12) of
respondents who had reported abuse. Child neglect (44%, n=14) and sexual abuse
(41%, n=13) were equally reported by these teachers. It is important to note that
of the cases reported by teachers, many involved multiple forms of child abuse,
therefore the sum of frequencies is greater than 32.
TABLE 2
Number and Percentage of Teachers Responding Correctly
to Knowledge Items
Teachers
Item
a
#C
n
What types of child abuse are supposed to be reported?
(sexual, physical, emotional abuse, and neglect)
180
216
84
Who is supposed to report child abuse? (any person)
184
216
86
In order to make a report of child abuse, how certain
should the reporter be? (reasonable grounds)
176
216
82
Failure to report suspected child abuse is: (a crime
punishable by $1000.00 fine and/or 6 months in jail)
38
216
18
143
216
66
49
216
23
Under the statute, if a person suspects child abuse, what is
the procedure for reporting? (call the Ministry of Social Services) 128
216
60
A report of child abuse is supposed to be made
(immediately) following the suspicion of abuse.
216
60
If a person makes a report of suspected child abuse in
“good faith,” and if the case does not hold up in court,
the person reporting: (is immune/protected)
Except for lawyers, the ethical principle of confidentiality
(never applies) in cases of suspected child abuse.
a
#C is the number of correct responses.
128
%
23
Reporting in the last year was proportionally higher for primary school
teachers. Of the 38 teachers who taught at the primary level, 11 (29%) had reported at least one case of child abuse in the past year. Reporting in the last year
was less common for intermediate (n=7, 17%) and secondary school teachers
(n=10, 10%). Two (9%) teachers who taught at both the primary and intermediate school levels reported child abuse. Data were missing from two respondents
about the grade(s) they taught.
Asked about their reasons for reporting, teachers expressed concern about a
variety of issues. The most important factor influencing teachers’ reporting
behaviour was the need to protect the child. In fact, every teacher (n=32) responded that the safety and welfare of the child was foremost in his/her decision
to report. Forty-four percent (n=14) of teachers said they also reported suspected
child abuse because of their legal obligation to do so. Reasons for reporting
raised less frequently were the need to help to treat the abuser (19%, n=6) and
the perceived benefit to the rest of the family (16%, n=5).
Answering the question, “In the last 12 months, have you suspected child
abuse but decided not to report?” 16% (n=34) of responding teachers indicated
that they had suspected child abuse within the past year but decided not to make
a report. Of the 34 unreported cases, one-half (n=17) involved emotional abuse.
Physical abuse and child neglect were equally suspected but not reported in 47%
(n=16) of the cases. Sexual abuse was suspected and not reported by 35% (n=12)
of responding teachers. Again, the sum of the frequencies exceeds 34 because
respondents were free to indicate more than one type of abuse for every unreported case.
Failure to report suspected child abuse in the last year was proportionally
higher for teachers who taught at both the primary and the intermediate level. Of
the 24 teachers teaching Kindergarten through Grade 7, 6 (25%) had suspected
child maltreatment in the past year but decided not to make a report. Failure to
report in the last year was less common for primary (18%, n=7), intermediate
(17%, n=7), and secondary school teachers (12%, n=12). One of the two teachers
who taught Kindergarten through Grade 12 failed to report suspected child abuse.
One respondent did not indicate which grade(s) he/she taught.
When respondents were asked about their reasons for withholding a report of
child abuse, almost 80% (n=27) indicated “lack of evidence” as the most common reason. Over 40% of teachers who failed to report their suspicions of abuse
believed a report would be negative for the child (n=8) or the family (n=6).
Almost 25% (n=8) of teachers decided not to report child maltreatment because
they lacked confidence in child protective services. Finally, more than 20% (n=7)
of teachers who failed to report suspected child abuse indicated that they were
uncertain about the definitions of abuse.
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Likelihood to Report Controlled Vignettes
Although the vignette content was the same and the severity of abuse systematically controlled, variability occurred in teachers’ tendency to report the four
scenarios. Specifically, the sexual abuse vignette was rated the most likely to be
reported by teachers (M=6.45, SD=.97), whereas the emotional abuse vignette
was the least likely to be reported (M=5.21, SD=1.67). The neglect vignette was
rated almost as likely to be reported as the sexual abuse vignette, receiving an
average rating of 6.36 (SD=1.07). The physical abuse vignette received a mean
rating of 5.38 (SD=1.70). Women were significantly more likely than men to
report the child neglect vignette, F(1, 205)=12.42, p<.0005.
Results of a one-way Anova showed significant differences between level of
information and tendency to report physical abuse, F(2, 205)=5.85, p<.005.
Tukey’s post-hoc analysis revealed that teachers with moderate and substantial
levels of knowledge about child abuse issues were significantly more likely to
report the physical abuse vignette than teachers with little information. A similar
pattern was found between level of information and tendency to report emotional
abuse, F(2, 204)=3.85, p<.05. Post-hoc analyses using Tukey’s test showed that
teachers who reported substantial levels of information about child abuse issues
were significantly more likely to report emotional abuse than teachers who stated
that they knew little about child abuse.
Attitudes Toward the Reporting Law
Although this sample of teachers believed that the mandatory child abuse
reporting law is necessary (M=6.70, SD=.78), they were “not sure” about the
effectiveness of the current system in dealing with cases of child abuse (M=4.21,
SD=1.33). Although teachers recognized that they should be required to report
all cases of suspected child abuse (M=2.27, SD=1.76), many indicated that they
could conceive of a case when they would not report suspected child abuse
(M=3.31, SD=2.21), particularly when reporting could cause more harm than
good for the child (M=3.13, SD=1.98).
DISCUSSION
Discussion of our findings requires a note about limitations. Due to the moderate
return rate (56%), responses may reflect those teachers most concerned and
knowledgeable about child abuse issues; hence it is difficult to determine
possible differences between participating and non-participating teachers and,
therefore, the results may represent a biased sample. In addition, because reporting laws differ in their respective requirements and wording (Foster, 1991), the
findings presented here may not generalize to other provinces or jurisdictions.
25
Finally, it is important to note that this survey, in part, investigated teachers’
reporting intentions and not their actual reporting behaviour. Consequently, it is
useful to view such findings as representative of their ideal reporting behaviour.
Our study suggests that although participants were well informed of the
existence of B.C.’s child abuse reporting legislation, many were unaware of the
proper reporting procedures. For example, 40% of responding teachers did not
know they are required to report suspected child abuse “immediately” to “Social
Services.” In fact, many teachers incorrectly indicated that the reporting
procedure was to consult first with others (e.g., school principal) before filing a
report. Failure of educators to report child maltreatment to the proper authorities
may place the child and other children at risk of continued abuse.
Although many school districts in B.C. have established internal procedures
for reporting (i.e., reports being made to the principal or superintendent of
schools), it is important to stress that the responsibility for making a report to a
social worker rests with the person who has reasonable grounds to believe that
a child is in need of protection. A teacher who reports a case of child abuse to
a person other than a social worker or police officer has not fulfilled his/her
reporting responsibilities, and he/she is not exempt from legal liability (for a
complete review of the roles of educators, see the Inter-Ministry Child Abuse
Handbook, 1988, pp. 63–68).
Female teachers scored significantly higher on the knowledge items than male
teachers. Given that the mean difference between groups is slightly over one-half
(.56) of a correct response on eight knowledge items, the practical significance
of this finding is limited. Further research to determine potential sex differences
on legal knowledge may be useful.
Of all the cases of child maltreatment reported in the last year, physical abuse
was reported most frequently and emotional abuse least. From these data, it is
difficult to draw any solid conclusions about why physical abuse was reported
more than emotional abuse. One possible explanation for this finding is that
teachers are more knowledgeable about the symptoms of physical abuse, and less
knowledgeable about those of emotional maltreatment; Levin’s (1983) sample of
209 teachers supports this contention. By extension, teachers may be better able
to detect, and consequently to report, symptoms of physical child abuse. Because
symptoms of physical abuse are often dramatic and visible, teachers may feel
that their suspicions of child abuse are more easily proved and substantiated in
court. Recent studies have shown that professionals are hesitant to report their
suspicions of child maltreatment unless they have conclusive legal evidence that
abuse has occurred (Finlayson & Koocher, 1991; Wurtele & Schmitt, 1992). It
follows that emotional abuse may be reported less frequently because it is
difficult to detect and even more difficult to substantiate in legal proceedings.
The data on teacher’s failure to report support this contention that they may have
difficulty detecting and substantiating emotional abuse.
26
& A.
CORBISHLEY
Consistent with past research (Brosig & Kalichman, 1992), our survey found
the most important reason for reporting abuse was to protect the child. In contrast, less than one-half of teachers indicated that they reported because of their
legal obligation. Taken together, these findings suggest that teachers view protecting the child as more important than upholding the law. Hence it appears that
teachers apply discretion and professional judgement in their reporting decisions.
Similar findings and interpretations have occurred in studies investigating the
reporting practices of other professionals, including psychologists, medical
professionals, and social workers (Kalichman et al., 1989; Zellman, 1990b).
The most common reason for not reporting suspected child maltreatment was
lack of evidence. From these data, it is difficult to determine if this failure to
report reflects a perceived lack of evidence or masks other motives for failure to
report (e.g., fear of parents, not wanting to take responsibility or get involved,
lack of knowledge about the reporting law). If the reason is perceived lack of
evidence, it is important to note that B.C.’s child abuse reporting law does not
require teachers to gather evidence or to have proof that abuse has occurred in
order to fulfill their reporting duty. The legislation clearly states that a person
needs only “reasonable grounds” to believe that a child is in need of protection
(Family and Child Service Act of British Columbia, 1980). In this regard,
teachers act as an important screening mechanism. Once a report is received by
Social Services, the social worker must investigate all reports of suspected child
abuse. If the social worker determines that abuse may have occurred, the social
worker must immediately notify the police, who are responsible for criminal
investigations. Professional training may help to educate and/or alleviate teachers’
concerns about reporting child abuse.
Collectively, over 40% of teachers who failed to report suspected child abuse
believed that such a report would have negative consequences for the child or for
the family. Clearly, teachers experience a dilemma between reporting and not
reporting child abuse, particularly when there is a perceived lack of evidence or
when the perceived consequences of reporting are negative for the child and/or
family. This finding shows that teachers exercise professional judgement in
reporting; decisions to report or not report suspected child abuse “are frequently
made on the basis of individual case characteristics” (Zellman, 1990b, p. 20).
Nevertheless, it is important to note that failing to report can also put the child
in greater danger of abuse, and may prevent the parent(s) from receiving the
attention and treatment they deserve.
Primary school teachers were more likely to report suspected child abuse. One
reason may be that the grades taught during the primary school years correspond
with the average age (7 years) of children reported as abused or neglected
(Slavenas, 1988). Primary teachers may thus be more likely to encounter an
abused child than intermediate or secondary teachers. Another possible reason
that child abuse is reported more frequently at the primary level is the daily
27
contact between teachers and children. At the intermediate and secondary school
levels, children often have more than one teacher and, consequently, it may be
difficult for those teachers to detect victimization because of their limited time
with the abused child. A third possibility is that there is a negative correlation
between the child’s age and the need teachers perceive to protect the child. In
other words, as children get older, teachers may take less responsibility to help
ensure children’s safety and care.
Interestingly, primary school teachers were also more likely to fail to report
suspected child abuse. It seems reasonable to suggest that because primary school
teachers have contact with and “know” the parents (more so than intermediate
and secondary school teachers), they may be reluctant to report for reasons such
as a belief that they have to maintain good relationships with the child’s family,
not wanting to interfere with parental discipline, and fear of parental retaliation.
The vignette data indicated that teachers were strongly willing to report all
scenarios of child maltreatment. There was, however, variability in teachers’
tendency to report the vignettes. Specifically, the sexual abuse vignette was the
most likely to be reported, whereas the emotional abuse vignette was least likely
to be reported. Given that the type of abuse was systematically controlled for and
that the vignettes’ content was held constant, it seems reasonable to posit that
teachers perceive different types of child maltreatment as being more or less
serious than others.
Women were more likely than men to report the child neglect vignette. Again,
the reasons for gender differences are less apparent. Female teachers may be
more sensitive to the needs of the child than male teachers as a result of their
socialization (Finlayson & Koocher, 1991), and they also may feel more personally and politically motivated to prevent victimization in general. Consequently,
women may be more aware than men that child maltreatment can include both
harmful acts against a child and the omission of acts to ensure the child’s safety.
Level of information about child abuse issues was significantly related to
teachers’ reporting tendency. Specifically, teachers with substantial knowledge
about child abuse were more likely to report both physical and emotional abuse
than teachers with little information. Similarly, teachers with a moderate level of
knowledge about child abuse were more likely to report physical abuse than
teachers with little information. Although decisions to report child abuse are
complex, it appears that informing teachers about their reporting responsibilities
and providing professional training can be important factors in the decisionmaking process.
RECOMMENDATIONS
Our study suggests several recommendations for practice. To begin with, educators need to become more knowledgeable about the relevant law. It is critically
28
& A.
CORBISHLEY
important for teachers to know that the standard for reporting child abuse is
reasonable grounds to believe that a child is in need of protection. It is not the
teacher’s responsibility to prove or substantiate cases of suspected child maltreatment. In cases where the teacher is unsure whether or not a child is in need of
protection, it is recommended that the educator err on the side of reporting.
School personnel need to be reminded that they are fully protected from legal
liability for reports made in good faith.
Second, school districts may help educate teachers by providing in-service
training programs involving external personnel whose knowledge and expertise
is required in the system. In-service training programs should accentuate the
reporting law, working definitions of child abuse and neglect, symptoms of child
maltreatment, reporting procedures, and teachers’ attitudes and personal biases
about reporting. These programs could present case scenarios to help teachers
develop effective strategies in abusive situations. In-service training programs
should be provided regularly to reflect current thinking and understanding of
child abuse issues and procedures.
Third, schools should work to coordinate team efforts in the reporting process
and emphasize communications between the principal, teacher, counsellor, social
worker, child, and parents. This includes follow-up after a case of suspected
abuse has been filed. Finally, school districts should provide teachers with
written copies of B.C.’s child abuse reporting legislation and specific school
policies aligned with the legal requirement.
NOTES
1
We thank the British Columbia Teachers’ Federation (B.C.T.F.) and the responding teachers for
their assistance and participation. Portions of this article were presented at the annual convention
of the Canadian Psychological Association, 29 May 1993, Montreal.
2
Copies of the survey may be obtained from the second author.
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Baxter, G., & Beer, J. (1990). Educational needs of school personnel regarding child abuse and/or
neglect. Psychological Reports, 67, 75–80.
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Today, 7, 22–24.
Brosig, C. L., & Kalichman, S. C. (1992). Child abuse reporting decisions: Effects of statutory
wording of reporting requirements. Professional Psychology: Research and Practice, 23, 486–492.
Camblin, L. D., & Prout, H. T. (1983). School counsellors and the reporting of child abuse: A survey
of state laws and practices. The School Counsellor, 30, 358–367.
Carnegie Foundation for the Advancement of Teaching. (1988). The condition of teaching: A state
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Family and Child Service Act. British Columbia. S.B.C. 1980, c11.
Finlayson, L. M., & Koocher, G. P. (1991). Professional judgment and child abuse reporting in sexual
abuse cases. Professional Psychology: Research and Practice, 22, 464–472.
Foster, W. F. (1991). Child abuse in schools: The statutory and common law obligations of educators.
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Clinical Child Psychology, 13, 288–293.
Inter-Ministry child abuse handbook: An integrative approach to child abuse and neglect. (1988).
Victoria: Province of British Columbia.
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father-child sexual abuse: Study of licensed practicing psychologists. Professional Psychology:
Research and Practice, 20, 84–89.
Kerlinger, F. N. (1973). Foundations of behavioral research. New York: Holt, Rinehart, & Winston.
Levin, P. G. (1983). Teachers’ perceptions, attitudes, and reporting of child abuse/neglect. Child
Welfare, 62, 387–393.
Manley-Casimir, M. E., & Newman, B. (1976). Child abuse and the school. Canadian Welfare, 52(4),
17–19.
McIntyre, T. C. (1987). Teachers awareness of child abuse and neglect. Child Abuse and Neglect, 11,
133–135.
Reisenauer, T. M. (1987). Knowledge of, compliance with, and attitudes toward the child abuse
reporting law: An examination of the reactions of psychologists, physicians, and master level
social workers. Unpublished manuscript.
Slavenas, R. (1988). The role and responsibility of teachers and child care workers in identifying and
reporting child abuse and neglect. Early Child Development and Care, 31, 19–25.
Turbett, J. P., & O’Toole, R. (1983). Teachers’ recognition and reporting of child abuse. Journal of
School Health, 53, 605–609.
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Wurtele, S. K., & Schmitt, A. (1992). Child care workers’ knowledge about reporting suspected child
sexual abuse. Child Abuse and Neglect, 16, 385–390.
Zellman, G. L. (1990a). Report decision-making patterns among mandated child abuse reporters.
Child Abuse and Neglect, 14, 325–336.
Zellman, G. L. (1990b). Child abuse reporting and failure to report among mandated reporters.
Journal of Interpersonal Violence, 5(1), 3–22.
Zellman, G. L., & Antler, S. (1990). Mandated reporters and CPS: A study in frustration. Public Welfare, 48(1), 30–37.
Zgliczynski, S. M., & Rodolfa, E. (1980). The teacher’s responsibility to the abused child. Journal
of Teacher Education, 31(5), 41–43.
Kirk A. Beck, a graduate student at Simon Fraser during this research, now works in Professional
Family Counselling, Surrey Community Services, 9815-140th Street, Surrey, British Columbia, V3T
4M4. James R. P. Ogloff is in the Department of Psychology, Simon Fraser University, Burnaby,
British Columbia, V5A 1S6. Anne Corbishley, affiliated with Simon Fraser University during this
research, is now employed with the Work Readiness Program, Gorge Road Hospital, 63 Gorge Road
East, Victoria, British Columbia, V9A 1L2.
Résolution de problèmes, autorégulation et
apprentissage
Hélène Poissant
université laval
Bruno Poëllhuber
cégep de sherbrooke
Mireille Falardeau
cégep de granby-haute yamaska
L’objectif principal de cet article consiste à définir ce qu’est un problème et les différentes étapes de sa résolution. Nous insisterons aussi sur la composante d’autorégulation
inhérente au processus de résolution de problèmes. Bien que le terme d’autorégulation ait
ses origines dans les théories de la métacognition, il peut être rapproché de l’étape
d’évaluation et de surveillance développée dans le cadre des théories de la résolution de
problèmes. Cette composante nous paraît cruciale puisqu’elle permet une remise en cause
constante des actions de l’apprenant. Sa maîtrise permet de rendre celui-ci plus autonome
à l’égard de ses apprentissages.
We argue that problem solving is, in part, self-regulating. Although metacognitive theory
may have encouraged this view, autoregulation is, practically speaking, linked to the
evaluative state of problem solving. Because it repeatedly encourages learners to review
their choices and actions, autoregulation helps them to become autonomous.
INTRODUCTION
Un des buts de l’éducation consiste à faire acquérir des connaissances qui seront
réutilisables éventuellement dans divers contextes. De façon plus ou moins explicite, on espère aussi que les habiletés développées en classe serviront ultérieurement et que l’apprenant développera la maîtrise des principes qui gouvernent son
propre apprentissage. Pourtant, il est possible de constater que peu de ces compétences sont effectivement enseignées en classe. En effet, bien que certains programmes, souvent américains ou d’inspiration américaine, comme l’Odyssey de
Adams (1989), le PIE de Feurstein, Rand, Hoffman et Miller (1980), le Guided
design de Wales, Nardi et Stager (1987), le CoRT de De Bono (1973), l’API de
Audy (1989) existent depuis déjà plusieurs années, ceux-ci n’ont pas réellement
atteint la clientèle régulière et ont été le plus souvent utilisés auprès d’élèves
spéciaux.
30
REVUE CANADIENNE DE L’ÉDUCATION
19:1 (1994)
RÉSOLUTION DE PROBLÈMES, AUTORÉGULATION ET APPRENTISSAGE
31
Un récent courant axé sur l’enseignement stratégique tente de corriger cette
situation en concevant l’apprentissage comme un processus actif de construction
des savoirs (Pallascio, 1992; Tardif, 1992). Aussi la mémoire à long terme de
chaque apprenant est-elle mise à contribution par l’appel à ses connaissances
antérieures. Contrairement aussi aux programmes précédents qui insistent encore
surtout sur l’acquisition d’habiletés cognitives spécifiques, l’enseignement
stratégique met l’accent également sur les stratégies métacognitives.
MÉTACOGNITION ET RÉSOLUTION DE PROBLÈMES
Le terme de métacognition est apparu dans les écrits scientifiques aux alentours
des années 1975. Depuis, il a donné lieu à l’éclosion de plusieurs cadres théoriques, dont ceux qui intègrent le concept d’autorégulation, illustrés surtout par les
derniers développements de l’école piagétienne. Le concept de métacognition est
généralement utilisé à la fois pour désigner le savoir portant sur la cognition et
la régulation de celle-ci (Brown, 1987; Flavell, 1979; Sternberg et Davidson,
1986).
La plupart des connaissances métacognitives concernent des interactions entre
différentes variables, par exemple, la personne, la tâche et les stratégies (Flavell,
1979; Pinard, Lefebvre-Pinard et Bibeau, 1989). L’aspect régulation repose plutôt
sur ce que Flavell (1981) a appelé des expériences métacognitives, c’est-à-dire
sur des pensées, des impressions ou des sentiments qui surgissent lors d’une
entreprise cognitive. Ces expériences ont surtout tendance à survenir lorsqu’un
individu est aux prises avec un problème (Bouffard-Bouchard, 1987; Flavell,
1979; Lefebvre-Pinard et Pinard, 1985). En tant que prises de conscience, ces
expériences constituent une forme de rétroaction interne qui renseigne la personne sur la valeur et l’état de progression de sa démarche. La composante autorégulation peut en conséquence être conçue comme une sorte de savoir en action.
Les récentes applications des principes de la métacognition dans le domaine
de l’apprentissage démontrent qu’il n’est pas suffisant d’enseigner des stratégies
de solution de manière isolée. Pour que celles-ci deviennent transférables à
d’autres contextes, les apprenants doivent comprendre quand, comment et pourquoi ces stratégies sont utiles dans telle ou telle autre situation (Pressley, Snyder
et Cariblia-Bull, 1987). Ainsi devient-il important de faire appel aux activités
métacognitives d’auto-régulation pour favoriser le transfert des apprentissages.
L’autorégulation est un moyen efficace pour gérer l’utilisation et le développement d’un large répertoire de stratégies.
De nombreux liens peuvent être établis entre la métacognition et la résolution
de problèmes. Cette dernière fait en effet appel aux fonctions métacognitives de
planification de l’action et d’évaluation. Avant d’aborder les étapes de la résolution de problèmes, nous en présenterons dans un premier temps une définition
et une typologie. Nous tenterons de situer le tout dans le contexte des habiletés
32
POISSANT, POËLLHUBER ET FALARDEAU
métacognitives d’auto-régulation. Ceci permettra d’identifier des stratégies générales d’ordre supérieur applicables à de nombreux types de problèmes, y compris
ceux qu’on rencontre dans le domaine de l’éducation.
QU’EST-CE QU’UN PROBLÈME?
Selon Mayer (1977), un problème peut être défini par les trois caractéristiques
suivantes: a) un état initial — le problème commence par une situation de départ
jugée insatisfaisante; b) un état-objectif — la situation désirée est différente de la
situation de départ et il est nécessaire de réfléchir pour transformer l’état initial;
c) des obstacles — la façon de passer de l’état initial à l’état-objectif n’est pas
connue ou n’est pas évidente. Un problème peut donc être conceptualisé comme
étant une différence entre une situation actuelle et une situation désirée; l’objectif
à atteindre sera précisément d’éliminer cette différence et de transformer la
première situation en la seconde. Cette définition volontairement large présente
l’avantage d’être assez générale pour couvrir des problèmes relatifs à différents
domaines, allant du jeu d’échecs (Newell et Simon, 1972) aux énigmes (Reitman,
1965) en passant par les problèmes arithmétiques.
Un des intérêts de l’application du cadre conceptuel de la résolution de problèmes au domaine de l’éducation est qu’il est possible, justement, de concevoir
les situations d’apprentissage comme des situations de résolution de problèmes.
Les apprenants, en cherchant à atteindre leurs objectifs d’apprentissage, doivent
acquérir, comprendre et maîtriser des notions et des connaissances qu’ils ne
possèdaient pas au départ. En ce sens, il y a une différence entre l’état de départ
et l’état-objectif. Cependant, la façon de passer de l’un à l’autre est loin d’être
claire ou évidente. C’est un cas typique de résolution de problèmes, tant pour
l’enseignant que pour l’apprenant.
LES DIFFÉRENTS TYPES DE PROBLÈMES
Même si globalement tous les problèmes rejoignent la définition mentionnée
précédemment, il est possible de les catégoriser de différentes façons. Reitman
(1965) propose à cet effet une classification en fonction du degré de définition
de l’état initial, de l’état-objectif et des obstacles. Il conçoit qu’un effort pour
analyser et clarifier les caractéristiques de l’état initial, de l’état-objectif et des
obstacles, peut faciliter la compréhension du problème et sa résolution.
Sans abandonner les principes de cette première catégorisation, basées sur le
degré de définition des différents états de la résolution de problèmes, Greeno
(1978) met en évidence des habiletés de résolution de problèmes spécifiques aux
trois grands types de problèmes identifiés: 1) les problèmes d’arrangement; 2) les
problèmes d’induction; 3) les problèmes de transformation.
33
Les problèmes d’arrangement
Dans ce type de problème, des éléments sont présentés à un sujet qui doit trouver
une façon de les réorganiser pour trouver la solution. L’état initial du problème
est clairement défini, mais l’état-objectif ne l’est pas. Les critères que l’étatobjectif devra satisfaire sont connus, mais la solution finale satisfaisant à ces
critères ne l’est pas encore. Ces problèmes sont caractérisés par leurs grandes
possibilités de solutions. Cependant peu d’étapes sont nécessaires pour arriver à
la résolution; il n’y a que peu de transformations à faire entre l’état initial et
l’état-objectif. Il s’agit plutôt de trouver la bonne façon de réorganiser les
éléments qui composent le problème. Ce ré-arrangement se fait souvent de façon
assez soudaine (Metcalfe, 1986). Les problèmes d’arrangement font aussi souvent
appel à l’insight, lequel correspond à l’appréhension instantanée des relations
unissant les divers éléments du problème. Les anagrammes sont un exemple de
ce type de problème.
Le processus utilisé pour résoudre ces problèmes ressemble à celui utilisé pour
organiser la perception. Lorsque des images ambiguës sont présentées, la personne qui les perçoit cherche à organiser ces images, à arranger ses éléments pour
former un tout significatif. Dans la résolution de problèmes, l’expérience passée
peut aussi aider à identifier des patterns adéquats. Elle peut cependant aussi être
parfois nuisible. Le fait d’avoir déjà essayé une forme d’organisation des éléments peut empêcher la perception d’autres formes d’organisation possibles qui
pourraient être “meilleures.” Ce phénomène est connu sous le nom de rigidité
fonctionnelle (Duncker, 1972).
L’expérience passée peut donc aider à découvrir des éléments de solution d’un
problème, mais une fixation trop rigide enfreint la créativité (Mayer, 1977).
Aussi l’application répétitive d’une stratégie non optimale constitue un exemple
de rigidité fonctionnelle. Celle-ci peut être due à un défaut de régulation,
c’est-à-dire à une déficience dans le processus métacognitif qui vise à surveiller
le déroulement du processus de résolution. Dans les problèmes d’arrangement,
il arrive aussi que le problème soit mal défini et que des contraintes inutiles
masquent la solution possible.
Les habiletés nécessaires à la résolution de ce type de problèmes sont les
suivantes (Reed, 1988): 1) la capacité de générer beaucoup de possibilités (créativité) dans sa façon de concevoir le problème et d’envisager ses solutions; 2) la
capacité d’être flexible (élimination des solutions non prometteuses); 3) la
connaissance de principes et de stratégies qui peuvent limiter les recherches (la
stratégie d’épellation au SCRABBLE, par exemple); 4) la capacité de se rappeler
des patterns de solution éprouvés antérieurement (se rappeler des mots payants
au SCRABBLE, par exemple). L’expérience en classe de l’écriture d’un texte
peut être vue sous certains égards comme un exemple relevant d’un problème
d’arrangement.
34
Les problèmes d’induction
Dans ce type de problèmes, les sujets doivent trouver une structure ou induire
une règle. Les éléments du problème sont en général connus et la relation entre
ses éléments est fixe; il s’agit de la découvrir. La formation de concept et le
raisonnement analogique sont des exemples typiques de problèmes d’induction.
Ces problèmes demandent donc d’identifier des relations entre des composantes
et d’assembler ces relations en un pattern signifiant (Reed, 1988).
Les habiletés les plus importantes pour résoudre ce genre de problèmes sont
les suivantes:
1) les habiletés reliées à l’analyse dimensionnelle — celles-ci impliquent d’être
capable d’identifier et de classer les caractéristiques et les dimensions d’un
problème, de comparer ensuite les éléments du problème et enfin de trouver
les relations entre ceux-ci. À un niveau plus abstrait, la personne doit être
capable de comparer des relations entre elles, c’est-à-dire de faire des analogies portant sur des relations plutôt que sur des éléments. Enfin, à un niveau
d’abstraction encore plus élevé, la personne doit être à même de reconnaître
un pattern ou un arrangement qui se répète;
2) les habiletés de raisonnement logique, et
3) la capacité de faire des inférences sont aussi reliées aux problèmes d’induction.
En classe on retrouve de nombreux exemples de ce type de problèmes, par
exemple, compléter des séries, classer des objets selon des dimensions, assimiler
des concepts tels que le nom, le verbe, l’adjectif, apprendre des règles de grammaire. Dans le domaine de la lecture, l’élaboration d’inférences et leur vérification dans le texte, de même que l’apprentissage de nouveaux mots à l’aide du
contexte sont des cas de problèmes d’induction.
L’exemple suivant adapté de Mayer (1983) illustre comment l’acquisition de
nouveaux concepts est liée à l’induction:
Le petit Charles regarde par la fenêtre et voit un fox terrier. Sa mère pointe alors le doigt
vers le fox terrier et dit: “C’est un chien.” Un peu plus tard un épagneul passe dans la rue
et la mère de Charles pointe à nouveau le doigt en disant: “C’est un chien.” Puis un berger allemand vient s’asseoir sur le terrain et la mère de Charles dit encore: “C’est un
chien.” Le lendemain Charles aperçoit “quelque chose de poilu qui se déplace à quatre
pattes” tout content il va voir sa mère et dit “chien.” Sa mère lui répond alors “Non,
Charles ce n’est pas un chien, c’est un chat.”
Le petit Charles a donc dégagé vraisemblablement la règle à l’effet que tous
les objets poilus qui bougent et qui sont dotés de quatre pattes se nomment “un
chien.” Cependant, l’expérience lui montrera que cette règle est fausse, ou du
moins incomplète, puisqu’elle ne tient pas compte de certaines dimensions
35
propres aux chiens, celle d’aboyer par exemple. L’acquisition de cette dernière
dimension ainsi que d’autres lui permettront de distinguer éventuellement les
chiens de tous les autres animaux. Il s’agit en effet de classer correctement tous
les objets “chiens” et seulement ces objets dans la catégorie des chiens.
Un raisonnement inductif du même type est tenu lorsque le jeune enfant infère
la règle grammaticale à l’effet que tous les verbes de la deuxième personne du
pluriel du présent indicatif se terminent par “ez,” comme c’est le cas pour “vous
aimez,” “vous pleurez,” “vous sentez,” etc. L’induction de cette règle à partir des
nombreuses occurrences de cette forme de conjugaison porte l’enfant à commettre l’erreur courante d’employer “vous faisez” à la place de “vous faites.”
Les problèmes de transformation
Dans ce type de problèmes, l’état initial et l’état-objectif sont tous deux très
clairement définis. De même les relations entre les éléments du problème sont
connues lors de l’état initial et de l’état-objectif. La difficulté réside plutôt ici
dans la façon de passer d’un état à l’autre. Les problèmes classiques de “la tour
de Hanoi” et celui des “cannibales et des missionnaires” sont des illustrations
typiques des problèmes de transformation. Ces problèmes sont en général plus
complexes que les problèmes d’arrangement. Leur résolution demande beaucoup
plus d’étapes et le nombre de possibilités à explorer est parfois énorme même si
le but à atteindre est tout à fait clair. Ils font aussi beaucoup appel aux capacités
de raisonnement logique.
La recherche en intelligence artificielle portant sur cette catégorie de problèmes a permis de mettre en évidence certaines stratégies générales de résolution.
Ces stratégies dont l’utilisation est souvent couronnée de succès ont été nommées
des heuristiques (Atwood et Polson, 1976; Ernst et Newell, 1969; Newell et Simon, 1972). Parmi ces heuristiques nous retrouvons:
1) l’analyse des moyens et des fins, où il s’agit de comparer régulièrement l’état
actuel du problème avec l’état-objectif afin de choisir des opérations qui
peuvent permettre de réduire l’écart entre les deux. Plus concrètement, ceci
consiste à évaluer continuellement si on se rapproche de la solution;
2) la représentation du problème, qui peut se faire sous forme graphique ou
propositionnelle;
3) la fixation de sous-objectifs, qui implique de décomposer le problème en plus
petites unités “malléables”;
4) Le raisonnement par analogies, qui suppose que l’on puisse retracer des situations inter et intra-domaines similaires afin de leur appliquer des solutions
semblables.
Les problèmes rencontrés en classe ou dans la vie quotidienne représentent
rarement des cas purs, mais plutôt des amalgames relevant à divers degrés tantôt
36
de l’arrangement, tantôt de l’induction ou de la transformation. La classification
présentée met néanmoins en évidence des stratégies de résolution de problèmes
et des habiletés d’une utilité globale. Aussi les stratégies identifiées peuvent
s’appliquer avec succès au domaine des apprentissages scolaires à condition
d’être adéquatement enseignées. L’enseignement des heuristiques en mathématiques, entre autres, a déjà montré son efficacité dans l’amélioration de la performance chez des apprenants (Schoenfeld, 1979).
LES STRATÉGIES GÉNÉRALES DE RÉSOLUTION DE PROBLÈMES
La recherche dans le domaine de la résolution de problèmes a mis en lumière
certains éléments. D’abord, il s’agit d’un processus qui se déroule par étapes, qui
se succèdent dans un ordre plus ou moins variable. De plus, au cours de ces étapes, on remarque que, dans un domaine donné, les experts recourent davantage
à des stratégies que les moins habiles. Selon les différents auteurs on distingue
quatre ou cinq étapes principales. Ainsi, Polya (1968), un précurseur dans ce
domaine, identifie les étapes suivantes pour la résolution des problèmes en
mathématiques: 1) comprendre le problème; 2) se faire un plan; 3) exécuter le
plan; 4) évaluer les résultats.
En modifiant légèrement ce modèle, et en insistant un peu plus sur l’aspect
métacognitif, il est possible d’y intégrer les stratégies d’apprentissage d’utilité
générale identifiées plus haut. Par ailleurs la stratégie “évaluer et surveiller le
processus,” dans le modèle proposé, n’est pas simplement l’étape finale du processus, mais plutôt une stratégie métacognitive s’appliquant à chacune des étapes
selon un mode de rétroaction. Le processus de résolution de problèmes révisé
que nous présentons ici peut être représenté sous la forme graphique suivante.
Une façon d’encourager des activités métacognitives chez l’apprenant consisterait donc à l’amener à comprendre, à utiliser et à maîtriser ce processus de
résolution de problèmes et ceci, à l’intérieur de ses différents champs d’activités.
Les étapes proposées présentent en effet l’avantage d’être simples et transférables
à divers domaines d’application. Les personnes expérimentées n’appliquent pas
nécessairement ce processus à la lettre, mais elles ont tendance plus que les
autres à s’engager spontanément dans des activités métacognitives. Ces personnes
sont par exemple plus enclines que les novices à planifier et à évaluer en cours
de route l’efficacité de leur action.
Formuler l’objectif
Les personnes impulsives essayent parfois de résoudre un problème avant même
de s’assurer d’avoir bien compris la nature de la tâche. Pourtant, la première
étape à franchir consiste à définir aussi clairement que possible l’objectif à
atteindre. Si les problèmes de type scolaire sont généralement formulés de façon
37
FIGURE 1
Processus d’autorégulation pendant les étapes de la résolution de problèmes
38
à ce que l’objectif soit clair (un problème de mathématiques, par exemple), il
n’en va pas nécessairement de même pour les problèmes de la vie quotidienne.
Cette difficulté est attribuable à plusieurs facteurs. La formulation d’un
objectif pose un problème complexe. Par exemple, le choix d’un métier qu’on
aimerait faire plus tard n’est pas toujours chose facile. Qui plus est, les objectifs
et les priorités sont susceptibles de se transformer en fonction de changements
dans les valeurs de l’individu. Ainsi, il arrive que l’on poursuive une démarche
déjà amorcée, alors que des changements sont intervenus en cours de route. Le
fait de s’appliquer à définir clairement l’objectif à atteindre permet de gagner du
temps: cette démarche évite d’expérimenter des solutions qui déboucheraient sur
une impasse.
Définir la situation
Dans cette étape, il s’agit d’analyser les caractéristiques de l’état initial et de
prévoir les obstacles qui empêchent d’atteindre l’état désiré. Cette analyse va
permettre de préparer l’étape suivante de la planification.
La stratégie privilégiée ici consistera à utiliser des représentations. Plusieurs
problèmes contiennent en effet trop d’informations par rapport à la capacité
limitée de la mémoire à court terme. C’est là une source d’erreurs courante qui
pourrait être contournée par le recours aux représentations. Le fait d’utiliser des
représentations permet de simplifier le problème et d’alléger le fardeau de la
mémoire à court terme, surtout si des aides extérieures sont employées comme
support: faire des dessins ou des diagrammes sur papier, par exemple. Les représentations permettent aux apprenants de mieux appréhender les relations entre les
éléments d’un problème, de mieux comprendre leur structure, bref de mieux définir le problème. Pour illustrer cette affirmation, reportons nous à l’exemple
suivant: “Jean et Simon sont plus grands que Robert. Adam est plus petit que
Simon, mais plus grand que Jean. Classer les différents personnages en ordre de
grandeur.”
De prime abord complexe, ce problème devient facile à résoudre quand on le
schématise. Les représentations peuvent prendre plusieurs formes; l’important,
pour l’apprenant, étant d’utiliser une représentation qu’il comprend et qui a du
sens pour lui. Ainsi tout encouragement de la part des enseignants à l’utilisation
de diverses formes de représentations facilite la résolution de problèmes. Carroll,
Thomas et Malhotra (1980) ont d’ailleurs remarqué à ce sujet que les experts,
contrairement aux débutants, se servent des représentations.
L’analyse approfondie de la situation initiale permet l’emploi d’une autre
stratégie générale consistant à construire des analogies. La personne engagée
dans un raisonnement analogique se pose essentiellement la question suivante:
Le présent problème ressemble-t-il à un problème déjà rencontré? Ce faisant, elle
essaie d’évaluer si le problème ressemble à des situations déjà connues. Elle
39
cherche à trouver comment le problème présent est en relation avec les idées et
les concepts qui se trouvent dans sa mémoire à long terme.
Le phénomène de la rigidité fonctionnelle, déjà discuté, montre que l’expérience passée peut parfois nuire à l’élaboration d’analogies. Le recours à celles-ci
doit en conséquence se faire de manière prudente et seulement après vérification
de leur pertinence par rapport au nouveau problème. Les experts et les débutants
se comportent encore ici différemment. Les experts sont généralement capables
de découvrir les ressemblances de structure entre un nouveau et un ancien problème; pour ce faire, ils en analysent de façon détaillée les caractéristiques. Les
débutants eux, ne prennent pas le temps de faire cet examen approfondi. En
mathématiques par exemple, les débutants ont tendance à essayer d’appliquer tout
de suite des équations qu’ils connaissent, sans faire d’abord l’analyse du problème. Ils consacrent aussi moins de temps et d’attention à la planification et à
l’évaluation.
Par ailleurs, il est vrai que les experts ont des connaissances plus approfondies
dans leur domaine et que celles-ci leur facilitent la tâche lorsqu’il s’agit de
reconnaître un problème. Cependant le classement de problèmes dans une même
catégorie requiert davantage. Il s’agit plutôt, comme nous l’avons mentionné,
d’établir des analogies sur le plan de la structure des problèmes. Les novices,
contrairement aux experts, ont tendance à établir des ressemblances basées sur
des caractéristiques de surface. Ils risquent donc de faire des analogies non
pertinentes nuisant au transfert des connaissances.
Planifier
En effectuant une bonne planification, les personnes évitent d’envisager des solutions vouées à l’échec. Cette étape peut sembler superflue pour les personnes
impulsives, cependant, c’est encore là une des différences principales entre les
experts et les débutants. Les experts prennent plus de temps pour planifier leur
approche des problèmes, alors que les novices commencent souvent à résoudre
un problème en s’en remettant plus ou moins au hasard (Larkin et Reif, 1979).
Les premiers se font d’abord une ébauche de plan vers la solution. Ils tentent
d’identifier les grands patterns de relations, avant de s’intéresser aux plus petits
détails. Ils évitent ainsi d’investir un temps inutile dans des recherches de
solution peu productives, ce qui leur permet d’être finalement plus rapides et plus
efficaces.
Plus un problème est complexe, plus les possibilités de solutions à explorer
sont nombreuses, et plus la planification devient importante. Pour les problèmes
simples, qui ne comportent que très peu d’étapes, la planification peut parfois
être très réduite. De même, si le problème présente un contenu familier reconnaissable, la recherche de solution devient alors quasi automatique. Toutefois,
face à un problème complexe, la planification demeure le meilleur moyen d’évi-
40
ter des recherches infructueuses et d’arriver avec un moindre effort à la solution
idéale.
Devant un problème complexe, il est aussi très utile de se former des sousobjectifs. La résolution de chaque sous-problème représente un petit pas se rapprochant progressivement du but. Les systèmes d’intelligence artificielle ont déjà
largement éprouvé cette stratégie, qui permet de réduire considérablement le
nombre des possibilités à explorer (Minsky, 1975).
L’étape de planification peut être divisée en deux grandes sous-étapes soit,
générer des idées de stratégies et sélectionner une stratégie.
Générer des idées de stratégies et sélectionner une stratégie
La capacité de se rappeler les stratégies déjà utilisées est valable, mais la
capacité d’en créer de nouvelles face à une situation inhabituelle est parfois la
seule alternative possible. Cette étape fait donc appel à la créativité puisqu’il
s’agit de générer de nombreuses façons possibles et différentes de définir un
problème pouvant mener à autant de pistes de solution. D’un point de vue pédagogique, il est préférable d’entraîner les apprenants à générer plusieurs idées de
stratégies plutôt que d’appliquer immédiatement la première qui leur vient à
l’esprit.
Parmi les idées de stratégies produites, l’apprenant doit ensuite en retenir une,
celle qui semble la plus appropriée.
Exécuter
Cette étape consiste à mettre en oeuvre la stratégie choisie et à agir en conséquence. Des décisions ont déjà été prises à propos des stratégies et spécialement
quant à la façon d’exécuter la stratégie choisie. Cependant il peut advenir, en
cours de route, que la stratégie choisie s’avère inefficace. Il est donc important
d’exercer conjointement une surveillance afin de déterminer s’il y a eu effectivement un progrès vers la solution. Ceci permettra d’ajuster rapidement son comportement si ce n’était pas le cas. Aussi, malgré les efforts considérables parfois
investis, la flexibilité devrait toujours rester de mise.
Évaluer et surveiller le processus
La stratégie générale d’évaluation et de surveillance s’applique à toutes les étapes
de la résolution de problèmes. Elle consiste à consacrer une partie de l’attention
à surveiller la façon dont se déroule le processus en entier. Elle permet ainsi
d’évaluer la compréhension du problème, l’adéquation de la planification et
l’efficacité des actions posées. Il ne s’agit pas de consacrer beaucoup d’efforts
d’attention, mais plutôt de surveiller régulièrement le déroulement du processus
41
pour en détecter les erreurs. La personne qui applique la stratégie d’évaluation
se place par le fait même toujours à l’affût de sources d’informations concernant
le déroulement de son processus de résolution de problèmes. Ces rétroactions
peuvent être internes ou externes.
La rétroaction interne correspond à une expérience ou à un état intérieur. Par
exemple, il peut être très utile de distinguer l’état ressenti lorsqu’il y a compréhension et celui ressenti en cas d’incompréhension. Si l’apprenant n’arrive pas
à détecter ces états, il ne pourra pas réagir adéquatement devant son problème.
D’autre part, les attributions de l’apprenant vont influencer le genre d’action
qu’il va poser face à son incompréhension. Une autre source de feedback interne
est le degré de certitude ressenti face à la solution. Un degré de certitude trop
faible peut être le reflet d’une expérience métacognitive indiquant que l’on doit
réviser sa réponse ou même son processus de résolution complet.
Par ailleurs, les rétroactions externes sont des sources d’information venant de
l’extérieur. Le travail en équipe et les discussions sur les stratégies de résolution
auxquelles il donne lieu constituent un excellent moyen de stimuler cette étape
du processus. Ces sources d’information sont importantes dans le développement
de connaissances sur soi qui seront applicables dans des activités ultérieures.
COMMENTAIRES
Les différences individuelles au niveau de la facilité d’apprentissage dépendent
probablement largement de certaines habiletés métacognitives que possèdent les
individus, et il semble que les personnes qui éprouvent des difficultés au plan
académique soient généralement moins habiles à recourir à l’autorégulation. Elles
sont ainsi moins promptes à réagir face à leurs erreurs ou devant certaines ambiguïtés et peuvent même avoir des résistances à reconnaître qu’elles n’ont pas
appris ou agi adéquatement. Devant une tâche dont elles ne comprennent pas toujours le sens, elles sont donc moins susceptibles de réussir.
Les apprenants peu expérimentés différeraient donc des personnes plus performantes quant à leur usage de stratégies cognitives spécifiques. Les étudiants
doués possèdent souvent un bagage d’informations plus considérable, mais ce qui
les distingue surtout, c’est l’organisation et l’accessibilité de ces informations. Le
simple fait d’avoir des connaissances ne garantit donc pas toujours automatiquement leur utilisation. Par exemple, certaines connaissances utiles peuvent ne pas
être mises à profit dans une situation de résolution de problèmes. Les composantes métacognitives d’autorégulation seraient donc des facteurs de médiation
importants dans le développement des habiletés intellectuelles qui, semble-t-il,
pourraient être enseignées efficacement dans un programme. Ainsi, nous croyons
qu’un programme d’entraînement métacognitif axé sur des exercices de régulation peut amener des améliorations sensibles à condition que les informations
données soient explicites. Les apprenants doivent comprendre pourquoi une stratégie est efficace dans une situation donnée afin que cette stratégie soit utilisable
42
et éventuellement transférable à d’autres domaines. C’est d’ailleurs en ce sens
que Poissant, Falardeau et Poëllhuber (1993a, 1993b) ont orienté leurs efforts lors
de la construction de leur programme.
En connaissant mieux les apprenants sous l’angle métacognitif, nous nous donnons la possibilité de construire des matériels pédagogiques valides et mieux
adaptés aux besoins. Les différentes études recensées laissent en effet entrevoir
qu’une approche métacognitive peut donner des résultats supérieurs à une approche basée seulement sur la maîtrise de compétences cognitives. L’entraînement
à la réflexion devant diverses tâches aurait un effet bénéfique sur les apprentissages. Les présents auteurs (1993b) ont ainsi élaboré et expérimenté leur
programme avec cette prémisse selon laquelle il est souhaitable d’avoir des
connaissances par rapport à des stratégies et à leur régulation pour mieux réagir
devant les diverses situations d’apprentissage.
Une bonne compréhension des processus en cause lors de la résolution de
problèmes ouvre donc une voie d’application intéressante pour l’enseignement.
En effet, l’enseignant qui met l’accent sur les fonctions métacognitives, par
l’autorégulation notamment, permet à l’apprenant de devenir plus habile dans le
contrôle de son propre processus d’apprentissage. En devenant plus autonome,
l’apprenant en vient à développer des habiletés d’auto-gestion de ses apprentissages qui lui serviront toute sa vie (Belmont, Butterfield et Ferretti, 1982). Le
modèle de résolution de problèmes proposé peut être utile en particulier aux personnes qui ont tendance à être impulsives, et à celles qui négligent de porter
attention à la surveillance et à l’évaluation de leurs processus.
Les étapes du modèle: formuler l’objectif, définir la situation, planifier,
exécuter, évaluer et surveiller le processus, sont présentées comme successives,
mais leur ordre peut être variable. De même l’importance de chacune des étapes
peut varier en fonction du problème rencontré. L’intérêt ne consiste pas à enseigner ce processus de façon mécanique. Au contraire, il faut encourager l’apprenant à comprendre ce qu’il fait et à devenir actif. Il s’agit de stimuler les
activités métacognitives de l’apprenant, c’est-à-dire de l’amener à réfléchir sur
son propre processus d’apprentissage et à devenir plus impliqué face à ce processus. Cet accent sur la métacognition par le biais de l’autorégulation ainsi que sur
la résolution de problèmes devrait permettre de transférer les stratégies et les
connaissances apprises à l’école à d’autres domaines de connaissances.
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Hélène Poissant est professeure au Département de psychopédagogie, Faculté des sciences de
l’éducation, l’Université Laval, Cité universitaire, Sainte-Foy (Québec) G1K 7P4. Bruno Poëllhuber
est chargé de cours au Cégep de Sherbrooke, Département de psychologie, 475 rue du Parc, Sherbrooke (Québec) J1H 5M7. Mireille Falardeau est chargée de cours au Cégep de Granby-Haute
Yamaska, 50 rue Saint-Joseph, C.P. 7000, Granby (Québec) J2G 9H7.
Stratégies de carrière et promotion en éducation
Claudine Baudoux
université laval
Cet article présente les résultats partiels d’une recherche concernant l’importance de
variables reliées aux stratégies individuelles de carrière lors du processus de sélection de
cadres d’établissements d’éducation québécois. Les résultats montrent que pour le même
critère, les candidates sont souvent jugées différemment des candidats.
Female candidates for administrative promotion in the Quebec education system are
judged differently from their male counterparts, even on the self-same criterion.
Entre 1958/59, date à partir de laquelle nous possédons des statistiques complètes
sur la répartition selon le sexe du personnel de direction des établissements
d’éducation au primaire et au secondaire (Baudoux, 1991) et 1986/87, il existe
une diminution constante (35% en 28 ans) de la proportion des directrices. Cette
baisse n’est pas simplement une conséquence de la perte de postes de religieuses,
mais elle résulte d’une laïcisation essentiellement masculine. À l’heure actuelle
encore, la présence des femmes à des postes de direction diminue à ces deux
ordres d’enseignement. Au collégial public (Baudoux, 1991), la proportion des
cadres féminines, qui était de 27% en 1969/70, n’est plus que de 11% en
1984/85. Après avoir connu une baisse de 21% de 1969/70 à 1980/81, la proportion des cadres féminines est remontée de 5% au cours des cinq années suivantes. Toutefois, ce mouvement de redressement s’est réalisé surtout aux postes
inférieurs de la hiérarchie des cadres, soit les postes de niveau 2 (postes de
coordinatrice ou d’adjointe à la direction des services pédagogiques), alors que
la diminution se poursuit encore au niveau de la direction générale, où les femmes ne représentent plus que 2% en 1984/85.
Comment expliquer cette diminution, depuis la fin des années 50, de la proportion des directrices au primaire, au secondaire et au collégial? Cette question
complexe, cette situation paradoxale faite aux femmes dans une période où sont
mis de l’avant les principes d’égalité entre les sexes, ne peuvent être abordées
que grâce à l’éclairage de diverses disciplines. Plus fondamentalement, il nous
a semblé intéressant d’étudier un phénomène de réversibilité sexuelle d’un secteur du marché du travail, en particulier le cas plus rare de masculinisation d’une
profession autrefois en majorité féminine. C’est ce qu’examine l’équipe de recherche multidisciplinaire GRADE.1 Une partie de la recherche consiste à étudier
les facteurs historico-sociologico-économiques qui expliquent, ou tout au moins
accompagnent ce phénomène. Une autre partie de la recherche examine plus particulièrement les rapports de sexe prévalant dans les établissements éducatifs. En
45
19:1 (1994)
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CLAUDINE BAUDOUX
ce qui concerne ce dernier volet, nous avons publié les résultats quantitatifs
obtenus concernant l’incidence de la socialisation reçue dans la famille d’origine
lors du processus de sélection (Baudoux, 1992b). D’autres articles sont en voie
de publication concernant l’importance de variables reliées à la socialisation
primaire, à la vie familiale, aux conditions d’admissibilité, à certains aspects de
la culture organisationnelle, au comportement administratif, aux enjeux de genre
et aux préjugés.
Le présent article se bornera à étudier les résultats quantitatifs obtenus à
propos de l’incidence, au cours du processus de recrutement du personnel de
direction, de certains aspects relevant des stratégies de carrière élaborées par le
personnel enseignant. Plus particulièrement, nous nous pencherons sur l’importance relative, pour les candidates et les candidats, de variables relevant du
niveau d’aspiration par rapport à la carrière, de la recherche active d’un poste de
direction, du refus d’un avancement, du degré d’engagement vis-à-vis de l’organisation, ainsi que de l’exercice de responsabilités dans des groupes ou associations, dont des associations non mixtes.
OBJECTIFS
Il s’agit, dans cette partie de la recherche, de vérifier, en ce qui concerne les
pratiques de passage d’un poste d’enseignante à un poste de directrice: 1) l’influence de l’intérêt individuel manifesté par rapport à la carrière; et 2) l’utilité
d’exercer des responsabilités dans divers clubs sociaux, groupes ou associations.
L’examen de tels facteurs aura pour but d’expliquer en partie la diminution
de la proportion des directrices et des cadres féminines des commissions scolaires et des cégeps. Cet examen devrait nous indiquer si ces facteurs reliés aux
stratégies individuelles de carrière ont pour effet d’exclure plus particulièrement
le groupe des femmes. Normalement, une stratégie présente chez une personne
qui pose sa candidature doit être appréciée également, c’est-à-dire être considérée
comme un atout ou un handicap, indépendamment du sexe. Par exemple, le fait
de poursuivre des études supérieures doit être un point positif ou négatif selon
le cas pour les deux sexes et doit être apprécié de la même façon. Notre hypothèse est que non seulement les candidates ne recevraient pas un traitement égal
à celui des candidats, mais que, de plus, il y aurait eu augmentation, au fil du
temps, de ce préjudice, vu la masculinisation des postes de direction. Il est donc
nécessaire de procéder, pour chacune des variables étudiées, en deux étapes: 1)
voir si les critères de sélection sont les mêmes pour les candidatures masculines
et féminines (tableaux 1 et 2); 2) suivre l’évolution de cette éventuelle discrimination selon les trois périodes retenues: 1955–1964, 1965–1974, 1975–19842
(tableau 3) à partir des réponses fournies par le personnel de direction engagé à
son poste durant ces années.
STRATÉGIES DE CARRIÈRE ET PROMOTION EN ÉDUCATION
47
REVUE DES ÉCRITS
L’une des premières questions qu’il convient de se poser concernant les pratiques
de promotion est celle d’un lien entre intérêt pour la carrière, stratégies et titre
professionnel. Le déroulement des “carrières” reste l’une des dimensions de la
vie professionnelle que l’investigation statistique cerne le plus difficilement
(Boltanski, 1982). Construire des profils de carrière suppose en effet l’existence
d’organisations ou d’unités relativement homogènes dans lesquelles des positions
de même nom sont dotées de caractéristiques identiques. Il faudrait, notamment,
qu’il existe une relation stable, dans les différentes organisations prises synchroniquement et diachroniquement, entre les critères retenus et la définition du
poste. La première difficulté (la condition d’homogénéité) est relativement
minime dans le monde de l’éducation. Les organigrammes et les fonctions se ressemblent d’une commission scolaire à l’autre et d’un cégep à l’autre. Quant à la
deuxième, celle de l’évolution du poste, elle est plus problématique. C’est pourquoi il est nécessaire d’examiner, dans la revue des écrits, l’évolution des variables retenues selon les trois décennies circonscrites (voir tableau 3).
Intérêt vis-à-vis de la carrière et perception des structures de mobilité
Il existe une abondante documentation qui tente d’expliquer pourquoi les enseignantes poseraient en moindre proportion leur candidature à des postes de direction, sans qu’on vérifie si tel est bien le cas (Clement, Dubella et Eckstrom,
1977; Fishel et Pottker, 1974; Gross et Trask, 1976; Stockard, Schmuck, Kempner, Williams, Edson et Smith, 1980; Ramadani, 1983; Tibbets, 1979). Selon ces
études, beaucoup de femmes ne voudraient pas de postes de direction pour des
raisons personnelles, professionnelles, socio-économiques, psychologiques et
culturelles (Shack, 1975). Parfois, des recherches examinent la question de
l’intention de poser la candidature et non celle de postuler réellement (Goulet,
1982), et ne tiennent pas compte de facteurs structurants comme l’importance des
encouragements reçus ou la disponibilité des informations sur les postes à pourvoir.
Nixon et Gue (1975) affirment que les enseignantes ressentiraient la présence
de divers obstacles et répondraient à une situation non favorable par des aspirations moins élevées. Selon Dias (1976), les éléments qui permettent de prédire
le mieux un niveau d’aspiration élevé chez les femmes est la probabilité de
recevoir du soutien et le sentiment de l’équité dans le recrutement. En réalité, les
femmes s’intéressent à des postes administratifs si elles croient que les portes
leur sont ouvertes. Cette aspiration aux postes de direction se justifie d’autant
plus que plusieurs femmes évaluent que la responsabilité d’une école nécessite
moins d’énergie que celui de l’enseignement (Shakeshaft, 1989). Nos propres
résultats obtenus dans les commissions scolaires du Québec confirment ceux qui
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CLAUDINE BAUDOUX
sont obtenus aux États-Unis: au primaire, 48,55% des enseignantes se disent
stressées au travail et 39,56% des directrices; au secondaire, 59,65% sont dans
ce cas contre 42,09% des directrices. La situation est inverse au collégial où les
conditions de travail des enseignantes semblent moins stressantes: 41,49% des
enseignantes s’affirment stressées, contre 57,69% des cadres féminines. Quelle
est l’influence des structures de mobilité sur le niveau d’aspirations? Les structures de mobilité sont déterminées par des facteurs tels que les taux de promotion
de certains postes, les échelons associés à un poste, la longueur des filières de
carrière. Selon Kanter (1977), tous les membres du personnel n’ont pas les
mêmes chances de connaître la mobilité. Les personnes qui n’ont pas beaucoup
d’occasions de connaître la mobilité tendent à limiter leurs aspirations, à ne pas
rechercher la mobilité en général. Au contraire, les personnes qui ont une grande
chance de progresser tendent à avoir un niveau élevé d’aspirations, à avoir une
haute estime de soi, à valoriser ou à surévaluer leur compétence, à considérer le
travail comme le centre de leur vie, à être engagées plus profondément vis-à-vis
de l’organisation.
Une question qu’il s’agissait de creuser était donc celle d’une éventuelle
autocensure des femmes. Manquant de confiance en elles, dit-on parfois, elles
pourraient hésiter à poser leur candidature. Nous avions rappelé (Baudoux et
Girard, 1990) que certaines analyses diagnostiques des programmes d’accès à
l’égalité, comme celle de Gosselin-Blier (1988) émettent l’hypothèse que les
enseignantes poseraient leur candidature à des postes de direction dans une proportion inférieure à celle des enseignants. Gosselin-Blier (1988) et DesjardinsBourcier (1987) notent que cette hypothèse de l’autocensure des enseignantes est
bien présente dans les perceptions qu’entretiennent les responsables du personnel.
Il n’existait toutefois aucune statistique sur le sujet: une fois la décision prise,
les notes sont détruites et on ne peut reconstituer les diverses étapes et modalités,
ni les diverses statistiques relatives aux étapes du processus de sélection. C’est
ce qu’il s’agissait de vérifier au moyen d’un questionnaire. Or, quels sont le
résultats obtenus au cours de notre recherche? Au cours d’une partie précédente
de la recherche, nous avons demandé au personnel enseignant s’il s’était déjà
présenté à un poste de direction. Nos résultats indiquent que les enseignantes se
présentent proportionnellement autant aux postes de direction que les enseignants,
globalement et pour les trois décennies retenues (Baudoux, 1992b). Quant à
l’influence éventuelle du statut familial, la vie en couple est l’un des facteurs qui
favorisent la carrière des enseignants et défavorise celle des enseignantes (Baudoux, 1992a). Notons également que le personnel masculin et le personnel féminin des commissions scolaires ne se distinguent pas à propos de leur vision des
postes de direction et du pouvoir (Baudoux, 1991). Est-ce que les candidatures
sont écartées lors de la présélection, c’est-à-dire avant l’étape du comité de
sélection? Ceci pourrait être une explication de l’importance et de la persistance
du mythe de l’autocensure des enseignantes.
49
Engagement vis-à-vis de l’organisation
Selon Kanter (1977), l’engagement total qui est requis de la part des cadres à
leur organisation est une façon de contrer l’incertitude reliée au poste de cadre
ressentie par les dirigeants. Comment la loyauté des cadres est-elle estimée? Par
un engagement à la limite des possibilités humaines et par une disponibilité
permanente pour le travail. Laufer (1984) émet l’hypothèse selon laquelle plus
le clivage entre rôles masculins et rôles féminins disparaît dans la réalité de
l’organisation, plus il semblerait qu’il soit nécessaire de retrouver cette différence
à un autre niveau. Ainsi, la capacité à s’identifier à son rôle, à son poste, à sa
carrière, le degré d’engagement psychologique et affectif dans l’organisation peuvent constituer l’un des signes distinctifs qui caractérisent les hommes, ce “plus”
qu’il leur faut ajouter pour que la différence soit maintenue et que l’égalité soit
conjurée. Une recherche confirmerait cette hypothèse: les cadres féminines en
éducation oeuvrant aux États-Unis doivent faire preuve d’un plus grand engagement que leurs collègues masculins (Picker, 1980).
Responsabilité de clubs ou d’associations et réseaux
Les futurs candidats et candidates qui ont structurellement des possibilités de
promotion plus élevées peuvent utiliser diverses stratégies reliées au discours ou
à la symbolique par lesquelles ils et elles se mesurent, se dévaluent et se surévaluent, brouillent l’appréciation de leur position comme pour libérer l’espace
de jeu qu’ils utilisent pour “en mettre plein la vue” ou élaborer des plans de
carrière. Ces occasions favorables à une promotion contribuent au sentiment de
compétence, à la visibilité dans le public, au développement de nouvelles habiletés ainsi qu’à la prise de conscience de celles que l’on a et conduisent à une plus
grande motivation et à un plus grand engagement. Schmuck (1981) ou Wheatley
(1981) rappellent que non seulement les entraîneurs sportifs influencent les élèves
et gèrent les budgets qui leur sont alloués, mais qu’ils sont plus visibles à l’école,
auprès des parents, et auprès des officiers locaux. Ils sont souvent objet d’articles
dans la presse, ils président des remises de récompenses et des banquets. Cette
visibilité facilite leur mobilité. Ces pratiques peuvent désavantager les femmes,
non seulement à cause de leur caractère discrétionnaire, mais parce que les femmes sont moins souvent responsables des sports qui attirent l’attention du public.
De plus, Symons (1982) a rappelé l’importance des réseaux pour la carrière. Elle
signale que les femmes ne font généralement pas partie du réseau informel et
lorsqu’elles se retrouvent seules parmi un groupe d’hommes, il est fréquent
qu’elles se voient exclues.
Est-ce que le fait d’exercer une responsabilité à un exécutif de club ou d’association favorise la carrière en éducation? Plus particulièrement, est-ce que le fait
d’être responsable d’une association non mixte a un effet sur la carrière? Marshall (1984) indique qu’il est utile de développer certaines habiletés dans des
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CLAUDINE BAUDOUX
groupes ou associations. Epstein (1970) signale le handicap pour les femmes de
ne pas appartenir à des associations, en particulier à celles qui sont réservées aux
hommes, parce que l’exclusivisme confère une légitimité à la personne choisie,
le club étant réservé à certaines catégories sociales.
Ayotte (1972) et Ayotte et Pelletier (1972) consacrent un chapitre entier de
leur étude aux activités sociales des cadres scolaires, indiquant l’importance du
phénomène dans cette population. Ils constatent que les personnes qui atteignent
les premiers échelons de l’administration scolaire chercheraient à asseoir et à
étendre leur position par la participation à des associations: les directions d’école
ont en effet tendance à être plus disponibles pour des associations externes que
les autres cadres des commissions scolaires, ce qui constituerait selon les auteurs
une voie de promotion selon les normes du milieu des organisations.
En réalité, ces pratiques de responsabilités d’organisations non mixtes, qui
semblent particulièrement fortes en éducation, traduisent peut-être une culture
plus ancienne. Selon Laliberté (1983), la société secrète et masculine de l’Ordre
de Jacques-Cartier (OJC) a dominé la vie intellectuelle et économique du Québec
tant qu’elle a duré, c’est-à-dire de 1926 à 1965. L’ordre compte au moins quatre
sociétés dites fraternelles: Richelieu, Champlain, Chevaliers de Colomb et Lacordaire. Les Clubs Richelieu sont fondés par l’Ordre pour faire pendant aux
clubs Kiwanis ou autres clubs du même genre. Les Chevaliers de Champlain sont
fondés par l’OJC au printemps 1957 pour faire échec aux Chevaliers de Colomb,
moins empreints de l’idéologie nationaliste.
C’est particulièrement dans le secteur de l’enseignement que la mainmise de
l’OJC est la plus entière. Au Québec, ses membres détiennent presque tous les
postes de commande en éducation. L’OJC comprend 38 affiliations dans le secteur de l’éducation: l’Association canadienne des éducateurs de langue française,
des associations de parents-maîtres, la Fédération des commissions scolaires
catholiques du Québec, des inspecteurs d’écoles, les Écoles normales, le Département de l’Instruction Publique, le Comité catholique, la Fédération des collèges
classiques, le ministère de la Jeunesse, puis le ministère de l’Éducation du
Québec. Des directeurs d’écoles font également partie du membership de l’Ordre.
Les Frères du Sacré-Coeur, les Frères Maristes et les Pères de Saint-Vincent-dePaul comptent beaucoup de frères membres de l’Ordre qui imprègnent la culture
scolaire de l’idéologie de l’Ordre (Laliberté, 1983).
Les syndicats de l’enseignement ne sont pas épargnés. La Corporation des
instituteurs et institutrices catholiques du Québec, de même que l’Alliance des
professeurs catholiques de Montréal sont noyautés. Léo Guindon, président de
la CIC de 1946 à 1952, puis Léopold Garant, président de 1952 à 1965, font partie de l’Ordre. Dans la CIC dans les années quarante et cinquante, ce noyautage
existe dans la mesure où
si l’on proposait quelque chose, les autres l’acceptaient et l’appuyaient. On ne cherchait
pas à s’emparer des postes, mais à sensibiliser, à s’arranger pour qu’on discute de telle
51
question, à lancer des actions et à continuer la formation, à surveiller les opérations aussi,
parfois même à se concerter électoralement parlant au sein de l’Organisme, à s’aider les
uns les autres. (Laliberté, 1983, p. 167)
Est-ce que certaines de ces pratiques ont été maintenues dans les organisations
scolaires, surtout si l’on se souvient que l’une des plus fortes caractéristiques
d’homogénéité de l’Ordre est, selon Laliberté (1983), sa masculinité? La mixité
sera en effet refusée par l’Ordre jusque dans les derniers temps de son existence.
Pas question d’admettre à titre de membres non seulement les épouses, mais des
salariées comme les institutrices laïques, les infirmières ou les travailleuses
sociales (Laliberté, 1983).
L’appartenance à des associations non mixtes ou qui présentent des sections
masculines et féminines semble être également une pratique courante dans le
monde de l’éducation aux États-Unis. Wheatley (1981) explique qu’étant donné
que le système scolaire est régulièrement l’objet de critiques et de demandes de
la part de l’environnement, les administrateurs jugent nécessaire de conclure des
alliances avec des commissaires ou d’autres personnages influents. Pour cultiver
ces relations, il est important d’appartenir aux clubs Kiwanis, Rotary, ou Lions,
d’avoir des amis à la Chambre de commerce de la ville ou chez les conseillers
municipaux, de rencontrer ainsi de façon officieuse les commissaires importants.
Suite à cette revue des écrits, les questions que nous nous posons dans cette
partie de la recherche ont trait au fait d’être président, présidente, ou membre de
l’exécutif de clubs sociaux ou de groupes de femmes, à la responsabilité d’associations de sports ou de loisirs, d’économie ou de politique, religieuses ou de
bienfaisance.
QUESTIONNEMENT
Dans une étape précédente de la recherche (Baudoux et Girard, 1990), nous
avons souligné le caractère souvent ambigu, stéréotypé, et sans rapport réel avec
l’emploi, des critères retenus par les comités de sélection. Le processus de
sélection est souvent examiné dans les recherches sous sa forme et ses critères
explicites. Or, nous avons montré que ces critères, objectifs en apparence, sont
diversement définis et appréciés par les membres du comité. Les critères d’admissibilité eux-mêmes ne sont pas toujours respectés. De plus, les critères varient
d’une organisation à l’autre, voire d’un concours à l’autre. Il faut donc tenter, par
un moyen indirect qui est la comparaison entre le bassin du personnel enseignant
et les personnes retenues, d’appréhender certaines conditions d’admissibilité et
certains critères implicites qui leur sont reliées ainsi que certaines caractéristiques
latentes exigées respectivement des candidates et des candidats.
Dans une première étape de la recherche, nous avons pu également vérifier
(Baudoux, 1992b): 1) qu’au primaire et au collégial, il n’y a de différence statistiquement significative selon le sexe qu’à l’étape du comité de sélection et que
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CLAUDINE BAUDOUX
si elles connaissent des problèmes dans les comités de sélection, ces derniers leur
sont malgré tout plus favorables que les pratiques de cooptation; 2) mais qu’au
secondaire, en plus de l’étape du comité de sélection, les enseignantes sont globalement moins encouragées à poser leur candidature, en particulier avant 1964
(mais seules des variables concernant le contexte familial d’origine sont touchées). C’est pourquoi les tableaux 1 et 3 présenteront les résultats obtenus pour
les trois ordres d’enseignement concernant les critères implicites ou explicites de
sélection et que le tableau 2 offrira de plus, pour le secondaire, des résultats
illustrant l’importance des phénomènes de comités de sélection ou de cooptation
lors de la sélection.
MÉTHODOLOGIE
Mener de simples analyses tentant de découvrir des différences statistiquement
significatives entre directeurs et directrices ne nous semble pas la méthode la
plus valide, en particulier pour des variables où la comparaison avec le corps
enseignant est possible. En effet, puisqu’il s’agit de sélection, c’est à dire d’un
passage de la catégorie personnel enseignant admissible à celle de personnel de
direction, il est nécessaire de tenir compte des caractéristiques du bassin de
recrutement selon le sexe. À titre d’exemple fictif, s’il existait une différence
statistiquement significative entre directeurs et directrices du primaire concernant
la vie en couple (60% des directrices et 80% des directeurs), on pourrait alléguer
à juste titre que si seulement 60% de ces directrices vivent en couple, c’est qu’il
n’y aurait peut-être que 60% des enseignantes du primaire qui ont un tel statut
civil. Mais si 90% des enseignantes vivent en couple alors que seulement 60%
des directrices se retrouvent dans ce cas, si cette différence est statistiquement
significative, et si la vie en couple se révélait plus fréquente chez les directeurs
que chez les enseignants du primaire, on devrait conclure que la vie de couple
est une variable parmi d’autres qui est discriminatoire vis-à-vis des femmes au
moment de la sélection
Échantillonnage et instrumentation
Nous avons envoyé, pour les ordres primaire, secondaire et collégial, à un échantillon représentatif de responsables d’établissement3 et à un échantillon aléatoire
stratifié d’enseignants et d’enseignantes4 un questionnaire comportant environ 200
questions ou énoncés portant: 1) sur la vie privée, sur la vie professionnelle et
para-professionnelle; 2) sur certains aspects de la culture organisationnelle, sur
les comportements manifestés au travail ainsi que sur les représentations entretenues par les décideurs au sujet des femmes au travail; 3) sur les relations avec
les supérieurs, sur les encouragements reçus à poser sa candidature et sur les
choix des comités de sélection.
53
Traitement des résultats
Il n’y a pas que les critères directs, explicites, formalisés par le comité de
sélection qui jouent un rôle lors de la sélection. Qu’entendons-nous par critères
explicites ou implicites? Rappelons que dans le secteur de l’éducation, comme
dans bien d’autres, les procédures entourant le choix d’une candidature à un
poste de cadre sont sujettes à la subjectivité et à des phénomènes inconscients
qui favorisent une candidature plutôt qu’une autre (Barnabé, 1981; Baudoux et
Girard, 1990). De plus, les candidats et candidates sont dans la presque totalité
membres du corps enseignant de la commission scolaire où leur candidature à un
poste de direction est présentée. Il est ainsi très facile d’obtenir des renseignements sur ces personnes, ou d’écouter les commentaires émis à propos des
candidatures.
Des critères explicites ou formels dans un comité de sélection relèvent le plus
souvent en éducation (Baudoux et Girard, 1990) de la scolarité, de l’expérience,
du leadership, des habiletés en communication, de la maturité émotionnelle, de
la disponibilité, de la capacité de résistance au stress, etc. Les critères implicites
ne sont pas exprimés en comité de sélection. Ils sont liés aux représentations et
aux valeurs des membres du comité. Prenons l’exemple de la classe sociale: un
comité ne demande pas explicitement à une personne candidate le statut socioéconomique de ses parents. Toutefois, ce statut peut conférer une certaine aisance
à se présenter ou à répondre aux questions, un habitus de classe favorable à une
candidature. Prenons un autre exemple: l’emploi du masculin et du féminin pour
répondre aux questions. Cet emploi risque d’être perçu comme relevant d’une
attitude favorable aux femmes et traduit en même temps tout un système de valeurs qui peut inconsciemment plaire ou déplaire aux membres du comité.
Comment repérer ces critères implicites? Il faut recourir à ce que nous enseigne la statistique. On doit retrouver les occurrences de mêmes caractéristiques
dans un sous-groupe qui provient d’un groupe (homogénéité).5 Prenons un exemple trivial: si 50% des enseignantes ont les yeux bleus, mais que seulement 3%
des directrices possèdent cette caractéristique et que si la différence est statistiquement significative, c’est-à-dire si la différence observée n’est pas arrivée par
hasard, on peut signaler la simultanéité de l’occurrence de la couleur des yeux
a agi et le la sélection.
RÉSULTATS
Quels renseignements étaient demandés, quels énoncés étaient proposés à l’assentiment ou non du personnel enseignant et du personnel de direction? “J’ai des
aspirations élevées par rapport à ma carrière”; “J’ai recherché activement un
poste plus élevé au cours des deux dernières années”; “J’ai refusé l’avancement
à un poste de direction que l’on m’offrait”; “Je devrais être à un poste plus
élevé”; “Je suis profondément engagé-e vis-à-vis de l’organisation (la commis-
54
CLAUDINE BAUDOUX
sion scolaire ou le cégep) pour laquelle je travaille”; le nombre et la variété
d’associations où l’on est responsable ou membre de l’exécutif: groupes masculins (clubs sociaux, scouts, armée); groupes féminins, y compris guides; groupes
reliés au sport ou au loisir; groupes s’intéressant à l’économie ou à la politique;
groupes préoccupés de religion ou de bienfaisance. À cela s’ajoute, pour le
personnel de direction seulement, “Je suis impatient-e d’obtenir un poste plus
élevé,” et pour le personnel enseignant seulement: “J’attends qu’on stimule ma
candidature avant de penser à me présenter à un poste de direction”; siéger à un
ou des comités de l’établissement; être responsable d’un ou des comités de l’établissement.
Au primaire (tableau 1), le personnel de direction a un niveau plus élevé
d’aspirations de carrière6 que le personnel enseignant. Lorsque l’on compare le
passage d’une catégorie à l’autre selon le sexe, on constate que 10% des enseignantes ont des aspirations de carrière élevées contre 61,75% des directrices. Du
côté masculin, l’écart entre personnel enseignant et personnel de direction est
moins élevé: on passe de 29,03% à seulement 49,55%. Ainsi, il semble que l’on
exige comparativement davantage des candidates que des candidats à la direction
qu’elles aient des aspirations de carrière élevées. Remarquons au passage que les
enseignantes ont moins souvent des aspirations de carrière élevées que leurs collègues masculins. Ceci correspond à la production scientifique traitant de cette
question qui montre, entre autres facteurs explicatifs, que les femmes ajustent
leurs aspirations aux chances qu’elles ont de progresser.
En ce qui a trait au fait d’être responsable de groupes exclusivement masculins
ou de faire partie de leur exécutif, le personnel masculin passe de 16,13%
comme enseignant à 24,11% comme directeur. En revanche, le personnel féminin
baisse de 5,03% comme enseignante à 2,68% comme directrice. Le phénomène
va ainsi en sens inverse selon le sexe. La responsabilité des groupes d’hommes
semble favoriser les candidats et défavoriser les candidates, résultat qui est
congruent avec ceux qui sont obtenus par Epstein (1970), Wheatley (1981) ou
Marshall (1984).
À l’opposé, en ce qui concerne les groupes religieux ou de bienfaisance, la
proportion des hommes baisse de 29,03% chez les enseignants à 17,41% chez les
directeurs, alors que celle des femmes s’élève de 6,29% à 16,37%. La responsabilité de ce types d’associations favoriserait les candidates du primaire tout en
défavorisant leurs collègues masculins.
Alors que les directrices semblent plus impatientes que leurs collègues masculins d’obtenir un poste plus élevé, les enseignantes attendent davantage que l’on
stimule leur candidature à un poste de direction avant de penser à la présenter,
comme si elles disposaient moins que leurs collègues masculins des clés de décodage de la symbolique du milieu dans lequel elles oeuvrent. Les tabous présents
dans l’organisation ne sont pas toujours facilement identifiables, en particulier
pour les minorités qui ont moins d’occasions de recevoir ces clés de décodage
obtenues par la socialisation en cours d’emploi. Selon Mark (1986), il existe dans
70,97 77,12
a refusé de l’avancement
38,71 15,29
responsable comités école (prof.)
F
3,27
2,68
—
—
—
4,46
—
—
—
6,63
17,41 16,37
22,32 11,61
31,70 13,43
0,00
24,11
79,28 88,92
26,44 25,16
26,67 24,55
17,78 17,16
49,55 61,75
H
Dir.
9,52
F
—
4,62
7,69
9,23
6,15
4,67
24,73 20,31
49,46 48,44
25,56 15,25
—
7,29
7,29
10,42
4,17
4,17
78,13 82,81
16,47 15,00
81,25 77,78
4,26 11,56
17,02
H
Ens.
Dir.
F
4,13
1,65
—
—
—
9,09
—
—
—
4,13
25,29 19,84
26,67 14,88
31,91 19,84
0,00
20,48
84,62 91,53
35,15 36,13
35,07 29,51
20,19 19,36
54,07 60,48
H
Secondaire
F
4,90
—
9,80
6,86
9,80
8,82
1,96
54,55
49,55 50,50
69,11
24,38 25,00
—
8,28
15,68
18,34
2,66
4,14
67,99 64,29
9,76 12,75
10,42
7,10 23,92
19,88 15,46
H
Ens.
H
F
Cadre
6,25
2,08
—
—
—
—
—
—
4,17 12,96
16,94 10,42
26,78 14,58
31,15 14,58
0,00
5,46
90,16 89,09
20,11 20,00
63,10 50,91
15,63 35,71
44,79 58,49
Collégial
*Les résultats présentés indiquent une relation statistiquement significative à un seuil de confiance de 0,01 entre les personnes qui ont répondu à la question.
61,29 34,40
siège comités école (prof. seul.)
—
41,38 16,00
—
6,29
8,18
9,43
6,29
attend stimule candidature (prof. seul.)
impatient obtenir poste + élevé (dir.)
29,03
9,68
responsable groupes sports-loisirs
responsable religieux-bienfaisance
9,68
responsable groupes de femmes
16,13
16,13
responsable groupes d’hommes
responsable groupes économie-politique
65,52 87,26
profond engagement envers établis.
5,03
6,90 10,46
devrait être à un poste plus élevé
5,66
10,35
a recherché activement poste élevé
F
29,03 10,00
H
aspirations carrière élevées
Énoncé
Ens.
Primaire
Stratégies de carrière selon le sexe et la fonction*
TABLEAU 1
56
CLAUDINE BAUDOUX
les organisations des règles, des procédures ou des tabous qui ne sont pas écrits
dont on n’entend parler que s’ils ont été enfreints. Les plus démunis des agents
(en particulier les femmes) ne disposent pas toujours de la connaissance tacite
qui définit la compétence indigène.
À l’opposé, en ce qui concerne les groupes religieux ou de bienfaisance, la
proportion des hommes baisse de 29,03% chez les enseignants à 17,41% chez les
directeurs, alors que celle des femmes s’élève de 6,29% à 16,37%. La responsabilité de ce types d’associations favoriserait les candidates du primaire tout en
défavorisant leurs collègues masculins.
Alors que les directrices semblent plus impatientes que leurs collègues
masculins d’obtenir un poste plus élevé, les enseignantes attendent davantage que
l’on stimule leur candidature à un poste de direction avant de penser à la présenter, comme si elles disposaient moins que leurs collègues masculins des clés de
décodage de la symbolique du milieu dans lequel elles oeuvrent. Les tabous
présents dans l’organisation ne sont pas toujours facilement identifiables, en
particulier pour les minorités qui ont moins d’occasions de recevoir ces clés de
décodage obtenues par la socialisation en cours d’emploi. Selon Mark (1986), il
existe dans les organisations des règles, des procédures ou des tabous qui ne sont
pas écrits dont on n’entend parler que s’ils ont été enfreints. Les plus démunis
des agents (en particulier les femmes) ne disposent pas toujours de la connaissance tacite qui définit la compétence indigène.
Enfin, les directrices siègent moins à des comités dans l’école et en sont moins
responsables, soit que ce résultat corresponde à des aspirations de carrière moins
élevées chez les enseignantes, soit que leur présence y est moins requise, soit une
combinaison de ces facteurs.
Remarquons au passage que les enseignantes, par rapport aux enseignants, ont
des aspirations de carrières moins élevées et ont moins recherché activement un
poste plus élevé. Toutefois, comme elles pensent davantage qu’elles devraient
occuper un poste plus élevé et comme elles s’estiment davantage profondément
engagées par rapport à leur organisation, et qu’elle posent proportionnellement
autant leur candidature, l’hypothèse de la prégnance de facteurs structurants qui
limitent les aspirations se justifie à cet ordre d’enseignement.
Au secondaire (tableau 1), certains phénomènes présents au primaire se
reproduisent. Il y a passage de 17,02% d’enseignants qui ont des aspirations de
carrière élevées à 54,07% chez les directeurs, mais la progression est statistiquement plus élevée chez les femmes: de 9,52% à 60,48%. Ainsi, entretenir des
aspirations de carrière élevées favorise comparativement les candidatures féminines. Les directrices sont moins impatientes que les directeurs d’obtenir un poste
plus élevé. En revanche, la variable recherche active d’un poste plus élevé suscite
un passage de 4,26% chez les enseignants à 20,19% chez les directeurs, alors que
cette progression n’est que de 11,56% à 19,36% chez les femmes. Ainsi, la
recherche active d’un poste favorise comparativement les hommes plutôt que les
femmes. L’ambition est bien considérée chez les femmes dans la mesure où elle
57
reste intériorisée, où elle ne se manifeste pas concrètement par des attitudes ou
des comportements. Les enseignantes attendent moins que leurs collègues masculins qu’on stimule leur candidature avant de procéder, comme si, comme au
primaire, elles connaissaient moins l’existence du tabou qui veut qu’on attende
d’avoir reçu des encouragements avant de se présenter.
Si les enseignants et enseignants sont responsables de groupes masculins dans
une même proportion, l’écart se crée au niveau des postes de direction: 20,48%
de directeurs et 1,65% de directrices. Il semble que ce type de responsabilité
favorise les candidatures masculines et défavorise les candidatures féminines.
S’il y a au secondaire comité de sélection plutôt que cooptation (tableau 2),
les candidates retenues pensent moins qu’elles devraient être à un poste plus
élevé, sont moins profondément engagées envers la commission scolaire, sont
moins souvent responsables de groupes économiques ou politiques, religieux ou
de bienfaisance. Il semble exister ici une certaine crainte chez les membres des
comités des femmes qui, par leurs comportements ou attitudes, démontreraient
un désir de mobilité.
Au collégial (tableau 1), la population masculine fait plus que doubler sa
proportion dans sa recherche active d’un poste plus élevé avec le passage de la
catégorie d’enseignant à celle de directeur (de 7,10% à 15,63%), alors que l’augmentation est moins forte chez les femmes (de 23,92% à 35,71%). La recherche
active d’un poste semble plus appréciée chez les candidats pour l’obtention d’un
poste de direction.
Le passage d’enseignante à cadre féminine en ce qui a trait au refus d’un
avancement est moins facile que celui des hommes (de 10,42% à 63,10%). Ainsi,
un refus d’avancement serait comparativement moins bien perçu chez les femmes. La responsabilité de groupes d’économie-politique semble jouer en faveur
TABLEAU 2
Énoncés qui ont donné lieu à des différences statistiquement significatives
chez les directrices en matière de cooptation au secondaire
Énoncé
comité*
cooptation
conclusion
devrait être à un poste plus élevé
34,13%
46,67%
—
profond engagement envers C. S.
89,53%
94,31%
—
responsable économie-politique
10,88%
13,33%
—
responsable bienfaisance
15,84%
26,67%
—
* Les résultats présentés indiquent une relation statistiquement significative à un seuil de confiance
de 0,01 entre les personnes qui ont répondu à la question.
58
CLAUDINE BAUDOUX
des femmes: le passage chez elles est de 6,86% à 14,58%, alors qu’il est proportionnellement moins élevé chez leurs collègues masculins: de 15,68% à 26,78%.
Enfin, les cadres féminines semblent nettement plus impatientes d’obtenir un
poste plus élevé. Cela peut être dû au fait qu’elles occupent davantage les échelons inférieurs de la hiérarchie, bien que ce phénomène soit présent au primaire
alors que les directrices ne manifestent pas souvent une telle impatience.
Selon le tableau récapitulatif 3, qui indique les différences statistiquement
significatives globalement et selon les trois périodes retenues, l’on constate ainsi
que les candidates qui ont des aspirations de carrière élevées sont favorisées lors
du recrutement au primaire et au secondaire. De plus, le bassin de candidates des
commissions scolaires aurait tendance à postuler à un poste de direction sans que
l’on suscite leur candidature. Toutefois, et ce n’est pas une mince contradiction,
celles qui, dans la réalité et non plus dans les projets, recherchent activement un
poste plus élevé, sont, relativement, jugées de façon négative alors que leurs
équivalents masculins sont appréciés. Ces résultats confirment les recherches
d’Ortiz (1982) et l’hypothèse de Dumont (1986, p. 74) selon laquelle, en politique, les partis tiennent à avoir des femmes députées auxquelles ils attribuent
des comtés “sûrs.” Toutefois, les femmes qui prennent l’initiative d’une carrière
politique sont refoulées dans les conventions de comtés. Ainsi, les femmes peuvent participer parfois au pouvoir, mais à la condition d’y être invitées. Nos
résultats semblent indiquer une identité de pratiques en éducation.
Autre différence de traitement entre candidats et candidates: le refus d’un
avancement à un poste de direction est interprété comparativement comme négatif pour les candidates au collégial. Un profond engagement vis-à-vis de l’institution n’est globalement de grande utilité à aucun ordre d’enseignement. Toutefois, cet engagement profond vis-à-vis de l’organisation qui devrait être une
caractéristique de cadre (Kanter, 1977), constitue un handicap pour les candidates
du collégial entre 1965 et 1974, et pour les candidates du secondaire après 1975,
alors qu’il constitue un atout pour les hommes dans les deux cas. Y-a-t-il parfois
réticence chez les décideurs de voir les femmes s’approprier d’un des rares signes distinctifs qui restent aux hommes et de voir ainsi constituée l’égalité de
comportement (Laufer, 1984)?
Nous avons noté qu’un nombre considérable de directeurs du secondaire (plus
de la moitié) sont membres de clubs Lions, Richelieu, Lacordaire, Rotary, optimistes (section masculine), Chevaliers de Colomb, etc. et que presque le quart
en sont responsables. Les réseaux féminins ont été et sont encore peut-être moins
efficaces pour une carrière, étant donné que les femmes participent peu encore
aux postes de pouvoir et qu’ainsi, les possibilités d’information ou de marrainage
sont assez limitées.
La responsabilité d’associations de sports et de loisirs se révèle négative pour
les candidates et positive pour les candidats du secondaire entre 1965 et 1974.
En revanche, la responsabilité de groupes d’économie ou de politique sont comparativement des atouts pour les candidates au collégial et au primaire entre 1965
—
—
est responsable de comités de
l’établissement
—
—
+
Di
Di
Di
Di
Di
Di
Di
Di
Di
Di
Di
S
avant 1964
Di
Di
Di
Di
Di
Di
Di
Di
Di
Di
C
Di
+
Di
Di
+
P
Di
Di
—
Di
Di
+
S
+
Di
Di
—
—
+
C
1965–1974
Di
Di
Di
Di
Di
Di
—
+
P
*Les résultats présentés indiquent une relation statistiquement significative à un seuil de confiance de 0,01 entre les personnes qui ont répondu à la question.
a
+ signifie comparativement un point positif pour les candidates.
b
Di=données insuffisantes pour mener des analyses.
—
—
siège à des comité de l’établissement
+
impatiente d’obtenir un poste plus élevé
(dir.)
attend qu’on stimule sa candidature
+
responsable relig.-bienfaisance
+
Di
Di
Di
+
Di
Di
Di
responsable économie-politique
Di
responsable groupes femmes
responsable sports-loisirs
—
responsable assoc. masculines
impatience obtenir poste plus élevé
(dir. seul.)
Di
profond engagement envers
organisation
Di
Di
Dib
P
Di
—
—
C
devrait être poste plus élevé
refus avancement
—
+
+a
aspirations de carrière élevées
recherche active poste plus élevé
S
P
Variable
Global*
Tableau récapitulatif: critères explicites ou implicites de sélection
TABLEAU 3
Di
Di
Di
Di
Di
—
—
+
S
Di
Di
Di
Di
Di
—
+
C
après 1975
60
CLAUDINE BAUDOUX
et 1974, et s’il y a comité de sélection au secondaire (tableau 2); la responsabilité
de groupes religieux et de bienfaisance (traditionnellement reliée à la féminité qui
est très valorisée dans les commissions scolaires; Baudoux, 1991), est appréciée
dans les commissions scolaires chez les candidates du primaire. De plus, cette
responsabilité favorise le succès des candidates du secondaire s’il y a comité de
sélection (tableau 2).
CONCLUSION
Une triple constatation se dégage de nos résultats. Sur de nombreux points, les
hommes et les femmes sont jugés différemment, globalement ou selon certaines
périodes, à partir du même critère, ce qui constituerait un indice de discrimination. L’appartenance à des réseaux masculins non mixtes favorise les hommes
et défavorise les femmes. En revanche, la responsabilité que les enseignantes
exercent dans d’autres types d’associations peut compenser pour certains préjugés
reliés au genre féminin. Enfin, il semble que les candidates qui osent prendre
l’initiative de poser leur candidature à un poste de direction suscitent de la
crainte chez les décideurs.
De plus, les recherches partent souvent du postulat de l’autocensure des
enseignantes. Sont alors mises en cause la socialisation sexiste des hommes et
des femmes, et l’intériorisation par les femmes de leur infériorité. Ce postulat
attribue cette autocensure à un niveau plus bas d’aspirations chez les femmes, à
la passivité, à des conflits de rôle ou à un manque d’engagement par rapport à
la carrière. Toutefois, les résultats de diverses recherches (Edson, 1981; Fauth,
1984), ainsi que nos propres résultats, indiquent que le présupposé selon lequel
les femmes n’aspirent pas à des postes de cadres en éducation doivent être modulés, en ce sens où on exige davantage des femmes qu’elles soient ambitieuses.
Kanter (1977) présente une thèse selon laquelle ce n’est pas le genre ou les
caractéristiques individuelles mais la structure organisationnelle qui limite l’accès
des femmes et des minorités aux postes de responsabilité. À ses yeux, les personnes qui ont peu de chance de promotion limitent leurs aspirations. Donc, un
manque d’aspirations peut être vu comme une réponse à une situation désavantageuse. Cette thèse est soutenue par Donelson et Gullahorn (1977), Barnett et
Baruch (1979), Coffin et Ekstrom (1979), Tibbets (1979) et Jovick (1981). Elle
est confortée dans la mesure où des études montrent qu’une fois les barrières
sociales enlevées, une fois qu’on encourage les femmes à poser leur candidature,
elles la posent davantage (Edson, 1981). Picker (1980) montre que non seulement
les aspirations des femmes augmentent si elles ont des chances de promotion,
mais que les femmes ont alors des aspirations plus élevées que les hommes. Les
résultats présentés dans cet article illustrent ce phénomène. Qui plus est: nos
résultats se rapprochent plutôt de la constatation d’Ortiz (1982) selon laquelle les
enseignantes ne doivent pas afficher de l’ambition jusqu’à ce qu’elles aient obtenu leur poste de direction, sous peine de ne pas être choisies. D’autres résultats
61
tirés de la même recherche (Baudoux, à paraître) confirment cette peur des femmes qui veulent faire carrière.
Troisième élément de réflexion: si les enseignantes posent proportionnellement
autant leur candidature que les enseignants, et ceci, pour chacune des trois
décennies considérées, pourquoi ont-elles tendance à surévaluer leurs chances de
réussite qui sont huit fois moins élevées, dans les commissions scolaires, que
celles des enseignants? C’est sans doute d’une part, parce que la catégorie des
cadres constitue un ensemble qui ne possède pas de critères explicites et unanimement reconnus de succès et que, d’autre part, les organisations sont composées
d’un enchevêtrement d’unités qui permet le jeu de la concurrence des candidatures. Les individus font des investissements souvent démesurés dans la carrière
refoulant la connaissance tacite des effets structurants et des atouts réellement
possédés (Boltanski, 1982).
La surévaluation des chances est également favorisée par le fait que le champ
des organisations peut être caractérisé par la contradiction entre d’une part les
exigences méritocratiques formelles ainsi que, d’autre part, le tissu enchevêtré
des relations de pouvoir présentes entre les unités et entre les sexes. L’homogénéisation du jargon administratif contribue à accroître l’opacité du champ des
organisations. La langue de la gestion tend à euphémiser et à dissimuler des différences objectives qui s’exprimaient auparavant de façon relativement explicite
(Boltanski, 1982). Les femmes, qui ne sont souvent pas introduites dans les
réseaux informels d’information, sont ainsi plus portées à adhérer à la représentation donnée par l’organigramme, aux règles formelles de carrière et au critère
de la compétence, à ne pas éventuellement ressentir la nécessité d’attendre qu’on
les sollicite à poser leur candidature à un poste de cadre, et, par conséquent, elles
sont plus exposées à surévaluer leurs chances de réussite en ajustant leurs espérances de carrière sur des trajectoires qui leur sont formellement ouvertes sans
leur être également accessibles.
Il suffit que les personnes manipulent de façon subjective et partielle, en
déniant la pertinence de certains signes, les différents indices de statut, sans
prendre conscience de la réalité du système de mobilité pour qu’elles se sentent
en concurrence avec tous et toutes. La présence de femmes exceptionnelles a
pour but de signaler que l’ascension est possible et surtout de justifier les principes et les modes de sélection en vigueur qui, comme semblent l’indiquer cette
partie de nos résultats, restent comparativement différenciés selon le sexe.
NOTES
1
L’équipe Grade est composée de Claudine Baudoux, responsable, de Claire V. de la Durantaye,
co-responsable, de Lysanne Langevin, de Claudette Lasserre, de Sylvie Girard, de Céline
Desjardins, de Flore Dupriez et de Martine Matteau. Cette équipe est subventionnée par le CRSH
et le FCAR.
2
Dans cet article, nous ne détaillerons pas l’analyse effectuée selon les trois périodes étudiées pour
ne pas multiplier les tableaux.
62
CLAUDINE BAUDOUX
3
Nous avons envoyé un questionnaire à un échantillon fixé à 20% de la population des directeurs
d’école (N=564) et à 60% des directrices (N=565), pour un total de 1129 envois. Nous avons reçu
902 réponses, soit un taux de 80%. Les adresses ont été fournies grâce à une permission de la
Commission d’accès à l’information. Il n’y a pas eu de relance. Au collégial, nous avons envoyé
309 questionnaires à des cadres choisis selon leur fonction (direction générale, direction des
services pédagogiques, autres cadres de niveau 1 que DSP et cadres de niveau 2) à partir de
l’Annuaire de la Fédération des cégeps 88-89. Ces 309 questionnaires représentent 235 cadres
masculins (40% de la population de 589 cadres masculins) et 74 cadres féminines (80% de la
population de 92 cadres féminines). Le taux de réponses est pour les hommes de 82,5% (194
réponses) et celui des femmes de 76% (56 réponses). Au total, les 250 réponses sur 309 envois
représentent 80,9% de réponses. Selon les statistiques de cette époque (Baudoux, 1989), il y avait
10% de cadres féminines dans les cégeps, ce qui correspond à la proportion obtenue dans les
réponses.
4
Notre choix de l’échantillon s’est basé sur deux critères: le respect de la proportion entre le milieu
urbain et le milieu rural; ainsi que la proportion respective des enseignantes et enseignants selon
l’ordre d’enseignement. Nous avons ainsi envoyé 1297 questionnaires à quatre commissions scolaires dont les effectifs et la situation géographique correspondaient à ces deux exigences. Les
questionnaires ont été distribués, grâce à la collaboration des directeurs généraux et directrices
générales qui ont demandé aux responsables d’établissements de placer les questionnaires dans
les casiers du personnel enseignant. À partir des 1297 envois, nous avons reçu 1044 réponses: 375
enseignants (35,9%) et 669 enseignantes (64,1%). Le taux de réponses est de 80,5%. Les proportions des enseignants et enseignantes des deux ordres d’enseignement correspondent aux statistiques sur le personnel enseignant des commissions scolaires: il y avait, en 1985, 65% d’enseignantes au total: 39,6% au secondaire et 84% au primaire. 55% du personnel enseignant travaille
au primaire et 45% au secondaire. Au collégial, nous avons, grâce à la collaboration de directeurs
généraux, fait parvenir dans les casiers du personnel enseignant un questionnaire. Un cégep était
situé dans une région urbaine (525 envois), et deux autres en région (314 envois). Nous avons
reçu 676 réponses: 472 enseignants et 204 enseignantes, ce qui correspond aux proportions données dans les statistiques officielles. Le taux de réponses est de 80,5%.
5
En termes statistiques, il faut recourir à la notion probabiliste de l’indépendance de deux événements. On dit que deux événements A (être une femme) et B (faire partie des directions d’école)
sont indépendants si l’occurrence de l’un n’a aucun effet sur la probabilité d’occurrence de l’autre,
c’est-à-dire si P(a/B)=P(A), qui se lit: si la probabilité d’obtenir a étant donné que l’événement
b est réalisé est égal à la probabilité de a, alors, A et B sont indépendants. Deux événements sont
dépendants s’ils ne sont pas indépendants.
Si, au lieu de manipuler la totalité des observations, nous travaillons avec un échantillon, nous
devons faire intervenir la notion statistique des lois du hasard. Nous pouvons admettre que les fréquences observées à l’intérieur d’une catégorie puissent s’écarter légèrement d’une fréquence calculée sous l’hypothèse nulle de l’indépendance des événements. Le test du Khi carré permet de
vérifier si la différence observée entre ces deux fréquences peut être due au hasard et dès lors, les
événements sont dits indépendants. Si la différence est trop grande pour n’être due qu’au hasard
de l’échantillonnage, les événements sont dits dépendants.
6
Au cours de ces analyses, nous nous bornerons à commenter les différences statistiquement significatives.
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Ayotte, R. et Pelletier, R. (1972). Les cadres des commissions scolaires. Leurs opinions sur le
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Barnabé, C. (1981). La gestion des ressources humaines en éducation. Montréal: Agence d’Arc.
Barnett, R. C. et Baruch, G. K. (1979). Multiple roles and well being: A study of mothers of
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Baudoux, C. (1989). Où il sera question d’héroïnes . . . In C. Baudoux (dir.), Féminisation et
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directrices d’école. In C. Simard et I. Lépine (dirs.), Prendre sa place: les femmes dans l’univers
organisationnel (p. 221–260). Montréal: Agence d’Arc.
Baudoux, C. (1992a). Famille et carrière: le cas des gestionnaires féminines en éducation. Recherches
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Baudoux, C. (1992b). Prime socialisation et carrière: les cadres féminines en éducation. In C.
Baudoux (dir.), Femmes et carrière (Cahiers de recherche du Groupe de recherche multidisciplinaire féministe no. 45; p. 57–108). Québec: Université Laval, Groupe de recherche multidisciplinaire féministe.
Baudoux, C. (à paraître). Pratiques et représentations du pouvoir: réversibilité des postes de direction
en éducation.
Baudoux, C. et Girard, S. (1990). Sélection de candidatures féminines dans les postes de direction
d’écoles et de collèges. Revue des sciences de l’éducation, 16, 163–183.
Boltanski, L. (1982). Les cadres: la formation d’un groupe social. Paris: Minuit.
Clement, J., Dubella, C. M. et Eckstrom, R. B. (1977). No room at the top? American Education, 13,
20–26.
Coffin, G. C. et Eckstrom, R. B. (1979). Roadblocks to women’s careers in educational administration. In C. Berry (dir.), Women in educational administration (p. 53–63). Washington, DC:
National Association of Women Deans, Administrators and Counselors.
Desjardins-Bourcier, R. (1987). Rapport synthèse de l’analyse diagnostique. Montréal: Collège
Marie-Victorin.
Dias, S. (1976, avril). The aspirations levels of women for administrative careers in education:
Predictive factors and implications for effective change. Communication présentée au congrès
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Sons.
Dumont, M. (1986). Tradition de gestion féminine en éducation. In C. Baudoux (dir.), Gestion de
l’éducation au féminin (p. 7–22). Chicoutimi: Université du Québec à Chicoutimi.
Edson, S. K. (1981). “If they can, I can”: Women aspirants to administrative positions in public
schools. In P. A. Schmuck, W. W. Charters et R. O. Carlson (dirs.), Educational policy and
management: Sex differentials (p. 169–185). New York: Academic Press.
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Goulet, D. (1982). Les problèmes relatifs à l’accessibilité des enseignantes du primaire au poste de
directeur/trice d’école. Mémoire de maîtrise inédite, Faculté des sciences de l’éducation,
Université Laval, Québec.
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and Sons.
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P. A. Schmuck, W. W. Charters et R. O. Carlson (dirs.), Educational policy and management: Sex
differentials (p. 153–168). New York: Academic Press.
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environment. Educational Horizons, p. 145–149.
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Mémoire de maîtrise inédite, Université Laval, Faculté des sciences de l’éducation, Québec.
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Charters et R. O. Carlson (dirs.), Educational policy and management: Sex differentials (p.
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equity in education. New York: Academic Press.
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(dir.), Women in higher education administration: A book of readings (p. 1–11). Washington:
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Schmuck, W. W. Charters et R. O. Carlson (dirs.), Educational policy and management: Sex
differentials (p. 255–271). New York: Academic Press.
Claudine Baudoux est Professeure au Département d’administration et politique scolaires de la Faculté
des sciences de l’éducation, Université Laval, Sainte-Foy (Québec) G1K 7P4.
Toward a New Collective Biography:
The University of British Columbia Professoriate,
1915–1945
William Bruneau
university of british columbia
Collective biography traditionally relies on quantitative evidence to explain social and
economic characteristics of a group of persons. A recent and continuing study of the
professoriate at the University of British Columbia between 1915 and 1945 shows that
this historical method could and should take into account the intellectual and emotional
circumstances of its subjects, rather than rely exclusively on socio-economic data. The
UBC study uses several techniques that connect quantitative and circumstantial data in
a single, integrated historical argument.
La biographie collective repose généralement sur des données quantitatives pour expliquer
les caractéristiques sociales et économiques d’un groupe de personnes. Une étude récente,
et toujours en cours, du corps professoral à l’University of British Columbia entre 1915
et 1945 indique que cette méthode historique pourrait et devrait prendre en compte le
contexte intellectuel et affectif dans lequel se trouvent les sujets, plutôt que de s’en tenir
exclusivement aux données socio-économiques. L’étude de l’UBC fait appel à plusieurs
techniques qui établissent des liens entre les données quantitatives et contextuelles dans
une interprétation historique intégrée.
COLLECTIVE BIOGRAPHY AND THE HISTORY OF UNIVERSITIES IN CANADA
In Hindu-Buddhist lore the story is told of blind men who come upon an elephant, never before having known one. One man touches the elephant’s ear and
concludes that elephants are thin and velvet creatures. Another leans against the
elephant’s leg and argues that elephants resemble moving tree-trunks. Analogously, historians writing about universities may say these institutions transmit high
culture, educate for the intellectual life, provide for social control, or cause
economic growth. Since the mid-1980s, however, the practice of university history has moved on, and we may at last construct an historically more complete
picture of the “elephant” than we have had.
In this article I suggest revision of a now-traditional historical technique that
would contribute to such a picture. The technique, collective biography — or
“prosopography” — has over the past quarter-century yielded useful results in the
social study of students, professors, and university bureaucrats. These results
have not, however, been integrated with the findings of intellectual, political,
administrative, and other “histories” of the university. In a self-fulfilling
65
19:1 (1994)
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WILLIAM BRUNEAU
prophecy, social historians have noticed the divide between these two methods
and have declined the often-difficult, labour-intensive task of constructing prosopographical databases.
I here offer the example of a Canadian study already under way, a new history
of the University of British Columbia, to illustrate a revised prosopographical
method. I show how the method and its products may be linked with older forms
of university history, arguing its utility and feasibility not just for British
Columbia but everywhere.
PLEASURES AND PERILS OF PROSOPOGRAPHY
One reason the University of British Columbia (UBC), as most universities in
Canada, has attracted little systematic historical attention,1 is the absence of
organized databases for its professoriate and its students. The importance of data
“banks” is easier to see if we think of recent large-scale university histories in
western Europe. Since the early 1970s, historians of European higher education
have taken to asking who went to school, who taught, and who governed. These
are, of course, deceptively simple questions. As one learns the social, cultural,
geographic, and intellectual roots of students, not just their names and later
careers, one acquires a detailed and explanatory vision of the surrounding society. These data, taken together, point to students’ and professors’ interests and
motives, and to power relations between and among them, and with outsiders.
To take one example, extensive work on Oxford and Cambridge students between 1400 and 1900 has begun to answer large questions: what have been and
are the causes of industrial growth and decay? What are the roots of imperialist
political ambition? What may have been the links between vigorous art, music,
and literature on one hand, and universities on the other? Similar work on professors in 19th- and 20th-century Germany, France, and England has helped to
answer these questions, and also to explain such various phenomena as literary
and scientific invention, the practice of governance in large and fractious institutions, and the role of intellectual leaders in popular and elitist politics.2
These European studies were in some cases the fruits of historiographical and
methodological advances, but in others of industrious research on huge databases.
Catto’s and McConica’s work on Oxford, for example, was based on computerized cataloguing and analysis of 8,000 medieval student records. The records
were erratic in form, but reliable enough to yield significant generalizations about
13th- to 16th-century English society and polity.3
Canadian evidence has yet to be exploited on this scale. John Reid’s sketches
of the geographical and professional origins of Mount Allison students are an
important, but not-yet-replicated example of large-scale collective biography in
Canada.4
One might justifiably wonder if this is merely a physical and administrative
matter. Perhaps the manuscript sources for prosopographical studies of Canadian
THE UBC PROFESSORIATE,
1915–1945
67
universities are, for whatever reason, wanting. But as a recent collection of
historical essays has shown, the sources are plentiful.5
The difficulty is not so much to find records as it is to make defensible links
among them. Strictly speaking, a full prosopography or collective biography
requires similar records for the entire population under study. Such records will
in some degree be quantifiable, and the prosopographer will consider raw percentages, medians, and variances, later comparing these to analogous statistics
for the larger outside society. A fortunate researcher may be able to calculate
correlations between employment and highest degree earned, not just the overall
proportion of persons who were employed or who had doctorates.
Where records are exactly similar, but anecdotal or for some other reason not
wholly quantifiable, the prosopographer may (and usually does) argue for
conceptual features that recur across records. The result may be an inferentially
suggestive conceptual “catalogue,” on which basis it is usually possible to make
generalizations and inferences about people’s preferences, reasons, motives, and
Weltanschauung. In sum, a collective biography should go far beyond the atomic
facts that make it feasible in the first place.
The interest of a complete prosopography lies partly in linking quantifiable
and non-quantifiable aspects of records, and thus of people’s lives. These links
are hard to detect and to prove. The main difficulty is the linkage of records
collected about whole populations, but by different institutions for different
purposes. In studying the UBC professoriate, for example, I found evidence collected by the Dominion Bureau of Statistics, by the City of Vancouver (including
its police department!), and by the provincial departments of health and of education. These were reduced — regrettably from a prosopographical standpoint — to
statistical tables in which contributing individuals cannot be discerned. Record
linkage depends on the identification of at least some of the individuals who
constitute groups. And since Dominion, City, and provincial departments had different reasons for keeping records, the selection principles guiding their reportwriters were also different.
Faced with these impedimenta, collective biographers must be satisfied with
partial record sets, partial linkages, and statistically modest generalizations.6 The
statistical modesty of those conclusions does not deny their historical value. The
example of UBC tells much about both the modesty and the value of collective
biography.
***
Teaching at the University of British Columbia began in 1915, a little later than
at the sister universities of Alberta and of Saskatchewan (both 1907). In the
nearly eighty years since, only one complete historical study of UBC’s development has been published, Harry Logan’s celebratory narrative of 1956, Tuum
68
WILLIAM BRUNEAU
est.7 Like many Canadian and American universities, UBC has not yet benefited
from late developments in the field of education history — and university history
in particular.8
Between 1915 and 1945, UBC’s Board of Governors appointed 214 persons
to academic teaching posts.9 All have appointment record cards,10 which I have
supplemented by newspaper accounts, necrologies (including University Senate
tributes and the like), cumulative files of curricula vitarum, and, in a few cases,
complete archival collections of personal and family documents in the Department of Special Collections, University of British Columbia Library. This work
is still underway, along with various approaches to record linkage, and is among
the first steps in writing a new history of the University.
Of the 214, 13 were women, of whom 2 were in nursing, 3 in modern languages and literature, and 3 in home economics.11 About 60 percent of the
appointees were Canadian-born, and nearly 90 percent of these came from New
Brunswick, Nova Scotia, and Ontario.12 Fewer than 45 percent of all appointees
held doctoral degrees. Of those degrees, nearly 85 percent had been granted, in
order of frequency, by the universities of Harvard, California, Chicago, and Iowa
(the latter especially important for agricultural studies). Masters of Arts from the
University of Toronto were thrice as numerous as those from the University of
Oxford.
By comparison to the professoriate of 1993/94 (1,854 persons), UBC was tiny
even in 1945, when it had reached just 95 appointees. Although the low proportion of women on staff might be expected, the number of Canadian-born professors is at least noteworthy, as is the fact that most took graduate work in only
a half-dozen American universities, Iowa and California particularly. All of this
invites the inference that there may have been networks both of influence and of
intellectual tradition in the professoriate, and it suggests the further possibility of
linkages with social and business interests in the city.
COLLECTIVE BIOGRAPHY AND CONTEXT: AN EXAMPLE FROM INTELLECTUAL
HISTORY
The great reformer-bureaucrats of the last century (and their biographers13) wrote
indefatigably about the rising curve of intellectual production in their universities,
often after the passage of some piece of reforming legislation, or after the grant
of increased public or private financial support.14 Scholars since 1945 have been
less and less content with this administrative approach to the history of intellectual life. For Joseph ben David, the first step in making needed changes was to
do some straightforward page-counting; for Pierre Bourdieu, it was much more
a question of the links between intellectual production and “social power,” in
close studies of the political economy of the modern state and of the professoriate.15 I would like to go still further, to see where intellectual production fitted
1915–1945
69
not just with philosophical or literary tradition, or with professorial “power,” but
also to see connections between (a) the material circumstances of scholarly lives
and (b) their psychological and “spiritual” sides. The sort of history I intend will
look for contextual explanations of professors’ literary, political, and philosophical tendencies.
A study of UBC both permits and invites just this sort of work. The publication pattern of UBC professors 1915–45 was generally unremarkable, but with
bright spots in the late 1930s and early 1940s. The first professor of philosophy,
James Henderson (1865–1962), published exactly twenty-five lines during his
entire professorial life, and these in the UBC Alumni Chronicle.16 Henry Angus,17
on the other hand, published systematically after 1930 in economics and political
science, as did Harold Ashton in 18th-century French studies, and Frederick
Soward in history.18 In agriculture, Alden Barss, Jacob Biely, and Paul Boving
helped put UBC on the North American scientific map.19 Some of UBC’s most
remarkable scholars of the late 1930s and early 1940s — John Irving20 in philosophy and Sylvia Thrupp21 in history are examples — did not serve long, but rather
moved on to Toronto, Harvard, Chicago, and like universities. Although beautiful
in its situation, UBC (and Vancouver) was isolated in the “West beyond the
West.” Other academic destinations exerted a powerful attraction.22
How shall we explain the careers of those at UBC who published and those
who did not? How did the professors of 1915–1945 think of the very idea of
production? Were the questions, arguments, and ideas of professorial writerresearchers affected in some way by their authors’ social circumstances, political
views, geographic situation, and personal wealth? Only a mix of quantitative and
intellectual history, applied to the entire professoriate, is likely to provide
answers. Collective biographical evidence and argument can point to connections,
however strong and/or correlative, between professors’ geographical contiguity,
their own education, their political and community involvements, their property
and other economic interests, the sequence of their careers, and the central
features of their intellectual lives.
GENERAL HYPOTHESES AND COLLECTIVE BIOGRAPHY: THE HYPOTHESIS OF UBC’S
WEAKNESS
More than 85 percent of UBC appointees lived in Point Grey, Kitsilano, or newly
developed Dunbar, three residential centres tied to the city of Vancouver by
tramways and even more closely after 1929 by legal incorporation. Many fewer
lived in University Hill, and fewer still in Shaughnessy.23
Professorial connections to the city and to the province were, however, more
numerous and significant than these bald facts might suggest. The first hints of
this come in lists of association and club memberships, both men’s and women’s,
throughout the period.24 In amateur and semi-professional associations for
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WILLIAM BRUNEAU
political and cultural causes, and in professional associations and guilds,25 UBC’s
professors (and their spouses) were significantly over-represented by comparison
to any other active group in Vancouver’s elite.26 A rough estimate puts their
participation rate at twice that of any other definable social category in the city.
Yet despite their geographic concentration in Vancouver, and despite the fact
their jobs were safe in most of the period 1915–45, the UBC professoriate was
nearly powerless at times when the University was in danger of direct government intervention,27 faced with financial disaster,28 or simply disregarded in the
great economic and political events that shaped the province.29 On a number of
grounds, it can be argued that UBC performed services for the province no more
and no less valuable than those of the universities of Alberta, Saskatchewan, and
Manitoba. Yet it was British Columbia that produced Canon Hinchcliffe, a
Minister of Education willing at the worst of Depression times in 1932 to recommend closure of the University.30 Even Saskatchewan’s Conservative Premier
J. T. M. Anderson was disinclined to such radical measures, and in any case
politically unable to go so far.31 Alberta’s William Aberhart had more reason to
interfere than either Hinchcliffe or Anderson. After all, like Margaret Thatcher
nearly a half-century later, he was first offered (in 1941 May) then denied (in
1941 June) an Honorary Doctor of Laws degree. Even so, Aberhart did not interfere in University of Alberta affairs as he might, instead appointing a “Survey
Committee” to examine university operations.32 By comparison, then, the UBC
of the inter-war period was singularly open to outside interference.33
Although they taught well enough, and although well connected in local
society, members of the UBC professoriate were before 1945 a vulnerable bunch.
If their social life was good, professors were, alas! connected to the wrong
people. The powerful and the rich joined the Empire Club and the Vancouver
Club, controlled the executive committees of the provincial Conservative and
Liberal parties, and ran the diverse manufacturing sector of the city. Professors
were scarce on the ground in these milieux. Professors lived in Point Grey,
socialized mainly with one another, and took few noticeable steps to assert
themselves outside their little community. But was the UBC professoriate tied to
the outside world of power in other ways? Did it overcome its parochialism by
economic and political linkages of a kind not immediately obvious in the data I
have so far described? Was the professoriate as isolated in its intellectual life as
in political-intellectual life?
One way of answering these questions would be to consider the University’s
connections to the forestry and agriculture industries, fields in which UBC could
claim theoretical and practical competence. On the basis of the present, extremely
partial evidence, any generalization will be risky. In the cases for which there is
evidence, professorial advice was occasionally sought but not necessarily taken.
An example: H. R. Macmillan, lumber baron, had a UBC tie — but saw the University as just another client, although in this case a client worthy of largesse.
Did the great and the powerful ignore UBC because members of its professoriate
1915–1945
71
were insignificant contributors to national and international research and development work? Or just because the University was small and politically marginal?
The data are insufficient. It is not enough to know the place and date of birth,
the sex, the educational attainment, the club connections, the pattern of publication and academic preferment, and the real worth (property) of professors. We
need also to know in detail their collective and individual connections to the
national, provincial, and urban economies. Although we do not yet have it, the
UBC prosopography will provide that detail. It will be gathered through an analysis of contractual and notarial records, a survey of financial and business news,
and a review of the archives of the office of the President of the University.
IF COLLECTIVE BIOGRAPHY IS GOOD HISTORY, WHY IS THERE SO LITTLE OF IT?
Paul Axelrod’s study of the governance of Ontario universities after 1945 and
John Reid’s history of Mount Allison University make limited but effective use
of collective biographical techniques.34 Few book-length histories of universities
in Canada make the attempt, and this despite the popularity of collective biography, or prosopography, among historians since the 1960s, and its subsequent
wide acceptance among social historians. Although complexities of record
linkage and of qualitative inference may make such studies unattractive to some
writers, this would not entirely account for the scarcity of collective historical
biography. The reason may lie elsewhere.
Despite its broad acceptance, prosopographical and biographical methods must
now face the general methodological uncertainty of our times, and the logical and
practical challenges of the moment. Prosopography should consider, for instance,
the questions and the Weltanschauung of post-structuralist theory.35 It should also
take into account Foucault’s analyses of social practice, Bruce Curtis’s arguments
about the growth of the state, and the views of their numerous scholarly
progeny.36 The list of new theories might be extended, but the point is that the
“mere quantification” of traditional prosopography will no longer suffice. At its
beginnings, collective biography was little more than a gathering of roughly
similar facts about a number of roughly similar persons in the past or the
present.37 Such a collection would be unlikely, by itself, to confirm or to
disconfirm hypotheses such as that (of weakness) I posited a moment ago. Prosopography stands in need of a new expression and of technical renovation.
THE RENEWAL OF PROSOPOGRAPHY
Paul Axelrod’s recent study of Canadian university student life in the 1930s
exemplifies a successful foray into renewed collective biography. Axelrod devotes an appendix to his methodology, paying special attention to the matter of
social class.
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WILLIAM BRUNEAU
My exploration of the backgrounds, beliefs, activities, aspirations, and destinies of
university students in the 1930s confirms my belief in the promise and rationality of the
sort of inquiry [studies of social class]. . . . I am also convinced that the type of class
analysis that speaks most eloquently to the reality of student life in the 1930s is that
which takes into account . . . economic position, collective class consciousness, and
perceived social status.38
Axelrod’s questions are of the most straightforward kinds. Were Depressionera students accurate in assessing their life chances? What social devices did they
use to learn and/or to adopt the attitudes and preferences of their colleagues, and
did these devices at the same time serve to control their behaviour? These
questions might be suited to investigations of social class as sociologists and
structurally minded historians would see them. But I prefer to leave the emphasis
of argument on practical questions, as did Axelrod: what did “class” mean to
Canadian young people? What were its demonstrable and practical effects on
them? Were they as affected by their views of social structure as they were by
the structure itself?
The relation between Axelrod’s many statistical tables, on the one hand, and
his close studies of student values and group cohesion (in politics, sex, professional identification), on the other, is not crystal-clear, and this is intentional.
He suggests (but does not demonstrate) subtle, causal linkages between the
professions of students’ fathers and students’ choices of degrees and courses,
their preferences for one sort of literature and music, and their later decisions and
practices as graduate professionals. These are not weaknesses, but rather
strengths: Axelrod has merely recognized the limits and the possibilities of
inference and generalization built on studies of populations for which records are
often dissimilar, and sometimes “unlinkable.”
Axelrod did not intend as his first order of business to write a prosopography,
and his method yields only rough percentages (as, for example, ethnic and geographic origins of students) of social, political, intellectual, and other categories.
The renovation of prosopography/collective biography requires more precision
than this. But more than precision — much more — it requires that new questions
be asked of old evidence, and that certain kinds of evidence, heretofore underutilized, be rescued from oblivion.
TOWARD A NEW AND COLLECTIVE HISTORY OF THE PROFESSORIATE
If work on UBC is to have lasting value, it must show how professors accommodated themselves to a raw capitalist society, and exploit new ranges of evidence
to explain the political weakness of the professoriate in the period ending 1945.
And again, it must show how the material and the intellectual jostled each other
in professors’ lives, and how professorial lives conjoined with the lives of
students, students’ parents, politicians — and the lives of people who never heard
of universities and never cared.
1915–1945
73
The Professoriate and British Columbia’s Elites
Studies in the history of British Columbia’s economy are not yet numerous, and
are generally specialized rather than synthetic.39 This is especially so for areas
outside Vancouver and Victoria. Historians of British Columbia’s provincial business elites have therefore concentrated on the two main cities. I can do little to
right this imbalance, and shall work instead on connections between the UBC
professoriate and the business/government “oligarchy” in southwestern-urban
British Columbia. The task will be largely quantitative, beginning, of course,
with a reliable database for the professors.
The database includes information from Board of Governors appointment records, and on professors’ places and dates of birth, appointment history (progress
through the ranks), postsecondary education, salaries, dates of retirement and
death, department and faculty, and sex. Although Board of Governors records
that provided the starting point for the database are incomplete, and inconsistent
in form, it is possible to improve their utility.
To supplement and to verify them, I have begun to draw on city directories,
tax rolls, incorporation records, the British Columbia Newspaper Index,40 standard clipping files, and various club and association lists. By reading professors’
own publications, speeches, and reported comment, I have been able to get a first
approximation of their ambitions and pretensions — to see how far they thought
of themselves as members of the ruling classes, or if they aspired even to influence those classes. By using the whole range of sources I have mentioned in this
paper, I have been able to consider how far their ambitions and pretensions were
backed up by social facts.
I hope to map longitudinal changes in (a) patterns of professorial and economic life, (b) professorial attitudes and social claims (pretensions), and (c)
professors’ political and social practices, possibly matching (a) with (b).
The study of political and social practice may be entirely feasible on the
evidence I have listed, or it may require in addition a close study of literary and
oral evidence, of fiction and descriptive narrative, and of non-print sources,
especially photographs. How else to examine the habits and dispositions of
people? The analysis of Canadian and British Columbian fiction, social description, and narrative will be helpful here. Still, the union of collective evidence and
individual data will surely yield results not easily realized on the basis of a single
evidence type.
Professorial Resistance
UBC had no faculties of business administration, law, medicine, or education
before 1945. On the other hand, its faculties of forestry, agriculture, and applied
science offered extensive undergraduate training from 1915. UBC’s enrolment
patterns confirm that it was predominantly an “arts and science university,” but
74
WILLIAM BRUNEAU
with professional add-on faculties and departments.41 These facts show how UBC
differed from her American land-grant counterparts, whose practicality and
professional commitments were unmistakeable, and from her sister Canadian universities in the Prairies and eastward. When UBC organized educational studies,
it was as a small and weak department in the Faculty of Arts. Home Economics
and Nursing were likewise isolated and tiny.
One way of explaining UBC’s orientation is to say that the University catered
to an influential fraction of the British Columbia elite (although this generalization has yet to be supported by hard evidence), and that that fraction saw higher
learning in an arts-and-science perspective. Before 1945, UBC graduates would
have expected to go elsewhere for advanced training, or simply to take their
liberal education into the business of life. Pierre Berton went straightaway into
journalism after his B.A.; likewise many of his colleagues.
But to say UBC was arts-and-science-oriented, rather than professionally
oriented (however influential agriculture, forestry, and applied science may have
been), is to beg a question. Surely UBC was more than a creature of its clientele.
Its professoriate must have played a part in deciding the university’s character.
If we start from the presumption that professors played their part, then the
question is quite a different one: how far and why did the UBC professoriate
resist the enticements of practicality, of job-and-skill training? Professorial
resistance to accommodation (as Fritz Ringer called it42) may have stemmed from
resistance to the encroachments of the state43 or resistance to arbitrary university
administration. In either case, it is a deserving explanatory theme, and approachable through the evidence of collective biography.
Professorial Community — Or Cloister?
We come finally to the question of non-economic links between the professoriate
and the broader British Columbian society. Did UBC professors find outlets for
their creative energies in the cultural organizations of Vancouver and the
province? Had professors a private scientific life, not just an official university
one? Were UBC professors participants in neighbourhood and community politics? In brief, was the UBC professoriate a cloistered society, or was it rather
deeply involved in the life of the larger surrounding community?
Here, too, the evidence of membership lists, electoral records, newspaper
accounts, and personal reminiscence may be linked to the hard data of a prosopography. Record linkage should provide at least partial answers to questions about
professoriate members’ cultural participation.
APPLICATIONS AND EXTENSIONS
I hope to have shown, by example and by reference to historical work on universities in Europe and North America, that a renovated prosopography may lead
1915–1945
75
or help to lead to an intellectually and socially informed history of higher
education. Although the example of UBC has social, political, and chronological
peculiarities, the questions to be asked about it are closely analogous to questions
that have gone begging across the country. If UBC was politically weak in the
1930s, how much stronger was the University of Toronto or the University of
Winnipeg professoriate? Both universities have since 1939 experienced crises of
academic freedom (the cases of Frank Underhill and Harry Crowe), and have
only with difficulty resisted the oppressive tactics of their administrators and
governors, and behind them of governments and power elites. An extended
prosopographical study of these and other English-Canadian universities may
provide clear insights into the political sophistication and strengths of their
academic staffs.
French-language universities and institutes, some of them still under the
guardianship of the Church, invite us to ask questions about power, resistance,
and participation — but with an approach differing slightly from that for English-language places. In Québec, the so-called Quiet Revolution was aided by profound shifts in demography, by rapid migration into the cities, and by a farreaching industrial transformation, all of which are just now coming to be more
fully understood.44 One wonders if the professoriate of Québec universities, and
of French-language professoriates elsewhere in Canada, were younger and more
socially diverse than those of their Anglophone counterparts. Again, one would
like to know if the rapid increase in the research capacity of French-language
universities (particularly since 1965) is in any way accounted for by the collective characteristics of its professoriate — its patterns of academic training, its
connections to extra-academic circles of power, its political culture. And not to
forget the roots of these questions, it is essential to extend these enquiries to the
early 20th century and before.
Although students have long attracted the attention of historians and sociologists — who see them as vital subjects of historical and collective studies — it
is time to put professors and administrators under a prosopographical lens. Seen
from the standpoint of their collective social relations and practices, we may at
least see why professors create, resist, and stay in universities — and why, occasionally, they do not.
NOTES
1
Apart from Harry Logan’s Tuum est: A History of the University of British Columbia (Vancouver:
Mitchell Press for the University of British Columbia, 1958), well-regarded historical studies of
UBC include Cole Harris, “Locating the University of British Columbia,” BC Studies 32 (Winter
1976/77): 106–25; Michiel Horn, “Under the Gaze of George Vancouver: The University of
British Columbia and the Provincial Government, 1913–1939,” BC Studies 23 (Autumn 1983):
29–67; Lee Stewart, “It’s Up to You”: Women at UBC in the Early Years (Vancouver: University
of British Columbia Press, 1990); William C. Gibson, Wesbrook and His University (Vancouver:
Library of the University of British Columbia, 1973); P. B. Waite, Lord of Point Grey: Larry
MacKenzie of UBC (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 1987).
76
WILLIAM BRUNEAU
2
The pioneers of Oxbridgian collective biography are represented in Lawrence Stone, The University in Society (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1974, 2 vols.). The best English-language
collective biographies of professors are of the British: A. J. Engel’s From Clergyman to Don: The
Rise of the Academic Profession in Nineteenth-Century Oxford (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1983)
and Gary Werskey, The Visible College: A Collective Biography of British Scientists and Socialists of the 1930s (London: Allen Lane, 1978). For France, where prosopographical work is rapidly
growing in popularity, see Christophe Charle, Histoire sociale de la France au XIXe siècle (Paris:
Seuil, 1991). Professionalization in academic fields has, for a number of authors, been linked to
rising intellectual productivity. Two recent studies use this argument extensively and with the help
of prosopographical technique: C. E. McClelland, The German Experience of Professionalization:
Modern Learned Professions and Their Organizations from the Early Nineteenth Century to the
Hitler Era (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), and F. K. Ringer, Fields of Knowledge: French Academic Culture in Comparative Perspective, 1890–1920 (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1992).
3
J. K. McConica, ed., The History of the University of Oxford, vol. 3, The Collegiate University
(Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1986), esp. pp. 1–68; and J. I. Catto, ed., The History of the University
of Oxford, vol. 1, The Early Oxford Schools (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1984).
4
John Reid, Mount Allison University (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1984; 2 vols.).
5
P. Axelrod and J. G. Reid, eds., Youth, University, and Canadian Society (Kingston and Montreal:
McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1989).
6
On these matters, see José Igartua, “The Computer and the Historian’s Work,” History and
Computing 3, no. 2 (1991): 73–83, and Harvey Mellar, “Historical Explanation and Educational
Computing,” History and Computing 3, no. 3 (1991): 178–82. For examples of application, see
Peter Gunn, “Detecting the Rhythm of Life in Small Communities,” History and Computing 3,
no. 3 (1991): 151–60.
7
See note 1.
8
W. Bruneau, “The Belated Renaissance of University History in the United States,” Canadian
Review of American Studies 21 (1972): 282–301; cf. Paul Axelrod, “Historical Writing and
Canadian Universities: The State of the Art,” Queen’s Quarterly 89, no. 1 (Spring 1984): 73–83.
9
Academic appointments were to the rank of Assistant Professor or above, but included persons
who began their careers at lower ranks, whether as lecturers or as sessional instructors.
10
The UBC Archives contain record cards for all appointees in the period before computerization
(1915–1972). There are cards for maintenance staff, part-time lecturers, professors, the President,
and so on — some 10,000 records in all. These have not, until now, been reduced to machinereadable form.
11
Stewart, “It’s Up to You,” on nursing, pp. 31–42; on home economics, pp. 44–48; on modern
languages, and especially the Romance languages, the case of Isabel MacInnes, pp. 23, 67.
12
This figure is an extrapolation from the seventy cases for which I have so far found evidence of
birthplace.
13
For an example, see J. G. Greenlee, Sir Robert Falconer: A Biography (Toronto: University of
Toronto Press, 1988).
14
For examples of the argument that legislative-constitutional reform can presage rising intellectual
productivity, see E. G. W. Bill, University Reform in Nineteenth-Century Oxford: A Study of
Henry Halford Vaughan, 1811–1885 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1973), and T. Tapper and Brian
Salter, Oxford, Cambridge and the Changing Idea of the University: The Challenge to Donnish
Domination (Buckingham, England.: The Society for Research into Higher Education and Open
University Press, 1992), esp. chap. 2, “Constitutional Authority: Understanding the Formal
1915–1945
77
Machinery of University Government,” pp. 37–63, and chap. 7, “Oxford, Cambridge and the
Research Tradition,” pp. 173–91. For examples of argument linking public/private investment in
universities with subsequent intellectual productivity, see Mary-Jo Nye, Science in the Provinces:
Scientific Communities and Provincial Leadership in France, 1860–1930 (Berkeley: University
of California Press, 1986); and in a quite different circumstance, Steven J. Diner, A City and Its
Universities (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1980); also, cf. Bruneau, “Belated
Renaissance,” which reviews several arguments of this type.
15
J. ben David, The Scientist’s Role in Society: A Comparative Study (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.:
Prentice-Hall, 1971); P. Bourdieu, Homo academicus (Paris: Éditions de Minuit, 1984).
16
James Breddick Henderson (1865–1962), M.A. (Glasgow), wrote a brief note about UBC’s
“golden” age in the Alumni Chronicle 13, no. 3 (Autumn 1959), p. 31. He was Assistant Professor
from 1915, having been an instructor in the old McGill University College of British Columbia,
then Associate Professor in 1919 and Professor in 1929. Henderson retired in 1932.
17
Angus (b. 1891) was a member (1937–40) of the Royal Commission on Dominion-Provincial
Relations, and was president of the Royal Society of Canada and of the Canadian Political Science
Association. See Margaret Prang, N. W. Rowell, Ontario Nationalist (Toronto: University of
Toronto Press, 1975) for a discussion, inter alia, of Angus’s activities. Similarly, George Weir
(1924) and Max Cameron (1945) undertook official studies of British Columbia public education.
See G. M. Weir and J. H. Putman, A Survey of the [Public] School System (Victoria: King’s
Printer, 1925); Max Cameron, Report of the Commission of Inquiry into Educational Finance
(Victoria: King’s Printer, 1946).
18
Harry Ashton (1882–1952) is best remembered for A Preface to Molière (Toronto: Longmans
Green, 1927), still in print. Frederick Hubert Soward (1899–1985) wrote numerous books and
tracts on Canada’s place in international life, having himself been present at Algeciras, the
Versailles Peace Conference, and other great events of the century. His texts included Twenty-Five
Troubled Years, 1918–1943 (Oxford and Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1943) and his
popular Canada in World Affairs, 1944–1946 (Oxford and Toronto: University of Toronto Press,
1950).
19
Alden Barss (1888–1980) came to UBC in 1918, and was professor and head of the Department
of Horticulture in the Faculty of Agriculture from 1940. His government commissions in the
United States and in Canada led to publications on fruit preservation and procreation. Jacob Biely
(1912–1981) published seventy-five articles between 1928 and his retirement in 1968, most of
them in the general area of animal science, and at the same time became a nationally known
private consultant. Paul Boving (1874–1947) was an agricultural economist and general scientist,
again heavily involved in government studies and inquiries in the early stages of World War II.
20
John Irving (1903–1965) came to UBC from Princeton in 1938, and acted as head of UBC’s
Department of Philosophy and Psychology until he went in 1945 to the University of Toronto.
His lengthy research on the Social Credit Party in Alberta was published as The Social Credit
Movement in Alberta (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1959). On his place in the history
of Canadian philosophy, see Leslie Armour and Elizabeth Trott, The Faces of Reason: An Essay
on Philosophy and Culture in English Canada, 1850–1950 (Waterloo, Ont.: Wilfrid Laurier
University Press, 1981), chap. 13, “Reason, History, and the Social Sciences: George Brett, John
Irving, and Harold Innis,” pp. 430–77.
21
Sylvia Lettice Thrupp (1903– ) came to the UBC history department in 1944 as an instructor and
was lured away to the University of Chicago in 1945. Her publications then and later made
Thrupp a writer and researcher of high international importance. Among her published works are
“The Pedigree and Prospects of Local History,” British Columbia Historical Quarterly 4, no. 4
(October 1940): 253–65; Merchant Class of Medieval London, 1300–1500 (Chicago: University
of Chicago Press, [1948]); Society and History: Essays, ed. Raymond Grew and Nicholas H.
78
WILLIAM BRUNEAU
Steneck (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1977); Millennial Dreams in Action: Studies
in Revolutionary Religious Movements (New York: Schocken Books, [1970]).
22
Cf. Jean Barman, The West Beyond the West: A History of British Columbia (Toronto: University
of Toronto Press, 1991), and Maria Tippett, Making Culture: English-Canadian Institutions and
the Arts before the Massey Commission (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1990), esp. chap.
5, “Leaning ‘on Foreign Walking Sticks’: Cultural Philanthropists, Influences, and Models from
Abroad,” pp. 127–55.
23
A convenient source for the development of the city and its suburbs is Bruce Macdonald,
Vancouver: A Visual History (Vancouver: Talonbooks, 1992).
24
Cf. Gordon Selman, The Invisible Giant: A History of Adult Education in British Columbia
(Vancouver: Centre for Continuing Education, University of British Columbia, 1988) [Occasional
Papers in Continuing Education, no. 25].
25
On the range of associations to which UBC professors might belong, see Ian Hunt, “Mutual
Enlightenment in Early Vancouver, 1886–1916” (Ed.D. diss., University of British Columbia,
1987), esp. chap. 1, “Introduction,” pp. 1–40, and Gillian Weiss, “‘As Women or as Citizens’:
Vancouver Clubwomen, 1910–1928” (Ph.D. diss., University of British Columbia, 1984). UBC
professors might choose from 1920 on to join their own Faculty Association, and did so in
substantial numbers; see William Bruneau, A Matter of Identities: A History of the UBC Faculty
Association, 1920–1990 (Vancouver: UBC Faculty Association, 1990), passim.
26
I use the word “elite” much as did Robert McDonald in his “Elites, Status, and Class: An
Approach to the Study of Elites in Canadian Urban History During the Industrial Era” (Paper
delivered at the Annual Meeting of the Canadian Historical Association, Vancouver, British
Columbia, 6 June 1983), esp. pp. 17–18. Here McDonald makes a case for a definition of “elites”
that combines Marxian and Weberian elements. See also McDonald’s “Business Leaders in Early
Vancouver, 1886–1914” (Ph.D. diss., University of British Columbia, 1977).
27
Horn, “Under the Gaze,” passim.
28
On UBC’s financial crisis during the Depression, see Logan, Tuum est, pp. 109–36. See also the
report of a judicial inquiry in A. Lampman, Report of a Commission of Inquiry . . . Leonard
Klinck [President, UBC, 1919–1944] (typescript, Archives of the University of British Columbia,
Special Collections, UBC Library).
29
On these “shaping events” and UBC’s marginal part in them, see Margaret Ormsby, British
Columbia: A History (Toronto: Macmillan, 1958); Martin Robin, The Rush for Spoils: The Company Province, 1871–1933 (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1972); Barman, The West Beyond
the West; George Woodcock, British Columbia: A History of the Province (Vancouver: Douglas
& McIntyre, 1990); and Harris, “Locating the University of British Columbia.”
30
Horn, “Under the Gaze,” pp. 56–58.
31
See John H. Archer, Saskatchewan: A History (Saskatoon: Western Producer Prairie Books, 1980),
pp. 156, 238, 311–12 for the background of the University of Saskatchewan and the relations of
government to the University.
32
Walter Johns, A History of the University of Alberta, 1908–1969 (Edmonton, Alta.: University
of Alberta Press, 1981), pp. 162–70 for a description (without explanation) of the affair; cf. John
Macdonald, The History of the University of Alberta, 1908–1958 (Toronto: W.J. Gage for the
University of Alberta, 1958), pp. 48–51, which gives a plausible explanation for the work of the
Survey Committee and of the new University Act which followed on the Committee’s report.
33
Cf. Waite, Lord of Point Grey, pp. 174–79.
34
Paul Axelrod, Scholars and Dollars: Politics, Economics, and the Universities of Ontario,
1945–1980 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1982), esp. valuable for its use of economic
1915–1945
79
evidence and indicators; Reid, Mount Allison. See also three well-contextualized essays in Axelrod
and Reid, Youth, University, and Canadian Society: C. Gaffield, L. Marks, and S. Laskin,
“Student Populations and Graduate Careers: Queen’s University, 1895–1900” (pp. 3–25); J.
Fingard, “College, Career, and Community: Dalhousie Coeds, 1881–1921” (pp. 26–50); and M.
MacLeod, “Parade Street Parade: The Student Body at Memorial University College, 1925–1949”
(pp. 51–71). These essays are a satisfying mix of complete prosopography (in which all persons
are identifiable and record linkage is typically possible), and modified prosopography (wherein
persons are conflated into large databases, and characterized by simple percentages of various
collective characteristics).
35
See Louis O. Mink, Historical Understanding (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1987) and
Michael Stanford, The Nature of Historical Knowledge (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1986).
36
Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish (New York: Vintage, 1979); Bruce Curtis, Building the
Educational State: Canada West, 1836–1871 (London, Ont.: Althouse Press/Falmer Press, 1988).
See also, for notes on scholars following in the Foucault and Curtis traditions, W. A. Bruneau,
“State Education and the History of Mind States” (Paper presented at the Annual Meeting of the
Canadian History of Education Association, University of Ottawa, Ottawa, Ontario, 13 October
1990).
37
J. S. Mill, A System of Logic (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1963; 2 vols.; 1st edition
[1843] ed. J. M. Robson), esp. Book 6, on the methods of ethology, ethnography, and general
social study.
38
Paul Axelrod, Making a Middle Class: Student Life in English Canada During the Thirties
(Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1990).
39
See Robin, The Rush for Spoils. Cf. J. Friesen and H. K. Ralston, eds. Historical Essays on British
Columbia (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1976), esp. pp. 153–200.
40
The British Columbia Newspaper Index, prepared on microfilm by the Provincial Archives of
British Columbia, offers name and subject indexes to more than fifty daily and weekly British
Columbia newspapers for the period 1855–1974. For UBC enrolment patterns, see the annual
Calendar of the University. Between 1920 and 1940, enrolment averaged about 1,500 students
per year. Enrolments in forestry, agriculture, and applied science rarely exceeded 15 percent of
the total in any year.
41
Fritz Ringer, The Decline of the German Mandarins (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1969),
on accommodationists, or modernists, pp. 200–213.
42
Horn, “Under the Gaze,” passim.
43
Paul-André Linteau et al., Québec Since 1930, trans. R. Chodos and E. Garmaise (Toronto: James
Lorimer, 1991).
William Bruneau is in the Department of Educational Studies, Faculty of Education, 2125 Main Mall,
University of British Columbia, Vancouver, British Columbia, V6T 1Z4.
Our Crude Handling of Educational Reforms:
The Case of Curricular Integration1
Roland Case
simon fraser university
Failings in British Columbia’s efforts to promote curricular integration illustrate a wider
tendency in education systems to attempt systemic reform by responding in simpleminded
ways to complex challenges. I argue we must improve our collective ability to
conceptualize and operationalize educational initiatives if reform efforts are to succeed.
Parce que notre système d’éducation favorise des réponses simplistes à des questions
complexes, l’auteur soutient qu’il faut améliorer notre capacité collective de conceptualiser et de rendre opérationnelles les initiatives en matière de pédagogie si l’on veut assurer
le succès de nos efforts de réforme.
OVERVIEW
We change constantly the focus of our efforts to improve the education system.
Since the 1960s, educational reforms have targeted the formal curriculum (e.g.,
modifying official educational policy), curriculum resources (e.g., developing
teacher-proof instructional materials), teacher commitment (e.g., building
teachers’ sense of ownership), teacher efficacy (e.g., providing teacher effectiveness training), school climate (e.g., nurturing principals as educational
leaders), structural features of schools (e.g., altering school infrastructures and
decision-making practices), and accountability (e.g., establishing national standards and assessment procedures).
Confronted with failure to achieve significant lasting improvement by attending to one aspect of the education system, typically, we shift attention to some
other aspect. Our record of educational reform will not improve, however, simply
by finding new, more strategic loci of change. The failure of a particular initiative should not automatically be blamed on a misdiagnosis of the appropriate
remedy; rather, I argue, we need to enhance significantly our capacity to competently effect any systemic intervention. In popularizing reforms we typically
corrupt the initiatives by oversimplifying the issues, overgeneralizing the
reform’s application, and translating intricate approaches into recipe-like
processes. In short, we have a penchant for responding in relatively simpleminded ways to finely tuned, complex educational matters (Fullan & Miles,
1992, pp. 746–748). The analogue in medicine would be to perform surgery on
the brain by jabbing indiscriminately with crude instruments. Lack of success
80
19:1 (1994)
EDUCATIONAL REFORM AND CURRICULAR INTEGRATION
81
with this operation would not be corrected by shifting to another part of the
body, say, by operating on a patient’s stomach after failing to correct the
problem by operating on the brain. Until we improve our “operational technique,” we have little reason to expect success with initiatives that focus on any
aspect of the system.
The underappreciated challenge facing educational reform is to improve our
collective ability to conceptualize and operationalize change initiatives. In other
words, we must learn to explicate the meaning and purpose of initiatives with
adequate clarity and to translate them into sufficiently refined practical strategies
so that they are commensurate with the intricately balanced matrix of countervailing factors operating within any education system.
This view of education reform as a complex enterprise has recently received
much attention. In his presidential address to the American Educational Research
Association, Cuban (1992) stresses the inevitability of enduring educational
dilemmas — complex, untidy, entangled situations that require the balancing of
competing claims. In particular, he highlights the need to negotiate the two
educational solitudes — the gap between the worlds of the theoretician and the
practitioner. Sarason (1990) claims in The Predictable Failure of Educational
Reform that we undermine reform efforts by our penchants for conceptual vagueness (p. 46), exaggeration (p. 68), and oversimplification (p. 100). In her influential book Contradictions of Control, McNeil (1988) documents the “fragility of
the conditions necessary for good teaching and curricula” and the resulting need
to avoid “simplistic remedies” (p. xiv). Although her focus is the tension between
educational goals and institutional control, there are many more tensions to be
negotiated; for example, between breadth and depth of knowledge, rigour and
spontaneity, mastery and discovery, excellence and equality, personal well-being
and collective welfare, institutional requirements and individual autonomy, and
centralized and decentralized control.
The challenge is doubly formidable because successful systemic reform
requires considerable finesse across the educational community. It is not adequate
that the masterminds of the intervention grasp the complexity of the issues;
individual teachers must understand the intricacies of the plan sufficiently so that
they can adapt it successfully to their own school and classroom situations.
Success with some teachers, or in a few demonstration schools, is insufficient,
since the education system as a whole would be largely unchanged. Notice that
in medicine not even an appropriate remedy will safeguard the health of the
community against a disease if relatively few doctors administer it competently.
Similarly, an educational reform will not remedy an identified problem if it
succeeds in only a relatively small sector of the community. Our efforts will
continue to meet with limited success until we improve our collective ability to
conceptualize and operationalize educational initiatives.
I will illustrate this need for greater finesse by considering the conceptual and
operational shortcomings besetting efforts to promote curricular integration.
82
ROLAND CASE
Although my focus is British Columbia, other writers report that problems
similar to the kinds I document about curricular integration extend to other
jurisdictions (Alleman & Brophy, 1993) and to other kinds of reform
efforts — whole language (Edelsky, Altwerger, & Flores, 1991, pp. 1–5), authentic assessment (Case, 1992b; Roemer, 1991), school restructuring (Timar, 1989;
Tyack, 1990), and progressive education (Alexander, Rose, & Woodhead, 1992;
Patterson, 1986). A recent British government document, for example, attributed
the disastrous legacy of the Plowden Report not to a lack of soundness of the
Report’s progressivist ideas, including curricular integration, but to fact that these
ideas “have become the jargon of others who have jumped on the bandwagon but
cannot play the instruments” (Clegg, cited in Alexander, Rose, & Woodhead,
1992, p. 10).
Before discussing the state of curricular integration in British Columbia, let
me clarify a few points. I am not insinuating that practicing teachers are solely
or even largely to blame for the discouraging record of educational reform. In
fact, I focus on ways that policy makers and writers shape the educational
agenda through their influence on curricular and institutional policies, instructional resources, professional journals and books, preservice teacher education,
and inservice professional development. Further, I know that many individual
teachers possess rich understandings of current reform initiatives. My point is
that many is not enough: successful systemic reform depends on widespread
success in schools and classrooms. Finally, my concerns about the ways in which
curricular integration has been implemented should not be seen as criticisms of
the value of promoting greater integration, properly understood.
CURRICULAR INTEGRATION IN BRITISH COLUMBIA
In 1989, the British Columbia Ministry of Education (hereafter BCME) initiated
the Year 2000, an ambitious project to reform significantly public education. This
initiative was the government’s response to the Royal Commission on Education
in British Columbia (Sullivan, 1988). The foundational principles and directions
for these reforms are enunciated in four revised documents — an overall
framework document (BCME, 1990b) and three program documents (BCME,
1990f, 1993a, 1993b). Also, the Ministry has developed, and is planning to
develop, a number of resource and implementation documents (e.g., BCME,
1990g, 1992), and has sponsored several provincial conferences and several
hundred school-based pilot or “development” projects. In addition, untold
numbers of teaching units, resources manuals, articles, and workshops have
arisen through individual, school, district, and university initiatives. Although
there is much to recommend the basic vision of education implied in Year 2000
initiatives, considerable criticism has focused on three concerns: lack of clear
articulation of the program proposals, negative implications for practice of
83
specific policies, and inadequate support for implementation (BCME, 1990a, p.
3; BCME, 1990e, pp. 5–6; Case, 1992a; Muhtadi & Shute, 1991). Of particular
interest is the conception and operationalization of curricular integration —
arguably one of the central, most contested initiatives of the Year 2000. The
complexity of the notion of curricular integration has not been adequately appreciated (Case, 1991a, 1991b; Werner, 1991a, 1991b): conceptually, the term is
defined ambiguously and vaguely, and there is general lack of specificity about
its intended purposes; operationally, simplistic and often inappropriate means are
regularly used in the name of integration.
Conceptualizing Curricular Integration
Although there is widespread support, in British Columbia and elsewhere, for the
idea of reducing fragmentation within the curriculum, policy makers, educational
writers, workshop presenters, teachers, and others have interpreted and responded
to this challenge in diverse ways. This diversity is not a healthy response to
varying demands, but rather is symptomatic of the use of curricular integration
as a “buzzword” or slogan, to use Komisar and McClellan’s (1974) term. As
Coombs (1991) notes:
Given the diversity of things currently called curricular integration, it is tempting to
conclude that the notion serves no serious purpose in thinking and talking about what is
desirable in curricula; that its only use is as a slogan to garner support for curricular
changes thought to be desirable for any of a vast assortment of reasons. (p. 1)
The danger with educational slogans — and slogans are ubiquitous in education — is that they are seductive and urge action without providing much
direction. We have long been warned of the power of the positive-sounding
phrase — “integrating the curriculum” — to disguise diverse and sometimes
incompatible meanings (Dressel, 1958, pp. 7–8; Jacobs, 1989, p. 6; Knudsen,
1937, pp. 15–16; Pring, 1973, pp. 59–64; Taba, 1962, p. 191).
Many Year 2000 program documents reflect (and fuel) this pattern of
amorphous use by offering multiple conceptions of curricular integration
promising to solve myriad problems, with the only defining feature being that
each conception involves “connections” of one sort or another:2
Integration acknowledges and builds on the relationships which exist among all things.
An integrated program is one in which the child experiences learning in a holistic way,
without the restrictions imposed by subject-area boundaries. (BCME, 1990f, p. 127)
Organizing integrated learning experiences reflects an orientation that acknowledges the
interconnection that exists between and among all things. (BCME, 1990c, p. 27)
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Such vague perceptions of integration as “relationships” or “interconnections”
producing “holistic” experiences are not limited to British Columbia (cf. Drake,
1991, 1992; Ontario Ministry of Education and Training, 1993, pp. 6–7, 13) and,
regrettably, have detrimentally shaped the ways curricular integration has been
operationalized.
One of the worst examples of pseudo-clarity in discourse about curricular
integration is heavy reliance, with virtually no explanation, on the notion of
“natural connections” or “natural fit” to describe when integration is properly
conceived (cf. Brandt, 1991, p. 24; BCME, 1992, p. 10; Drake, 1991, pp. 21–23;
Fogarty, 1991, p. 79). For instance, a BCME (1992) document intended to
promote understanding of curricular integration provides no help in deciding
what “natural fit” means, especially when we consider the examples featured in
this document. One example describes the integration of language arts with a
social studies unit on ancient Egypt by introducing The Egyptian Cinderella, a
pleasing picture book that focuses on a rather straightforward relocation of the
classic Cinderella story (p. 10). When we consider that most students will know
the basic story, that very little is added to the characters and plot by changing the
geographical details, and that drawings of Egyptian scenes which have greater
educational payoff could easily be found elsewhere, it is difficult to comprehend,
if this qualifies as a “natural fit,” what would not count as a “natural fit” between
two subjects. Similarly, another example describes a teacher integrating music
with social studies by composing with her students a song that is based on the
names of the provinces and capital cities of Canada (p. 11). Although students
may enjoy the song, and the song may be a helpful mnemonic, this connection
between social studies and music seems contrived.
The integrative merits of any given connection depend upon the reasons for
integrating. Yet, this BCME document, like many other professional publications
(cf. BCME, 1993a, p. 11; Fogarty, 1991, p. 65), gives the impression that
integration can and should mean whatever individual educators wish it to mean.
The effect of this is to seriously undermine curricular integration efforts. As
Hargreaves (1993, p. 124) suggests, the open-ended and ambiguous nature of
numerous so-called “definitions” of integration inappropriately encourages many
teachers to conclude that they are already integrating their curriculum. In
addition, crude or counterproductive applications are likely when the goals,
assumptions, and tensions underlying an innovation are not well understood.
Operationalizing Curricular Integration
The two most commonly employed approaches to integrating the curriculum in
British Columbia (and elsewhere) are, at the elementary level, use of themes,
and, at the secondary level, fusion of separate subjects into a single course.3
Although these approaches have some utility, they are often inappropriate,
85
because many legitimate reasons for curricular integration are not served by
either approach, and counterproductive, because they involve tradeoffs among
other educational values that would better be served by alternative approaches.
I will consider each of these flaws.
Inappropriate Strategies
Thematic units and fused courses are often inappropriate strategies because they
do not serve several important goals for curricular integration. A major reason
for integrating the curriculum is to enhance student perception of the relevance
of schooling (Daniels, 1991; Jacobs, 1989, pp. 4–6). Although it is possible that
relevance will be promoted using thematic units or fused subjects, these
approaches may not be particularly germane to the factors most strongly affecting
student perceptions of curricular relevance (cf. Mansfield, 1989). The research
literature on integration is often unclear whether the claims of enhanced student
relevance are attributable to the inherent appeal of themes or to the many
changes that accompany, but are not inherent to, a thematic approach (cf.
Aschbacher, 1991; Greene, 1991; Mansfield, 1990). In fact, several teachers have
reported to me that thematic units can decrease perceived relevance because
students tire of studying the same theme day after day. Furthermore, varying
teaching strategies and allowing students to select topics for study — two
strategies that have nothing to do with reorganizing the curriculum — may
equally, or better, promote perceived relevance.
Another objective of curricular integration that may not be well served by
thematic units is suggested by the distinction between horizontal and vertical
integration. The former term refers to integration of curricular content at any
given time and the latter term to integration over time (Tyler, 1958, p. 107).
Thematic units do not promote vertical integration. In fact, preoccupation with
thematic units may undermine integration of curricular content from year to year
and unit to unit (Knudsen, 1937, p. 22). For example, if everything studied in
one unit is closely tied to one theme, say that of “bears,” and the following unit
has “weather” as its theme, students may become confused about the connections
among their studies. In other words, increased horizontal integration of content
may be purchased at the cost of decreased vertical integration.
We can see how themes may even fail to promote horizontal integration of
content by distinguishing between an organizing and a unifying principle
(Coombs, 1991, p. 3). The former identifies a common thread or feature among
a collection of elements; the latter identifies a characteristic that explains how
each constituent contributes to a coherent or unified whole. Curriculum content
is organized, but not integrated, if the elements do not build on each other to
produce an interlocking, mutually supporting picture. For example, suppose we
organize the curriculum alphabetically according to the first letter of the topics
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to be taught. The first unit, dealing with the “A” objectives would include study
of “abbreviations,” “algebra,” “apostrophes,” “archaeology,” “atlases,” and so on.
This unit is not integrated because the principle for selecting topics — that all
topics in a unit start with the same letter — provides no educational coherence.
In this case, the connections within and among the units are contrived and trivial.
Although this example is obviously silly, it helps us to see that the mere joining
together of various elements under the rubric of a common theme does not
necessarily integrate the studies educationally. The content of unit “A” is
integrated only to the extent to which study of, say, atlases assists students in
understanding archeology.
Now consider an actual example of a thematic unit suggested in one of the
Year 2000 documents. Below is a sampling of suggested activities in each
subject for a thematic unit on forests (BCME, 1990g, pp. 319–330):
Art: make paper;
Social Studies: write letters to the editor about environmental issues;
Language: listen to stories by and about Emily Carr;
Music: dance to music from the “Four Seasons” by Vivaldi;
Nutrition: write a guide for the library about edible plants in the forest;
Science: make a class terrarium;
Mathematics: use natural objects from the forest environment to develop
concepts such as estimation and seriation.
Although all of these activities are associated in some way or another with
forests, they are not integrated — increased understanding promoted by any of the
suggested activities contributes little to an understanding of the other, supposedly
related topics. For example, the only thing that Emily Carr, edible plants, and
making paper have in common is a tangential connection to forests. Regrettably,
this pattern is representative of many supposedly exemplary thematic units — for
example, units organized around “flight” (Jacobs, 1989, pp. 57–59), “patterns”
(Fogarty, 1991, p. 63), “consumerism” (Palmer, 1991, p. 59), and “My Travels
with Gulliver” (Kleiman, 1991, pp. 48–50), and on the so-called thinking
strategy of reflection (BCME, 1992, p. 12). Furthermore, this pattern is indirectly
encouraged by those who suggest that teachers plan their own integrated units
by freely brainstorming a sprawling web of disparate ideas (cf. Drake, 1992;
Schwartz & Pollishuke, 1990, pp. 49–55). Although there may be value in
organizing units around themes, merely making connections, however contrived,
between subjects does not integrate the subjects in any educationally significant
way (Alleman & Brophy, 1993; Case 1991a, 1991b). This lack of clarity about
the meaning of integration — a legacy of its usage as a slogan — undermines the
very purposes for which it is proposed.
Ironically, organizing curriculum around loosely defined themes may increase
the amount of curricular fragmentation. The disciplines, for all of their narrowness, provide integrative principles — disciplines are fields of inquiry that share
87
standards of evidence, fundamental explanatory concepts, and methodological
procedures (Hirst, 1978, pp. 132ff.). The same integrity of study cannot be
claimed for many thematic units that indiscriminately lump together disparate
kinds of questions and fields of inquiry. Yet, some proponents of integration
reveal a stereotypical and unproductive tendency to characterize disciplines as the
antithesis of integration — as “territorial spaces carved out by academic scholars
for their own purposes” (Beane, 1991, p. 9; see also Drake, 1991). In place of
the disciplines, one professor of education advocates a transformative “new
curriculum vision” that bases all instruction on students’ questions and concerns
(Beane, 1991, p. 12). Teachers who plan on the basis of presumed needs of
students are dismissed as (necessarily) imposing on students “the interests of a
teacher” or the “manipulation of subject areas” (Beane, 1991, p. 12). Although
the disciplines offer only one way, and not always the most appropriate way, of
integrating subject matter, it is misleading to imply that non-disciplinary studies
are inherently integrative.
A further example of what might be called “false integration” arises where
such subjects as English and social studies are purportedly integrated into a new
subject, humanities. On many occasions, virtually no integration of content
occurs; often, “humanities” amounts to little more than having the same teacher
deal with English for half of a double-blocked class and with social studies the
other half. An additional concern with fused courses arises because some teachers are pressured into teaching these “interdisciplinary” courses despite a lack of
background training and interest (Palmer, 1991, p. 57).
Counterproductive Strategies
Not only do many thematic units and fused subjects fail to promote the intended
goals for curricular integration, their use encroaches on other educational goals.
For example, the different forms of inquiry may not be addressed adequately if
all content is structured around thematic units or fused subjects, even if they are
thoughtfully integrated. As Coombs (1991) explains, “Attempting to teach any
of them [disciplinary forms of inquiry] would require very significant and
sustained digression from the problem or theme under consideration” (p. 13).
Years ago, Taba made a complementary point about the need to balance a
multiplicity of factors. After criticizing the oversimplification by those who
would regard either child-centredness or subject-centredness as the sole foundation for the entire approach to curriculum, Taba (1962) observes:
A similar tendency is illustrated by the way that the principle of integration of knowledge
is applied in discussions of the core curriculum. According to theoretical statements, the
chief principle of the core curriculum is supposed to be integration of knowledge. Yet
trouble brews if this simple principle overrides the consideration of the unique requirements of the various areas of knowledge and if integration is effected without sufficiently
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considering what the appropriate threads of integration might be and what aspects of the
content of various disciplines can appropriately be brought together. (p. 414)
The problem of naive and exaggerated claims is apparent in the professional
literature on curricular integration (cf. Schwartz & Pollishuke, 1990, pp. 49–50).
Alleman and Brophy (1993), two of a handful of researchers to write in the
professional literature about their reservations about curricular integration, wisely
reject the seemingly prevalent maxim that the more integration the better (p.
287).
Excesses with fusion of subjects were also noted during the Eight-Year Study
(Aikin, 1942; Progressive Education Association, 1942), an impressive longitudinal experiment in school restructuring involving 30 high schools across the
United States during the 1930s. Most teachers involved in the study concluded
that fusing mathematics and science was unwarranted because the relatively meagre mathematics involved in most science courses could be taught in passing as
needed (Aikin, 1942, p. 53). Reservations about fusing social studies and English
included concerns that English often became “the handmaiden” of history, that
the literature from certain historical periods was too scarce to justify devoting
much time to it, and that collapsing subjects created considerable “artificial
integration” — a predicament worse than the situation integration sought to
eliminate (p. 53). These encounters with subject fusion caused most teachers to
question the wisdom of their attempts to “put subjects together.” As Aikin (1942)
explains: “The visitor would have found in 1933 enthusiasm for fusion of
subjects, but had he come again in 1936 he would have found doubt, discouragement, and a search for something better” (p. 53).
Unfortunately, the valuable discussions coming out of the Progressive
movement and out of England in the 1970s are rarely consulted in contemporary
debate about curricular integration. This is particularly unfortunate in the case of
the Eight-Year Study, which according to Tyler (1987) is one of the five most
significant curriculum events in the twentieth century. Although we cannot be
sure that conclusions would have been identical 60 years later, it is regrettable
that British Columbia embarked on its initiatives without considering these
extensive and thoughtful experiments in curricular integration. In general, current
recommendations about curricular integration are offered without any apparent
recognition of the full and stormy history of this notion. A particularly
embarrassing example of token attention to the “long history” of integrated
curriculum is found in a recent issue of Educational Leadership. In a two-page
article, “Integrated Curriculum in Historical Perspective,” Vars (1991) shamefully
ignores all complexity and glosses over the controversies characterizing the
history of curricular integration.
In addition to tradeoffs involving competing educational values, fusion of
subjects must be reconciled with teachers’ personal values and beliefs, and with
more general norms operating within schools. As Werner (1991a) documents,
89
fusion of subjects often conflicts with teachers’ sense of professional identity as
subject specialists, and with their personal efficacy and autonomy. Similarly,
traditional assessment practices have been shown to undermine high school
teachers’ efforts to integrate the curriculum (Martin-Kniep, 1994; Soodak &
Martin-Kniep, 1994). Unless curricular integration fits more broadly with their
established practices and values, many teachers will likely reject, avoid, or
unsuccessfully implement the initiative.
No doubt there are numerous exemplary thematic units and fused courses. For
the reasons outlined above, however, in many contexts more appropriate, more
measured responses to the challenge of integrating curricular content are advisable.4 My purpose has not been to resolve the problems but to illustrate the range
and subtlety of considerations that must be, but frequently are not, accommodated.
CONCLUSION
It is likely that current efforts to integrate the curriculum will improve some
classrooms in British Columbia and elsewhere; it is less certain, however, that
extensive reform will result. The effect of prevailing, rather crude understandings
of curricular integration is that many efforts miss the mark. If this initiative is
largely unsuccessful, it is not simply a case of one more missed opportunity to
improve the education system — and better luck next time, as it were. The moral,
educational, and financial stakes involved make such relative indifference to the
outcome unacceptable. When we embark on educational reform we experiment
with students’ welfare, subject great numbers of teachers (and parents) to
considerable additional work and anxiety, and spend increasingly scarce educational dollars. Furthermore, each failed attempt diminishes our system’s capacity
to effect change by destroying the trust and support of those who must shoulder
the burden of future reform efforts. Although it is regrettable that promising
reform initiatives are squandered, it is shameful to embark blithely on a different
set of initiatives without taking significant steps to improve their prospects for
success.
Toward the end of his book, Sarason (1990) asks: “Granted that restructuring
(whatever that may mean) is necessary, and granted that it can have desirable
consequences for parents and educators, on what basis, other than hope and prayer, will it bring about classrooms consistent with the overarching aim?” (p. 165).
Considering the track record of educational reform, this is a fair question. My
response is that success with curricular integration or, for that matter, with any
educational reform, depends on enhancing our collective ability to conceptualize
and operationalize those efforts with greater clarity, rigour, and finesse. We will
not escape these requirements by continually looking for a new fix.
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NOTES
1
An earlier version of this article, titled “Constraining school reform: Troubling lessons from
British Columbia,” was presented at the Restructuring Education Conference, 5–7 March 1992,
Ontario Institute for Studies in Education, Toronto, Ontario.
2
See Werner (1991b) for a compelling account of the sloganeering evident in early Year 2000
discussions of curricular integration. At least three multi-featured senses of curricular integration
are implied in the initial program document for grades 11 and 12 (BCME, 1990d, pp. 21–22).
Although each of these interpretations has potential merit, the cumulative effect is to draw
attention away from clearly articulating what it would mean to integrate disparate elements of the
curriculum. Curiously, although the notion of curricular integration remains implicit throughout
the revised document, the term is mentioned, but not explained or developed (BCME, 1993b, p.
11). Ignoring the term certainly does not promote the needed conceptual clarity. The conceptions
offered in the revised program documents for kindergarten to grade 3 are no less amorphous.
Without expressly differentiating them, the documents allude to five forms of curricular
integration (Case, 1992a, pp. 384–386) and continue to recommend use of themes in somewhat
disturbing ways. The most recent program document for grades 4 to 10 (BCME, 1993a, p. 11)
offers no definition of integration and announces that it is the teacher’s responsibility to determine
how the curriculum is to be integrated. A recent discussion document on curricular integration
(BCME, 1992) does little to alleviate the confusion. For example, the stated rationales for
integration (p. 7) are found in quotations, taken out of context from four sources, and these
statements bear no obvious connection to the stated purposes of integrating the curriculum (p. 9).
Also, the illustrative examples of integration offered in this document are, at best, confusing.
3
In British Columbia, fusion of subjects is encouraged by the organization of subjects into four
strands (humanities, science, fine arts, and practical arts), as described in the framework document
(BCME, 1990b, pp. 15–16). Elsewhere, Timar (1989, p. 270) reports that fusion of subjects is
the most common approach employed in a Kentucky school restructuring initiative he reviewed.
4
Insertion and correlation are two modes which have received insufficient attention. Insertion
(sometimes called incorporation) refers to a mode of integrating that involves adding selected
aspects of one subject to another subject area. Interpreting the art of an historical period or
reading an historical novel in social studies are instances of insertion. Generally, the integrity and
basic structure of the subject into which the insertion occurs remains largely unchanged, thus
facilitating the teaching of both the unique features of the discipline and the points of intersection
with other disciplines. Correlation implies drawing connections and noting parallels among elements taught in separate courses. For example, correlation might involve referring to concepts or
skills acquired in mathematics when teaching science, or organizing the timing of topics so that
the history and literature of a particular period are taught concurrently in different courses.
Although there are limits to these alternative modes of integrating, they mitigate some of the
problems accompanying thematic units and fused subjects.
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Werner, W. (1991b). Defining curriculum policy through slogans. Journal of Educational Policy, 6,
225–238.
Roland Case is in the Faculty of Education, Simon Fraser University, Burnaby, British Columbia,
V5A 1S6.
Note de recherche / Research Note
Comparaison de deux façons d’identifier
les questions et les hypothèses formulées
par le visiteur de musée
Nathalie Savard
Christian Savard
Colette Dufresne-Tassé
université de montréal
Depuis quelques années, on se préoccupe du fonctionnement psychologique de
l’adulte qui observe des objets muséaux. Cet intérêt vient de ce que l’on accorde
une importance accrue à la fonction éducative du musée. La plupart des études
réalisées sur ce fonctionnement l’ont été à partir de données recueillies lors d’un
entretien post-visite (Bitgood, Ropper et Benefield, 1988). Cette façon d’obtenir
de l’information est populaire à cause de son caractère pratique: lorsque le visiteur s’apprête à quitter le musée, un chercheur l’accoste et lui demande s’il veut
bien répondre à des questions. Celles-ci étant habituellement peu nombreuses, la
collaboration du visiteur est bonne et l’information est facilement recueillie.
Nous avons obtenu des données qui nous amènent à nous interroger sur la
valeur du matériel obtenu au cours d’un entretien post-visite pour saisir certains
aspects du fonctionnement du visiteur en salle d’exposition. Nous décrirons
brièvement ces données et leur mode de collecte, puis nous en proposerons une
interprétation.
MODE DE COLLECTE DES DONNÉES
Nous avons étudié les questions et les hypothèses formulées par 45 adultes dans
deux situations: alors qu’ils regardent une exposition de mollusques, puis au
moment où ils s’apprêtent à quitter la salle d’exposition. À leur arrivée au musée,
chacun de ces visiteurs reçoit une consigne qui peut se résumer à ceci: “J’aimerais que vous me prêtiez vos yeux, votre sensibilité, votre imagination, votre
intelligence et que vous me disiez, au fur et à mesure, ce que vous voyez, ce que
vous pensez, ce que vous sentez ou imaginez.” Le chercheur accompagne le visiteur et enregistre sur bande magnétique tout ce que ce dernier dit, sans lui-même
intervenir, sinon par quelques onomatopées. Quand le visiteur dit qu’il a vu ce
qu’il a envie de voir, le chercheur procède à une entrevue semi-structurée au
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RESEARCH NOTES
95
cours de laquelle il aborde les questions et les hypothèses qui sont apparues
durant la visite. Il en vient à demander au visiteur d’identifier toutes les questions et les hypothèses qui lui sont venues pendant qu’il regardait les mollusques.
Cet entretien est enregistré, tout comme ce qu’a dit le visiteur pendant qu’il
parcourait l’exposition. Ce matériel verbal est ensuite dactylographié et c’est sous
cette forme qu’il est analysé.
Cette façon de procéder nous procurait des données qui, convenablement étudiées, révélaient le fonctionnement psychologique du visiteur. La grille d’analyse
utilisée était constituée, entre autres éléments, des actes mentaux, des opérations
qu’un adulte réalise pour traiter son expérience alors qu’il est en train d’examiner
des objets muséaux. Ces opérations sont au nombre de 12 et se lisent ainsi:
manifester, constater, identifier, évoquer, comparer-distinguer, comprendre, expliquer, transformer-modifier-suggérer, résoudre, prévoir, vérifier, juger-évaluer
(Dufresne-Tassé, à paraître).
Le repérage des questions et des hypothèses, de même que l’identification de
leur type sont réalisés de la façon suivante. Le texte qui correspond à ce qu’a dit
un visiteur en salle d’exposition, puis durant l’entretien, est découpé en unités qui
correspondent à une opération et toute opération qui revêt une forme interrogative ou hypothétique est considérée comme une question ou une hypothèse.
En fait, il y a question lorsque le visiteur formule une demande d’information
à laquelle il s’attend à répondre lui-même. Cette information lui est nécessaire
pour combler une lacune de ses connaissances révélée par une situation et qui
l’empêche de poursuivre son activité intellectuelle (Dufresne-Tassé, Chi Dao,
Lapointe, 1993). Par ailleurs, il y a hypothèse lorsque le visiteur, au moyen d’une
inférence, tente de combler une lacune de ses connaissances ou de réduire
l’incertitude qui entoure celles-ci (Savard, 1993).
RÉSULTATS
Nombre de questions et d’hypothèses
Le nombre de questions formulées durant la visite par les 45 sujets de cette
recherche est de 218 (4,8 par personne), ce qui représente 30% de l’ensemble des
questions (725) posées par ces sujets. Par contre, durant l’entretien post-visite,
ils en produisent 507 (11,2 par personne), ce qui équivaut à 70% du total.
Les données recueillies sur les hypothèses indiquent une différence encore plus
marquée. Pendant la visite, 62 hypothèses seulement sont élaborées (1,4 par
personne), alors qu’à l’issue de celle-ci, 272 le sont (6,1 par personne). Les
proportions sont 18,6% contre 81,4%.
Durant un entretien qui suit un passage dans une galerie d’exposition, le
visiteur de cette recherche évoque donc nettement plus de questions ou d’hypothèses qu’il n’en a produites au cours de sa visite. La proportion est de deux
pour un dans le cas des questions et de quatre pour un dans celui des hypothèses.
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RESEARCH NOTES
Nature des questions et des hypothèses
Les questions et les hypothèses traitées dans cette recherche ne se sont greffées
qu’à six des douze types d’opérations utilisées par un visiteur au musée. Ces six
opérations sont les suivantes: comprendre, expliquer, identifier, juger-évaluer,
prévoir et vérifier. Cette observation nous a amenés à considérer que les visiteurs
de cette recherche produisaient six types différents de questions ou d’hypothèses.
L’écart entre les questions produites après et pendant la visite varie de façon
marquée selon le type de question posée (voir tableau 1). Cet écart va d’un
rapport négatif (moins de questions d’évaluation apparaissent dans l’entretien que
durant la visite) à un rapport positif qui peut représenter deux pour un (questions
de vérification), trois pour un (questions d’identification) et même dix pour un
(questions d’explication).
On constate également une grande variation d’écarts quand on examine les
données recueillies sur les hypothèses, mais les plus grandes distances ne sont
pas associées aux mêmes opérations que plus haut (voir tableau 1). En effet,
l’écart le plus fort se retrouve dans le cas des hypothèses à but vérificatoire, alors
que le plus faible se retrouve dans celui des hypothèses à but identificatoire. Plus
précisément, si on ordonne les types de questions et les types d’hypothèses selon
l’importance de l’écart observé entre les situations de visite et d’entretien, on
obtient, dans le cas des questions, la progression suivante: évaluer, comprendre,
vérifier, identifier, prévoir, expliquer, et, dans celui des hypothèses: identifier,
évaluer, comprendre, expliquer, prévoir, vérifier.
INTERPRÉTATION
1. Les écarts entre les deux situations comparées dans cette recherche, celle de
la visite et celle d’un entretien qui suit celle-ci sont très importants. Ces données
confirment une série d’observations colligées par Ericcson et Simon (1993).
2. Ces écarts varient selon qu’il s’agit de questions ou d’hypothèses d’une
part, et selon le type de question ou d’hypothèse d’autre part. Ces variations
permettent de croire que la distance observée entre le nombre d’éléments produits
durant la visite et durant l’entretien n’est pas attribuable aux seules modalités de
réalisation de la présente recherche.
3. Le type d’entretien mené, à savoir un entretien semi-structuré, qui offre à
l’interviewé la possibilité d’aborder un sujet comme il lui convient, n’est pas de
nature à stimuler l’apparition de questions ou d’hypothèses.
4. On peut penser qu’en quittant la salle d’exposition, le visiteur ne se rappelle
pas de toutes les questions qu’il vient de se poser ou de toutes les hypothèses
qu’il a formulées. Tout d’abord, il est assez évident que son fonctionnement
mnémonique a été surchargé par le nombre d’opérations qu’il a réalisées durant
sa visite. De plus, les opérations réalisées dans le cadre d’une visite sont
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RESEARCH NOTES
TABLEAU 1
Répartition des types de questions et d’hypothèses produits
par 45 adultes durant et après leur visite au musée
Production de questions ou d’hypothèses
Pendant la visite
Type de question
ou d’hypothèse
N
%
M
Après la visite
N
%
visiteur
M
visiteur
Total
30
Questions
Compréhension
Explication
12
40
0,26
18
60
0,40
4
9,5
0,09
38
90,5
0,84
42
Identification
57
22,9
1,26
191
77,1
4,24
248
Jugement
(évaluation)
7
53,8
0,15
6
46,2
5
20,8
0,11
19
79,2
0,42
24
103
32,2
2,29
217
67,8
4,82
320
62,5
0,66
18
37,5
0,40
Prévision
Vérification
Autre
Total
0,30
218
13
507
13
48
725
Hypothèses
Compréhension
2
18,2
0,04
9
81,8
0,02
11
Explication
16
15,1
0,35
90
84,9
2,00
106
Identification
11
34,4
0,24
21
65,6
0,46
32
Jugement
(évaluation)
18
27,7
0,40
47
72,3
0,04
65
Prévision
8
12,5
0,18
56
87,5
1,44
64
Vérification
–
–
Autre
7
14
Total
62
–
0,15
6
100
0,13
6
43
86
0,95
50
272
334
contrôlées par ce que Leplat (1988) appelle des automatismes et échappent ainsi
au souvenir du visiteur. Dans la présente recherche, ces deux facteurs ont dû
jouer à plein, vu que les consignes données au visiteur ne dirigeaient absolument
pas son attention ni sur ses questions, ni sur ses hypothèses.
5. Si le visiteur se rappelle de moins de questions ou d’hypothèses qu’il n’en
a produit durant sa visite, comment peut-il en évoquer davantage au moment de
l’entretien? Le souvenir à partir duquel il travaille quand on lui demande de se
prononcer est vraisemblablement pauvre et flou. S’il veut s’exprimer sur ce qu’il
a produit en regardant les objets, il lui faut donc probablement se mettre à
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RESEARCH NOTES
l’oeuvre et construire son énoncé à partir des bribes d’information qui lui restent.
On peut penser que celles-ci lui servent à la fois de point de départ de ce qu’il
élabore et de cadre à l’intérieur duquel il doit maintenir ce qu’il développe.
Enfin, ces développements seraient d’autant plus riches et fertiles en nouvelles
préoccupations qu’il se permet de mettre ses quelques souvenirs en relation avec
ce qu’il sait sur le sujet de l’exposition qu’il vient de visiter.
6. La reconstruction semble jouer différemment suivant qu’il s’agit de questions ou d’hypothèses.
7. Si ce que dit un visiteur en quittant le musée n’est pas un bon indicateur
de ce qu’il a fait dans les salles d’exposition, son témoignage n’est pas pour
autant sans valeur. En effet, le souvenir qu’il emporte de sa visite est probablement un facteur déterminant de ses visites ultérieures.
RÉFÉRENCES
Bitgood, S., Roper, J. T. et Benefield, A. (1988). Visitor studies — 1988. Theory, research and
practice. Jackson, AL: Center for Social Design.
Dufresne-Tassé, C. (à paraître). Andragogy in the museum: A critical analysis and new formulation.
In E. Hooper-Greenhil (dir.), Museum, media, messages. London: Routledge.
Dufresne-Tassé, C., Chi Dao, K. et Lapointe, T. (1993). Cognitive functioning indicated in questions
asked by the adult visitor to the museum. McGill Journal of Education, 28, 231–253.
Ericcson, K. A. et Simon, H. A. (1993). Protocol analysis (rev. ed.). Cambridge: M.I.T. Press.
Leplat, J. (1988). Les habiletés cognitives dans le travail. Dans P. Perruchet (dir.), Les automatismes
cognitifs (p. 139–167). Liège: Pierre Mardaga.
Savard, C. (1993). Les hypothèses: leur sens dans le discours du visiteur face à des objets muséaux.
Texte inédit, Faculté des sciences de l’éducation, Université de Montréal, Montréal.
Débat / Discussion Note
A Discipline Adrift in an “Integrated” Curriculum:
History in British Columbia Schools
Peter Seixas
university of british columbia
The defining issue in the history curriculum for British Columbia, as for many
jurisdictions in North America, is that history is taught in the context of social
studies. I here consider some problems this poses for both curriculum and teacher
education.1
HISTORY IN A SOCIAL STUDIES CURRICULUM
In the current social studies curriculum (British Columbia Ministry of Education,
1988), history dominates; indeed, teachers with a geography focus often complain
about the curriculum’s relative inattention to geographic understandings. But a
history-dominated social studies curriculum is not the same as a thoughtfully
constructed history curriculum. The domination of historical content, not the
strong presence of history as a way of knowing, characterizes the social studies
curriculum. Thus, if you ask what the Grade 9 social studies curriculum consists
of, the most likely answer — and probably the most accurate — would be that half
the year is world history with a European focus, from the Enlightenment through
the turn of the twentieth century, and half the year is North American history,
from pre-contact to 1815. Use of maps and geographic skills are covered during
part of the year, and integrated into the study wherever possible. There is no
systematic attempt to deal with a progression of historical thinking: it is simply
not part of the prescribed curriculum.
When social studies educators talk about “skills” or “process” or “higher-order
thinking” they do so in terms that might apply to any subject. Thus, among the
“skills” listed in the current curriculum are “problem solving” and “decisionmaking” (British Columbia Ministry of Education, 1988; cf. Newmann, 1991).
Not mentioned are the practices of the discipline of history: analysis of historical
documents, assessment of historical interpretations, construction of historical
explanations, consideration of human agency in history, and assessment of
historical significance (Hexter, 1971; Mink, 1987; Stanford, 1986).
What kinds of issues might be confronted in a history curriculum devoted to
developing students’ historical thinking? It makes no sense to divorce content
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DISCUSSION NOTE
from process in such a curriculum: thinking must be about something, and in the
case of history, it makes a great difference what is being thought about (cf. Lee,
1991; Rogers, 1987). By the same token, students must have some sense of the
criteria by which some questions and topics are chosen for historical study and
others are not. Without such an understanding students might assume that they
were being taught the sum-total of human experience in the past. Alternatively,
and more likely, they might assume that the curriculum was chosen arbitrarily,
and that their job was to learn “the curriculum” or the contents of the textbook.
Neither is the basis for sound historical understanding. In a curriculum aimed at
developing historical thinking, students would thus confront the question of historical significance: why do we consider certain events or developments worthy
of study, and others less so (cf. Seixas, in press a)? Is there one standard of significance? How and why do standards change over time?
Second, students would confront the issue of historical epistemology. If they
do not understand the grounds for believing a particular historical claim, they
must resort to justifications such as “it must be true, because the textbook [or
teacher, or primary source] said it.” Historical “truth” becomes an arbitrary value
assigned by an authority, rather than the outcome of rational investigation (cf.
Wineburg, 1991). Of course, building historical knowledge does depend on the
work of authorities, but it also requires standards for assessing their work, as
well as the ability to work with primary source materials as evidence and not
simply as information (Shemilt, 1987).
Finally, students would confront a complex triad of issues — agency, empathy,
and judgment — underlying historical interpretation. What is past cannot be
relived, cannot be done differently. Yet imagining the past entails imagining
people — individuals and groups — who faced real choices in their time and who
made decisions that mattered, either on a small or a large scale. Their decisions
were made within constraints, of course, within conditions not of their own
choosing. This interplay of determined structure and human choice — the problem
of historical agency — is fundamental to understanding human history and
underlies questions of cause and motivation. People in the past also made
decisions in an ideological milieu frequently extremely different from our own,
and this introduces the problem of historical empathy. How can we understand
the outlook of people who lived and thought in ways radically different from our
own? And what does this difference and distance do for our ability to judge their
actions — for it is through such judgments that we locate ourselves morally in
relation to the human past. I have written on these problems elsewhere (Seixas,
1992; Seixas, in press b). Here it should suffice to say that these issues require
systematic attention for the development of historical thinking.
To reiterate, none of these issues can be approached in a way divorced from
historical content, but neither can historical content be honestly and legitimately
approached without dealing with these issues. Historians generally work on the
DÉBAT
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DISCUSSION NOTE
101
basis of implicit resolutions to these issues. Teaching students history requires
that the issues be made explicit. A curriculum that provides a systematic
progression of increasingly sophisticated encounters with the problems of
historical understanding would look considerably different from the current social
studies curriculum.
I do not want to argue here that historical thinking is more or less important
than the generic “higher-order” thinking, “problem-solving,” and the like. Rather,
I wish to underscore that the two are considerably different from each other, and
that if thinking historically is a goal for the curriculum, it will need considerably
more conscious attention than it has received to date — not only from individual
classroom teachers, but also from curriculum planners and educational
researchers.
My comments thus far have addressed the gaps in social studies as it is currently taught in British Columbia. But the province is in the midst of a massive
curriculum and assessment reform process, “Year 2000,” of which a fundamental
principle is “curriculum integration.” In this context, social studies is seen as a
subject that should be integrated with others. The form of the integration was not
examined rigorously before the curriculum foundation documents appeared. In
the initial iteration, the proposals merged social studies with English, foreign
languages, and health and guidance in a humanities “strand.” Resistance from
high school subject teachers led to some back-peddling, but not to abandonment
of the notion of strands (Case, 1991; Werner, 1992).
In the meantime, a number of schools and districts took advantage of several
million dollars the Ministry provided for locally developed projects to explore
the principles of the Year 2000 in their practice. Humanities programs, trying to
bridge the existing English and social studies curricula (not originally developed
with such integration in mind), sprang up around the province (cf. British
Columbia Ministry of Education, 1992). Some exemplary programs were
developed. One can imagine, for example, how a study of fiction and history
might develop students’ insights into the nature of historical evidence, narrative,
and interpretation. But perhaps inevitably, many experimental mergings of
English and social studies proceeded without the expertise, background, or
planning needed to create an effective local curriculum. Units of study were
organized around themes, using history, current social issues, written fiction, and
other media. The free association tying some of these works to each other
became an interesting exercise for teachers who had learned what they knew
about the topics in other contexts — one thinks of a kind of curricular “Scattergories” — but it did little or nothing to develop disciplinary understandings
among students in such a way that they could apply what they had learned to
make sense of new problems and issues. The nature of the Developmental Site
grants precluded systematic development of a curriculum to be followed through
the years of a student’s school career. In any case, to date no systematic research
has been conducted on the new Humanities projects.
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To complicate the picture, at the same time that Social Studies was being
reconceived as Humanities, the Ministry was developing a compulsory two-year
course to replace the existing Grade 11 social studies course (where students now
encounter 20th-century Canadian history) and to compete (as a compulsory
course) with the current elective, 20th-century world history. Named “Social
Investigations,” the proposed course envisioned students negotiating with teachers
to investigate current problems of their choice. Nowhere did Ministry documents
recognize, much less discuss, the differences between taking social studies in the
direction of the humanities — emphasizing interactions with explorations of art,
literature, and philosophy — and taking social studies in the direction of social
science research, as proposed in the Social Investigations course. Again, social
studies teachers’ protests against the formlessness of the course prompted
changes. The current proposal, still in draft form, leaves Social Studies 11 intact
and prescribes a one-year course called “The Individual and Society.”
As in the Humanities initiatives, one can imagine a course of study in which
students’ understanding is immeasurably enriched by an interdisciplinary curriculum that develops the relationships among the social science disciplines. One
thinks of the recent work in ethnohistory, using insights from both anthropology
and history (cf. Peel, 1993), of productive interchanges between psychology and
history (cf. Elder, Modell, & Parke, 1993; Stearns, 1993), and of the voluminous
work in sociology and history, in neo-Marxist and other traditions. But none of
this work achieved new knowledge through neglecting the epistemological apparatus of the disciplines it sought to bridge. Again, it is hard to imagine how
students at the secondary level will engage in serious interdisciplinary work
without a sequentially conceived curriculum that systematically builds their
abilities to use historical, sociological, or other social-scientific strategies. As
Hirst (1965) suggested more than twenty years ago,
it is difficult to see how this kind of approach can be fully adequate if it does not in the
end lead to a certain amount of study of the distinct disciplines themselves. For whatever
ground may have been covered indirectly, a satisfactory understanding of the characteristically distinct approaches of the different forms [of knowledge] is hardly possible without
some direct gathering together of the elements of the disciplines that have been implicit
in all that has been done. (p. 137)
Social studies teachers, who have ample experience in negotiating the interplay
between geography and history, know how difficult it is to construct a course
that adequately integrates these two disciplines. The Ministry documents to date
show little thought about the epistemological, pedagogical, and curricular
problems entailed by escalating potentially contradictory demands for curricular
integration.
DÉBAT
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103
TEACHERS AND TEACHER EDUCATION
A second set of problems presented by the integrated social studies curriculum
involves teachers and teacher education. What kinds of undergraduate courses
should be required for a social studies teacher, keeping in mind that much of the
curriculum is historically oriented, but that social studies curriculum is not a
systematic history program? To enter teacher education in social studies at the
University of British Columbia, a student must have completed only six credits
in history. What happens when a student with a sociology or economics or
geography major teaches history? Wilson and Wineburg (1988) examined the
teaching of a unit on the Depression of the 1930s in the United States by four
first-year social studies teachers. These teachers were, respectively, majors in
history, political science, American Studies, and anthropology: each “peered at
history through different lenses,” with sometimes disastrous effects for historical
understanding. Yet it would not make sense to require a substantial history
background for teachers of social studies, in which history is only one of several
components. Indeed, the integrated nature of the social studies curriculum has
been recognized by recommendations that less history and geography be required
for certification (Bognar & Cassidy, 1991).
But this is by no means the most problematic aspect of the situation. In British
Columbia, teachers are certified only as teachers, not as English teachers or
social studies teachers or science teachers. In part because social studies has such
a diffuse and contested definition, it is the subject most apt to be seen as that
which anyone can teach, regardless of background. Thus, of teachers teaching
social studies, according to a recent survey, 7% had no university courses in
history, geography, social science, or social studies methods, while just under
half (47.8%) reported “between one and a few” (that is, less than a minor) of
social studies-related university courses (Case, 1992, p. 4). Little wonder, then,
that there are shortcomings in the teaching of history within social studies (cf.
Bognar & Cassidy, 1991).
There are many social studies teachers, of course, whose disciplinary
backgrounds in history are strong. But these teachers, too, are potentially at a
disadvantage because discipline is subsumed under “the social studies.” In the
last decade, a number of philosophers (e.g., Putnam, 1981; Rorty, 1982),
historians (e.g., Hollinger, 1985; Kloppenberg, 1986), and others, broadly labelled
“neo-pragmatists,” have drawn attention to the contexts for the creation of
knowledge. They write of the “community of inquiry” as the social location
within which knowledge — always provisional and always contested — is generated (Seixas, 1993). Compare the situation of the social studies teacher with a
strong history background with that of the historian, in respect to the institutional
supports for such a community of inquiry. Although of course historians teach
students, their academic lives largely revolve around research, writing, publica-
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DISCUSSION NOTE
tions, reviews, and conferences, in which they actively critique each others’
work. The ongoing conversation thus sustained among historians is responsible
for the state of historical knowledge.
Teachers’ professional lives, in contrast, revolve around the construction of
knowledge for students. Rather than organizing presentations — written and
oral — for each other, they organize presentations for students. Rather than
reviewing and critiquing each others’ articles and books (or those of others creating historical knowledge), they spend their time grading students’ papers. There
are few institutional supports for ongoing substantive conversation among
teachers themselves. Nor do they participate in the historians’ community of
inquiry. As a result, they confront history not as ongoing, contested dialogue (as
do historians), but as “received knowledge” — that is, knowledge received from
historians. Moreover, they are likely to pass it to their students in similarly
ossified form. If history were taught as a subject, rather than being one element
of social studies, then there would be a much clearer way for history teachers to
become part of a community of inquiry transcending the boundaries between
school and university, and thus a much clearer way for them to create a community of historical inquiry in the classroom. Recent interest in the schools from
the Canadian Historical Association, as well as several collaborative conferences
in British Columbia (and across Canada) are promising developments in this
regard (Seixas, 1991).
A DIFFERENT KIND OF HISTORY
Creating opportunities for history teachers to become part of a community of
historical inquiry is one important way to improve history teaching. But it is not
the entire answer. Historians, after all, do not devote any more attention to
problems of pedagogy than do other academics. In the United Kingdom, where
there is no social studies, considerable energy has been devoted over the past
twenty years or so to research on history teaching and learning. An important
strand of this research grew out of the Schools Council History Project of the
1970s (Portal, 1987; Shemilt, 1980). Researchers attempted to discover a scheme
of “progression” in young people’s historical thinking. To this end, they have
conducted a number of empirical investigations, some on a large scale, and
significantly affected how history is taught in the schools. The Schools Council
History Project eventually dominated the history curriculum for more than one
quarter of the schools in the United Kingdom prior to the introduction of the National Curriculum (Slater, 1991, p. 27). The Project’s approach, which came to
be known as “the new history,” paid as much attention to historical thinking —
to historical explanation, interpretation, and evidence — as to historical “content.”
Its curriculum included an introduction entitled “What is History?” followed by
courses examining one period in depth, using local landscapes and artifacts, and
studying one theme (medicine or energy) over an extended period.
DÉBAT
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DISCUSSION NOTE
105
When Thatcherite educational initiatives brought a National Curriculum in
history, it relied on much of the work that had been done by the British history
education researchers, despite the government’s considerably different goals for
the teaching of history (Booth, 1993). The result was a curriculum built —
however imperfectly — around the development of historical thinking, rather than
around the accretion of increasing amounts of information (National Curriculum
History Working Group, 1990; cf. Aldrich, 1991; Lee, Slater, Walsh, White, &
Shemilt, 1992). Neither in Canada nor elsewhere in North America is there a
comparable research tradition in history education, of the kind necessary for the
thoughtful construction of a curriculum for historical thinking. It is, I believe, a
direction in which we should be looking.
Nothing I have said precludes an interdisciplinary (as opposed to non-disciplinary) approach to history education. Nor would I, any more than the new
historians who have revolutionized the study of the past over the last twenty-five
years, advocate a sterile and narrow approach to history as the perpetuation of
a myth of progress, or as the study of dead white men. Rather, I have called for
the recognition of history as an important way of constructing knowledge about
our situation, one that young people need to understand, engage, and use. History
can be, and is, used “as a weapon,” not least by Arthur Schlesinger, Jr. (1991),
who coined the phrase to attack his own opponents. Young people who do not
understand its uses and abuses are vulnerable either as victims or dupes.
If teachers can enter into dialogue about history with historians, and if they
can recreate a version of that conversation among their students; if educators can
develop a clearer understanding of how young people understand the past, and
how they might improve those understandings through explicit attention to the
development of their historical thinking, then we would have opened the door to
a considerably more rigorous, authentic, and useful kind of history education than
anything envisioned in the current curriculum documents in British Columbia.
NOTE
1
An earlier version of this paper was presented in Ottawa on 6 June 1993, at the annual meeting
of the Canadian Historical Association.
REFERENCES
Aldrich, R. (Ed.). (1991). History in the National Curriculum. London: Kogan Page.
Bognar, C. J., & Cassidy, W. (1991). More than a good idea: Moving from words to action in social
studies. 1989 British Columbia assessment of social studies provincial report. Victoria: British
Columbia Ministry of Education.
Booth, M. (1993). Students’ historical thinking and the National Curriculum in England. Theory and
Research in Social Education, 21, 105–127.
British Columbia Ministry of Education. (1988). Social studies curriculum guide. Victoria: Author.
British Columbia Ministry of Education. (1992). Directory of developmental sites. Victoria: Author.
106
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Case, R. (1991). The anatomy of curricular integration. Canadian Journal of Education, 16, 215–
224.
Case, R. (1992). Analysis of the provincial social studies needs assessment. Unpublished submission
to the Curriculum Revision Committee for Social Studies, British Columbia Ministry of
Education.
Elder, G. H., Modell, J., & Parke, R. D. (Eds.). (1993). Children in time and place: Developmental
and historical insights. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Hexter, J. H. (1971). The history primer. New York: Basic Books.
Hirst, P. H. (1965). Liberal education and the nature of knowledge. In R.D. Archambault (Ed.),
Philosophical analysis and education (pp. 113–140). London: Routledge and Kegan Paul.
Hollinger, D. A. (1985). T. S. Kuhn’s theory of science and its implications for history. In D. A.
Hollinger (Ed.), In the American province: Studies in the history and historiography of ideas (pp.
105–129). Bloomington: Indiana University Press.
Kloppenberg, J. T. (1986). Uncertain victory: Social democracy and Progressivism in European and
American thought, 1870–1970. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Lee, P. (1991). Historical knowledge and the National Curriculum. In R. Aldrich (Ed.), History in
the National Curriculum (pp. 39–65). London: Kogan Page.
Lee, P., Slater, J., Walsh, P., White, J., & Shemilt, D. (1992). The aims of school history: the
National Curriculum and beyond. London: Institute of Education.
Mink, L. O. (1987). Historical understanding (B. Fay, E. O. Golob, & R. T. Vann, Eds.). Ithaca:
Cornell University Press.
National Curriculum History Working Group. (1990). Final report. London: Department of Education
and Science, and the Welsh Office.
Newmann, F. M. (1991). Promoting higher order thinking in social studies: Overview of a study of
sixteen high school departments. Theory and Research in Social Education, 19, 324–340.
Peel, J. D. Y. (1993). Review essay of Biersack, ed., Clio in Oceania: Toward a historical
anthropology and Ohnuki-Tierney, ed., Culture through time: Anthropological approaches.
History and Theory, 32, 162–178.
Portal, C. (Ed.). (1987). The history curriculum for teachers. London: Falmer.
Putnam, H. (1981). Reason, truth, and history. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Rogers, P. (1987). History as a frame of reference. In C. Portal (Ed.), The history curriculum for
teachers (pp. 3–21). London: Falmer.
Rorty, R. (1982). Consequences of pragmatism. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota.
Schlesinger, A. M., Jr. (1991). The disuniting of America: Reflections on a multicultural society. New
York: Norton.
Seixas, P. (1991). The future of the past in British Columbia: Reflections on a curriculum conference.
Manitoba Social Science Teacher, 18, 24–27.
Seixas, P. (1992, November). Confronting the moral frames of popular film: Young people respond
to historical revisionism. Paper presented at the annual meeting of the National Council for Social
Studies, Detroit, Michigan.
Seixas, P. (1993). The community of inquiry as a basis for knowledge and learning: The case of
history. American Educational Research Journal, 30, 305-324.
Seixas, P. (in press a). Students’ understanding of historical significance. Theory and Research in
Social Education.
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Seixas, P. (in press b). Towards a conception of prior historical understanding. In A. Pace (Ed.),
Beyond prior knowledge: Issues in text processing and conceptual change. Norwood, NJ: Ablex.
Shemilt, D. (1980). Schools council history 13–16 project: Evaluation study. Edinburgh: Holmes,
McDougall.
Shemilt, D. (1987). Adolescent ideas about evidence and methodology in history. In C. Portal (Ed.),
The history curriculum for teachers (pp. 39–61). London: Falmer.
Slater, J. (1991). History in the National Curriculum: The Final Report of the history working group.
In R. Aldrich (Ed.), History in the National Curriculum (pp. 8–38). London: Kogan Page.
Stanford, M. (1986). The nature of historical knowledge. Oxford: Basil Blackwell.
Stearns, P. (1993). Girls, boys, and emotion: Redefinitions and historical change. Journal of American
History, 80, 36–74.
Werner, W. (1992). Curriculum integration and school cultures (Occasional Paper No. 6, TriUniversity Integration Project). Burnaby, BC: Simon Fraser University.
Wilson, S. M., & Wineburg, S. (1988). Peering at history through different lenses: The role of
disciplinary perspectives in teaching history. Teachers College Record, 89, 525–539.
Wineburg, S. S. (1991). Reading historical texts: Notes on the breach between school and academy.
American Educational Research Journal, 28, 495–519.
Essai Critique / Review Essay
Collective Negotiations, Policy Bargaining,
and the Prospect of Devolution:
Bryan Downie and the Politics of Teacher-Trustee
Relationships in Ontario
Eric Ricker
dalhousie university
Except for a certain fascination with teachers’ strikes, educational researchers
have not shown a great deal of interest in collective bargaining in Canada’s
school systems.1 This is unfortunate, since it is not some recondite subject of
interest only to a few technical specialists. Over the past quarter-century,
negotiations in the field of education have become increasingly complex and
have produced results of considerable significance to anyone interested in the
way schools are governed. Indeed, certain American authorities have argued that
collective bargaining has changed both policy-making procedures and the substance of policy; according to them, educational policy making is now properly
thought of as “policy bargaining” or “negotiated policy.”2 What policy bargaining
means is that representatives of teachers and governments (in Canada’s case,
provincial and/or local, depending on the province) hammer out agreements on
any number of issues that were once exclusively decided by the latter. As well
as salaries and fringe benefits, what now gets settled in the negotiating forum are
some of the vital details of school policy: work loads, staff complements, pupilteacher ratios, “component” staffing (the allocation of staff to particular
programmes), and other former prerogatives of management. There is, moreover,
no limit to the number and kinds of negotiable issues. With each passing year
new items, once considered the sacred preserve of governing authorities, are
added to the bargaining agenda.
Educational critics appear to be largely uninformed about this new reality. In
the school reform literature much attention is given to structural remedies for
Canada’s educational problems and among the administrative changes critics
favour is devolution of a substantial amount of policy-making authority to the
school “site” level.3 But typically the critics do not consider how devolution
would occur; they simply assume that it can be readily implemented. This same
assumption underlies political debate on the subject. In the recent provincial
election in Nova Scotia, for example, all three main political parties promised to
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establish governing authorities at the school level.4 No details were provided
about how this would be done or indeed on how much authority might actually
be transferred downward; nevertheless, a rather facile consensus developed in
support of the idea.
Devolution could actually occur in a number of ways. The most commonly
proposed forms of it, however, are not compatible with notions of “policy
bargaining.” Conservative advocates of devolution are apt to regard it as a
management tool: Provide the principal with proper training, they argue, and then
equip him or her with the authority to make decisions on all essential matters.5
The principal is, in this view, the linchpin in a chain of accountability, and
should ultimately be held responsible for the performance of the school. Liberal
and social democratic critics have in mind a very different model of devolution.
They see it as an opportunity to further democratize education. Accordingly,
what they favour is a political rather than a managerial form of devolution.
Rather than empowering principals, they would seek to empower the entire
school community by transferring authority to local school councils composed
of representatives of citizens, parents, students, teaching staff, and management.
The conservative approach is essentially authoritarian; the liberal or social
democratic approach is a form of participatory democracy. Both, however, would
require a basic shift away from the policy bargaining model — in the first case
requiring a roll-back of hard-earned rights teachers have enjoyed for the past
couple of decades in many jurisdictions, in the second case requiring the less
radical but nevertheless profound change of expanding the number of actors
involved in the policy bargaining process and very likely scuppering the idea of
expressing the outcome in collective agreements.
Proposals along the lines of the liberal approach have enjoyed semi-official
status at different times — examples include the recommendations of a Nova
Scotia royal commission in 19746 and the Quebec White Paper proposals of
19827— but to date no government has seen fit to do anything more than establish glorified advisory committees at the school level; power sharing of the
liberal persuasion has yet to be legislated. Proposals along the lines of the
conservative approach have been advanced by critics and administrative specialists and have even been tried out in a few school districts, but likewise have not
been provided for in legislation.8
None of the proposals takes into account the way policy bargaining now operates in many jurisdictions. How this kind of policy making has developed since
the late 1970s in Canada’s largest province is described in labour specialist
Bryan Downie’s second book on collective bargaining between Ontario’s teachers
and school boards.9 The book is as much a defense of the collective bargaining
record under a law passed in 1975 (usually referred to as Bill 100) as it is an
analysis of how that law has worked in practice. Bill 100 paved the way for
policy bargaining by authorizing so-called “open scope” negotiations, or negotiations in which either party can bring any matter it wishes to the bargaining
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table. It also gave trustees the right to lock out employees once a strike
commences. Strikes have occurred only infrequently, however, because Bill 100
provides for careful supervision of the negotiating process by a very effective
semi-autonomous agency called the Education Relations Commission.
According to Downie, Bill 100 achieved labour peace while at the same time
providing teachers with an opportunity to expand their influence over policy
development. He was not always of this view. In his first book on the subject,
published fifteen years ago, he argued that “Bill 100 has not produced the
dramatic inroads that teachers had hoped for and that trustees (school board
members) had feared.”10 His new book contains a very similar sentence, but the
word “not” is deleted.11 The first book appeared just three years after Bill 100
was adopted, and for two of those years bargaining was constrained by the
federal government’s anti-inflation guidelines. In such circumstances it was not
much more than shadow-boxing, since wage settlements not conforming to the
guidelines were routinely rolled back by the government’s Anti-Inflation Board.
A good part of the second book describes in painstaking detail what has
happened in the succeeding dozen years to cause Downie to reverse his earlier
judgement.
The significance of the changes that have occurred in the realm of negotiated
policy is made clear in Downie’s description of bargaining trends on particular
issues. His data also contradict claims made by others that management rather
than teachers had the upper hand on local policy questions in Ontario during the
1980s.12 A few examples will suffice to illustrate the importance of Downie’s
findings.13 In 1977 about 23 percent of all agreements negotiated specified a
maximum enrolment for each class; by 1989 some 62 percent did so. In 1977
about 34 percent of all agreements negotiated stipulated pupil-teacher ratios; by
1989 well over half did so. In 1978 only a handful of agreements dealt with
component staffing; by 1989 nearly half did so. In 1977 slightly more than half
of all agreements provided for job security; by 1990 nearly all did so. These and
other changes secured through the bargaining process were often accompanied
by new administrative arrangements: advisory and in some cases joint decisionmaking committees were established to implement and monitor the agreements.
In the words of two observers quoted by Downie, these developments led to an
“equitable transformation of [what were] previously school board controlled
decision-making processes.”14
Downie himself does not view this transformation with any sense of alarm. On
the contrary, he argues that “teachers, quite legitimately, claim the right to
control their work environment,” and he further observes, “this is no different
from the assembly line worker who rejects, and negotiates out of, say, compulsory overtime.”15 Elsewhere, he states:
collective bargaining by teachers in Ontario has been an attempt, and rightfully so, to gain
some control over the work place, particularly in cases where teacher and trustee interests
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have differed. This is not unusual. Their desire for control reaches across such issues as
PTR (pupil-teacher ratios) and class size and, ultimately, perhaps all the way to the
matters of supervision and co-management.16
Of course these are the words of the labour relations expert; one does not
usually find leaders of the teaching profession stating matters quite so baldly. But
Downie cannot be dismissed as a specialist whose disciplinary blinders make him
insensitive to the special professional requirements of collective bargaining in
education. He has been an active participant in negotiations under Bill 100, first
as a third-party neutral (Bill 100’s terminology for fact finders and mediators),
and later for a period of eight years, as chairperson of the Education Relations
Committee. In other words, he has been at the very centre of the action.
Thus whatever one makes of Downie’s views — and it is important to note that
not all experts in the field share his opinions17— a major strength of his book is
that it tells us why and how policy bargaining has developed. Much of the first
part, which is lifted virtually word for word from his earlier study, is designed
to convince the reader that Bill 100 in the precise form in which it was passed
was and remains necessary. Although few would dispute that the 1975 law was
about as good an outcome as could be achieved at the time, whether it remains
adequate today is open to question. But not to Downie. He is unflinching in his
support of every substantive detail of the law. Tampering with it would, he
suggests, open the way to much less desirable alternatives, such as province-wide
bargaining or the organization of teachers under trade union laws.18
Although Downie’s musings on that score will no doubt be the subject of
other reviews, of interest here is his assessment of the nature of the compromise
that has sustained support for the law for nearly two decades. Downie argues that
Bill 100 “nicely” balanced power between teachers and trustees and the implication seems to be that it was a reasonable compromise that legitimized the policy
bargaining process that followed.19 Thus, even though trustees continued to protest against open-scope negotiations, in practice they had little difficulty accommodating themselves to the new situation. Their mean-spirited and “vindictive”20
reaction to this idea when it first appeared in legislative form in Bill 275 — the
forerunner to Bill 100 that was withdrawn in the face of both teacher and trustee
protest — was therefore presumably stilled by the better balance of teacher and
trustee interests that they found in Bill 100; Downie reports no dissent over the
latter when it appeared some eighteen months later.
This is a serious misreading of history, prompted, apparently, by his belief that
trustee leaders had endorsed the main ideas contained in Bill 275 before it was
tabled in the Ontario Legislature.21 Thus their subsequent objections to openscope negotiations can be seen to have been little more than caterwauling — an
overreaction to the government’s betrayal of their interests when it retreated from
Bill 275’s legislative companion piece, Bill 274 (a back-to-work order for teachers of seventeen school boards who had resigned en masse in December 1973)
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in the face of considerable teacher hostility. This interpretation of the
circumstances surrounding Bill 275 and Bill 100 is wrong on three counts. First
of all, trustee leaders had not endorsed Bill 275 in advance of first reading.22
Their organizations were unanimously opposed to open-scope negotiations and
all but one opposed compulsory arbitration:23 these were the two main ideas
contained in Bill 275. Second, trustees were more pointedly opposed to Bill 275
than Downie appears to realize. Rather than an act of spitefulness, their brief in
the spring of 1974 was a call for a different model of negotiations, one based
mainly on the labour laws of the province. They were now prepared to endorse
the right to strike, but only if a strong management rights clause was inserted in
any new bill. They also demanded that teachers be stripped of the special protections they enjoyed under the Teaching Profession Act — not merely that these
protections be reviewed, as Downie asserts.24 The protections concerned the
compulsory membership and dues check-off provisions of the Act. The trustees’
new model would have required teachers to seek union certification on a boardby-board basis and would have enabled school boards to hire replacements in the
event of a strike, since membership in the Ontario Teachers’ Federation would
no longer have been a requirement for obtaining a teacher’s license.25 The effect
of this new proposal was to destroy whatever influence trustees had left on the
scope of negotiations issue, for the government was not prepared to entertain
such a radical shift in its approach. Thus Bill 100 provided for both open-scope
negotiations and the right to strike — and the Teaching Profession Act remained
unaltered.
Downie’s third error is one of omission: he fails to report the acrimonious
objections trustees lodged against the new bill, allowing the reader to think that
teacher and trustee interests had been effectively reconciled. But trustees
condemned the bill as one that would cause the “bastardization”26 of local democracy and they lobbied furiously albeit ineffectively for a management rights
amendment. The only concession made to them, however, was apparently designed to induce a few howls of rage on the teachers’ side, or if not that, to at least
temper its celebratory mood. The concession was an amendment that prevented
principals and vice-principals from participating in strike action (even though
both were included in the bargaining units and could participate in strike votes)27
and it had the desired effect: teachers joined trustees in expressions of outrage
and the government was left with the satisfying result of having forced both sides
to yield on a few dearly held principles.
After Bill 100 was passed, trustees proceeded to lose ground on several fronts
precisely in the way that they feared and that Downie describes. Even still,
although it is not mentioned by Downie, some school boards were able to negotiate management rights (or restrictions on negotiations) into their collective
agreements.28 On the whole, however, trustees accepted labour peace (an amazing
97.6 per cent of all negotiations are concluded without sanctions)29 as a trade-off
for reduced powers. And an important reason for labour peace — for the overall
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success rate in collective negotiations following the adoption of Bill 100 — was
the excellent work of the Education Relations Commission, whose fact finders
and mediators helped establish model agreements and prevented tensions in many
volatile situations from erupting into labour-management strife.
It is against the exemplary negotiations record presided over by the Education
Relations Commission that today’s would-be school reformers must test their
mettle. Do they really believe that teachers will forfeit powers they have acquired
though difficult sessions at the bargaining table? Do they expect that teachers
will simply acquiesce in site-based management plans that allow principals to
decide many of the questions now covered in collective agreements? Or will they
readily agree to invite other partners to the bargaining table and forgo school
district-wide contracts on matters they have become accustomed to negotiating?
Surprisingly, Downie seems to believe that they will. In a curious conclusion to
his discussion of policy bargaining, he claims that it is an approach quite
compatible with enhanced managerial authority at the school site level, but he
does not say why.30 It seems inconceivable that site-based management will find
favour with trustees, let alone teachers, since it threatens to diminish further their
already-reduced scope of authority. Contrary to what Downie suggests, site-based
managing or governing approaches will likely make headway, if anywhere, in
provinces where local bargaining does not exist or is used only for minor parts
of the collective agreement.
Despite this peculiar ending to an otherwise perceptive discussion of policy
bargaining, Downie’s book commends itself to the reader who wishes to acquire
insight into how collective bargaining may be changing the nature of policy making in provinces where the most significant components of collective agreements
are negotiated at the school district level. Whether Downie’s findings reflect the
situation in other provinces remains to be determined, of course, but if the
pattern of policy development is now much the same, proponents of site-based
management can expect both political and legal resistance to any encroachment
their plans make upon policy bargaining — the two-sided contractual method of
making policy at the local level that is now apparently well entrenched in
Ontario’s educational system.
POSTSCRIPT
This lively and informative book unfortunately is flawed by many errors, both
grammatical and factual. The former are numerous enough to be an annoyance
and reflect poorly upon the quality of copy editing services at the IRC Press. The
latter range from obscure points of interest to the discerning reader (e.g., it was
English Catholic and not Franco-Ontarian teachers who remained unorganized
when a professional act for teachers was first actively considered during the war
years;31 and, “mass resignations” were not used for the first time in 1973 but
rather in the infamous Lakefield strike of 1963)32 to those which detract from
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what seems to be the author’s main thesis, namely that the collective bargaining
law developed for Ontario’s teachers and trustees has worked successfully and
therefore should not be tampered with because it is “congruent with the decision
making in, and the financing of, Ontario’s education system.”33
Quite apart from the fact that most provinces have administrative and financial
arrangements between a central ministry or department and local school boards
similar to Ontario’s and these circumstances have not prevented some of them
from entering into province-wide negotiations with teachers or even, as in
Alberta’s case, placing teacher-school board bargaining under provincial labour
laws, Downie errs in other ways by suggesting that the tradition of a system
neatly bifurcated between elementary and secondary levels was a major factor
determining the shape and substance of Bill 100.34 With the exception of the
separate school system, the administrative apparatus of education in Ontario was
overhauled to eliminate this distinction several years before Bill 100 was
drafted.35 His argument that separate elementary and secondary forms of teacher
education and the presence of bilingual schools were also somehow factors shaping the exact form of Bill 100 is likewise in error: teacher education had been
reformed several years beforehand (the colleges for training elementary teachers
were either closed or folded into all-purpose faculties of education) and without
any significant alteration in administrative structures the bilingual schools had
been replaced by minority language schools.36
Downie’s rather spurious argument on these matters is especially puzzling
because it is not essential to his case. The only driving force shaping the structure of bargaining units under Bill 100 was the desire of teachers to maintain
local bargaining and the tradition of the Ontario Teachers’ Federation’s five
affiliates deciding for themselves whether they wished to bargain separately or
in combination with other affiliates. For their part, trustees at all stages leading
up to Bill 100 had favoured combined or even zonal negotiations.37 Downie’s
case for leaving well enough alone should rest simply on the record: despite
discontent among trustees and others about certain parts of it, Bill 100 has on the
whole worked remarkably well and this he has demonstrated quite convincingly.
And because it has worked remarkably well, Alexander Lockhart’s harsh judgement about educational policy-making conditions perhaps has much less force in
Ontario than it does in other provinces:
if the recently better-educated and more rigorously selected teachers remain frustrated
over their exclusion from the decision-making processes that determine their occupational
satisfaction, so too has a more enlightened public remained frustrated over their exclusion
from participation in public education policy-making. This dual frustration, apparently
stemming from the same source, has all too commonly resulted in conflicts pitting teacher
“demands” against public “indignation.” Since both teachers and the public have been
denied access to the level of decision-making that could in any significant way resolve
their mutual frustration, this teacher/community conflict has not led to innovative
resolution.38
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In Ontario one side has a way of dealing with its frustration and has, as Downie
has shown, taken very good advantage of it.
NOTES
1
See, for example, various contract studies undertaken for the Ontario Ministry of Education in the
1970s. Labour relations specialists such as Professor Downie and the late J. Douglas Muir have
made the greatest contributions to the literature in this field.
2
C. Coleman, Managing Labour Relations in the Public Sector (San Francisco, Cal.: Jossey-Bass,
1990), p. 290, and S. Goldschmidt and L. Stuart, “The Extent and Impact of Educational Policy
Bargaining,” Industrial and Labor Relations Review, 39, pp. 350–60; both sources cited in Bryan
M. Downie, Strikes, Disputes and Policymaking: Resolving Impasses in Ontario Education
(Kingston, Ont.: IRC Press, Queen’s University, 1992) [hereafter SDP], p. 169.
3
Popularization of this idea stems mainly from David Osborne and Ted Gaebler, Reinventing
Government: How the Entrepreneurial Spirit is Transforming the Public Sector (Harmondsworth,
Eng.: Penguin Books, 1992); see especially p. 314ff. Canadian sources seeking to shape public
opinion on this question include Andrew Nikiforuk, School’s Out: The Catastrophe in Public
Education and What We Can Do About It (Toronto: MacFarlane, Walter & Ross, 1993), especially
pp. 100–101, and Jennifer Lewington and Graham Orpwood, Overdue Assignment: Taking
Responsibility for Canada’s Schools (Toronto: John Wiley & Sons, 1993), pp. 68–69. School
councils have been recommended as a basic policy reform in a recent Newfoundland government
report; see Newfoundland and Labrador, Report of the Royal Commission of Inquiry into the
Delivery of Programs and Services in Primary, Elementary, Secondary Education, Leonard
Williams, Chairperson, Our Children, Our Future (St. John’s, Nfld., 1992), p. 231ff.
4
Nova Scotia Liberal Party, “Liberal Education Policy” (1993), p. 5; Nova Scotia New Democratic
Party, “Election ’93: Education — Building Block for Good Jobs” (1993), p. 2; Nova Scotia
Progressive Conservative Party, “Leadership That’s Making a Difference” (1993), pp. 23–24.
5
See Brian Caldwell, Robert Smilanich, and Jim Spinks, “The Self-Managing School,” Canadian
Administrator 27, No. 2 (1988), p. 4; see also Larry Sackney, review of Decentralization and
School-Based Management by Daniel Brown, Canadian Journal of Education 17 (Fall 1992), p.
473.
6
Nova Scotia, Report of the Royal Commission on Education, Public Services and Provincial-Municipal Relations, John F. Graham, Chairman (Halifax, N.S.: Queen’s Printer, 1974), vol. 3:
Education, chap. 45.
7
Québec, Ministère de l’Éducation, The Quebec School: A Responsible Force in the Community
(n.p., 1982), pp. 56–57.
8
Daniel Brown, Decentralization and School-Based Management (London: Falmer Press, 1990);
Lewington and Orpwood, Overdue Assignment, p. 66; Caldwell, Smilanich, and Spinks, “The
Self-Managing School,” p. 4.
9
Supra, n. 2.
10
Bryan M. Downie, Collective Bargaining and Conflict Resolution in Education: The Evolution
of Public Policy in Ontario (Kingston, Ont.: Queen’s University, Industrial Relations Centre,
1978), p. 122.
11
The new sentence reads: “Bill 100 has produced the significant inroads that teachers had hoped
for and that trustees had feared” (Downie, SDP, p. 139).
12
K. Brimer, “A Content Analysis of Ontario Teacher Contracts: 1975 to 1985” (unpublished
honour’s thesis, Trent University, 1985) and W. A. Marcotte, Teachers’ Collective Agreements
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(Ottawa: Council of Ministers of Education, Canada, 1984); both cited in Alexander Lockhart,
Schoolteaching in Canada (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1991), pp. 90–92.
13
The figures that follow are from Downie, SDP, pp. 150–66.
14
L. Charles and E. Humphreys, “Bargaining to Achieve Teachers Control in Ontario,” Relations
Industrielles 40 (1985), quoted in Downie, SDP, p. 164.
15
Downie, SDP, p. 168.
16
Ibid., p. 284.
17
Cf. Myron Lieberman, Public-Sector Bargaining: A Policy Reappraisal (Toronto: D.C. Heath,
1980), p. 152: “To subordinate everything to agreement would require that employees have a veto
power over basic managerial decisions — in effect, that employees be comanagement. Although
there are some proponents of this view, they are certainly not in the mainstream of either
organized labour or management. . . .”
18
Downie, SDP, pp. 310, 315.
19
Ibid., pp. 289, 311.
20
Ibid., p. 64 and p. 68ff.
21
Ibid., pp. 49, 62.
22
Eric W. Ricker, “Teachers, Trustees and Policy: The Politics of Education in Ontario, 1945–1975”
(unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, University of Toronto, 1981), pp. 418 and 450 n. 268.
23
Ibid., pp. 408-09, 414–16.
24
Downie, SDP, p. 64; cf. Ricker, “Teachers, Trustees and Policy,” pp. 420–21 and 452 n. 280.
25
Ricker, “Teachers, Trustees and Policy,” pp. 420 and 452 n. 279.
26
Ibid., pp. 423 and 453 n. 293.
27
Ibid., pp. 422, 599.
28
Lockhart, Schoolteaching in Canada, p. 91.
29
30
31
Downie, SDP, p. 12; cf. W. G. Fleming, Ontario’s Educative Society (Toronto and Buffalo:
University of Toronto Press, 1972) [hereafter OES, with the individual volume number and title],
vol. 7: Educational Contributions of Associations, pp. 76, 79.
32
Downie, SDP, p. 48; cf. J. Douglas Muir, Collective Bargaining by Canadian Public School
Teachers (Ottawa: Information Canada, 1971), pp. 256–57.
33
Downie, SDP, p. 92.
34
Ibid., p. 93.
35
Fleming, OES, vol. 2: The Administrative Structure, pp. 19ff. and 126ff.
36
Downie, SDP, p. 93; cf. Fleming, OES, vol. 5: Supporting Institutions and Services, p. 56ff.;
Fleming, OES, vol. 3: Schools, Pupils, and Teachers, p. 348ff.; Robert M. Stamp, The Schools
of Ontario, 1876–1976 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1982), p. 213.
37
Ricker, “Teachers, Trustees and Policy,” pp. 414, 421.
38
Lockhart, Schoolteaching in Canada, p. 91.
Recensions / Book Reviews
Le roman de l’amour à l’école: l’amour de la lecture
par Clémence Préfontaine
Montréal: Logiques-Écoles, 1991. 269 pages
RECENSION PAR SUZANNE POULIOT, UNIVERSITÉ DE SHERBROOKE
Cet ouvrage, adaptation pédagogique d’une thèse de doctorat, s’adresse principalement à ceux et celles qui interviennent auprès d’adolescentes de niveau secondaire, lectrices passionnées de romans d’amour de type Harlequin.
L’auteure vise d’abord à informer les intervenants pédagogiques de la teneur
narratologique et idéologique de cette production populaire à grand tirage. Aussi
retrouve-t-on tout au long des cinq chapitres les composantes qui constituent la
toile de fond de ces micro-univers sentimentaux concernant la texture littéraire.
En fin de chapitre, en guise de synthèse, Préfontaine propose des pistes d’exploitations pédagogiques, nommées PEP, dont l’effet escompté à moyen et long
terme est de rendre ces lectrices plus conscientes des ressorts narratifs et des
représentations idéologiques véhiculées par les situations dramatiques, et incarnées par les personnages, tant féminins que masculins.
Le livre aborde dans le premier chapitre les raisons qui président à la présence
de la littérature populaire à l’école. Dans le deuxième chapitre, différentes
composantes, sous la bannière des romans réalistes de forme traditionnelle,
traitent de la structure narrative des romans d’amour, du schéma narratif de
l’histoire et de la puissance des paroles. L’idéologie de l’amour possessif est
abordé à partir de l’étude du vouvoiement et du tutoiement, de la façon dont les
personnages sont désignés, des marques de la possessivité et de la jalousie. Ces
aspects amoureux spécifiques constituent les principales pistes du troisième
chapitre. La domination masculine et le sexisme, objets du chapitre suivant, sont
abordés par l’analyse des attitudes physiques et des gestes comme le baiser et
l’acte sexuel. Sont également considérées avec soin les attitudes mentales des
personnages, leurs qualités et défauts, les valeurs morales qu’ils affichent et les
obligations sociales auxquels ils et elles se conforment. Finalement, la trilogie
mythique, soit la beauté physique, l’amour et le mariage, constitue le dernier
chapitre.
L’intérêt principal de cette étude, inscrite dans le prolongement des travaux
qui ont donné lieu à La corrida de l’amour, sous la direction de Julia Bettinotti,
est de débusquer notamment les nombreux stéréotypes qui imprègnent ces
117
19:1 (1994)
118
RECENSIONS
/
BOOK REVIEWS
romans, vendus annuellement à des millions d’exemplaires à travers le monde.
La principale caractéristique de ces collections est de répandre “une image de la
Femme qu’on peut qualifier de mythique, parce qu’elle se fonde sur la répétition,
la permanence et l’intangibilité, quels que soient les lieux et les circonstances
historiques représentés; mais le contenu idéologique de ces récits est indéniable
et indéniablement historique” (p. 13).
En somme, ceux et celles qui interviennent auprès de lectrices dévoreuses
d’“harlequinades” trouveront dans cet ouvrage, outre de nombreux arguments
structuraux pertinents, des pistes d’intervention didactiques qui ramassent les
données théoriques en introduisant des moments d’objectivation par rapport à
cette production populaire afin “d’aider les enseignants et les enseignantes à faire
une utilisation adéquate de ces romans en classe” (p. 26).
L’Hétérogénéité des apprenants: un défi pour la classe de français
sous la direction de M. Lebrun et M.-C. Paret
Neuchâtel: Delachaux et Niestlé, 1993. 319 pages
RECENSION PAR SUZANNE POULIOT, UNIVERSITÉ DE SHERBROOKE
L’Association de didactique de la langue maternelle (DFLM), formellement
constituée en 1986 au colloque de Namur, publie bisannuellement un bulletin, la
Lettre de l’Association, et tient tous les quatre ans un colloque dans l’un ou
l’autre des pays membres, soit la Belgique, la France, la Suisse romande et le
Québec.
L’ ouvrage en titre présente les actes du cinquième colloque international de
didactique du français langue maternelle, tenu à Montréal, du 12 au 15 mai 1992.
Cent trente-cinq participants, venus des trois pays européens mentionnés et de
différentes provinces canadiennes ont participé aux conférences, aux tablesrondes et aux communications individuelles. Le thème central a été traité à partir
de quatre sous-thèmes, soit: 1) le milieu social et le milieu ethno-culturel; 2)
l’hétérogénéité des apprenants: les processus cognitifs, les performances langagières; 3) les représentations des enseignants à propos de l’hétérogénéité des
apprenants; 4) les outils et les moyens d’intervention: modèles, analyse et évaluation, les programmes et les manuels scolaires.
Les modèles d’intervention regroupent à eux-seuls dix-sept communications,
soit près de 55% de toutes les communications réunies. L’intérêt de ce sousthème, traité sous l’angle de l’hétérogénéité, illustre la place importante qu’il
RECENSIONS
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BOOK REVIEWS
119
occupe dans les pratiques quotidiennes, qu’il s’agisse de l’évaluation de la
maîtrise de la langue en fin de cycle de secondaire, de l’inventaire des effets
d’un enseignement de la langue écrite, voire de la révision de texte en milieu
montréalais pluriethnique. L’ensemble des facettes présentées, traitées et analysées ne donne pourtant qu’un faible aperçu des nombreux modèles développées
et pratiqués, ici et là dans les quatre pays francophones représentés, pour les
quatre ordres d’enseignement: primaire, secondaire, collégial et universitaire.
Étant donné l’espace qui nous est imparti, nous signalerons sommairement les
communications qui traitent de la didactique de la lecture, car ce volet de la
didactique nous intéresse au premier chef. Dans la foulée de nos intérêts personnels, avons considéré attentivement les communications qui ont décrit, sous
l’angle de l’hétérogénéité, tant des profils de lecteurs de différents niveaux de
compétence (Boyer, Dionne, Raymond) que des types de lecteurs en liens avec
la compréhension des textes informatifs (Ziarko, Pierre), ou des liens existants
entre l’hétérogénéité des connaissances et la compréhension en lecture (Deschênes, St-Pierre, Boyer). Dans le même esprit, d’autres communications ont
analysé le processus de l’inférence en lecture (Desrosiers-Sabbath, Lahaie) ou des
formules pédagogiques assorties à la lecture de textes narratifs au primaire
(Lebrun). Enfin, Van Grunderbeeck et Laplante ont démontré comment l’usage
d’images facilite l’apprentissage de la lecture à des élèves soi-disant dyslexiques.
Ce bref aperçu d’un pan de la didactique n’est en fait qu’un pâle reflet de la
recherche, menée actuellement dans ce domaine, et ne rend pas compte des nombreuses autres contributions comme les conférences et les tables-rondes qui ont
eu lieu dans le cadre de ce colloque, réalisé pour la première fois en Amérique
du Nord.
En somme, cet événement, dont la gestion scientifique a été assurée pendant
quatre ans par huit professeurs représentatifs des pays fondateurs, a contribué à
mettre en relief la diversité au coeur des pratiques quotidiennes dans les pays
francophones concernés, à faire connaître des contributions originales et enfin à
susciter des échanges fructueux entre chercheurs. Cet événement scientifique,
comme le mentionnent Lebrun et Paret dans l’avant-propos des Actes, a fait “ressortir la diversité des contextes socio-linguistiques (. . .) l’importance des processus cognitifs, la variation des performances langagières, la prégnance de la notion
de représentation, de même que la rentabilité pédagogique du renouvellement des
méthodes et des outils d’intervention” (p. 9).
Il importe de souligner combien cet ouvrage, par l’ampleur des propos, la diversité des expérimentations auprès de clientèles diversifiées et les points de vue
retenus en didactique de la langue maternelle, traités sous l’angle de l’hétérogénéité, contribue à l’essor et au développement de ce champ scientifique en
pleine expansion.

CJE Vol. 19, No. 1

Transcription

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