Pierrette Bouchard et Jean-Claude St

Transcription

Pierrette Bouchard et
Jean-Claude St-Amant
Le retour aux études: les facteurs de
réussite dans quatre écoles spécialisées au Québec
T. W. Maxwell
Accountability: The Case of Accreditation of British Columbia’s Public Schools
Marie McAndrew, Anne St-Pierre et Wendy Cumming-Potvin
Le technicien en assistance sociale affecté à la prévention de l’abandon scolaire
Keith D. Walker
The Canadian Copyright Law and Common Educational Reprography Practices
Dennis J. Sumara & Rebecca Luce-Kapler
(Un)Becoming a Teacher: Negotiating Identities While Learning to Teach
David Corson
Official-Language Minority and Aboriginal First-Language Education:
Implications of Norway’s Sámi Language Act for Canada
Table de matières /
Contents
Articles
Pierrette Bouchard et
1
Le retour aux études: les facteurs de réussite
dans quatre écoles spécialisées au Québec
T. W. Maxwell
18
Accountability: The Case of Accreditation of
British Columbia’s Public Schools
Marie McAndrew,
Anne St-Pierre et
Wendy Cumming-Potvin
35
Le technicien en assistance sociale affecté à
la prévention de l’abandon scolaire
Keith D. Walker
50
The Canadian Copyright Law and Common
Educational Reprography Practices
Dennis J. Sumara &
Rebecca Luce-Kapler
65
(Un)Becoming a Teacher: Negotiating Identities
While Learning to Teach
David Corson
84
Official-Language Minority and Aboriginal
First-Language Education: Implications of
Norway’s Sámi Language Act for Canada
Recensions / Book Reviews
Marcel de Grandpré 105
Lise Legault 106
Mary Percival Maxwell 107
Colette Barbeau 108
La créativité des aînés: le paradoxe de l’avenir
par Marie-Claire Landry
La pensée et les émotions en mathématiques:
métacognition et affectivité par Louise Lafortune
et Lise St-Pierre
Old Boys: The Powerful Legacy of Upper
Canada College, by James Fitzgerald
L’activité éducative, une théorie, une pratique:
l’animation de la vie de la classe par Pierre
Angers et Colette Bouchard
Claire Brochu 110
Brenda L. Beagan
111
Noëlle Sorin 115
Le parent entraîneur par Claire Leduc
Without a Word: Teaching Beyond Women’s
Silence, by Magda Gere Lewis
Pour que vive la lecture: littérature et
bibliothèques de jeunesse sous la direction de
Hélène Charbonneau
Benjamin Levin 117
Women and Leadership in Canadian Education,
edited by Cecilia Reynolds and Beth Young
Monique Lebrun 119
Un siècle de formation des maîtres au Québec,
1836–1939 par Thérèse Hamel
Le retour aux études: les facteurs de réussite
dans quatre écoles spécialisées au Québec
Pierrette Bouchard
université laval
S’inspirant d’une approche constructiviste et interactionniste et se servant d’une méthode
de type qualitatif, cette recherche présente les résultats d’entrevues avec des membres de
la communauté étudiante de quatre écoles spécialisées en “raccrochage scolaire” au
Québec. Elle fait ressortir comment de jeunes adultes, issus de milieux socio-économiques
modestes, voient toute possibilité de réussite sociale bloquée et reviennent tenter leur
chance à l’école. Elle montre que, pour assurer la réussite scolaire, le personnel des écoles
a développé des pratiques et mis au point des interventions axées d’abord sur la réussite
éducative.
Drawing its inspiration from a constructionist and interactionist approach, and using
qualitative methodology, this research presents the results of interviews with students in
four Quebec schools specializing in dropout recovery. We show how young adults from
modest socioeconomic backgrounds see all possibility of success in society blocked and
return to try their luck at school again. We point out that, to ensure school success, staff
at the schools have developed approaches and worked out interventions that focus
primarily on educational success, that is, achieving the transmission of values, behaviours,
and attitudes.
La prise de conscience de l’ampleur de l’abandon scolaire au secondaire (au
Québec, les taux dépassent 35% chez les jeunes inscrits au secteur public en
1991–1992) a suscité nombre d’initiatives de nature préventive; elle s’accompagne de nouvelles interrogations sur les conditions existantes de retour aux études
pour les jeunes. Notre étude s’inscrit dans ce dernier champ, soit les situations
éducatives dans les formules de retour aux études au Québec. Bien que leur
nombre soit en expansion très rapide, à ce jour, les travaux québécois portant sur
cette question ne dépassent pas l’analyse des quelques statistiques disponibles
(Beauchesne, 1992; Bourbeau, 1992), ou présentent un projet dans une école, une
commission scolaire ou un centre d’éducation des adultes (Assogba, 1992; Bouchard et St-Amant, 1994; Brazeau, 1992; Miron, 1992).
Pourtant, le développement des connaissances sur ce thème permet de jeter un
éclairage supplémentaire quant aux contraintes liées aux prises de décision scolaire (ici, le retour aux études) ou encore en ce qui a trait aux conditions favorisant la persévérance et la réussite. Dans un contexte particulier, ces communautés
éducatives ont en effet mis au point des approches mieux adaptées aux défis que
représentent les itinéraires scolaires laborieux de ceux qui les fréquentent.
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REVUE CANADIENNE DE L’ÉDUCATION
21, 1 (1996): 1–17
2
PIERRETTE BOUCHARD ET JEAN-CLAUDE ST-AMANT
Nous avons privilégié une méthode qualitative plus apte à rendre compte des
expériences des personnes impliquées (Coulon, 1993) et ainsi saisir la dynamique
propre aux contextes de retour et de poursuite des études. Le poids des structures
économiques, culturelles et sociales a participé à l’interruption des études secondaires de ces jeunes; l’origine sociale demeure, semble-t-il, un déterminant
fondamental de la réussite scolaire (Baudelot et Establet, 1992, p. 14). Mais, sur
quelles bases sont prises les décisions qui ont pour effet de ramener un certain
nombre de jeunes issus de milieu défavorisé dans un cheminement de scolarisation? Quels facteurs interviennent pour les amener, le cas échéant, à persévérer
jusqu’à la diplomation?
En nous basant sur les facteurs d’abandon au secondaire maintenant assez
largement connus (Bastin et Roosen, 1990; Brodinsky et Keough, 1989; Hrimech,
Théorêt, Hardy et Gariépy, 1993; Radwanski, 1987; Violette, 1991), nous avons
construit un questionnaire d’enquête visant à identifier les conceptions des
acteurs et actrices sur certains aspects de leurs expériences scolaires. Chez la
population étudiante, en plus des renseignements socio-démographiques habituels
(âge, sexe, langue maternelle, structure familiale et situation financière), nous
avons recueilli (1) les motifs invoqués pour avoir quitté, les jugements portés sur
l’école régulière fréquentée antérieurement et les comparaisons avec l’école
actuelle, (2) les motifs qui ont incité à reprendre les études (les expériences sur
le marché du travail et les attentes face à l’école) et enfin, toujours selon les
témoignages, (3) les appréciations sur les diverses interventions privilégiées dans
les écoles.
Nous allons présenter dans un premier temps quelques considérations théoriques et méthodologiques structurant notre démarche avant d’aborder directement, par le biais de l’analyse des entrevues étudiantes, ce qui motiverait le
retour et favoriserait la réussite.
APPROCHE
La sociologie de l’éducation a été marquée par de nombreuses polémiques au
sujet de la démocratisation de l’enseignement et des inégalités sociales face à
l’éducation. Ces débats ont eu leur impact dans l’élaboration des politiques
gouvernementales québécoises en éducation (Anadon, 1989) et permettent de
contextualiser la mise sur pied des “écoles de chance” au Québec au début des
années 1980.
De façon schématique,1 le courant macrosociologique ou de “critical education” a abordé l’école comme un élément structurel de la dynamique sociale en
faisant ressortir les rapports fonctionnels entre les diverses instances visant la
reproduction de la domination d’une classe sociale sur une autre. Ces études,
avec en commun leur insistance sur les déterminismes, sont éclairantes du point
de vue de la mécanique de la reproduction, car elles identifient certaines contraintes structurelles qui pèsent sur les individus et sur les groupes; mais, elles
LE RETOUR AUX ÉTUDES
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restent d’utilité restreinte quant aux modes d’acquisition et de production par les
individus de ces processus. La question ainsi retournée ouvre la voie à des
recherches axées sur les dynamiques propres à la construction de l’espace scolaire et aux personnes qui l’habitent, particulièrement les groupes qui seraient les
plus fragiles.
Seront avancées également dans ces débats les théories actionnalistes. Ainsi,
Boudon (1973, 1977, 1979) a alimenté les questionnements sur les inégalités par
le biais de la théorie de la rationalité de l’acteur. Il applique à la décision
scolaire la théorie économique des effets pervers qui affirme que les décisions
prises par les individus peuvent s’expliquer à partir d’un calcul coûts-risquesbénéfices, donc dans le cadre d’une interaction entre individu et environnement.
Sur le plan de la dynamique sociale, les inégalités s’expliqueraient par la somme
des décisions individuelles dans un système d’interactions ou d’interdépendance
produisant des “effets pervers” ou “effets émergents.” Crozier et Friedberg
(1977) ont proposé le concept de stratégie et posé certaines limites à la rationalité
et à l’intentionnalité de l’acteur, mais tout en acceptant les notions de calcul et
de risque. Plusieurs recherches subséquentes ont précisé quelques contraintes
supplémentaires associées aux choix des acteurs en incorporant le sexe des personnes (Levesque et Sylvain, 1982), les voies d’apprentissage (Mellouki, 1984)
ainsi que certains indicateurs culturels ou psychologiques (Assogba, 1984, 1990).
Coleman (1966) et Jencks (1972) ont contesté le rôle de l’école dans la
production ou la lutte contre les inégalités sociales et ont suscité de nombreuses
répliques (Laperrière, 1982). Drolet (1992) a bien montré cet impact dans son
aperçu des services québécois offerts en milieu socio-économiquement faible, là
où les échecs et les abandons sont les plus nombreux. D’abord a prévalu la thèse
du déficit cumulatif avec un accent sur les programmes compensatoires et une
approche basée sur un traitement par cas des inégalités dans les résultats scolaires. Ensuite, remettant en cause la notion d’aptitudes individuelles, la thèse de
l’école inadaptée a orienté les recherches vers une culture ouvrière spécifique et
l’enseignement vers une adaptation aux caractéristiques des “clientèles.” C’est
dans cet esprit que sont nées les premières écoles de “raccrochage.”
La façon de poser la question de l’échec scolaire a également évolué (Grégoire, 1990; Isambert-Jamati, 1992). Il s’agit moins maintenant de la responsabilité des individus, ou à l’opposé de celle de l’école comme outil de sélection et
appareil reproducteur des rapports sociaux, mais bien de la performance de
chacune des écoles, conçue comme “l’unité principale du système scolaire”
(Barnabé, 1993, p. 353), responsable de l’échec et de la réussite. Qu’est-ce qui
constitue une bonne école? Celle-ci est interrogée sur la base de son efficacité.
De façon globale,
l’efficacité se mesure à sa capacité de faire acquérir à tous un “minimum culturel vital”
dans une société toujours inégalitaire mais marquée par une élévation générale des exigences et des attentes en matière de qualification intellectuelle, sociale et professionnelle.
(Hutmacher, 1992, p. 46)
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Les outils statistiques sont suffisamment à point pour évaluer individuellement
chacune des écoles sur cette base. Mais la capacité de mesurer est-elle un critère
suffisant pour que le taux de diplomation serve d’indicateur principal de la
réussite scolaire? Dans ce contexte, nous avons élargi les questionnements à la
réussite éducative, complémentaire à la première, mais de nature qualitative, et
à la réussite sociale, plus conforme aux objectifs généraux liés à la fréquentation
scolaire.
La réussite scolaire: à la recherche d’une définition
La réussite scolaire renvoie à l’atteinte d’objectifs de scolarisation liés à la
maîtrise de savoirs déterminés, c’est-à-dire au cheminement parcouru par l’élève
à l’intérieur du réseau scolaire. Ce cheminement suit le parcours des matières
enseignées (le curriculum) dont les programmes sont définis par le ministère de
l’Éducation. Il fait l’objet d’évaluations — indiquant la performance — et certaines
étapes s’accompagnent d’une diplomation et permettent soit le passage à un
niveau supérieur ou spécialisé, soit, en théorie, une intégration au marché du
travail.
La notion de réussite éducative, quant à elle, renvoie à l’atteinte d’objectifs
liés au processus de transmission d’attitudes, de comportements et de valeurs
(Bisaillon, 1992). Elle serait la résultante du processus de socialisation scolaire
dans la mesure où celui-ci est conçu autant comme un mode d’inculcation qu’un
mode d’acquisition de la part des agents à l’école. Sur le plan des contenus
formels, les projets éducatifs des écoles servent souvent de véhicules privilégiés
pour les identifier. En outre, la réussite éducative inclut le “curriculum caché”
et le “troisième curriculum” (Best, 1983; Evans, 1988; Trottier, 1987).
La réussite sociale intègre une composante supplémentaire, soit la correspondance entre la formation à l’école et la place occupée dans la société avec le
pouvoir d’agir sur elle. Elle recouvre la transition à la vie active et l’intégration
harmonieuse qu’elle suppose. Demers (1992) a rappelé les liens entre une plus
faible scolarité et une contibution démocratique et sociale réduite; Duru-Bellat
(1994) a souligné le caractère androcentrique de l’analyse des liens entre formation et emploi et a montré les contraintes spécifiques intervenant dans les
carrières des femmes.
Bref, réussit celui ou celle qui acquiert certains savoirs définis ainsi que
certaines valeurs, attitudes et comportements qui vont lui permettre de s’insérer
socialement et de participer pleinement aux transformations sociales. Ces visées
sont interdépendantes. Dans le contexte particulier d’histoires scolaires difficiles
liées à l’abandon, puis au retour aux études, la poursuite d’objectifs de réussite
scolaire passe par une étape de réinsertion sociale, c’est-à-dire une intervention
organisée, à des degrés divers, de soutien de la personne étudiante, dans le but
de reconstruire sur de nouvelles bases ses rapports avec l’école et avec les gens
qui y évoluent. Cette intervention nous place au coeur même des objectifs de la
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réussite éducative et, à plus long terme, de la réussite scolaire et de la réussite
sociale.
MÉTHODOLOGIE
Notre méthodologie s’appuie sur une approche constructiviste et interactionniste
des apprentissages et de la réussite. D’abord une théorie de la connaissance
orientée sur la construction des structures cognitives, le constructivisme “insiste
sur le primat des représentations socialement constituées du réel par rapport à
une connaissance immédiate de ce réel” (Braud, 1992, p. 453). Cette approche
se traduit concrètement dans notre démarche par l’attention particulière accordée
aux expériences antérieures au retour, les premières ayant servi à “construire” les
deuxièmes.
L’approche interactionniste, combinée au constructivisme, sous-tend un modèle
qui nous permet d’articuler et d’éclairer la dynamique des rapports interpersonnels, des rapports de sexe et des rapports sociaux dans leur complexité et dans
leur immédiateté. Selon Assogba (1992), “l’analyse interactionniste consiste en
général à repérer les logiques des pratiques sociales des agents sociaux, à les
comprendre et à les expliquer en les situant dans le système d’interaction où se
trouvent ces agents” (Assogba, 1992, p. 42). Cette perspective se manifeste au
niveau de l’enquête par l’accent que nous avons mis sur la place réservée aux
relations entre les personnes dans les composantes pédagogiques et organisationnelles de l’école; l’intérêt est moins de savoir ce que sont “objectivement” ces
composantes que de connaître comment chacun s’y intègre ou s’en accomode.
De plus, l’étude des relations entre les personnes permet d’appréhender par quels
mécanismes et quelles médiations s’élaborent et s’intériorisent les exigences de
la scolarisation.
Nous empruntons notre procédure à la méthodologie qualitative systématique
qui consiste à “définir les éléments d’importance et leurs interrelations dans une
situation sociale donnée [. . .] au fur et à mesure que les données s’accumulent”
(Laperrière, 1982, p. 35). Nous l’avons adaptée à notre sujet de recherche et à
ses contraintes spécifiques. Nous en retenons sa caractéristique fondamentale, soit
les étapes de traitement systématisé des données. Quant aux divergences méthodologiques, elles se situent à deux niveaux: le moment où s’effectue la recension
des écrits (faut-il le retarder comme le prétend l’École de Chicago?) et l’utilisation ou non d’un questionnaire d’enquête constituant en quelque sorte un modèle
théorique a priori. Nous avons opté pour une recension des écrits en début
d’enquête et nous avons choisi la préparation d’un questionnaire préalable à la
tenue de cette enquête.
L’étape de la spécification de la situation sert à définir les dimensions spatiales, temporelles et sociales de la recherche. Nous avons évalué l’ampleur du
phénomène de raccrochage scolaire au Québec et nous avons procédé à un
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inventaire des écoles québécoises offrant un programme de retour aux études. La
recension des écrits sur les expériences américaines et canadiennes a permis
l’établissement d’une typologie des formules et des philosophies qui les soustendent, ce qui a fait l’objet d’un traitement spécifique (St-Amant, Bouchard et
Berthelot, 1992–1993).
L’étape suivante porte sur la cueillette de données topologiques. Nous avons
élaboré une grille d’observation et visité les écoles. Cette grille donne un ensemble de renseignements factuels sur les caractéristiques du lieu et de son aire
de recrutement, sur la population étudiante, le personnel, le cadre pédagogique,
la structure de gestion et les budgets spéciaux, ainsi que sur les résultats obtenus.
Cet exercice a permis de se familiariser avec chacune des écoles et de recueillir
sur place une documentation supplémentaire: feuillets de présentation de l’école,
projets éducatifs, productions étudiantes, agendas, enquêtes locales, etc. Ces
divers documents ajoutaient à la préparation des entrevues pour commencer
ensuite la construction des catégories conceptuelles.
Notre analyse des écoles spécialisées en retour aux études inclut trois écoles
au sens habituel du terme, c’est-à-dire des centres éducatifs complets, et une
classe qui relève d’un centre d’éducation des adultes où une structure spécifique
rassemble les décrocheurs récents. Les conclusions présentées sont tirées de
l’enquête menée dans ces quatre endroits — deux de la région de Québec, deux
de la région de Montréal. La taille des écoles oscille entre 165 et 400 élèves dans
trois cas alors qu’une autre, située dans la métropole, rejoint 1 600 élèves de
jour. Chacun des endroits fonctionne à plein régime, c’est-à-dire que la capacité
d’accueil est à son maximum, et que des listes d’attente ont dû être constituées.
Nous avons procédé à dix entrevues par endroit, six rejoignant les membres
du personnel et quatre, la population étudiante. Il s’agit d’échanges comportant
un peu plus de cinquante questions, certaines ouvertes et d’autres fermées. Nous
avons traité les témoignages des seize étudiantes et étudiants.2 Les rencontres ont
eu une durée d’environ une heure trente.
Nous n’avons pas visé une quelconque représentativité statistique dans le choix
des personnes rencontrées. Nous avons vu un nombre égal de représentants des
deux sexes, nous avons évité ceux dont le retour aux études était très récent (une
session ou moins), tout en privilégiant une diversité dans l’âge.
L’analyse de ce matériel doit se faire avec un certain discernement. Le rapport
enquêteur-enquêté a établi un biais de “désirabilité sociale” chez les répondants
(Pierrehumbert, 1992, p. 190). Ainsi, nous avons rencontré une propension à
projeter une image de soi et de son école qui soit optimiste. D’autant plus que
les personnes rencontrées — peu importe leur rôle dans l’école — ont exprimé le
sentiment d’être “différentes” à l’intérieur du réseau scolaire; par l’originalité de
sa formule, par la spécificité de sa population et de ses contraintes, le message
implicite disait qu’une école de raccrochage n’est pas une école comme les
autres. L’analyse comparative constante, quatrième étape de l’enquête, a permis
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de s’y ajuster en procédant à l’intégration des catégories et des propriétés.
Compte tenu de nos objectifs, nous sommes arrivés à la saturation, c’est-à-dire
qu’“aucune donnée nouvelle ne [vient] plus bouleverser la définition des catégories ou celle des propriétés s’y rapportant” (Laperrière, 1982, p. 38).
LES PROCESSUS DE RETOUR AUX ÉTUDES
Comment certains jeunes, provenant en grande majorité des milieux défavorisés,
parviennent-ils à la décision de réintégrer une démarche de scolarisation? Nous
avons découpé en trois temps successifs ce que nous apprennent les témoignages
étudiants: l’abandon des études, la prise de conscience face à leur avenir et la
situation au moment du retour.
L’abandon des études: un signal de “mal-être” à l’école et dans la famille
La grande majorité des répondants ont laissé l’école une première fois en 3e
secondaire ou avant. Les filles ont en général quitté l’école régulière plus tardivement que les garçons, mais l’interruption a été de plus courte durée.
Ces jeunes adultes ont une conception particulière de l’abandon scolaire.
Celui-ci signifie un abandon définitif de toute scolarisation; c’est un geste décisif
et senti comme sans retour. Se faire expulser, par exemple, ou encore “prendre
une année sabbatique” sont exclus de leur notion de décrochage scolaire. Certaines expériences infructueuses dans un centre d’éducation des adultes relèvent
de cette conception comme si, encore une fois, les insuccès n’avaient pas fondamentalement modifié leurs projets de scolarisation mais les avaient tout simplement retardés. Nous retrouvons dans ce rapport à l’école une conception autre
du rythme d’apprentissage et de la scolarisation, différente de celle qui est
couramment admise.
Les motifs invoqués spontanément pour expliquer la décision de laisser les
études se rapportent au désintérêt, au stress ressenti à cause du climat de violence
à l’école, et à une insatisfaction liée à certains problèmes d’orientation; les
sentiments ressentis ont eu comme conséquence qu’ils “n’aimaient plus l’école”
ou qu’ils “s’y ennuyaient.” Les explications renvoient à une réalité qui se situe
hors de leur capacité individuelle d’intervention.
Les jeunes ne mentionnent pas d’eux-mêmes les échecs scolaires comme motif
d’abandon, même si cela fait partie intégrante de leur histoire scolaire. Si l’enquêteur en fait directement l’hypothèse, ils répondent “oui, ça aussi.” Cependant,
les résultats scolaires faibles ou les échecs sont conçus par eux beaucoup plus
comme la conséquence d’une situation éducative par ailleurs dégradée plutôt que
comme une cause de celle-ci. Ce raisonnement se base notamment sur leurs
succès scolaires, au moment de l’enquête, qui font la preuve de leurs capacités
de bien fonctionner dans un environnement stimulant.
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Des possibilités de gagner un revenu jouent le rôle déclencheur de l’abandon
scolaire dans la moitié des cas, mais, dans cinq situations, on invoque d’abord
des problèmes familiaux. Un témoignage illustre ce genre de situation:
J’ai décroché à 16 ans. J’étais très révoltée. Je vivais beaucoup de problèmes [à la
maison]. Le climat était insoutenable. Mon père est parti. L’école, c’était comme une
punition. J’ai décroché de tout: de l’école, de mes amis . . .
Les problèmes familiaux ne sont pas sans liens avec la volonté d’autonomie
financière exprimée par les jeunes, qui traduit autant une carence des relations
affectives dans la famille qu’un désir d’émancipation. La possibilité de gagner
un revenu provoque la décision de quitter l’école, mais modifie simultanément
les rapports entre les parents et les jeunes, plus précisément en diminuant, pour
un certain temps, la relation de dépendance de ces derniers.
Faire face à un “avenir bloqué”: une prise de conscience
Les personnes rencontrées ont décroché pour des périodes variant de deux à six
ans, la moyenne s’établissant à trois ans. Le retour est le résultat du début d’une
réflexion face à l’avenir. Elles invoquent sans exception la peur d’un “avenir
bloqué,” à l’image de leur brève expérience sur le marché du travail ou de celle
de leur famille. De plus, six d’entre elles précisent avoir réalisé que sans diplôme
de 5e secondaire, il n’y avait pas d’avenir possible ou, plus concrètement, pas
de travail en vue.
Pour les femmes, cette conscience provient plutôt du climat vécu au travail et
des conditions négatives dans lesquelles elles se sont retrouvées, alors qu’aucun
homme ne mentionne ces raisons. Ceux-ci invoquent des aspirations à obtenir des
emplois supérieurs et des revenus plus élevés et stables. Ressort donc une vision
instrumentaliste de l’école dont l’utilité est d’abord perçue en fonction du marché
du travail; cette perception doit cependant être nuancée, car les jeunes expriment
également un intérêt renouvelé dans l’acquisition de nouvelles connaissances.
Lorsque nous leur avons demandé ce qui a facilité le retour aux études, ils ont
largement repris le même argument: “avoir une expérience vécue,” “expérimenter
le travail.” Une répondante nous a servi l’argument éloquent de “ne pas être
pauvre” comme élément déterminant. L’abandon scolaire n’est donc pas conçu
comme un geste entièrement négatif, car il a permis d’acquérir une certaine
maturité et de se convaincre de la nécessité de se scolariser.
Une minorité de répondants précise que c’est le soutien aux jeunes qui serait
décisif dans la prévention du décrochage. La valorisation de l’école, en milieu
familial et en milieu scolaire, permettrait de le faire plus efficacement. Les
jeunes souhaitent que les parents et l’école encadrent mieux les enfants. L’absence d’intervention dans des situations de vie où ils auraient eu besoin de la
présence d’adultes signifiants a été à l’origine de l’abandon des études.
9
Que ce soit avant ou après l’expérience du marché du travail, des conditions
matérielles et affectives déficientes leur font réaliser qu’ils ne veulent pas vivre
l’avenir de cette façon. Les deux types d’arguments invoqués renvoient aux deux
pôles significatifs du raccrochage: la remise en question des valeurs qui déqualifient et dévalorisent l’école ainsi que la rupture avec les modèles de scolarisation
vécus antérieurement. La conscience des conditions d’existence limitées fait le
reste.
La situation au moment du retour
À cause d’exigences moindres et de sa formule individualisée, le secteur adulte
semble plus attrayant pour celui qui atteint ses 16 ans et qui veut retourner aux
études. Par contre, il impose à l’entrée des examens de classification avec le
résultat que plusieurs aspirants connaissent un recul important de leur scolarité
reconnue. Ainsi, chez les élèves de moins de 20 ans de ce secteur, 76% obtiennent une classification inférieure en français, 32% en anglais et 46% en mathématique (Beauchesne, 1992, p. 28). Dès le départ, cette situation constitue une
embûche pour certains raccrocheurs potentiels.
Le retour aux études semble une stratégie rationalisée. Chez cette population
de jeunes adultes issus de milieux modestes, les aspirations socio-professionnelles
se résument souvent, au moment du retour aux études et sans plus de précisions,
à obtenir un emploi stable. Ce qu’il faut voir, c’est qu’à l’intérieur même du
spectre limité des aspirations socio-professionnelles propres à la classe sociale
dont ils sont issus, ces jeunes adultes sont pour la plupart en situation de régression. L’interruption de leur scolarisation a fermé leurs horizons. Les regards jetés
sur leur vécu antérieur sont d’ailleurs très lucides et la décision de retourner aux
études représente une voie pour s’en sortir; ils poursuivront cette stratégie dans
la mesure où l’école offrira autre chose que ce qui a été vécu à l’école régulière
ou sur le marché du travail, c’est-à-dire une forme d’infériorisation et de rejet.
Ils reviennent “essayer” une autre école, mais n’y resteront pas à n’importe quel
prix. Cette situation n’est pas sans poser des défis particuliers aux enseignants
et aux enseignantes, car les jeunes, compte tenu de leurs expériences antérieures,
sont restés très méfiants.
DES INTERVENTIONS AXÉES SUR LA RÉUSSITE ÉDUCATIVE
Le rapport aux parents
Notre enquête confirme le peu de valorisation de l’école par les parents: peu de
suivi dans les résultats, peu ou pas de surveillance, peu d’aide de leur part. Elle
montre un très faible niveau de soutien provenant de l’extérieur de l’école. Moins
de la moitié des jeunes reçoivent un appui moral de leurs amis, mais, en ce qui
concerne les parents, il s’agit largement d’un constat de désintérêt.
10
Cette réalité se concrétise par le fait que dans toutes les écoles de raccrochage,
les intervenants scolaires ont presque abandonné les tentatives de rejoindre la
famille pour se concentrer plutôt sur le développement de l’autonomie chez les
jeunes. Ainsi, le retour aux études implique quelquefois une remise en question
de certaines valeurs parentales vis-à-vis de l’école, conformément au processus
de maturation et de quête d’indépendance vécu par les jeunes. Qui plus est,
plusieurs témoignages étudiants suggèrent un rapport à l’école inversé, à savoir
que ceux-ci, par l’adoption de nouvelles valeurs, attitudes et comportements, par
l’expression de nouvelles aspirations scolaires, induisent chez les parents un
intérêt nouveau pour l’école.3
Un soutien affectif et moral assuré par l’école
Tous les répondants disent avoir eu recours à une forme d’aide à l’école pour
régler divers problèmes: une moitié a fait appel au moins une fois aux travailleurs sociaux, près de la moitié l’a fait avec le personnel enseignant et quelquesuns se sont adressés aux services d’orientation. Les étudiants avaient besoin
d’une intervention ponctuelle pour se définir ou régler des problèmes communicationnels. Une étudiante témoigne de l’aide reçue sur les plans personnel et
scolaire:
Mon tuteur s’occupe de moi tant sur le plan académique que personnel. C’est un ami. Il
a aussi été le tuteur de mon copain. Il peut m’aider sur “mon plan de vie” bien qu’il ne
se mêle pas de ce qui ne le regarde pas. Il est même mieux que mon [conjoint]. Ce n’est
pas lui qui va me donner des ordres, il me donne des conseils.
La fréquence des recours aux services professionnels varie beaucoup selon les
endroits. Cependant, dans toutes les écoles, le personnel enseignant est vu
comme la ressource la plus importante. On estime qu’il remplit ce rôle avec
succès en s’ouvrant à toutes les situations.
Une modification du rapport de pouvoir entre adultes et jeunes à l’école
L’évaluation globale de l’école faite par les jeunes est très positive. Derrière la
“bonne ou super école,” ce sont les rapports plus respectueux entre adultes et
jeunes qui ressortent et le climat plus humanisé. On souligne que l’école n’est
pas une prison et que “tout le monde s’écoute et se respecte.” On parle de l’ambiance agréable, de l’absence de violence et de l’égalité entre tous.
Lorsqu’on leur demande ce qu’ils aiment le plus de l’école, c’est surtout le
personnel enseignant que les jeunes évoquent. Ils soulignent que celui-ci “fait des
heures supplémentaires,” “les considère comme des adultes” et “tient à ce que
tous réussissent.”
11
La grande disponibilité du personnel enseignant fait également l’unanimité.
Elle est illustrée par des témoignages sur le temps consacré à la récupération à
l’heure du midi, en fin d’après-midi, ou après les classes, temps qui est perçu
comme du travail supplémentaire. La disponibilité est aussi associée à l’écoute
des jeunes. On parle de compréhension, d’aide, de respect et d’amitié.
À la question à savoir ce qu’il y aurait à améliorer, on parle de cas isolés où
certains enseignants sont jugés incompétents ou “trop autoritaires.” Une répondante laisse savoir qu’elle veut être respectée et traitée en égale: “Ce qu’il y
aurait à améliorer? Ce serait d’apprendre aux profs à se mettre au même niveau
que les élèves.”
Les jeunes jugent que c’est “franchement mieux” qu’à l’école régulière. Les
trois-quarts affirment qu’il n’y a pas de différence dans les contenus de cours,
mais que c’est préférable pour toutes sortes de raisons: l’école les traite en
adultes, ne tolère pas la violence et offre la possibilité de développer des contacts
plus humains. Un témoignage fait le point sur cette question: “si toutes les écoles
étaient comme la nôtre, il n’y aurait pas d’abandon. Aucun jeune n’est fier de
décrocher et de vivre aux crochets du gouvernement. Ils nous aident comme une
famille ici.”
L’évaluation de la direction est plutôt bonne dans toutes les écoles. Même si
on mesure une certaine distance entre les jeunes et la direction, le développement
de contacts humains (“jaser,” “apprendre à s’entendre”) transforme le rapport.
C’est beaucoup mieux qu’à l’école régulière, principalement parce que la direction est plus disponible et accessible. Voici ce qu’ils en disent:
La direction a moins de discipline à faire, elle s’occupe plus des personnes et de leurs
problèmes”; “elle nous parle et nous traite en adultes”; “à l’école régulière, la direction
a tendance à mettre sur un piédestal ceux qui réussissent bien tandis que les moins bons,
on les cale; les étudiants décrochent lorsqu’ils n’ont pas d’aide.
Un peu moins de la moitié des répondants signale avoir vécu des problèmes
d’indiscipline. Les filles ont plutôt eu des altercations verbales avec les enseignants, alors que certains garçons se sont battus entre eux, risquant l’expulsion.
Bref, par comparaison avec l’école régulière, la qualité des rapports entre tous,
adultes et jeunes, ressort comme la différence première. L’attitude des jeunes
témoigne d’un degré important d’intégration des valeurs véhiculées par ce milieu
scolaire.
Des écoles et des classes à dimension humaine
Presque toute la population interrogée affirme qu’il y a des difficultés liées aux
classes trop nombreuses. Il s’agit quelquefois d’une période d’ajustement de
début de session — beaucoup d’inscriptions causant un surnombre, suivies
d’abandons. Le problème fait suite à l’augmentation récente de la “clientèle” plus
12
jeune. De façon générale, les commentaires laissent entrevoir un soulagement à
se retrouver dans des groupes moins nombreux. Comme le dit un répondant: “Il
pourrait y avoir trois écoles dans le même style et ils les rempliraient toutes.”
L’arrivée des plus jeunes cause différents problèmes qui sont signalés en
dénonçant leur “mentalité de polyvalente.” Cette situation oblige la direction à
être plus sévère. Les plus mûrs font les frais du resserrement de la discipline,
alors qu’ils considèrent être dans une école pour adultes.
Dans l’évaluation générale de leur école, la situation problématique causée par
l’arrivée “massive” des plus jeunes revient systématiquement. On demande
d’accroître la capacité de l’école ou d’en bâtir une autre, d’ajouter des cafétérias,
de mieux faire respecter les échéances par les plus jeunes, de leur donner un
meilleur encadrement et d’être plus fermes avec eux.
Des aménagements organisationnels favorisant les cheminements
Au secteur jeune, le régime pédagogique est particulièrement apprécié. Par
rapport aux écoles régulières, des avantages organisationnels ressortent: la
rapidité de la diplomation, l’occasion de connaître le personnel enseignant,
d’approfondir la matière, le soutien à la réussite par la récupération et le fait
qu’on offre une formation de même statut que celle du secteur régulier. Ce qui
diffère principalement, c’est le type d’organisation axé sur les matières obligatoires, à raison d’un niveau par session, qui permet de progresser plus vite.
Au secteur adulte, on apprécie la formule de l’enseignement individualisé et
la liberté qu’elle accorde quant au rythme d’apprentissage. L’aide et l’encouragement reçus, la grande disponibilité du personnel enseignant et le sentiment d’être
traité en adulte en font l’attrait. La poursuite d’objectifs de réussite éducative et
sociale illustre ces avantages:
Ils nous apprennent à vivre pour nous, pas seulement pour le scolaire mais dans le privé
aussi, pour qu’on ait de l’information et des ressources comme dans le cas d’une femme
battue . . . Ici, ils te donnent ta chance et t’aident à te trouver un job.
Créer un espace et une place aux personnes
Pour neuf répondants sur dix, il est nettement plus facile d’étudier à leur école
et ils y sont davantage motivés. Ce qui leur plaît le plus et qui ne se retrouve pas
dans une école régulière fait émerger la dimension d’un bien-être personnel. Ils
déclarent être libres, être à l’école par choix et surtout, y être acceptés: “Je sens
que j’ai une place,” “avant, personne n’avait le temps de s’occuper de moi.”
Cette dimension illustre la rupture avec la situation scolaire antérieure et la
transformation du rapport à l’école. La prise en charge de soi-même renforcée
par l’école se traduit par un sentiment de liberté et de contrôle sur sa situation.
Elle crée un espace social:
13
Ce qui me plaît dans cette école et que beaucoup n’ont pas ni dans leur famille ni dans
les autres écoles, c’est l’amour de faire ça. Les parents ne savent pas et ils n’ont jamais
le temps. C’est une raison pour laquelle j’ai décroché, moi . . . Ici, ça m’a aidée beaucoup. J’ai appris à faire des concessions. On m’a appris à être patiente. S’il y avait des
écoles comme ça partout, les parents auraient moins de misère avec leurs enfants. J’espère
que des écoles comme ici vont encore exister sinon je n’aurai pas d’enfants. On devrait
fermer toutes les écoles et en faire comme la nôtre.
Ce témoignage jette un éclairage particulier sur le processus de raccrochage. Il
indique le peu de place laissé à certains, à qui on ne peut ou ne veut pas répondre et de qui l’école exige la même performance. Il éclaire aussi l’échec scolaire.
On sent la révolte contre les personnes qui n’ont pas su deviner, comprendre ou
s’ajuster. Cette révolte est d’autant plus consciente que la répondante sait maintenant qu’il existe d’autres modèles. Son hésitation à avoir des enfants rend bien
son ressentiment à l’égard de l’école régulière.
Même si près de la moitié des étudiants a déjà pensé à redécrocher, la prise
de conscience d’eux-mêmes dans l’école et face à l’avenir les retient: “maintenant, je viens pour moi.” La certitude d’avoir sa place l’emporte.
Certains problèmes qui amèneraient à abandonner se règlent rapidement par
l’école: un changement d’horaire peut suffire, nous disent le tiers des répondants.
Mais, la question des rapports égalitaires joue un rôle beaucoup plus important
dans ce processus et semble les ébranler fortement lorsqu’elle est en cause. Leur
persévérance est soutenue par l’espace et la place que leur créent les gens autour
d’eux. On comprend que désormais, les jeunes adultes retournés aux études
semblent beaucoup mieux savoir ce qu’ils veulent ou, à tout le moins, ce qu’ils
n’acceptent plus.
CONCLUSION
Des équipes, dans des milieux socio-économiquement faibles, ont mis en place
des situations éducatives porteuses de réussite. Ces interventions, élaborées
graduellement, ont valeur de pratiques exemplaires. Nous voulons signifier que
d’un bilan de ces pratiques ressortiront de nouvelles connaissances susceptibles
d’améliorer les chances de réussite scolaire; les facteurs y contribuant, identifiés
par le groupe étudiant, constituent autant de sources d’inspiration dans des projets
de prévention de l’abandon scolaire.
Au départ, nous avons posé deux questions, à savoir sur quelles bases se prend
la décision de retourner aux études et quels facteurs amènent les jeunes, le cas
échéant, à persévérer jusqu’à la diplomation. Résumons-nous.
Les écoles de raccrochage se présentent souvent comme écoles de la dernière
chance. Dernière parce qu’elles rejoignent de jeunes adultes qui ont eu un
parcours scolaire difficile. À l’école régulière, ils ont surtout appris qu’ils
n’étaient pas capables d’apprendre et pas assez importants pour être écoutés. La
14
marginalisation, l’infériorisation et l’infantilisation dont ils nous parlent, comme
l’abandon scolaire ou l’expulsion qui a suivi, sont le résultat de plusieurs années
“d’apprentissage,” et sur les bancs d’école et dans le milieu extra-scolaire.
La population étudiante se caractérise également par une situation familiale
marquée par l’instabilité. Les témoignages au sujet des circonstances entourant
l’abandon scolaire révèlent des relations conflictuelles avec leur entourage. Leur
situation économique, enfin, est des plus précaire. Les jeunes adultes, en quête
d’autonomie, ont quitté l’école pour aller travailler, mais leur insertion sur le
marché du travail a échoué: climat de travail déficient nous disent les femmes,
emplois peu rémunérateurs nous disent les hommes. Bref, leur faible scolarité et
l’absence de diplomation bloquent leur avenir; ils en ont conscience et tentent un
retour aux études.
Les jeunes qui ont “raccroché” soulignent que ce qui est le plus apprécié et
le plus différent de l’école régulière, c’est d’abord la qualité des rapports interpersonnels entre tous: la direction, les enseignants et enseignantes, le personnel
professionnel ainsi que les élèves. Toutes les écoles de raccrochage en ont fait
leur priorité; elle se traduit par de la disponibilité et de l’écoute active où on se
donne les conditions pour tenir compte de la réalité globale de chacun et chacune.
Les personnes interrogées livrent les caractéristiques principales de ces pratiques. Éminemment pédagogiques, celles-ci se définissent par des objectifs de
réussite éducative: transformation des attitudes, changement dans les comportements, adhésion à de nouvelles valeurs. L’action de l’école est axée sur le
développement de l’autonomie et sur ce qu’on appelle la “responsabilisation,”
c’est-à-dire une invitation à la prise en charge de sa propre vie; le principe de
coercition que l’on retrouve souvent à l’école régulière et qui se vit dans les
rapports adultes-enfants dans la famille est remplacé par une relation entre
adultes où chacun doit s’assumer. C’est une composante du processus de changement qui s’applique autant au rapport à la famille qu’au rapport à l’école. La
construction de cette relation prévoit le soutien moral et affectif, privilégie les
dimensions humaines et, en conséquence, introduit de la souplesse dans la
gestion des contraintes administratives. Cette nouvelle relation crée un espace où
chacun trouve une place. Il s’agit de déconstruire des schèmes de référence et
d’en construire de nouveaux. Que d’ex-décrocheurs nous déclarent aimer l’école
est très éloquent en soi quant à l’atteinte de ces objectifs. Les jeunes ont intégré
le message de l’école, à savoir que celle-ci peut constituer un milieu stimulant
et, surtout, qu’elle leur est accessible.
Pour atteindre la réussite scolaire, la problématique de la réinsertion scolaire
a rejoint celle de la réinsertion sociale. Une démarche d’évaluation des programmes de retour aux études devra tenir compte de cette dimension, car elle constitue une retombée extrêmement positive pour la société. C’est le cercle vicieux
de la pauvreté qui s’en trouve brisé.
15
NOTES
1
Les personnes intéressées pourront consulter les travaux de Forquin (1988), Trottier (1987),
Levesque et Sylvain (1982) ou Weiler (1988).
2
Les entrevues avec le personnel de direction, le personnel enseignant ainsi qu’avec les professionnels scolaires feront l’objet d’une analyse spécifique. Nous en avons cependant tiré certains
renseignements pouvant améliorer notre compréhension des témoignages étudiants.
3
Nous avons été témoins, dans deux écoles de retours aux études, de jeunes qui avaient entraîné
celui de l’un des deux parents. Il semble que la situation la plus fréquente soit celle du retour de
la fille suivi de celui de la mère.
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Miron, A. (1992). Décrocher afin de mieux raccrocher . . . ou décrocher pour ne pas s’accrocher
indûment. Revue québécoise de psychologie, 14, 115–121.
Pierrehumbert, P. (1992). J’aimerais aimer l’école. . . . In P. Pierrehumbert (Dir.), L’échec à l’école:
échec de l’école? (p. 177–212). Lausanne: Delachaux et Niestlé.
Radwanski, G. (1987). Étude sur le système d’éducation et les abandons scolaires en Ontario.
Toronto: Ministère de l’Éducation de l’Ontario.
17
St-Amant, J. C., Bouchard, P. et Berthelot, J. (1992–1993, hiver). Vers un bilan des pratiques de
raccrochage scolaire. Options, 6, 129–140.
Trottier, C. (1987). La “nouvelle” sociologie de l’éducation (Les Cahiers du Labraps). Québec:
Université Laval.
Violette, M. (1991). L’école . . . facile d’en sortir mais difficile d’y revenir: enquête auprès des
décrocheurs et décrocheuses. Québec: Ministère de l’Éducation du Québec, Direction de la
recherche.
Weiler, K. (1988). Women teaching for change: Gender, class and power. London: Bergin & Garvey.
Pierrette Bouchard est professeure au Département d’orientation, d’administration et d’évaluation en
éducation et Jean-Claude St-Amant est chercheur au Centre de recherche et d’intervention sur la
réussite scolaire (CRIRES), Faculté des sciences de l’éducation, Université Laval, Ste-Foy (Québec),
G1K 7P4.
Accountability: The Case of Accreditation
of British Columbia’s Public Schools
T. W. Maxwell
university of new england, australia
Post-industrial governments are demanding higher levels of accountability, not least in the
education sector. Accountability in British Columbia’s schools was initially based upon
inspectors’ reports. It evolved into an accreditation process. This article analyzes the
British Columbia public school accreditation process using an expanded model of accountability based on Lundgren (1990). The main subjects of discussion are the difficulty of
accreditation serving two audiences, and the nature of the accreditation manual.
Les gouvernements post-industriels exigent une responsabilisation accrue, y compris et
surtout dans le secteur de l’éducation. L’obligation de rendre compte dans les écoles de
la Colombie-Britannique a d’abord été fondée sur les rapports des inspecteurs, puis a
progressivement donné lieu à un processus d’agrément. Cet article analyse le processus
d’agrément des écoles publiques de la Colombie-Britannique en faisant appel à un modèle
élargi de responsabilité issu de Lundgren (1990). Les principaux thèmes abordés sont la
difficulté de l’agrément en présence de deux auditoires ainsi que la nature du manuel
d’agrément.
Post-industrial governments have been characterized as managerialist (Guba &
Lincoln, 1989). Many embrace a “new right” discourse (Angus, 1992; Apple,
1993; Dale & Ozga, 1993). In either description, accountability “down the line”
is a sine qua non. Accountability can be seen as a top-down means to ensure
efficient and effective services in “hard times.” Kogan (1986), however, has
defined accountability as an institutionalized form of responsibility backed by
authority in a power relationship (p. 30). In this article I examine the contrast
between the central political perspective and the local professional one in the
accountability of school systems in British Columbia.1 This contrast is developed
mainly through exploratory analysis of a few recent school accreditation reports
as well as an analysis of objectives in the centrally (i.e., provincial Ministry of
Education) developed accreditation manual.
Accountability within a system is complex. It is essentially a reciprocal relational responsibility. The authority requires a justification of what has been done
usually in return for its financial investment. This justification provides the basis
for dominance in the relationship. Furthermore, the evidence required in the
education sector is often difficult to produce. The emphasis in accountability can
be on finding out who is responsible for problems and then “fixing” them.
Sometimes this sharp edge of accountability, felt as blame, misconstrues the
18
CANADIAN JOURNAL OF EDUCATION
21, 1 (1996): 18–34
ACCREDITATION IN B.C. PUBLIC SCHOOLS
19
complex nature of the human enterprise. It is the context of effects that makes
determination of effect by cause(s) problematic (Guba & Lincoln, 1989). In a
similar vein, the tendency to construe accountability in education solely in
tangible output terms is to misconstrue the nature of education and so what it is
to be human. Nevertheless, as Cronbach et al. (1980) have pointed out, accountability has a legitimate and historic role (pp. 133–141).
Lundgren (1990) conceptualizes accountability as consisting of two dimensions, the local/central and the political/professional (pp. 30–31). Combining
these in a 2x2 matrix, it is relatively easy to explore the possible variants of accountability. In the case of education, accountability could be exercised through
the political centre (e.g., the provincial bureaucracy), perhaps in a form of
managerialism, or through the professional centre (e.g., professional subject
associations, the teachers’ union). Alternatively, it might be exercised through the
local political group (e.g., a local parent group like the Parents Advisory Council), or through a local professional group (e.g., the school teaching staff), as a
form of collegial professionality. Or accountability may consist of some combination of these. The latter is most likely, given the complexity of the school
context, especially when such things as media scrutiny and formal and informal
contacts between teachers and community members, teachers, and Board officers
are taken into account.
Consideration of accountability’s formal and informal dimensions is useful
because it highlights accountability’s human face. The distinction is largely
relational and to some extent procedural. Formal relations are exhibited in
established procedures recognized in statutes and practices that form the basis of
relations — in, for example, meeting procedures, formal reporting, the disciplinary
interview. Formal relations tend to be official and rule bound, perhaps to circumvent the affective side of relations but certainly in many cases to use authority
structures. They are also the mechanisms through which reciprocal responsibilities are fought out or negotiated, as when increased resources are required of the
authority. Informal relations exist where the relations are not set out or recorded.
In contrast to the formal, the informal tends to take advantage of affect, for
example in lobbying or in an appeal to friendship. It is the quality of the relationship that is important here. The power of the formal/informal dimension is
exercised in relation to other dimensions. For instance, informal, professional
power can be exercised more effectively on a teacher at the local as opposed to
the central level, simply because of the proximity and the day-to-day business
that needs to get done, and through the quality of relationships that can develop
over time. In Kogan’s (1990) terms, the formal/informal dimension takes the
affect into account.
Especially in hard times, teachers face extra political pressures to be accountable. At the same time, they continue to see the necessity of improving classroom and school practices from a professional and/or a social justice perspective.
Yet it can also be argued that improvement is also a responsibility of the political
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T. W. MAXWELL
centre. Here policy and/or structural initiatives are likely. In broad terms, improvement forms the third major focus of accountability, along with efficiency
and effectiveness (Taylor & Hill, 1993).
In reviewing the accountability practices, Taylor and Hill (1993) distinguish
between what they see as two basic types of accountability, quality assurance
(QA) and total quality management (TQM). This distinction is useful for my
purposes. QA has two objectives: efficiency and effectiveness (nicely aligned
with new right management thinking). On the other hand, improvement, together
with efficiency and effectiveness, is central to TQM. QA processes generate
justificatory information that can then flow from the subordinate to the higher
level of power. Such information is likely to be general in nature. QA as a form
of accountability becomes a centralized, political approach in which formal
relations play an important part. In contrast, TQM information essentially remains within the organization and is specific and context bound. TQM is thus an
approach to accountability that is localized, has a professional orientation, and
may well depend more heavily on informal relations.
In this article I consider the place of formal, central, political demands alongside local, professional needs. I offer a case study of a government system’s
process of state school accreditation in British Columbia. I contrast the immediacy of local improvement efforts with the framing of the central accountability
questions. In the analysis that follows, I show that the most recent form of
accreditation in B.C. schools can be viewed as a study of self-evaluation linked
to accountability. Kogan (1986) has identified such studies as necessary (p. 141).
BACKGROUND TO THE PRESENT ACCREDITATION PROCESS
Although the accreditation model of evaluation has been criticized as “too
lenient” and “rarely result[ing] in recommendations for reduced [resources]”
(House, 1993, pp. 67–68) as well as typically emphasizing the “intrinsic and not
the outcome criteria of education” (Stufflebeam & Webster, 1983, p. 32), accreditation in British Columbia has evolved to minimize some of these criticisms. A
brief history of school accreditation in B.C., which evolved from the inspection
model, provides background essential to understanding the present accreditation
process.
Accountability in school education in British Columbia, a concern especially
in times of economic adversity (Fleming, 1978), first became a concern in British
Columbia’s schools in the middle of the last century. A centrally determined,
formal, political system was developed, based on efforts of peripatetic inspectors.
Their qualitative judgments on the nature of teachers’ work and their workplaces
were the means by which the central authority hoped to ensure effective and
efficient schools. Whether schools were effective and efficient was judged partly
on the faithfulness of the use of centrally prescribed curriculum content. This
content and prescribed teaching practices were found, and are still found, in such
21
documents as the Manual of School Law (see, for instance, Province of British
Columbia, 1893, and Ministry of Education, 1991). The central authority was to
be provided with data about teachers and about schools. Such an accountability
mechanism prevailed until about the middle of the present century.
The Putman and Weir Report (1925) reasserted the importance of principals’
supervision of teachers and introduced the notion of school accreditation for the
purpose of pupil promotion. Internal and external reporting for accreditation
purposes were introduced. Standards were often evaluated through consideration
of graduation class results. In the 1940s and 1950s, inspection retained the
flavour of reporting on individual teachers. The inspector had always been both
inspector and administrator but by this time, the focus of the inspector’s early
work as an agent of the provincial government had altered; the inspector was
more district oriented than before. At about that same time, the teaching profession was finding its voice. Eventually, in 1958, the inspectorate for public
schools disappeared. By the 1970s teachers were made accountable to local officials, though the central authority still set the curriculum (Maxwell, 1993).
The post-World War II boom in school population and the burgeoning economy allowed the B.C. school system to develop. Schools were increasingly seen
as places for the development of human capital or for sorting by ability (Lundgren, 1990, p. 24). Liberalizing influences of the 1960s and early 1970s included
the cessation of provincial examinations at grade 12 and decreased specification
of curricula. The British Columbia Teachers’ Federation (BCTF) strengthened,
perhaps consistent with the governing New Democratic Party’s decentralization
policy, in the period 1973–1976.
Accreditation had become the process in which graduation schools were
required to participate to earn the “right to recommend.” With abolition of the
external examination system in the 1970s, the purpose of accreditation for
examination at grade 12, the “right to recommend” disappeared. Yet accreditation
continued (Gray, 1989, p. 41) and there were two clear audiences for the reports:
the central political and the local professional.
The idea of school self-improvement had been developing, facilitated by the
central authority’s internal assessment booklet (Ministry of Education, Science
and Technology, 1979). The booklet was to assist schools to develop internal
reports, which would complement the external team’s report. Both reports were
written for the school, trustees, and the Ministry (Gray, 1989, p. 41). The basis
of the booklet was the central authority’s conception of the nature of education
for B.C.’s schools. Successful schools were granted accredited status of one to
six years (six years implied a clean bill of health, two was a source of major
concern for those involved). This process was well received although there was
some uncertainty about between-school variation in status conferred (Gray, 1989,
p. 42). Accreditation developed in this way can be seen as a new, technological
control of the schools (Fleming, 1989, p. 68ff). As Fleming (1989) argued, it
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T. W. MAXWELL
consisted of policy formulation and the technical procedures to take the place of
“men in the field” (the inspectors). The information obtained via accreditation
was additional to the Ministry’s required gathering of data concerning a range
of school characteristics and reported in the statistical supplements to the annual
reports.
THE PRESENT ACCREDITATION PROCESS FOR SCHOOLS
For various reasons, near the end of the 1980s a review of accreditation was
initiated and the emphasis on the internal (insider) and the external (outsider)
reports was maintained. The review group recommended the following principles:
ongoing school improvement; systematic data collection; and systematic accountability through measurable goal attainment. In developing the central authority’s
guide, the notion of the school growth plan, the effective schools literature, and
retaining the outsider element of the process were also considered important
(Gray, 1989, p. 43). A conceptual framework, based on Ingram (1986, in Gray,
1989) and including “administrative leadership, professional attributes, learning
experiences and community relations” (Ingram, 1986, in Gray, 1989, p. 43) as
well as school culture, was central to the guide, since these focussed on the
school’s work. The review group adopted an essentially rational approach to
constructing the report: school growth plans were tied to the evaluation. These
plans guided self-improvement. Efficiency and effectiveness were not emphasized. Attributes of public schools (accessibility, relevance, equity, quality, and
accountability) were also considered important but their status in relation to the
Ingram conceptualization is unclear. Also, secondary schools were required be
accredited once every six years.
The Guide to the British Columbia Secondary Schools Accreditation Process
(Ministry of Education, 1988) retained the secondary school subject department
focus found in the 1979 manual (Ministry of Education, Science and Technology,
1979). The manual in the 1988 Guide, together with a number of support documents and training, formed the backbone of the accreditation process. The
manual is completed as a form of self evaluation; its structure follows the Ingram
categories of evaluation. Each category is divided into objectives (criteria). These
objectives were developed in a highly participative process in which representatives of teachers and the BCTF as well as Ministry officials took a central role.
There are opportunities to include additional criteria.
It takes a year or so for school communities to undertake accreditation. A
school community needs to develop an understanding of the criteria, gather data,
and make judgments that are incorporated into the internal report. These judgments take the form of levels of satisfaction measured against the criteria using
a Likert scale. More than a dozen steps are involved in this process, which is
demanding and time consuming. Often the process makes use of occasional
23
professional development days. Once the internal report, together with the school
growth plan, is complete, an external panel of peers “validates” the internal
findings, analyzes the former’s growth plans, and writes its own report. It is an
intensive week’s work.
The internal and external reports are sent to the Board and the Ministry. Once
the reports are approved, schools may apply for funds to undertake activities
associated with the school growth plans. Funds are provided according to a
formula based on school size. The money buys time for teachers to work on
concerns that they have determined and cannot be used for salaries, plant upgrading, or similar purposes (Gray, 1993). This availability of funds is a most
important development in recent times to support school growth plans. For large
schools these funds can be in the order of tens of thousands of dollars. Although
primary schools have not been subject to external accountability since the 1970s,
they have been able to volunteer for inclusion in the accreditation program since
1988 (Lim, 1989). They were likely to volunteer since there were development
funds available. Funding tied to improvement efforts is a crucial addition to a
process actively seeking self-improvement.
The most recent version of the intermediate and secondary accreditation
process (Ministry of Education, 1992b) has some changes. Central is an idea of
what it means to be educated (Ministry of Education, 1989b; Ministry of Education, 1992b, p. ix). A centrally determined process is advocated, largely based on
school departments as the functional unit. In a trial, however, interested schools
were invited to complete the report without the benefit of going through subject
departments, thereby allowing a focus on whole school concerns. This change to
a more holistic perspective in the 1992 transitional document was to bring the
Graduation School Manual in line with the Primary-Intermediate Manual. This
would appear to indicate increased interest in the school as the functional unit,
where an holistic view of the work of the school is apparently preferred over
subject department perspectives (Ministry of Education, 1993a).
In 1993, 40 secondary schools (about one-sixth the total) undertook accreditation. A larger number of elementary schools voluntarily did so. In November
1993, the Ministry of Education (1993b) announced that all 1300 (approximately)
elementary schools in the province would be required to undertake accreditation.
This effectively doubled annual demands on those responsible for accreditation.
A considerable amount of information is potentially available; some kind of
computer-based technology would be needed to take advantage of it all. The
Ministry analyzes the reports to determine school-level issues, and writes summaries that are used internally, for example, in annual report writing and program
evaluation. From 1993, accreditation information thus supplements comparative
statistical data collected by the Ministry, which is then provided to schools doing
accreditation (Bennett, 1993). The Ministry, however, expects school boards to
follow up on the reports from the schools and the external validating teams
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T. W. MAXWELL
(Bennett, 1993). Boards have been known to combine accreditation report data
with their own data and relieve principals of their positions. This occurs despite
the fact that accreditation is not intended to evaluate the principal’s work.
THE NATURE OF ACCREDITATION REPORTS
To obtain a picture of the nature of recent reports presented to the Ministry, I
undertook content analysis of a stratified, randomly selected sample of five
internal reports completed in 1993. At the time of data collection (November
1993) the corresponding external reports for two elementary schools were also
available and these were included in my analysis. The external reports of the
third elementary, the junior secondary, and the graduation school were not yet
available. The sample was small for two reasons. First, this was a preliminary
analysis and second, insufficient time precluded a greater number being analyzed.
Due to the sample being small it would be unwise to make any generalizations,
yet I believe a more comprehensive analysis would verify the following observations about the reports:
1. The conceptualization of the manual largely framed the reports.
2. There was great variety in reporting the contextualization of the school and
in use of centrally provided data.
3. The external validating committees in the two external reports disagreed with
up to a quarter of the satisfaction levels the school expressed on the 98
objectives. Invariably, the committees downgraded the achievement by one
Likert scale division. External committee comments were brief.
4. There was great variety in the school growth plans, in terms of their scope,
detail, and use of professional development. One school growth plan (not
externally validated) only loosely followed expressed reports about areas
needing improvement.
5. It was not possible to discern the relative importance or effect of the different kinds of evidence on each objective.
6. The graduation school report was three inches thick.
Many other impressions come to mind. One school, in particular, appeared to be
“going through the motions.” Perhaps this could be attributed to the cynicism of
busy teachers when they face a process over which they perceive they have little
control. It was evident, too, that such external team comments in the reports as
“frankness” and “risk taking” on the part of a school community must have
referred more to the discussions than to the internal report. These impressionistic
data suggest an analysis of reports and follow-up interviews would be a fruitful
avenue of research into such issues as the difficulties associated with distinctions
between the formal and informal dimensions of accountability, the dual nature
of the purposes of accreditation, and the variety of the audiences. The “leniency”
of the external team might also be explored.
25
Another problem concerns the reports’ conceptualization. The five reports I
studied varied little from the format (conceptualization) supplied. Furthermore,
of all the reports completed across the province, only a handful stepped outside
the conceptualization provided (Gray, 1993). Put another way, the conceptualization of the manual framed the evaluation. This is understandable since doing
so maximized the formal, central, political function. Consequently, the school
improvement function may be minimized, since improvement is context bound.
Questions of immediate and adjacent concern need to be raised in the stakeholders’ language. In the B.C. accreditation process, schools do not have their own
“voice,” they do not frame their own questions in their own way. This contrasts
with other systems of accountability in schools (e.g., Cuttance, 1993).
Use of the single conceptualization requires it to fit all situations. Alternatives,
such as a thematic approach or the use of the five attributes of effective schools
(above), consistent with the desire for an holistic perspective may better suit a
school’s quest for improvement. The possibility of alternatives appears necessary
in a devolved system such as that current in British Columbia. The practical
reality is, however, that busy teachers using a participative approach would be
loathe to develop their own conceptualization. The provision of a conceptualization in the manuals is thus understandable.
DISCUSSION
The present position of accreditation in B.C. schools appears to be transitional,
but it is also problematic in some respects. From the point of view of the central
authority, the desire to achieve an accountability system is understandable. Yet
it is apparent from the brief few sentences under “Accreditation” in the 1988/89
Annual Report (Ministry of Education, 1989a) that the data available from school
accreditation reports were apparently of little use, even though the annual report
is a classic means of accountability reporting available to government. There was
some increased awareness, however, of accreditation reports’ effect on the
system, as evidenced by the Ministry’s most recent Annual Report (Ministry of
Education, 1992a). Indeed, that Report suggested a much greater interest in
accountability generally, since school accreditation information and Board-level
information was reported more fully. Though the Ministry appears to use the data
minimally, an important point should not be lost: the accreditation process gives
the government certain credibility, since it can point to the process as part of its
accountability profile. At the same time, schools can take advantage of the
accreditation process, by turning it to their own use.
The accreditation process has two audiences: the system, for central, political
accountability and the local school, for professional purposes centred on improvement. This brings to mind House’s (1993) contention that “each . . . audience requires different evaluation information for purposes of accountability”
26
T. W. MAXWELL
(p. 35). Not to provide such different information leads to dysfunctionality or
misuse of information (House, 1990, in House, 1993, pp. 35–38).
In the accreditation reports there is much potential for misuse of information.
Misuse could stem from information that the system has about individuals. Such
information could be inappropriately used against a school, subject department,
or individual. In the accreditation reports cited there was little evidence of
participants’ positions, although these might have been inferred; subject areas
were specified. Actual misuse of information may well be apparent. I have
already noted that districts have been known to use accreditation report data
against individuals.
Dysfunctionality can also arise in the accreditation process and in the reports.
Individual, departmental, or school fears of the consequences of disclosure could
be sources of dysfunctionality; for example, non-disclosure may well deny availability of crucial, central political data. Fear of disclosure would be minimized
at the local, professional level where informal relations are good. Where these
relations are poor, however, non-disclosure could be expected. This latter point
would form part of the rationale for external team visits for data validation.
Dysfunctionality is also evident in the language of the objectives in the manual.
THE NATURE OF MANUAL OBJECTIVES
What kind of language was used in the manuals’ objectives? Was the language
sufficiently particular to affect teachers’ work? As all the reports studied used
these objectives, these are important questions. It is likely that teachers, particularly elementary school teachers, think in terms of individual students, small
groups, classes, sub-groups like “the girls in Grade 9,” and perhaps even cohorts.
Their knowledge of, and interest in, the pupils they teach is more specific and
context-bound than a collective term like “students” indicates. On the other hand,
bureaucrats are interested in more general issues.
To explore the language of the objectives, I analyzed the specificity of 108
objectives from the draft British Columbia Intermediate-Graduation Accreditation
Manual (Transitional) (Ministry of Education, 1992b). My hypothesis was that
the objectives would be more general than specific in terminology, especially
where they refer to people; collective nouns would not be qualified. The key
collective nouns were “students” (also “learners”), “school,” and “staff” (also
“teachers”). These collective nouns were not qualified in, respectively, 96%,
74%, and 74% of citations. In other words, participants in the accreditation
process were asked to make broad judgments about general situations, situations
that may well suit accountability at the system level but are less suitable as a
basis for action in a particular context. Teachers are inclined to answer questions
such as “students demonstrate success in reasoning and thinking independently”
in terms similar to “it depends.” More colourful language is easily imaginable.
Yet, one can envisage teachers fulfilling formal accreditation requirements simply
27
by ticking a box. At the same time, they might use the objective like a criterion
on a checklist for what they think might need improvement in their particular
school.
In many ways it is analysis of the objectives themselves that highlights the
more important questions. For such objectives as “students demonstrate success
in acquiring a lifelong appreciation of learning,” it is difficult to imagine how
teachers can gather evidence about this. Or, for the very first objective, “students
demonstrate success in acquiring basic learning skills,” one is forced to ask if the
centre already has these kinds of data from other sources.
DISCUSSION
These latter observations suggest that the central bureaucracy is not really
interested in the data, a suggestion supported by the observation that the data
would not allow questions of equity, access, and the like to be addressed. Furthermore, it is difficult to see just what system-wide teacher perceptions of
satisfaction, beyond some indication of teachers’ general satisfaction, could
actually mean to a central bureaucrat.
Nor do the central authorities appear to make much use of these data. Considering first the central authority bureaucrats, it is understandable that they would
not be especially interested since they have other sources of data. Also, they do
not want to know about the schools themselves. This is particularly true of
schools that need “fixing.” What would they know about schools? That is not
their work. Few of the top 20 or so people who hold management positions in
the Ministry have a background in education. Of course the information is of
interest to the 74 Boards, but they already are close enough to know where
trouble exists. To receive community confirmation, however, adds credibility to
the Boards’ own findings. It is interesting to note that current developments are
consistent with the BCTF Executive Committee’s desire for “authentic, democratic accountability systems [to] center on goals set by teachers, parents and
students in the context of the school community” (BCTF, 1990, p. 5). Yet the
goals, set out as objectives in the manuals, are largely those of the centre.
Procedurally, the manual adopts a rational approach; it does so conceptually
as well in that many objectives are specified. With this in mind, it is reasonable
to suppose that objectives set out in the manuals act as a checklist for teachers.
As they participate in dialogue, they make the distinctions important to their
context. It is also likely that teachers redefine the objectives or develop their own
meaning for them. Thus the objectives become “goals set by teachers.” To this
extent, teachers do have a degree of control. One important lesson from the
critique of the objectives model, however, is the importance of unintended
effects. This is only marginally attended to by the manual’s suggestion that other
objectives can be added by each school. My preliminary analysis indicates this
option was seldom used.
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T. W. MAXWELL
In reporting the data generated from a consideration of objectives, school
communities know more than they say. This is particularly true of individuals in
the school. Clearly many data concerning the nature of particular teachers’ work
do not find their way into the report, in contrast to other school accountability
systems (e.g., Education Review Office, 1993). Such questions are not usually
asked, at least formally. Part of the reason why such questions are not asked lies
in the important role of the BCTF in the accreditation process and education
generally — a matter that cannot be taken up here. The promise the notion “accountability” holds for the committed employee may or may not be realized.
Particularly where local professional relations are poor, teachers will hope the
power vested in the centralized political process will act in the local professional
interest. One can understand highly professional teachers’ cynicism in a process
ostensibly concerned with accountability but which does not result in action
related to particular teachers’ and other school workers’ effectiveness and
efficiency.
IMPLICATIONS
My analysis suggests that a promising initiative has some difficulties. In the
spirit that processes evolve over time and improvements can be made, what then
might be done for the current accreditation process already established in B.C.
schools?
A way forward may be through consideration of the unit of analysis. In doing
so, the question of accreditation serving both audiences can be addressed. Historically, accountability of schools was exercised through the work of individual
teachers and largely determined through the inspector’s qualitative judgments.
Some systems have used standardized tests to provide evidence of accountability.
But the use of students as the formal unit of analysis is fundamentally flawed
unless contextual variables are included in the analysis, and in the reporting.
Particularly important contextual factors are those attributes of the students
themselves and their backgrounds (see Raphael, 1993). This is not to say that
student results are not appropriate sources of data. Student outcome data can be
gathered carefully by using such techniques as light sampling (Kogan, 1986).
Careful item selection is also important, especially in relation to class, race, and
gender. Lundgren (1990) makes an important distinction about the unit of analysis for accountability when he says that standardized testing
will not tell how well a knowledge structure is covered, but how well the students differentiate in relation to knowledge. It will thus provide the relative relation between the
individual students in the system and leaving the system, but not how the content has
been transmitted and the goals achieved, neither will it give a basis for decisions for
change linked to political means such as resource allocation and in-service training. (p.
39)
29
This is a crucial distinction. Calls for more standardized tests as a form of
system accountability are misguided. Standardized testing can, however, act as
a basis for establishing benchmarks or norms, as Kogan (1986) points out in
relation to the Assessment of Performance Unit (APU) in the U.K.:
Such a body as the APU is potentially tied to the authority system but is not of it. It does
not exact accountability from teachers. But it may help to set the norms, to which
teachers might increasingly respond and to which managers might turn as reference points
when they hold teachers accountable. (p. 72)
Teachers’ fears concerning a national testing unit can be seen as another example
of the political/professional tension. In the United Kingdom such fears have been
realized. A boycott occurred in 1993, following the 1988 Education and Reform
Act that established national testing at ages 7, 11, 14, and 16. These tests were
operationalized as a complex system of performance assessments first administered in 1991 (National Center for Fair and Open Testing, 1993, pp. 12, 13). The
focus on the individual student (as the unit of analysis) is more in the realm of
interest of teachers and parents. This is not to say that the data concerning
students, teachers, and schools are unrelated. Data about the one will affect the
other. The important point is that reporting of the data to the audience must be
clear about the unit of analysis. Furthermore, it is not the students that are being
paid, and they are required by law to attend. It is the teachers who accept salaries
and so accept the difficult responsibility of teaching as a matter of choice. It is
tempting to make them the unit of analysis in accountability. Teacher responsibility entails determination of the curriculum, its implementation, and its evaluation,
including assessment of students. Questions concerning the nature of teachers’
work are a prerogative that teachers’ unions have jealously guarded but rarely
exercised as a form of central professional accountability.
If neither students nor teachers are appropriate units for system accountability,
yet data concerning them may be of interest to teachers and schools in their quest
for improvement, what then might be the way forward? The normative approach
Kogan (1990) adopted for development of the evaluation of the new, devolved,
Norwegian education system has elements that may solve many of the difficulties. It would, of course, be dangerous to try to translate what might be
appropriate for one country to another, but the conceptualization is of interest.
It refers, particularly, to the central/local and political/professional dimensions of
accountability. In a number of respects, elements of the approach are already
evident in British Columbia’s overall accountability strategy. Broadly speaking
there is an interest in the functions of different levels of the education system,
which in the B.C. context means the provincial, board, and school levels. My
analysis indicates a differentiation of concerns at the different levels of the
system, then indicates the kinds of data needed to support the functions at these
different levels.
30
T. W. MAXWELL
What seems to be important is the interaction between levels of the system.
The level below is of interest to the level above in terms of responsibility for
services including curriculum implementation. The level below is interested in
the level above in terms of responsibility for resource allocation. Furthermore,
concerns about improvement are also located adjacent to the level and its functions. Immediate concerns can thus be addressed to effect improvements at the
level at which they arise. Data that have been collected may be used, but not
necessarily for more than one purpose, as Kogan indicates. Each level is thus
free to develop its interest or focus. The central authority will be concerned with
knowledge and equity concerns, among others, at the provincial level. For those
at the school level, the concern is practices of teachers, as individuals and in
groups, as well as the effect of the whole school effort; this may well point to
a need to develop school-focussed conceptual frameworks.
The work of schools, perhaps in relation to the school attributes, would be the
Boards’ primary interest, and Boards might well develop an alternative conceptual framework for accreditation. This would lead to the disappearance of the
pre-conceptualization of the accreditation process by the province. Some school
boards may need to investigate further ways they can affect schools as a result
of their analysis of the school accreditation reports. Provincial interest in schools
would be largely through the Boards, where policy matters would be the main
subject of discussion. The relationship between these two levels, however, is of
particular concern in British Columbia, as Boards there are elected. An elected
provincial government is unlikely to make judgments about the work of another
elected body in the present climate, although this has happened in the past. For
instance, the Vancouver School Board’s trustees were recently dismissed, in
effect, for indicating to the central government that they needed more money to
do the job of educating in their district. It seems that Boards are there to play the
game of following the provincial government’s economic dictates while at the
same time being the lightning rod for local criticism. In other words, the Boards’
role can be construed as deflecting criticism from the centre. If this is the
intention, it is a good managerial tactic.
What then of the professional part of the professional/political dimension of
accountability? For it to operate alongside the central/local political framework
outlined above, professional institutions and individuals would have to accept
new roles. Immediately such a normative proposition faces practical difficulties.
It is easy to prescribe what others should do. The professional side of accountability would have to be strengthened, especially since in the present climate it
is unlikely that political accountability processes will affect individuals’ work.
It is at the level of schools and teachers that professional accountability might
come to the fore, although professional accountability would be evident at all
levels. Common central institutional (union) assumptions concerning automatic
and continued competence would have to be replaced. A conception of human
31
fallibility, with the possibility that individuals and groups need support to do
things more effectively, could be entertained. Similarly, at the local level new
forms of professional assertiveness may well need to be developed. In this view,
accountability is a also professional responsibility. Whether teachers would
welcome a sensitive profession-based accountability procedure is an interesting
question.
In relation to the formal/informal dimension, the formal aspects appear to
increase the further the local/central levels are separated, because informal
contacts diminish. It is also important to maintain a degree of formality at all
levels to invoke legal, ideological, and economic responsibility when needed.
Two situations can illustrate this point. The difficult situation where responsibility has been determined not to have been carried out by an individual might best
be addressed formally. Approaches to the level above for a resource distribution
other than that provided may well benefit from being more formal. Unions, too,
need their forms of formality. Conversely, the informal dimension has particular
importance within and between adjacent levels, and especially in schools.
British Columbia teachers may be able to take advantage of the transitional/
developmental nature of accreditation as it is presently organized in B.C. schools.
For practical reasons, school communities might continue to use the Ministry
manuals as the basis for their reporting to Boards, even to the centre, as well as
using it as a form of checklist. In forming their views about the given objectives,
teachers might make good use of the comments section of the report manual,
perhaps expanding its use to develop the particular perspectives and interests of
the school and the schools’ relationship to the community and the society at
large. Here the special character and concerns of the school could be recorded.
Consideration would need to be given to unintended effects in the school, and
the potential of alternative conceptions such as those that could be derived from
the five school attributes. This means, of course, that there will need to be
caution in the ways that comments are recorded. Meanings in the report may
only touch the surface of the understandings of the people in the school context.
The draft report would look quite different from the final version.
In this conceptualization of accountability, the professional unions retain some
control over the nature of their members’ work (through the College of Teachers?) and the central authority retains some control over the work of schools, but
only through the interest of the school boards. Putting this another way, teachers
would be accountable for their actions to their peers (locally and/or centrally);
schools would be accountable to the Boards; Boards would be accountable to the
province. Accreditation could play an important part in accountability, particularly in the formal, political side, through the report as a product. This is the
Quality Assurance side of the process. It is in the accreditation process that local
political and professional aspects of accountability can be brought to the fore,
especially in the informal relationships that develop. These might be tested in
32
T. W. MAXWELL
some form of assertiveness based upon known forms of evidence. Although in
some schools such demands may be overpowering, the interest in improvement
emphasizes the Total Quality Management form of accountability.
CONCLUSION
Accreditation in the schools in British Columbia has moved from an accountability idea developed in the Putman and Weir Report in 1925, for the right to
recommend in some secondary schools, to a compulsory process for all schools
from 1994 onwards. Now the accreditation process carries with it an accountability function that gives accountability a visibility for the government. The
Ministry manuals, participatively developed by teachers and Ministry officials,
frame the accreditation process and product. In this way the system, devoid of
its inspectors, has a technology to contribute to the steering of the legal, economic, and ideological systems. In developing the manuals to support accreditation, the steering is (1) ideological, since a conception of the “educated person”
from the mandate statement, as well as the objectives, frame the manuals; (2)
economic, via the scrutiny of the school growth plans and generally through the
overview of resources; and (3) legal, in the sense that the authority has a mandate from government to demand accountability. These same manuals support the
schools’ efforts for improvement and, upon completion, allow funds to be
available for schools’ improvement.
Improvement efforts derive from a consideration of objectives set out in the
manuals. It is in the very looseness of these objectives that the schools are given
room to develop particularized, context-specific versions of what is going on in
their schools. These accounts then form the basis of their plans for school
growth, using the financial support available. A slavish adherence to the form
and procedure of the manuals, however, is likely to inhibit the improvement
function. There are three reasons for this: the manuals’ use of a particular
conceptual framework, the language of the objectives, and the lack of consideration of unintended effects.
In my foregoing analysis, the Lundgren (1990) conceptualization of political/
professional and local/centre dimensions, enhanced by the addition of the
informal/formal dimension, were found to be helpful. Kogan’s (1990) normative
proposal was in turn suggested as a potential way forward for this important
initiative in an education system. I advocated increased professional commitment,
to allow action locally and at the centre. Although some important criticisms
have been made of the accreditation process, there are ways forward for schools
undergoing accreditation using the present system.
It is also clear that further research is needed in the area of system-supported
improvement efforts accompanied by, or parallel to, effectiveness and efficiency
requirements. (The relationship between QA and TQM in a large system such as
33
an education department may well provide interesting developments in the area
of accountability.) British Columbia is not the only education system taking this
path. Such questions as the apparent contradiction of centre political demands
and local professional improvement efforts need to be addressed in other systems. The extent of teacher cynicism, the role of teacher union(s), the roles of
key personnel (especially of the school principal), and the role of community
members and students in the accountability process, including direct involvement
in deliberations, are fruitful arenas for research.
NOTE
1
The author thanks Shmuel Shamai, Larry Gray, members of the University of British Columbia’s
Brown Bag seminar group in the Faculty of Education, and the reviewers, for their helpful
comments; Walter Werner, for stimulating a number of points in discussion; and the Centre for
the Study of Curriculum and Instruction, University of British Columbia for support during this
research.
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England, Armidale, N.S.W. 2351, Australia.
Le technicien en assistance sociale affecté
à la prévention de l’abandon scolaire
Marie McAndrew
Anne St-Pierre
Wendy Cumming-Potvin
université de montréal
Cet article examine le phénomène actuel du décrochage scolaire qui a des répercussions
sérieuses pour le système scolaire québécois. Une recherche-action a été menée auprès des
décideurs, des intervenants scolaires, des élèves et des parents dans quatre écoles secondaires situées en milieu socio-économiquement faible sur l’île de Montréal. Une analyse
qualitative des données recueillies évalue l’impact de la mesure “technicien en assistance
sociale” et suscite des interrogations afin d’améliorer sa mise en oeuvre. Les résultats
corroborent certaines conclusions d’autres études portant sur le décrochage et l’échec
scolaire.
This article looks at the current phenomenon of dropping out, which has serious repercussions for the Quebec school system. We conducted an action research project with
policy makers, educational personnel (including principals, teachers, psychologists, and
social service workers), students, and parents in four secondary schools in low socioeconomic areas on the island of Montreal. Our qualitative analysis of the data evaluates
the impact of the “social service worker” initiative, and gives rise to questions aimed at
improving its implementation. Our results corroborate certain conclusions from other
studies of dropping out and academic failure.
PROBLÉMATIQUE
Dans les années soixante, la réforme scolaire québécoise a été mise en place au
nom de la démocratisation de l’enseignement. Paradoxalement, le système
d’éducation actuel est incapable de retenir une partie importante de sa clientèle,
notamment celle située en milieu socio-économiquement défavorisé. En effet,
bien que le phénomène du décrochage touche l’ensemble des systèmes scolaires
occidentaux, il atteint au Québec des sommets inégalés. À titre d’exemple, 35%
des jeunes Québécois de moins de 20 ans n’obtiennent pas leur diplôme du
secondaire (Gouvernement du Québec, 1992a). De plus, les résultats de plusieurs
études permettent de constater qu’il existe une corrélation entre le taux d’abandon scolaire et le taux de défavorisation (Conseil scolaire de l’île de Montréal,
1984; Gouvernement du Québec, 1993; Hrimech, Théorêt, Hardy et Gariépy,
1993b). Dans certains quartiers défavorisés montréalais, la proportion de jeunes
âgés entre 15 et 24 ans qui n’ont pas complété une formation de niveau secon35
21, 1 (1996): 35–49
36
MARIE MCANDREW, ANNE ST-PIERRE ET WENDY CUMMING-POTVIN
daire atteint même 49% (Concertation Jeunesse Hochelaga-Maisonneuve, 1987).
À l’opposé, d’après les statistiques du Gouvernement du Québec (1992b), pour
l’année scolaire 1989–1990, le taux de diplômation à la commission scolaire
Lakeshore était de 98%. De telles réalités imposent une réflexion sur l’adaptation
de l’école publique à une clientèle de plus en plus diversifiée.
Une fois ce constat fait, force est d’admettre que le phénomène du décrochage
n’est pas facile à cerner. Plusieurs profils du décrocheur potentiel ont été élaborés par les chercheurs (Akari et Takeshita, 1991; Bloch, 1991; Daoust, 1988;
Pilon, 1991; Rogus et Wildenhaus, 1991). Celui-ci posséderait généralement une
ou plusieurs des caractéristiques suivantes: faible rendement scolaire, faible
estime de soi, attitude négative par rapport à l’école, vision irréaliste de lui-même
et de ses capacités, manque de modèle positif d’identification, manque d’habiletés interpersonnelles et de capacité de résolution de problèmes.
Cependant, le phénomène de l’abandon scolaire ne peut être imputé uniquement aux caractéristiques des élèves. Cette perspective compensatoire attribuant
l’échec scolaire aux retards cumulatifs dans le développement langagier, cognitif
et socio-affectif des enfants provenant des milieux défavorisés fut retenue depuis
les années cinquante jusqu’aux années quatre-vingt. À cause de l’échec des
programmes compensatoires, la thèse du déficit est remplacée aujourd’hui par
une explication plus complexe. Le succès ou l’insuccès scolaire est influencé par
plusieurs facteurs tels que les caractéristiques personnelles de l’élève, son milieu
familial et l’organisation scolaire qui s’avère souvent inadaptée aux habiletés et
aux aptitudes des enfants de milieu défavorisé (Conseil scolaire de l’île de
Montréal, 1991; Drolet, 1991; Hohl, 1985, 1993; Hrimech, Théorêt, Hardy et
Gariépy, 1993a, 1993b). En particulier, la relation maître-élève semble être au
coeur des difficultés que vivent ces élèves. À cet égard, plusieurs recherches
tendent à démontrer que le manque d’autorité des enseignants, l’indifférence de
ceux-ci face à la réussite scolaire ou face à l’élève lui-même ainsi que la taille
de l’école et le peu de stimulation offert par les programmes sont des facteurs
favorisant l’abandon scolaire (Brubaker, 1991; Bryk et Thum, 1989; Kammoun,
1991; Le Blanc et Janosz, 1992; Quinn, 1991; Wehlage et Rutter, 1986).
Face à une problématique en pleine émergence, on assiste depuis quelques
années, autant au Québec que dans le reste de l’Amérique du Nord, à l’implantation d’un éventail de programmes de prévention de l’abandon scolaire. Dans le
cadre de cet article, il est impossible de faire une recension complète des écrits
examinant le sujet. Cependant, il ressort de nombreuses recherches que des
solutions réalistes au décrochage scolaire doivent tenir compte concurremment
des variables reliées aux caractéristiques personnelles de l’élève, à son milieu
familial et à son milieu scolaire (Brubaker, 1991; Kammoun, 1991; Nardini et
Antes, 1991; Quinn, 1991; Rogus et Wildenhaus, 1991). De plus, une concertation des diverses politiques et pratiques éducatives est nécessaire au succès
scolaire et à l’assiduité chez les élèves considérés à risque.
TECHNICIEN EN ASSISTANCE SOCIALE ET L’ABANDON SCOLAIRE
37
PRÉSENTATION DU PROJET
Le contexte
Dans la foulée des interventions qui ont été implantées en milieu défavorisé
depuis plus de vingt ans, le ministère de l’Éducation du Québec a lancé un
nouveau plan d’action visant à contrer l’échec scolaire sur l’île de Montréal
(Pagé, 1991). Le plan Pagé portait sur une mesure alimentaire et une série de
mesures pédagogiques, notamment la maternelle cinq ans à plein temps, les
études dirigées au primaire et l’adjonction de techniciens en assistance sociale
au secondaire. Touchant une vingtaine d’écoles dans quatre commissions scolaires de l’île de Montréal, la mesure affectant un technicien en assistance
sociale à la prévention de l’abandon scolaire (t.a.s.) prévoit l’octroi de onze
salaires professionnels, servant à engager, selon les besoins de chacune des
commissions scolaires, une vingtaine de personnes à temps plein ou à temps
partiel. Les employés sont affectés à l’accompagnement et au soutien personnalisé des élèves du secondaire qui présentent des problèmes d’absentéisme et
sont susceptibles d’abandonner leurs études. Malgré son caractère modeste en
terme budgétaire, l’ajout de cette mesure mérite qu’on s’y attarde, principalement pour deux raisons. D’une part, sa souplesse pourrait lui permettre de
constituer un excellent déclencheur d’une mobilisation du milieu. D’autre part,
c’est la seule intervention dans l’ensemble du plan Pagé visant spécifiquement
le secondaire. Commanditant le projet d’évaluation intégrée à l’action éducative
de la mesure “technicien en assistance sociale” au secondaire en milieux socioéconomiquement faibles, moins d’un an après son implantation, le Conseil
scolaire de l’île de Montréal a confié deux mandats aux chercheurs: soutenir les
milieux impliqués face à la mise en oeuvre de la mesure et évaluer l’impact de
la mesure vis-à-vis de la prévention de l’abandon scolaire dans les milieux
concernés.
Considérations méthodologiques
L’évaluation d’une mesure aussi ponctuelle a présenté plusieurs écueils. Premièrement, il était difficile d’isoler l’impact spécifique de cette mesure parmi
l’ensemble des diverses interventions professionnelles et des différents programmes visant la prévention de l’abandon scolaire. Deuxièmement, il y avait
danger de confondre les effets de la mesure avec une évaluation du rendement
et des compétences individuelles des personnes à qui l’on avait confié cette
tâche. Enfin, une étude longitudinale de l’impact effectif et direct du technicien
en assistance sociale sur le taux d’abandon scolaire était difficilement réalisable
à cause des limites budgétaires du mandat d’évaluation ainsi que de la création
récente de la mesure et de son implantation précipitée.
38
Dans cette veine, inspirés des travaux de Guba et Lincoln (1989), nous avons
privilégié une approche de recherche-action dite “intégrée à l’action éducative.”
Cette dernière se distingue des évaluations antérieures, puisqu’elle conçoit
l’évaluation comme une transaction entre les différents partenaires (intervenants
scolaires, chercheurs et décideurs). Une telle perspective tient compte de l’expérience des acteurs afin d’améliorer l’intervention plutôt que de la mettre à
l’épreuve. Ainsi, la dimension interactive de l’évaluation permet d’impliquer les
divers partenaires dans la définition des objectifs de la mesure et des moyens
d’évaluation. Ce courant de recherche présuppose que les questions posées par
les intervenants sont légitimes et que l’évaluation s’avère pertinente dans la
mesure où les résultats facilitent la tâche des acteurs auxquels ils sont destinés
(Hohl et McAndrew, 1993).
Le déroulement de la recherche
Les porteurs de dossiers au sein des commissions scolaires participantes (la
Commission des écoles catholiques de Montréal [CECM] et la Commission des
écoles protestantes du grand Montréal [CEPGM]) ont ciblé quatre écoles secondaires comme étant représentatives des problèmes de défavorisation vécus sur
l’île de Montréal, de la structure complexe de services (pédagogiques et psychosociaux) et de la diversité des clientèles. Trois de ces écoles font partie du
secteur français de l’une ou l’autre des deux commissions scolaires, la quatrième
faisant partie du secteur anglais. Une école accueille une population majoritairement de souche québécoise francophone et résidente du quartier environnant. La
population de deux d’écoles est composée majoritairement d’étudiants allophones
de plus ou moins récente immigration (Haïtiens ou Latino-américains, Grecs ou
Portugais). Une dernière école reçoit principalement des élèves de souche anglosaxonne ou italienne.
Le projet, qui a duré 18 mois, s’est déroulé en deux étapes. La première, de
mars 1992 à juin 1992, à caractère exploratoire, a permis de solliciter l’expertise
de l’ensemble des intervenants concernés par la mise en oeuvre de la mesure
“technicien en assistance sociale affecté à la prévention de l’abandon scolaire”
et de les impliquer dans un processus réflexif à cet égard. La seconde, de janvier
1993 à juin 1993, à caractère davantage évaluatif, visait à recueillir les perceptions des élèves bénéficiaires du service et de leurs parents quant à l’impact de
l’action du technicien en assistance sociale sur leur vécu scolaire. Durant tout le
processus, les résultats concernant les divers modèles de la mise en oeuvre de la
mesure furent communiqués aux intervenants scolaires et réajustés suite aux
commentaires de ces derniers.
Une combinaison de trois instruments de collecte d’information a été utilisée:
l’observation directe dans les écoles participantes, l’entrevue semi-dirigée et
l’analyse documentaire. Les données recueillies ont été traitées et analysées selon
39
les techniques suggérées par Van der Maren (1990) et Contandriopoulos, Champagne, Potvin, Denis et Boyle (1990). D’abord, les entrevues ont été enregistrées
intégralement sur bande sonore. Ensuite, afin de les décomposer en éléments plus
simples, l’analyse s’est déroulée en six étapes: la détermination des unités
d’analyse, la classification des thèmes, la quantification des résultats, la comparaison, l’interprétation et la validation.
LA RECHERCHE EXPLORATOIRE AUPRÈS DES INTERVENANTS SCOLAIRES
La description du processus
Les canevas d’entrevue semi-dirigée, adaptés aux fonctions de nos répondants
(porteurs de dossiers des commissions scolaires, directions, enseignants, professionnels, techniciens en assistance sociale affectés à la mesure), portaient
essentiellement sur les points suivants:
(a) les caractéristiques de l’école et de son milieu;
(b) la perception des problèmes auxquels sont confrontés les écoles en milieux
défavorisés;
(c) la perception des phénomènes d’absentéisme et d’abandon scolaire et le
profil des élèves présentant des problèmes de fréquentation scolaire;
(d) la description générale des objectifs poursuivis par les projets de l’école;
(e) les modalités d’application de la mesure t.a.s.;
(f) les opinions quant aux modalités, aux objectifs poursuivis par la mesure et
aux changements souhaités;
(g) la perception de l’impact de la mesure; et
(h) les recommandations quant à l’évaluation de la mesure.
Afin de favoriser une liberté d’expression chez les intervenants scolaires, les
entrevues se sont effectuées individuellement ou par petits groupes homogènes,
selon le statut professionnel des participants. Lors de 16 réunions, les intervenants suivants ont été rencontrés: quatre directeurs d’école, huit professionnels,
25 enseignants (de niveaux et de champs variés) et huit techniciens en assistance
sociale.
La perception de la situation par les intervenants
Il ressort des entrevues auprès des intervenants scolaires deux grandes catégories
de problèmes particuliers aux milieux défavorisés: les enjeux liés à la défavorisation socio-économique du milieu et ceux liés à l’organisation scolaire. D’abord,
la défavorisation socio-économique du milieu est identifiée comme l’un des
facteurs de l’abandon scolaire. La majorité des intervenants scolaires interviewés
insistent sur le problème de l’instabilité familiale vécue par l’adolescent (déracinement familial, intégration dans une famille reconstituée, garde partagée).
40
Plusieurs témoignages évoquent le manque de modèles favorables à la construction d’une identité et à l’élaboration de projets d’avenir chez les familles vivant
dans des situations socio-économiquement précaires. Les jeunes sont perçus
comme étant laissés à eux-mêmes et peu encouragés dans leurs activités scolaires. De plus, certaines caractéristiques de l’élève (retard scolaire accumulé,
difficulté à progresser au rythme de son groupe-classe, faible estime de soi et une
attitude négative face à l’école) sont mentionnées comme des facteurs pouvant
contribuer au laisser-aller et à la démotivation.
Cependant, puisque la majorité des répondants remettent en question l’organisation du milieu scolaire, les difficultés vécues par les élèves ne sont pas
imputées uniquement à la situation socio-économique de leur famille. Des
variables reliées aux politiques et aux pratiques qui témoignent d’un système
d’éducation peu adapté à une clientèle socio-culturellement diversifiée sont
également évoquées. Parmi ces variables, on compte le manque de programmes
et d’approches pédagogiques ajustés aux besoins de la population scolaire, les
politiques d’affectation du personnel enseignant (faible taux de roulement, faible
mobilité, lent renouvellement du personnel d’une école) et le manque de
communication et de concertation entre les différents intervenants scolaires.
L’incompatibilité existant entre les valeurs des adolescents et celles de l’école est
également soulignée dans les propos des techniciens et des professionnels. En
particulier, une mauvaise relation maître-élève est perçue comme étant un
élément pouvant provoquer la démotivation des élèves.
Par ailleurs, les séances d’observation effectuées sur le site de recherche
révèlent que dans certains milieux, il existe de nombreuses mesures palliatives
autres que celle du t.a.s. Par contre, peu de stratégies de concertation sont
entreprises pour freiner l’abandon scolaire ou pour prévenir les facteurs pouvant
engendrer ce processus. Bien que certains directeurs d’école et professionnels
souhaitent réinvestir l’école non seulement en tant que milieu d’apprentissage,
mais également comme un milieu de vie, peu d’entre eux réussissent à former
des comités de travail efficaces visant à contrer l’abandon scolaire ou à organiser
des activités parascolaires pouvant susciter l’intérêt des élèves ciblés comme des
décrocheurs potentiels.
L’état de la mise en oeuvre de la mesure t.a.s.
Dans l’ensemble des milieux rencontrés, la mesure “technicien en assistance
sociale affecté à la prévention de l’abandon scolaire” vise le même objectif:
augmenter le contact direct avec l’adolescent et son milieu de vie (parent, amis,
etc.), afin de contrôler sa fréquentation scolaire. Cependant, lors de la collecte
de données, deux modèles de mise en oeuvre de la mesure ont émergé, ce qui
correspond aux conceptions différentes des deux commissions scolaires participantes.
41
La CEPGM propose un modèle d’“intervention de masse” et procède à l’embauche d’agents de milieu.1 Le profil de “travailleurs de rue” de ces personnes
les rend particulièrement aptes à interagir de façon non formelle avec l’ensemble
de la population étudiante. Les gestionnaires souhaitent qu’ils représentent des
modèles d’identification positifs auprès des adolescents. Les personnes embauchées sont généralement de sexe masculin, poursuivent des études universitaires
de niveau baccalauréat et sont membres d’une communauté ethnique représentative de la population étudiante. Dans chacune des écoles, les agents de milieu,
regroupés dans une équipe (deux à quatre personnes selon le nombre d’élèves),
assurent une présence non formelle (durant les périodes de transition, de récréation et de dîner), auprès de l’ensemble de la population étudiante, même s’ils
interviennent principalement auprès des élèves jugés à risque. Leurs interventions
préventives sont variées: communication téléphonique ou convocation des
parents, émission et suivi d’avis disciplinaires, rencontre avec les élèves dépistés,
référence de ces élèves à des services spécialisés, soutien scolaire et organisation
d’activités para-scolaires.
Les écoles appartenant à la CECM ont adopté un modèle d’intervention plus
traditionnel en embauchant des techniciens en assistance sociale qui possèdent
une formation technique du cégep en sciences sociales. Étant donné que le
technicien travaille dans un champ d’intervention professionnelle spécifique au
sein de l’équipe multidisciplinaire, il est engagé en fonction de sa capacité à
réaliser des interventions psycho-sociales. Souvent, il est le seul à occuper cette
fonction à l’école et il assure parfois un service à mi-temps dans deux établissements scolaires.
La tâche du technicien comprend des activités de type curatif et préventif.
Premièrement, il effectue un counselling auprès des élèves présentant des problèmes d’assiduité ou de comportement. Le dépistage est effectué à partir des
feuilles de présence et des références suggérées par les intervenants du milieu.
Selon les besoins des élèves, les séances de counselling se déroulent individuellement ou en petits groupes et peuvent s’écouler sur une ou plusieurs semaines. De
telles séances ont pour but d’aider les élèves à préciser leurs difficultés par les
techniques “d’écoute active” ainsi que de proposer des pistes d’action réalistes.
Le technicien peut également rencontrer la famille afin de soutenir davantage les
élèves dans leurs stratégies de résolution de problèmes. Enfin, le technicien
réalise des interventions préventives de type administratif (contact téléphonique
avec les parents, émission d’avis disciplinaires adressés à l’élève et à ses parents,
etc.).
Bien que les agents de milieu et les techniciens accomplissent des tâches
similaires, des divergences ont été observées face aux qualifications respectives,
aux spécifications des fonctions et à la visibilité auprès des élèves. L’agent de
milieu est moins “spécialisé” que le technicien, car il est embauché principalement sur la base de sa capacité à agir comme “grand frère” auprès des jeunes.
42
Quoiqu’il occupe plusieurs fonctions liées à la présence non formelle auprès de
l’ensemble de la population étudiante, il laisse aux professionnels les interventions psycho-sociales plus spécialisées. L’agent de milieu jouit d’une grande
visibilité auprès de la population étudiante. Cependant, plusieurs intervenants
scolaires (direction, enseignants ou professionnels) déplorent le manque de
formation spécialisée des agents de milieu et certains craignent une “déprofessionnalisation” de ce type d’intervention. Par contre, le technicien jouit d’une
grande crédibilité auprès des autres intervenants scolaires, car les professionnels
et les directions lui reconnaissent un champ d’intervention spécifique et considèrent son apport important dans la lutte contre l’abandon scolaire.
Les interrogations soulevées quant à l’impact de la mesure
Dans l’ensemble des milieux scolaires étudiés, les directions et la majorité des
intervenants se réjouissent de la rapidité et de la nature précoce des interventions
qu’effectuent les t.a.s. auprès des jeunes à risque et de leurs parents. De plus, les
t.a.s. interviewés sont convaincus d’accomplir une fonction importante. Cependant, la mise en oeuvre de la mesure soulève des interrogations qui relèvent de
la nature même du système scolaire. Les intervenants scolaires demeurent en
effet perplexes face à l’impact de la mesure. La grande majorité d’entre eux
perçoivent l’élaboration d’un projet concerté et la recherche de cohésion des
principes d’intervention comme les seules avenues efficaces pour lutter contre le
décrochage scolaire. La seule action du t.a.s. ne pourrait suffire selon eux. La
mesure, appliquée sous l’une ou l’autre de ses formes (agent de milieu ou
technicien), fait également ressortir les contradictions existant entre son objectif
de stimulation de la fréquentation scolaire et certaines politiques disciplinaires,
notamment celles relatives à la suspension. Selon plusieurs intervenants scolaires,
le mandat du t.a.s. se heurte à l’intérêt même des enseignants qui ont suspendu
des élèves.
Suivant cette phase exploratoire dont les résultats furent communiqués aux
milieux, une majorité d’intervenants ont recommandé pour la suite de la recherche, l’utilisation d’une approche qualitative, consistant en une enquête de
satisfaction auprès des parents et des élèves. En effet, selon les répondants,
l’impact de la mesure se manifesterait d’abord par la sensibilisation accrue des
élèves et de leurs parents face à l’importance de la fréquentation scolaire plutôt
que par les taux d’abandon. Puisque les perceptions et les attitudes négatives à
l’égard de l’école constituent des facteurs déterminants de l’abandon scolaire, ils
croyaient donc qu’une modification de l’attitude des élèves et de leurs parents
pourrait corroborer l’utilité de la mesure. Ce processus a donc constitué l’essentiel de la deuxième phase.
43
L’ENQUÊTE DE SATISFACTION EFFECTUÉE AUPRÈS DES ÉLÈVES ET DE LEURS
PARENTS
La description du processus
L’enquête de satisfaction consista en une série d’entrevues semi-dirigées auprès
de sept groupes d’élèves des quatre écoles ayant bénéficié de la mesure (soit 102
élèves du premier et du deuxième cycle). Le nombre d’élèves par groupe a varié
de 15 à 23 au premier cycle et de 9 à 13 au deuxième cycle. Trois entrevues en
petits groupes ainsi qu’une enquête téléphonique subséquente suite à la difficulté
de joindre ce type de parents souvent eux-mêmes négatifs à l’égard de l’école ont
également permis de rejoindre 38 parents dont les enfants ont bénéficié de la
mesure au cours de l’année scolaire.
Les protocoles d’entrevues comprenaient trois volets de questions ouvertes. Le
premier visait à recueillir les perceptions de l’élève ou du parent vis-à-vis des
aspects variés du milieu scolaire tels l’organisation humaine et physique, les
stratégies pédagogiques et les critères et les processus d’évaluation. Afin de
permettre aux chercheurs de tenir compte de la situation socio-affective des
élèves, ce premier volet comprenait également des questions ouvertes concernant
les relations interpersonnelles et la fréquentation scolaire de l’élève ayant bénéficié de la mesure.
Le deuxième volet visait, dans un premier temps, à identifier, le cas échéant,
les changements observés en cours d’année scolaire. Des pistes variées telles une
meilleure estime de soi, des habiletés interpersonnelles améliorées, un plus grand
sentiment d’appartenance étaient proposées aux participants. Dans un deuxième
temps, il s’agissait de distinguer les facteurs ayant contribué à cette modification
des attitudes ou des perceptions de l’élève ou du parent en cours d’année. Les
chercheurs demandaient notamment aux élèves et aux parents si les changements
étaient attribuables à des facteurs extérieurs à l’école ou à des facteurs directement liés à l’école.
Le troisième volet avait pour but d’isoler la contribution spécifique du technicien ou de l’agent de milieu vis-à-vis de la modification d’attitudes et de
perceptions des élèves ou de leurs parents, en faisant préciser par les répondants
la nature des interventions effectuées par le technicien ou l’agent de milieu et
leur perception du rôle de ce dernier.
Bien que les chercheurs aient tenté généralement de suivre ce canevas-type sur
le terrain, les entrevues de groupe se sont déroulées de manière souvent plus
dynamique et parfois plus difficile, étant donné les caractéristiques de la population-cible. Les tendances dégagées ici demeurent donc indicatives: il s’agit de
l’analyse, selon une méthodologie qualitative, de la fréquence de divers propos
au sein des groupes rencontrés et non de données quantitatives relatives à chacun
des sujets, puisque tous ne se sont pas exprimés sur tous les enjeux.
44
Les résultats
Dans les sept groupes d’élèves rencontrés, la tendance dominante et spontanée
est celle d’une vision plutôt négative de l’école: on dénonce divers aspects de
l’organisation scolaire tels le mauvais entretien, le manque d’activités parascolaires intéressantes, les relations tendues entre divers groupes d’élèves et les
mauvaises relations professeur-élève. Au premier cycle particulièrement, la
relation maître-élève est signalée comme la variable déterminante de l’attitude
négative envers le milieu scolaire et de la réussite dans une matière. Cependant,
il ressort dans tous les groupes un consensus sur les changements d’attitudes
observés en cours d’année. La forte majorité des élèves qui se sont exprimés
(72,5%) se perçoivent comme étant plus attentifs durant leurs cours ou plus
persévérants face à leurs travaux scolaires. Ils attribuent ces changements principalement à des facteurs externes à l’école, dont l’intervention des parents et la
maturation socio-affective.
Parmi les facteurs internes à l’école, le resserrement du contrôle des absences,
le contact auprès des parents et les rencontres formelles sont les plus fréquemment mentionnés lors des entrevues avec les élèves comme des interventions
pouvant contribuer aux changements d’attitudes. Au premier cycle, les interventions disciplinaires et le suivi semblent avoir un impact probant sur les élèves.
Au deuxième cycle, le soutien moral accordé par le t.a.s., jumelé à la maturation
socio-affective de certains adolescents, contribuerait à la modification des comportements en cours d’année.
L’analyse des trois entrevues de groupe et des 30 enquêtes téléphoniques
effectuées auprès des parents révèle que ceux-ci semblent plus partagés en ce qui
a trait aux changements observés chez leur enfant. Tandis qu’une faible majorité
parmi ceux-ci qui se sont exprimés à cet égard (52,6%) ont remarqué une
amélioration significative de la situation socio-scolaire de leur adolescent, une
minorité non négligeable souligne une détérioration. Cependant, ceux qui ont
noté une modification positive du comportement de leur adolescent l’attribuent
très largement (89,0%) à l’intervention du t.a.s.; les deux éléments les plus
fréquemment mentionnés, à cet égard, concernent une motivation et une ouverture à l’école accrues chez leur enfant. Ces élèves ont également développé des
habiletés de résolution des problèmes tels une réceptivité à l’aide provenant d’un
adulte et une tolérance accrue face aux frustrations. Pour certains parents,
l’intervention du technicien ou de l’agent de milieu s’est avérée un facteur de
rapprochement avec leur adolescent, car ils se perçoivent dorénavant comme
étant davantage impliqués dans le cheminement scolaire de leur enfant.
En somme, les attitudes des élèves ne se seraient pas fondamentalement
transformées au cours de l’année. Toutefois, même les parents qui n’ont constaté
aucune évolution face à la situation de leur adolescent reconnaissent les effets
positifs des interventions effectuées par les t.a.s. Par leurs techniques d’écoute,
45
leur présence constante et leurs interventions rapides, les t.a.s. ont contribué à
motiver les élèves à risque. Travaillant à partir de données concrètes (fiches
d’absences, bulletin scolaire, événements précis), les t.a.s. recherchent avec les
jeunes et les parents les moyens pour rendre l’expérience scolaire significative.
Le suivi et les rencontres régulières avec les élèves ayant des problèmes constituent l’occasion de leur prodiguer des conseils simples et de les assister dans
certaines démarches. Les interventions effectuées auprès des parents permettent
à ceux-ci d’analyser de façon objective les situations vécues et de s’impliquer
directement dans le cheminement scolaire de leur enfant.
En ce qui concerne l’intérêt respectif et les formules alternatives, le modèle
agent de milieu semble rejoindre davantage les objectifs d’une plus large prévention, car il propose à l’ensemble de la population étudiante des modèles de
réussite et une présence constante qui se veut un rappel de l’importance de la
fréquentation scolaire. De plus, les agents de milieu occupent souvent des tâches
diversifiées telles l’animation d’une équipe sportive ou d’une activité de soutien
scolaire, ce qui leur permet d’établir un contact différent avec les jeunes.
Cependant, les propos des acteurs interviewés nous incitent à relativiser
l’impact distinctif que peuvent avoir les deux formules en vigueur. En effet, tant
chez les élèves que chez les parents, le modèle préféré dans les divers groupes
est toujours celui que l’on connaît le mieux (soit, par exemple, en ce qui
concerne les élèves, l’agent de milieu, qui est préféré chez les cinq groupes
provenant de la CEPGM et le technicien, qui est préféré chez les deux groupes
provenant de la CECM). Les activités de contrôle et de suivi du technicien et de
l’agent de milieu influenceraient donc de manière assez similaire les attitudes des
élèves par rapport à l’école. Par leur disponibilité, leur franchise et leur simplicité, les t.a.s. entretiennent des relations positives avec les élèves et leurs parents,
ce qui est déjà remarquable en milieu défavorisé. Donc, en dernière instance,
au-delà des deux modèles préconisés, c’est la qualité des contacts humains
entretenus avec le t.a.s. qui s’avère primordiale.
DISCUSSION DES RÉSULTATS
Il est intéressant de signaler que cette recherche, qui visait d’abord à apporter un
soutien ponctuel aux milieux dans leur mise en oeuvre de la mesure, s’inscrit
dans la foulée d’autres travaux plus théoriques. Tant les aspects positifs que les
limites de l’action du t.a.s. reflètent les conclusions de plusieurs recherches
(Conseil scolaire de l’île de Montréal, 1989; Houle, Montmarquette, Crespo et
Mahseredjian, 1985; Hrimech et al., 1993a, 1993b) soulignant la nécessité
d’associer trois types de variables: les caractéristiques de l’élève, celles de son
milieu social et de son milieu scolaire afin de contrer le décrochage.
L’impact positif du t.a.s. en milieu défavorisé semble donc être relié à deux
facteurs principaux. Premièrement, puisque le t.a.s. entretient des liens person-
46
nalisés avec les adolescents, il crée une relation de confiance avec eux et peut
les impliquer dans une démarche de résolution de problèmes. À cet égard, notre
recherche rejoint les conclusions des études de Rogus et Wildenhaus (1991) et
de Quinn (1991), qui ont souligné cette dimension. De plus, en associant les
parents au processus (ce qui demeure assez exceptionnel au secondaire), le t.a.s.
les aide à assumer un rôle essentiel dans le cheminement scolaire de leur enfant.
Ainsi, nos résultats abondent dans le même sens que ceux de Nardini et Antes
(1991), qui décrivent l’implication des parents dans le processus d’intervention
comme une stratégie efficace pour contrer l’abandon scolaire.
Cependant, l’action du t.a.s. demeure limitée, car elle ne touche pas suffisamment la pratique éducative. Le t.a.s. a peu de contacts avec les enseignants
réguliers, notamment dans les écoles privilégiant une approche traditionnelle de
la mise en oeuvre de cette mesure. Nos résultats démontrent que les élèves ayant
bénéficié de la mesure semblent mieux s’accommoder à l’enseignement, mais
que leurs perceptions négatives de la relation maître-élève demeurent. De telles
perceptions corroborent les résultats des plusieurs travaux qui décrivent une
mauvaise relation maître-élève comme un facteur important contribuant au
décrochage scolaire (Brubaker, 1991; Bryk et Thum, 1989; Kammoun, 1991; Le
Blanc et Janosz, 1992; Quinn, 1991; Wehlage et Rutter, 1986).
Le t.a.s. ne réussira à agir de façon efficace que dans la mesure où il est
intégré à l’équipe-école par laquelle une rétroaction des besoins des élèves à
risque peut être acheminée aux intervenants. Toutefois, il semble que dans les
écoles visées par la mesure, les stratégies pédagogiques, les méthodes d’évaluation et les techniques de gestion de classe ne font pas l’objet d’une remise en
question, ce qui faciliterait l’adaptation de l’école publique aux besoins d’une
clientèle diversifiée. Dans cette veine, nos résultats permettent de réitérer
l’importance de créer un projet d’école afin d’intégrer de façon harmonieuse les
multiples services visant la diminution du décrochage scolaire, tout en assurant
que la volonté de changement touche également les pratiques pédagogiques. En
effet, la dynamique de compétition professionnelle entre intervenants à mandats
connexes (travailleurs sociaux, psychologues, interprètes, etc.), semble souvent
inhiber l’efficacité de l’action du t.a.s. De plus, dans certains cas, puisque le
mandat du t.a.s. se heurte aux politiques de suspension (qui sont également
évoquées par les répondants de Hrimech et al., 1993b), l’ambiance régnant dans
certaines écoles secondaires s’imprègne d’ambiguïté. Tout en étant exclu, l’élève
en difficulté subit des pressions visant à lui faire réintégrer l’école.
CONCLUSION
Malgré le caractère positif de l’action du t.a.s., une telle intervention suscite des
questions complexes face à son implantation. Peut-elle provoquer un comportement récurrent d’une année à l’autre chez l’élève? Sans contrôle ni suivi assidu,
47
ces élèves pourront-ils maintenir une attitude positive à l’égard de leur scolarisation? La formation des intervenants de type moins traditionnel est-elle
suffisante pour que les autres intervenants scolaires leur reconnaissent le statut
de professionnel? Comment peut-on concilier les objectifs d’une telle mesure
avec une dynamique d’école qui utilise, entre autres, l’exclusion pour gérer les
problèmes de discipline?
Face à ces interrogations, les chercheurs ont formulé une série de recommandations concrètes au Conseil scolaire de l’île de Montréal et aux partenaires
impliqués dans l’étude, avec l’objectif avoué que la mesure t.a.s. puisse ainsi
mieux contribuer aux efforts actuellement entrepris dans le système scolaire
québécois en matière de lutte à l’abandon scolaire. La première de ces recommandations visait le maintien de la mesure, qui semble suffisamment démontrer
sa pertinence et son efficacité auprès des jeunes et des parents. La seconde
concernait l’importance de respecter la spécificité des modèles afin de tenir
compte de la culture organisationnelle de chacun des milieux. De plus, afin de
répondre à certaines difficultés posées par l’approche non traditionnelle mais
intéressante privilégiée par la CEPGM, il a été recommandé d’offrir au personnel
affecté à ces postes un perfectionnement qui assurera une plus grande intégration
de leur travail dans les écoles. Finalement, les chercheurs ont réitéré l’importance
du développement de mécanismes favorisant la concertation des intervenants
autour de principes directeurs et l’harmonisation des mesures en matière de
prévention de l’abandon scolaire. En effet, l’action du t.a.s. seule ne pourrait
suffire à contrer ce phénomène, surtout dans le cas où elle se heurterait à des
pratiques scolaires dont l’effet est opposé.
NOTE
1
Dans cet article le terme agent de milieu désignera spécifiquement les personnes affectées à la
mesure à la CEPGM et le mot technicien, celles qui travaillent à la CECM. Le terme générique
t.a.s. (technicien en assistance sociale) sera retenu lorsque nous nous référons à l’ensemble du
personnel affecté à la mesure dans les deux commissions scolaires.
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Bryk, A. et Thum, Y. (1989). The effects of high school organization on dropping out: an exploratory
investigation. American Educational Research Journal, 26, 353–383.
Concertation Jeunesse Hochelaga-Maisonneuve. (1987). La situation des jeunes du quartier Hochelaga-Maisonneuve. Montréal: Concertation Jeunesse Hochelaga-Maisonneuve.
Conseil scolaire de l’île de Montréal. (1984). Abandon précoce: pourcentage de personnes de 15 à
48
17 ans qui n’ont pas fréquenté une école, un collège ou une université à un moment quelconque
depuis septembre 1980; élément no 6 de Cartes et données relatives à divers indicateurs utilisés
pour établir la carte de la défavorisation sur l’île de Montréal. Montréal: Conseil scolaire de l’île
de Montréal.
Conseil scolaire de l’île de Montréal. (1989). L’intervention avec et auprès des parents allophones
en milieux socio-économiquement faibles: problématique et pistes d’action. Montréal: Conseil
scolaire de l’île de Montréal.
Conseil scolaire de l’île de Montréal. (1991). Les enfants de milieux défavorisés et ceux des
communautés culturelles (Mémoire au ministre de l’Éducation sur la situation des écoles des
commissions scolaires de l’île de Montréal). Montréal: Conseil scolaire de l’île de Montréal.
Contandriopoulos, A. P., Champagne, F., Potvin, L., Denis, J. L. et Boyle, P. (1990). Savoir préparer
une recherche: la définir, la structurer, la financer. Montréal: Les Presses de l’Université de
Montréal.
Daoust, H. (1988). Profil motivationnel des décrocheurs scolaires québécois. Mémoire de maîtrise,
l’Université du Québec à Montréal.
Drolet, M. (1991). L’enseignement en milieu défavorisé: des pratiques pédagogiques ajustées à la
socioculture. Apprentissage et Socialisation, 14(1), 19–30.
Gouvernement du Québec. (1992a). Chacun ses devoirs: plan d’action sur la réussite éducative.
Québec: Ministère de l’Éducation.
Gouvernement du Québec. (1992b). Taux de diplômation et sorties sans diplôme par commission
scolaire. Québec: Ministère de l’Éducation, Direction des études économiques et démographiques.
Gouvernement du Québec. (1993). Indicateurs de revenu moyen et de sorties sans diplôme, écoles
primaires et secondaires 1993–1994 (Plan d’action sur la réussite scolaire: Région de Montréal).
Québec: Ministère de l’Éducation, Direction de la coordination des réseaux.
Guba, E. G. et Lincoln, Y. S. (1989). Fourth generation evaluation. New York: Sage.
Hohl, J. (1985). Les “milieux socio-économiquement faibles” analyseurs de l’école. Dans M. Crespo
et C. Lessard (Dirs.), Éducation en milieu urbain (p. 75–99). Montréal: Les Presses de l’Université de Montréal.
Hohl, J. (1993). Réussir dès la maternelle: instrument de réflexion sur les maternelles 5 ans plein
temps en milieux défavorisés. Montréal: Conseil scolaire de l’île de Montréal.
Hohl, J. et McAndrew, M. (1993). Une évaluation interactive d’interventions destinées à contrer
l’échec scolaire en milieux socio-économiquement faibles à Montréal. Dans Actes du XVe congrès
de l’Association Européenne d’Éducation Comparée (Vol. 1, p. 299–316). Dijon: Comparative
Education Society in Europe/Institut de recherche sur l’économie de l’éducation (Université de
Bourgogne).
Houle, R., Montmarquette, C., Crespo, M. et Mahseredjian, S. (1985). L’impact des interventions
éducatives en milieux économiquement faibles: le programme de l’Opération renouveau. Dans M.
Crespo et C. Lessard (Dirs.), Éducation en milieu urbain (p. 31–53). Montréal: Les Presses de
l’Université de Montréal.
Hrimech, M., Théorêt, M., Hardy, J. Y. et Gariépy, W. (1993a). Chacun sa part: programme d’action
pour la prévention de l’abandon scolaire sur l’île de Montréal. Montréal: Fondation du Conseil
scolaire de l’île de Montréal.
Hrimech, M., Théorêt, M., Hardy, J. Y. et Gariépy, W. (1993b). Étude sur l’abandon scolaire des
jeunes décrocheurs du secondaire sur l’île de Montréal. Montréal: Fondation du Conseil scolaire
de l’île de Montréal.
49
Kammoun, B. B. (1991). High school programs: Elements of success. National Association of
Secondary School Principals Bulletin, 75, 9–14.
Le Blanc, M. et Janosz, M. (1992). L’abandon scolaire: antécédents et prévention spécifique.
Montréal: Commission des écoles catholiques de Montréal.
Nardini, M. et Antes, R. (1991). What strategies are effective with at-risk students? National
Association of Secondary School Principals Bulletin, 75, 67–71.
Pagé, M. (1991, juillet 3). L’école en milieux défavorisés dans la région de Montréal (Mémoire au
Conseil des Ministres). Québec: Gouvernement du Québec.
Pilon, A. (1991). Étude sur l’abandon scolaire. Montréal: Commission des écoles catholiques de
Montréal.
Quinn, T. (1991). The influence of school policies and practices on dropout rates. National Association of Secondary School Principals Bulletin, 75, 73–83.
Rogus, J. et Wildenhaus, C. (1991). Programming for at-risk learners: a preventive approach.
National Association of Secondary School Principals Bulletin, 75, 1–7.
Van der Maren, J. M. (1990). Méthodes de recherche en éducation. Montréal: Université de
Montréal, Département d’études en éducation et en administration de l’éducation.
Wehlage, G. et Rutter, R. (1986). Dropping out: how much do schools contribute to the problem?
Teachers College Record, 3, 374–392.
Marie McAndrew est professeure adjointe au Département des études en éducation et administration
de l’éducation, Faculté des sciences de l’éducation, Université de Montréal, C.P. 6128, succursale
centre-ville, Montréal (Québec) H3C 3J7. Anne St-Pierre est agente de recherche et étudiante à la
maîtrise en éducation, et Wendy Cumming-Potvin est candidate au doctorat au Département de
didactique, toutes les deux à la Faculté des sciences de l’éducation, Université de Montréal.
The Canadian Copyright Law and
Common Educational Reprography Practices
Keith D. Walker
university of saskatchewan
This article provides a contextual exposition of the Canadian Copyright Act (1988) as it
affects educator practices. I offer background on the development and content of the Act,
then describe what it says about infringements of copyright and how the Act might be
applied in school contexts. Finally, I consider several ethical constraints and rationalizations with respect to copyright infringement.
Cet article offre un exposé contextuel de la Loi canadienne des droits d’auteur (1988) et
de son influence sur les pratiques des enseignants. D’abord, on traite des antécédents du
développement et du contenu de cette loi. Ensuite, il est question de descriptions concernant le non-respect des droits d’auteurs ainsi que des applications de cette loi dans des
contextes scolaires. Finalement, plusieurs contraintes éthiques et rationalisations sont
prises en considération quant au non-respect des droits d’auteurs.
Only one thing is impossible for God: to find any sense in any copyright law on the
planet. (Mark Twain in Helm, 1986, p. 9)
Who owns the copyright for the graffiti on the school washroom stalls?
INTRODUCTION
In its present form,1 the Canadian copyright law is jurisprudentially unprincipled,
in the sense that no meaningful judicial interpretations of the statute have yet
been made regarding school-based reprography. Educational stakeholders currently derive their understandings of the law, and its application to practice, more by
economic and political means than by legal or ethical considerations. The issues
raised by copyright, however, are far too important to be ignored or sidelined by
either casual or irresponsible consideration.
Whether one sees educators as victims of an unjust or immature law, villains
of systemic civil disobedience, or virtuous exemplars, the underlying concepts
of right to copy need to be carefully examined by educators in the context of
their common reprography practices. In this article I provide a contextual exposition of the Canadian Copyright Act (1988) as it pertains to educators and their
school practices. After furnishing a brief background to the development and
content of the Copyright Act, I describe what the Act says regarding rights and
use expectations and exceptions that apply to school contexts. Finally, I identify
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21, 1 (1996): 50–64
CANADIAN COPYRIGHT LAW AND EDUCATION
51
several constraints and rationalizations with respect to copyright infringements.
The article is not so much a textual as a contextual exegesis of the Copyright
Act, as it pertains to educators.
THE PRESENTING PROBLEM
The leitmotive for this article emerged from my encounter with a group of 25–
30 educational administrators in a workshop I presented on ethical decision
making. During my customary “bear-pit session” at the end of the session, I was
asked to comment on whether photocopying copyrighted materials was ethical.
When the question was turned around, the administrators, with three exceptions,
were either neutral or indifferent to the issue. The common response may be
typified by the rhetorical question, “It goes on all the time — what are we
supposed to do about it?”
What one is “supposed to do” is the stuff that ethical questions are made of,
so I was interested in the positions of the exceptions in this group. These
positions assumed opposite sides of the question. The first side, held by one
lonely-among-colleagues principal, was that photocopying copyrighted material
was both legally and ethically wrong. This principal reasoned that participating
in an illegal activity was professionally unethical and that photocopying copyrighted material without license or permission was, indeed, illegal. In the presence of his uncomfortable peers, he concluded that if they were allowing such
practices in their schools, they were engaged in illegal and unethical activity or
passive contribution to it. The other two exceptions stoked each other’s defiance
of copyright restrictions on four basic grounds. First, “big publishing companies
in far away places do not care what goes on in schools.” Second, the copyright
law is “an unjust law; it does not take into consideration the spontaneity of truly
good teaching.” In fact, one of these administrators suggested that, in his school,
the teachers who photocopy copyrighted material are his best teachers. Third, the
law is “impractical” to keep. It is just too much trouble and bureaucratic hassle
to write for permissions or to buy class sets in times when budgets are shrinking.
Fourth, the educational ends of helping children to learn is a legitimate defense
for breaking a law that surely did not intend to harm children.
Technology has only recently introduced new practices and habits to the rituals
of teaching. Over the last twenty years photocopy machines, video and tape
recorders, compact disc recorders, and computers have become readily available
to the general public and to educators. Not until 1959 was the first commercially
successful photocopier, the XEROX 914, introduced (Gagnon, 1990). The
success stories associated with photocopy technologies and paper companies and
the convenience of quick copies of teaching materials have exacerbated a conflict
between creators and users of copyrighted material. Unfortunately, the technologies may have advanced far ahead of political, ethical, social, and educational
thinking; collective wills; and social contracts.
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My reflections, readings, and conversations with educators have led me to
make several observations that may, I speculate, apply to many educators in
Canada. First, copyright infringement is common among educators (Weiner,
1989). Second, many educational leaders choose not to involve themselves in
confronting issues such as copyright compliance or rights education. This passive
indifference is probably reinforced by observing all the educational benefits on
one hand, but observing no tangible negative consequences on the other. Third,
some educators are conscious of the legal and ethical ramifications surrounding
the issues of copyright, but they work in a culture of quiet noncompliance.
Finally, some educators have developed sophisticated rationalizations or defenses
to justify the practice of copyright infringement in ways that should be identified
and described. The absence of recent empirical evidence to the contrary does not
validate these hunches, and subsequent discussions with a cross-section of
educational leaders affirms these observed positions as not at all exceptional.
BACKGROUND TO THE CANADIAN COPYRIGHT LAW
Until 1988, the Copyright Act “had not been materially altered since it came into
force in 1924” (Herbert, 1990, p. 1). The technological advances of the intervening 60 years had complicated the traditional notions of copyright. Those pressing
for reforms believed that such technologies as photocopying machines, audiovisual apparatus, and computers were eroding the protection afforded to copyright
owners under the Act. In May 1987, Bill C-60 was introduced to amend the 1924
Copyright Act. Royal Assent was given to Bill C-60 on 8 June 1988, and the
final portions of the Bill were proclaimed on 1 February 1989.
Gagnon (1990) indicates that Bill C-60 raised the level of copyright knowledge and caused “long standing practices to be scrutinized and in the majority
of cases found these to be illegal, much to the horror of some of the most
creative and innovative teachers in our schools” (p. 2). The 1988 amendments
gave authors moral rights to be associated with their work(s) as well as the right
to the sustained integrity of their works. The amendment extended copyright
protection to computer programs; strengthened creators’ moral rights over their
work; granted the copyright owners of artistic works the exclusive right to
exhibit works in public; provided stiffer penalties for copyright infringement (up
to $1 million fines and/or five years of incarceration); and provided a way for
copyright owners to administer their rights collectively through “licensing
bodies” without fear of prosecution.
Development and Operation of Collectives
Pursuant to sections 67 and 70.1 of the Copyright Act, a number of collectives
have been organized to administer copyright oversight for their member-clients.
CANCOPY, organized in 1989 to represent publishing and author groups, targets
53
the larger users and abusers of intellectual print property. This particular collective enters into reprography negotiations and contracts with the largest print copy
users, such as provincial governments and, particularly, ministries of education
and training.
Provincial governments and other institutions have been slow to enter negotiations for a number of reasons. High costs are involved in paying licensing fees
to collectives. Many governments have been waiting for other governments (such
as Ontario) to test the agreement. Various points of view exist regarding what
materials should be paid for and to whom the royalties or payment should be
directed. For example, educators, particularly librarians, have a unique view
regarding legitimate defenses under the Act for copying the materials of others.
Diverse views primarily revolve around the two notions of substantive copying
(quantities) and fair dealing.
Belanger (1988, as cited in Gagnon, 1989) predicted that reprography collectives would have a “significant impact on education, both positively, through
allowing teachers to reproduce, in good conscience, any copyrighted material
under the control of the collective, and, negatively, through a massive drain,
estimated by the publishers themselves at 50 million dollars per year for the print
collective alone, on the education purse” (in Gagnon, 1989, p. 17). Recently
CANCOPY appointed a manager of compliance who is responsible for enforcement of affiliates’ copyrights. The new manager says,
I’m going to take a two-pronged approach to copyright compliance — education and
enforcement. Knowledge about copyright is still alarmingly low in the general population,
so education is vital. . . . CANCOPY is also prepared to use “the big stick” when
education doesn’t change users’ behavior. Compliance is a support function for licensing
efforts . . . as each user group is contacted, my job will be to educate them about the
importance of copyright . . . if licensing fails, I will identify infringers for legal action.
(Carrigg, 1993, p. 2)
Obviously the development of collectives has provided copyright holders with
a corporate means for receiving some revenues and for pursuing some offenders
of their copyrights through identification and, subsequently, through the courts.
The Throes of Phase II
In 1984 the federal Liberal government initiated a move away from the 1924
“fair dealing” concept to a more liberal concept, exercised in the United States
(Government of Canada, Consumer and Corporate Affairs/Department of Communications, 1984). In 1985, the new Conservative government’s Sub-Committee
on the Revision of Copyright issued A Charter of Rights for Creators (1985) and
recommended the retention of the original “fair dealing” concept. In February
1986, the government responded to this report of the Sub-Committee by agreeing
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KEITH D. WALKER
in principle to the retention of the “fair dealing” exception. The first set of
revisions was brought before the House in spring 1987 (Bill C-60). Kratz (1989)
recollects that Phase I (the 1988 revisions of the Copyright Act) had to be passed
through Parliament before the federal election because of the prominence of the
free trade agreement debate. He says, “An attempt was made to include only
non-controversial items in the first phase, but that did not work” (p. 86). Kratz
(1989) indicates that concerns about Phase II cluster “around the fact that
increased rights for creators are established by Phase I, but that the balance of
copyright exemptions are not in place” (p. 87). Bazillion (1991) concurs and
predicts that the promised Phase II will result in “educational institutions
enjoy[ing] no special status or exemption because of what they do. That is the
aspect that annoys many educators” (p. 4). It remains to be seen how the current
Liberal government will handle the Phase II amendments. From a political
perspective, the education lobby tends to be weak because the educational
partners are divided into provincial and territorial jurisdictions and are further
fragmented into K–12 and post-secondary institutions. Gagnon (1989) cites
Duncan (1987), who says that “Educators have been remiss in not speaking out;
their silence may turn into a tragic whine in the years ahead unless we can act
immediately to gain the needed exemptions” (in Gagnon, 1989, p. 18).
BASIC COPYRIGHT CONCEPTS
Definition of Copyright
Copyright is the right to publish, copy, or reproduce any original literary, dramatic, musical, or artistic work. Copyright law protects what is known as intellectual property or the products of creators’ minds (Gagnon, 1990, p. 1). As Weiner
(1989) puts it, “when you buy a book, record or tape, you buy the container not
the content. The content remains the property of the creator” (p. 6).
Copy Rights
The premise underlying copyright is that the creator or owner of the copyrights
should have control over the pecuniary benefits, the nature of utilization, and the
integrity of their creations. Pecuniary rights provide creators with an opportunity
to profit from their work and to exploit their work in the marketplace for financial gain. To deny royalties to those who create or produce is thought, by some,
to steal away the economic incentive to produce (Dratler, 1990). Moral rights
protect work from distortion, mutilation, or any other modification to the integrity of the work such that would prejudice the creator’s honour or reputation.
Creators are given, then, control over distribution, adaptation, public performance, and public display of their works. The Act gives authors the right to
restrain the use of their work from being associated with a product, service,
55
cause, or institution. Moral rights also include the right to claim authorship of a
work by name or under a pseudonym and the right to remain anonymous.
The Nature of Copyright Law
A question is raised regarding the nature of copyright law: whether the law is a
creation of the state to provide particular cultural or economic functions or a
natural law recognized by the state to safeguard the inherent rights of authors
(Herbert, 1990). Much discussion of copyright in Canada has denied the plurality
of philosophic and jurisprudential views with respect to copyright but has rather
attended to conflicts between lobby groups representing creators, users, and
commercial interests.
Copyright-ability
Copyright-ability determines just what may be copyrighted. According to Dratler
(1990), “copyright does not protect knowledge, ideas, facts, or principles in the
abstract, but only their mode of expression in particular works of authorship
when the works are fixed in a tangible medium of expression — this is referred
to as the idea/expression dichotomy” (p. 6). Mackay (1987) says the point of
copyright is to
create a kind of monopoly for the original creator of the work; a monopoly in that he or
she is given the actual property interest in the work. . . . copyright law gives you a
protected interest in the expression, including the mode of expression of that idea — but
not in the idea itself. Ideas themselves are not actually copyrighted. (p. 23)
Herbert (1990) indicates the following conditions under which works may be
considered copyrighted property:
1. The work must be expressed in some material form, be capable of identification and
have a more or less permanent endurance.
2. The work must have originated with its creator, who, in its production, applied skill,
judgement, labour and learning. (p. 4)
Information may under some conditions be considered intellectual property and,
in such instances, copyright arises automatically2 for both published and unpublished works.3
Infringement of Copyright
The obvious conflict in copyright is linked to disputed or threatened rights to
copy. The remedies provided to those who own copyrights against those who
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KEITH D. WALKER
would infringe on these rights include injunctions, action for damages, and penal
sanctions. The Act sets out a description of infringement and prescribes, for the
courts, certain categories and limitations for remedies in Sections 27(1), 27(4),
35(1), and 42 of the Copyright Act.
Defenses Against Charges of Copyright Infringement
Although copyright creates a monopoly for creators of intellectual property, some
provisions in the Act defend users against certain exceptions from typical infringement practices. These exceptions are referred to as the “fair dealing”
exception clauses of the Act. The term “fair dealing” is not specifically defined
in the Act but “was originally included . . . at a time when reproducing copyright
materials meant copying out by hand. As such, the fair dealing provision applied
to the use of quotes and ‘small’ passages” (Harris, 1992, p. 110). According to
Harris (1992), the American “fair use” notion, which “allows many more free
uses of copyright materials,” is broader that the Canadian provision (p. 110). In
fact, she suggests that the “fair dealing” provision does not give permission in
advance to use copyright material.
Canadian educators are cautioned to avoid confusing the “fair use” concept
(from the United States) with the Canadian “fair dealing” concept. Title 17 of the
United States Federal Statutory Law (Section 107) (Copyright Act of 1976)
provides for limited use of copyrighted material without the permission of the
owner. Fair use is assessed in American law by using the criteria of:
the purpose and character of uses; the nature of copyrighted work; the amount and
substantiality of the portion of the work to be copied; and the effect of copying upon the
potential market for the work.4 . . . Rather, it is a defense which may be raised in a
copyright violation. (Harris, 1992, p. 110)
In Canada, the recently revised5 Section 27 of the Copyright Act states:
27(2) The following acts do not constitute an infringement of copyright:
a) any fair dealing with any work for the purposes of private study or research;
a.1) criticism, review or newspaper summary, if (i) the source, and (ii) the author’s
name, if given in the source, are mentioned;
d) the publication in a collection, mainly composed of non-copyright matter, intended for
the use of schools, and so described in the title and in any advertisements issued by
the publisher, of short passages from published literary works not themselves published
for the use of schools in which copyright subsists, if not more than two of the passages
from works by the same author are published by the same publisher within five years,
and the source from which the passages are taken is acknowledged.
The courts have had no recent occasions to provide interpretations of these
clauses and, consequently, these clauses are the subject of much debate and
57
displeasure, in both the creator and the user communities. Moline (1989) says
that “in most cases photocopying ‘unsubstantial’ parts of works in class sets may
be permissible if it can be shown the teacher is exercising the ‘personal exemption’ on behalf of students” (p. 16). In other words, teachers may contend that
they should be characterized as agents of students, using the fair dealing or
personal exemption right of each student in their classes, when they (the teachers) copy and distribute copyrighted items. What constitutes “substantial” or
“insubstantial” amounts of photocopying is a difficult to determine. The Act itself
is not clear on this but, according to Weiner (1989)
insubstantial has been defined by jurisprudence as insignificant. Substantial would by
extension be considered significant. For example, a court deemed reproduction of the
quote “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn” a substantial part of the novel Gone with
the Wind. (p. 6)6
The tensions over copyright infringement in schools do not seem to have
abated, despite the initiative of CANCOPY and other collectives in securing
agreements throughout Canada. Librarian and educator groups suggest that
collectives give permission to those included by the agreements to do what they
already have rights to and that these agreements merely place the signing provinces in positions that are more closely scrutinized. News reports of Royal Canadian Mounted Police raids on copy centres and university bookstores, threats of
legal action against school boards, and large civil judgments on behalf of plaintiffs/collectives have had the positive effect of raising concern and prompting
attention to this area of law. Collectives’ attention to copyright non-compliance
and enforcement has increased significantly and the financial incentive to avoid
prosecution has also been raised since the 1988 amendments.
The complexity of the copyright maze is exacerbated by the paucity of Canadian jurisprudence in the area of copyright infringement involving educational
institutions or personnel. This shortfall of meaningful interpretative guidance
gives rise to much dis-ease and controversy amongst users (Kratz, 1989). As the
public expectations for educators’ performance have apparently intensified, the
financial resources available to teachers have been severely limited. Technological advances have provided access to materials otherwise unaffordable and
unavailable. This access has occurred together with the demands for resourcebased curricula. Copyright infringement has become common practice in Canadian schools. The hope that Phase II may balance the favours imputed to creators
in Phase I with the claims of users has had some effect on the readiness of
governments and associations to deal with the collectives. It remains to be seen
what effect new agreements between users and collectives together with legislative reform will have on the practices of everyday teaching in Canada.
Educators seem to want to disseminate knowledge “as quickly and widely as
possible and to add to the storehouse of existing knowledge as rapidly and
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KEITH D. WALKER
effectively as possible” (Dratler, 1990, p. 6). The educators’ mandate demands
continual dissemination and use of others’ copyrighted materials. Dratler (1990)
expresses the tension this way:
Unfortunately, no one can be an effective educator without trespassing, to some extent,
on the exclusive rights. As teachers strive to disseminate knowledge as effectively and
widely as possible, they inevitably copy, distribute, perform and display others’ copyrighted works. . . . Like other users of copyrighted works, educators in theory have the
option of paying the price to license the uses that they require. In practice, however,
several factors often render payment unrealistic. First, the educator must have sufficient
financial support, and that financial support must be sufficiently flexible, to permit
purchase of appropriate rights in copyrighted works as they are generated. (pp. 9, 10)
Commenting from an American perspective, Dratler (1990) says “photocopying for educational purposes [is] perhaps the most significant educational copyright issue in modern times — into the maw of that monster of vagueness and
uncertainty — the doctrine of ‘fair use’” (pp. 22–23). Current “guidelines” are
said to “impose unrealistic limits on educators operating in the modern information society” (Dratler, 1990, p. 27). Dratler (1990) adds that
Educators less versed in copyright law may be more intimidated by these guidelines. To
the extent they are, they reduce their spontaneity and effectiveness as educators. To the
extent they study the matter to inform themselves, they divert their time and energy from
their primary mission, unless of course they also happen to be professors of intellectual
property law. To the extent they determine that copying is not authorized by law, they
must seek permission from copyright holders — a dubious and wasteful proposition. The
result of all this is a considerable expenditure of time and energy on the part of educators,
their administrators and legal counsel at the time when our beleaguered educational
system can ill-afford [sic] to divert its attention to nonessential matters. (p. 29)
Dratler, an intellectual property scholar, raises some important compliance
questions. His message is certainly different from those working as agents of
copyright owners. The conflicts between user and creator interests remain
unresolved.
QUESTIONING SOME DEFENSES OF INFRINGEMENT
Ethical agnosticism, ethical imperialism, ethical relativism, and ethical pragmatism are four rationalizations or defenses educators use as defenses for copyright
infringement. For the purposes of this discussion, I define “rationalizations” as
those defenses that attempt to override what one in conscience, spirit, or intuition
apprehends to be wrong, bad, vicious, or improper. Alternatively, one may define
“rationalizations” as those inner transactions aimed at harmonizing and ameliorating ethical dissonance. The reader may recall, from the introduction of this
59
paper, that educators offered several different explanations as grounds justifying
copyright infringements.
The first defense educators use is that of ethical agnosticism. Educators may
say that their common copyright practices are legitimate because it is impossible
to know what constitutes copyright infringement. This position is represented by
forms of a number of “law-neutralizing” doctrines. In other words, proponents
argue that we cannot say if copyright infringements are legal or illegal. The
concepts associated with breach of copyright are either too complex for our
finitudes or too “soft” to merit meaningful normative responses. We cannot
possibly know or anticipate the myriad interests and rights implied by questions
of possible infringement. Some will say, in the extreme, that copyright infringement may be considered an economic, political, or practical question that does
not have an inherently ethical dimension.
The second defense of infringement is contrasted with the first in that it places
the ethical knowledge of one party (the educator-user) in a superior position, a
priori, to that of another party (the creator or owner of copyright). This stance,
which I shall call ethical imperialism, assumes that the “ethical high ground”
most properly resides with the educator. Those maintaining this position argue,
for example, that the educational practice of photocopying copyrighted material
without the owner’s permission is legitimate, in law, because it represents the
exercise of freedom of expression. It is an appropriate use of ideas within the
public domain. It is altruistically motivated and provides otherwise inaccessible
material to be conveyed to students while saving tax dollars. There is virtually
no impact on the potential market because the efforts of educators to use materials are self-motivated, not market motivated. This argument asserts that educators
help creators when they pass on the fruit of their intellectual efforts to students
who could not possibly afford or be expected to gain access to this information
by other means. In other words, educators’ dissemination of copyrighted materials is an educational service that ought to be regarded as highly ethical social
activity. Another approach is to ameliorate the conflict between the Copyright
Act and educational practice by vilifying the copyright holders for profiting from
creative works. One’s ethical and legal culpability seems less severe if those you
offend are characterized as removed, faceless, greedy, and independent from
more local and highly valued educational realities. This argument asserts that
copyright owners and creators are unaffected by, and independent of, the “infringement” practices of educators. There is a similar view, of a rather cynical
nature, that considers the world determinatively unethical. It is said that “this is
a dog-eat-dog world.” The big publishing companies have no social conscience
and are simply gouging users and exploiting creators. “I refuse,” some might say,
“to encourage them by giving them what they want.” Furthermore, other educators might say, “our political leaders continue to perpetuate a corrupt system by
indulging the publishing company and collective group lobby and by their
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ignorance of, or dispassion for, the ‘children’s best interests.’” With these claims,
infringing educators attempt to take the moral high ground.
A third common educator defense for copyright infringement is based on
“statistical morality.” This approach to defending copyright infringement is
expressed by the view that whereas educators may not be responding in a “totally
ethical” fashion, they are at least better than a lot of other professions: the
doctrine of “relative filth.” Probably educators, like others, tend to judge themselves by their own best intentions and others by their worst acts. A common
practice is to weigh one’s own good actions against one’s bad actions in the hope
that the good acts will offset any unethical acts. A number of educators have told
me that they “obey every law in the country except copyright rules.” The argument is often asserted that copyright infringement “cannot be all that wrong if
everyone is doing it and no one is going to court over it.” “If our administrators
know we are doing it and are not coming down on us, what can be wrong with
the practice?” The argument of minimal enforcement is extended by suggesting
that educators are minor infringers. “They ought to be going after the big fish,”
say educators. With non-profit educators the damage to copyright holders is
thought to be slight and the risk of enforcement unthreatening to current practice.
A fourth defensive argument is that the copyright law is too impractical to
keep. It is too much trouble to write for permission, to buy class sets, or to pay
fees to a collective when education budgets are shrinking. This argument underlines the pragmatic impetus for educators to infringe copyright laws, in order to
succeed in their mission to educate. Educators are given no alternative but to
break copyright if they are to do their duties, as set forth in provincial education
statutes. From this perspective, the trap of necessity trumps law-abidingness.
Although some would see such thinking as irresponsible, others would claim that
such reasoning expresses a fundamental conflict around the age-old expediency
versus ethics dialectic. “The impracticalities of copyright consist of more than the
mere inconveniences that are entailed,” say some educators. “These rules are
unreasonable burdens that should be reformed.” That the ethical and legal constraints of copyright should take precedence over practical educational purposes
is an argument countered by those who claim that facilitating learning is a much
weightier moral, legal, and pragmatic mandate for educators.
An extension of the impracticality argument stems from the belief that lawmakers and copyright holders may be unappreciative of the professional educative process and good educational practice. As a consequence of developing a
resource-based approach to learning, educators have to be ready for studentinitiated inquiry and need to provide spontaneous access to materials without
having to wait for permission from publishers or institutional purse-string
holders.
In the process of imparting knowledge to others, educators must package their
educational content in digestible form. Writers such as Dratler (1990) have
claimed that exemptions should be made for educators on the practical grounds
61
of availability. In his view, teachers would be exempt from liability for using
copyrighted material if it is not readily available at a reasonable cost (pp. 37–
49). Thus necessity could establish the grounds for their copyright infringement
practices. For example, some educators may argue that textbooks are too slow
being published and too soon out of date. Perhaps the current publishing practices do not fit current educational needs. Educators’ exemptions based on the
notion of commercial availability would support the fundamental goal of copyright protection to provide incentives for more authorship and faster publication.
Teachers suggests that helping children to learn is a sufficiently strong end to
legitimate breaking copyright laws, which were never intended to harm children.
“Les miserables-type” sympathies are evoked in those hearing the appeal of
educators as the “best interests of children” are pitted against the pecuniary and
administrative interests of adults. Some would argue that this is a false conflict,
but others would claim that the struggle entails using illegitimate means to serve
noble ends (an instance where the end does justify the means). This conflict may
be reframed in light of the classical deontological versus utilitarian conflict. Both
sides may take either position. The creators may suggest that educators have a
duty to respect the persons who have created these works and to pay them the
dignity of their rights as owners of intellectual property. The educators may
suggest that they have a duty to provide a resource-based, relevant educational
experience that must never be allowed to be thwarted by the details and incapacitating rules of copyright. In other words, our act of educating constitutes a high
ethical duty that, in effect, trumps the petty and archaic laws of the country that
“recommend” pecuniary rights to creators.
A further utilitarian argument is that the damages incurred subsequent to
infringement on intellectual property are not nearly as serious as those infringing
on children’s best interests. Using copyrighted material is not the same as
stealing. According to Gagnon (1990),
[teachers] simply reflected the habits of all good citizens who would never consider
stealing apples from a neighbour’s tree but would not hesitate to photocopy complete
articles from magazines, large portions of books, complete poems, cartoons and countless
other copyrighted materials which are easily reproduced on photocopy machines. (p. 1)
On the other hand, creator rights advocates claim that without the legal monopoly
of creators and copyright owners there would be no control over scarcity of
materials, no exclusivity, and, consequently, diminished control over the economic value of copyrighted material. If creators do not have such controls over
their property, they will not be willing to continue their creative endeavours.
The legitimation of the practice of copyright infringement is excused, by
some, because it does not appear to hurt anyone materially and, in fact, may
actually benefit children. Educators argue that they receive nothing in return for
their use of the material. They simply use it to enhance children’s best interests.
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“Only our students gain and no one loses” is the refrain from educators using
this defense. “This is strictly for the students’ benefit, with no return to me.” “In
fact it costs our school system a significant amount of money to keep the photocopier going, and if we have to pay royalties as well as for photocopy operations
then we ultimately take dollars away from the education of children.” It simply
costs too much to recast the original author’s ideas into expressions created by
the educator-user.
MORAL CONSTRAINTS AND ETHICAL RESPONSIBILITIES
The way educators currently view their moral constraints and defend their ethical
responsibilities with respect to copyright is important. I contend that educators’
primary ethical responsibilities are those within their personal and professional
control: thoughts, attitudes, and actions. These may be referred to as educators’
ethical goals. It is possible to confuse such goals with one’s legitimate moral
desires. Educators ought to have both goals and desires; but they should not
confuse what they ought to and can do (ethical goals) with what they wish others
would do (moral desires). Fulfilment of moral desires depends on ethical consciousness, commitment, competency, and choice. In other words, educators
should focus their attention, in the ethical domain, on their own personal and
professional attitudes and actions before they enter into the more difficult and
constraining arena of social attitudes and actions. I am, therefore, commending
the old adage that one should judge oneself before exercising one’s legitimate
moral desire for change at the organizational, systemic, or societal level. I am
also responding, here, to people’s tendency to start at distal rather than proximal
points and to excuse their own behaviour because of contrived or artificial
constraints. Professional educators should only be expected to do those things
over which they may exercise ethical control. If someone can block my ethical
goal then it is not a goal at all: it is a desire.
Ethical responsibility should be delimited by those things that are within
educators’ power and influence to change. For example, I have an ethical desire
to see the Canadian Copyright Act changed to allow for a more just balance
between creator and user rights and to clarify the legitimacy of certain educator
uses of intellectual property: this is an moral desire or aspiration. My goal is to
be an ethically thoughtful, committed, and courageous educator with respect to
the issues of copyright: this is an ethical goal. In this instance, if I am sustaining
the integrity of ethical attitudes and actions, this behaviour qualifies me to pursue
my ethical desires by influencing others. In short, as educators we are constrained by our own imperfections, interdependence, and finitude. We must be aware
of our personal limits and the choices of others, but at the same time we must
be vitally aware of our ethical potential to do good, to be right, virtuous, and
proper — to be ethical “lights.” I argue that we are sometimes constrained by
factors beyond our control and that ethical empowerment comes by embracing
63
the ethically responsible actions and attitudes that cannot be frustrated because
they are within the educator’s personal and profession realm of choice. The
process of choosing should include the elimination of pseudo-defenses or rationalizations that are ethically unacceptable.
CONCLUSIONS
In this article I have merely identified some infringement defenses meriting
scrutiny. Pseudo-defenses or rationalizations repress healthy ethical thinking.
Educators properly pride themselves on their ethical uprightness and law-abidingness. A perception persists, however, that copyright infringement is somehow all
right and that it is a “small and necessary sin” forced upon educators by scarce
resources, expedience, and the greater good of educating children. In short, this
area of copyright infringement may be characterized as one wherein teachers and
school administrators have been found to hold themselves above the law. Whether our current copyright law is just and prudent should be questioned, but the
Canadian educators need to examine critically the issue of conscious and unconscious misdeeds against the law and its undergirding principles.
NOTES
1
In considering the jurisprudence cited, readers should note that this article was accepted for publication in fall 1994.
2
According to Mackay (1987), “there is actually no legal requirement in Canada that you register
anything. Once you create something, the copyright for your creation is automatically vest in you.
It does not matter whether you put a little ‘c’ in the corner or whether you send it off to some
registry or not” (p. 23). Moline (1989) says the copyright symbol in a circle, year of publication,
and name of copyright holder must be shown on an item to be copyrighted in certain foreign
countries that are signatories, as Canada is, to the Universal Copyright Convention.
3
The usual term of copyright is for the life of the author plus 50 years.
4
The case of Basic Books, Inc. et al. v. Kinko’s Graphics Corporation, dealing with “professor
publishing” by an off-campus printing company, found that copying full chapters from copyrighted books and materials (up to 100 pages from the same sources) was unfair use.
5
Paragraph 27(2)(a) has been repealed and the above text substituted (1993, c.44, s.64[1]).
6
According to Andrew Martin (1994), Executive Director of CANCOPY, “the most restrictive
licences . . . allow copying of up to 10% of a publication, but with an over-ride that permits the
whole of a periodical article, chapter of a book, or a short story to be copied” (p. 7). He indicates
that these reasonable limitations are intended to support the “teachable moment” concept,
primarily for elementary and high schools. Martin also indicates that “if records are kept of what
has been copied then CANCOPY allows copying of up to 15% of a publication [plus over-rides,
as above]” (p. 7).
REFERENCES
Basic Books, Inc. et al. v. Kinko’s Graphics Corporation, 758F Supp. 1522 (S.D.N.Y. 1991).
Bazillion, R. (1991, May/June). The copyright issue in Canada. CSSE News, p. 4.
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KEITH D. WALKER
Copyright Act. (1988). R.S., c. C-30, s.1.
Copyright Act of 1976, Pub. L. No. 94-553, Title I, 90 Stat. 2541 (1976), codified at 17 U.S.C. §§
101–810.
Carrigg, M. (1993). CANCOPY’s first distribution. CANCOPY News, 2(4), 1–2.
Dratler, J. (1990). To copy or not to copy: The educator’s dilemma. Journal of Law and Education,
19(1), 1–49.
Gagnon, D. (1989). To break or not to break the copyright law? School Libraries in Canada, 10(2),
15–18.
Gagnon, D. (1990, April–May). Copyright in schools. Paper presented to the national Canadian
Association for the Practical Study of Law in Education conference in Vancouver, BC.
Government of Canada, Consumer and Corporate Affairs/Department of Communications. (1984).
From Gutenberg to Telidon. Ottawa: Author.
Harris, L. (1992). Canadian copyright law. Toronto: McGraw-Hill Ryerson.
Helm, V. (1986). What educators should know about copyright. Bloomington, IL: Phi Delta Kappa
Educational Foundation.
Herbert, M. (1990). Copyright Act reform. Ottawa: Supply and Services Canada, Research Branch.
Kratz, M. (1989, September). Copyright: Survival tactics. The Bookmark, p. 86.
Mackay, A. W. (1987). Education and law in an information society. Journal of Education, 400,
22–26.
Martin, A. (1994, May). Collective licensing: An alternative to fair dealing and user exemptions.
Paper presented at the meeting of the Canadian Association for the Practical Study of Law in
Education, Saskatoon, SK.
Moline, T. (1989). Using copyright in the classroom and library. Alberta Learning Resources Journal,
9(3), 15–17.
Sub-Committee on the Revision of Copyright. (1985, February). A charter of rights for creators.
Ottawa: Government of Canada, Consumer and Corporate Affairs and Communications.
Weiner, H. (1989, October). Everything you always wanted to know about copyright or less. Speech
presented to the Canadian Teachers’ Federation, Toronto, ON.
Keith D. Walker is an associate professor in the Department of Educational Administration, College
of Education, University of Saskatchewan, Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, S7N 0X1.
(Un)Becoming a Teacher:
Negotiating Identities While Learning to Teach
Dennis J. Sumara
simon fraser university
Rebecca Luce-Kapler
university of alberta
Becoming a teacher involves more than transposing teaching skills onto an alreadyestablished personal identity: it means including the identity “teacher” in one’s life.
Beginning teachers must negotiate at least three teaching identities: those they bring with
them into teacher education, those they develop while doing university course work, and
those they develop during student teaching practicums. Because university and school
experiences are generally only weakly connected for beginning teachers, the negotiation
of these disparate teacher identities often remains unacknowledged and uninterpreted. By
describing what happened when we used a “writerly” text in the teacher-education
classroom, we show the importance of creating curricular locations for the interpretation
of the teaching identities student teachers negotiate as they learn to teach.
Devenir un enseignant implique plus que de simplement transposer des habiletés
d’enseignement sur une identité personnelle déjà établie: cela signifie plutôt d’inclure
l’identité “enseignant” dans la vie d’une personne. Les enseignants débutants doivent
composer avec au moins trois identités reliées à l’enseignement: celles qu’ils amènent
avec eux dans le cadre de la formation des maîtres, celles qu’ils développent en suivant
des cours universitaires et celles qu’ils cultivent au cours de leurs stages en enseignement.
Puisque les expériences du milieu scolaire et celles du milieu universitaire ne sont
généralement que faiblement reliées pour les enseignants débutants, composer avec ces
identités disparates demeure souvent un aspect non reconnu et non interprété. Les auteurs,
en décrivant ce qui s’est produit lorsqu’ils ont utilisé un texte de type “littéraire” dans une
classe de formation des maîtres, démontrent l’importance de créer une place dans les
programmes universitaires pour l’interprétation des identités reliées à l’enseignement avec
lesquelles les stagiaires composent pendant qu’ils apprennent à enseigner.
A NARRATIVE OF DISCONTINUITY
The room was silent except for the soft scratching of pencils on test papers.
Sonja glanced around the class with the calm, in-charge expression she had been
practising in front of her mirror — the look of a professional.
This was her first week as a student teacher and already she imagined that this
was her own class. She glanced around the room again. This seemed easy! The
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problems of junior high school must be exaggerated. Hand out the test, watch
them work, prepare for what would be taught next. Who couldn’t do that? Then
she heard the quiet rustle of pages being flipped — not the pages of a test paper.
Sonja had a moment’s pleasure in being able to recognize a problem, and then
realized she would have to do something about it. In the far corner Kelsey was
reading his math book, making no effort to hide his cheating.
A sudden twinge of panic stung Sonja’s throat. What should she do? “Easiest
first,” she thought. “I’ll make eye contact. Stare at him to make it clear that I
know he is doing something wrong. Then he’ll shut his math book and no-one
will even notice that there was a problem.”
She rested her chin on her palm and directed her coolest stare in Kelsey’s
direction. It wasn’t long before he felt her gaze and looked up to meet her eyes.
But instead of blushing and closing his book, as Sonja had anticipated, he stared
back until she felt her own gaze wavering.
“What are you looking at?” he scowled.
The other students stopped working on their tests and looked up with interest.
Sonja hadn’t known her heart could pound so loudly. All she wanted to do was
run out of the classroom and never come back. But, instead, she took a deep
breath. She sensed that if she couldn’t handle this, she might as well give up her
dream of becoming a teacher. But why was it so difficult to know what to do
next?
Proximity. She would try that.
Kelsey’s eyes did not waver as she walked towards him. In fact, Sonja was
certain that she could see a glint of amused defiance in his expression. He knew
what she was thinking. She stopped beside his desk and stood quietly for a
moment, keeping her hands behind her back so that Kelsey would not see their
trembling.
“Got a problem?” Kelsey asked, no quieter than before.
“Close your math book,” Sonja whispered. “You’re cheating.”
“So?”
The class had not gone back to their tests and Kelsey was not at all
intimidated by her nearness. Without thinking, Sonja slammed the book shut over
his hand.
“Ow! You hit me! You’re in big trouble now!” Kelsey hollered, glancing at
his audience with pleasure.
“Out!” Sonja shouted back. “Out! Go to the office!”
“I don’t have to listen to you,” Kelsey sneered.
Panic and tears threatened to overwhelm Sonja when the door opened and her
supervising teacher returned. Instantly, all the students, including Kelsey, went
back to work. The math book slid under his desk.
“I’ve really blown it,” Sonja thought as she returned to the front to tell the
teacher what had happened. “I don’t think I can do this. I don’t think I want to
do this.”
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A TEACHER
67
THE FICTIVE IDENTITY
Tears rolled down Sonja’s cheek as she related this experience to us and her
classmates.1 Although she had felt prepared for teaching, this encounter with
Kelsey forced her to confront the dissonance between the kind of teacher she
thought she would be and the teacher who reacted strongly to Kelsey’s rebellious
behaviour. Like that of many beginning teachers, Sonja’s experience was discontinuous with projections she had made of what it would be like to teach. We
believe that narrating these discontinuities in the context of the teacher-education
classroom makes it possible to investigate the question “Who am I becoming?” — a question that continually surfaces for beginning teachers as they learn
to teach. As Bruner (1990) and Kerby (1991) have suggested, narrations of lived
experiences offer opportunities to interpret the relations among past, present, and
projected events.
Although we acknowledge the importance of interpreting narrations of lived
experiences, we believe these activities often entrench an understanding of
teaching identity as something that hangs, suspended, between teaching and
non-teaching experiences. The popular phrase “becoming a teacher” represents
this belief. When teaching identity is understood in this way, learning how to
teach is described as a process of transposing teaching skills onto persons who
have the virtues required to become a teacher. The self that comes to the
enterprise of teaching is viewed as the foundation for the skills and behaviours
needed for effective teaching. Understood in this way, the project of teacher
education becomes one of transposition rather than transformation. Good teachers
acquire “teaching skills.” Britzman (1991) suggests that this and other cultural
myths about teaching and teachers contribute to the shaping of a teaching
identity:
In the case of learning to teach, cultural myths partly structure the individual’s
taken-for-granted views of power, authority, knowledge, and identity. They work to cloak
the more vulnerable condition of learning to teach and the myriad negotiations it requires.
(p. 7)
We have come to believe that beginning teachers negotiate the dissonance
between their pre-teaching lives and their lives as experienced teachers with a
“fictive” identity. This fictive identity, like characters in literary fictions, is
composed not only of elements of the student teacher’s already-experienced
world of understanding, but also of the various cultural myths associated with the
idea of “teacher.” As they learn to teach, beginning teachers negotiate at least
three conceptions of self-identity: the “pre-teaching” image of themselves as
teacher they bring to teacher education; the “fictive” image that develops while
they learn to teach; and the “lived” image that forms during their interactions
with students in the practicum. Although we do not believe these exist in
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isolation from each other, we have found this “three identity” formulation a
useful heuristic for understanding the complexities of learning to teach and,
furthermore, have found it helpful in developing teacher-education curricula that
call into question the idea that one can maintain an identity separate from the
role “teacher.”2
INTERPRETING THE US/NOT-US RELATION
In his novel The English Patient, Michael Ondaatje (1992) chronicles the lives
of four strangers who come together for a time at the end of World War II in an
abandoned, bombed-out villa in northern Italy. Because one of these characters,
a pilot who is burned beyond recognition in a plane crash, does not reveal his
name or any personal details about himself to the others, he is assumed to be of
English descent, and is referred to by the others as “the English patient.” The
only artifact the English patient salvages from the crash is a worn copy of the
Greek historian Herodotus’ The Histories (trans. 1954), which he has carried with
him for the past thirty years. Because he has made it a habit to write in the
margins of the text and paste in clippings from newspapers, other books, letters
from others, and notes to himself, the book has grown to more than twice its
original thickness, and is referred to by him as his “commonplace book.” By
reading from this book, the other characters come to know more about him. The
book has become what Merleau-Ponty (1962) calls a “cultural object.”
In the cultural object, I feel the close presence of others beneath a veil of anonymity.
Someone uses the pipe for smoking, the spoon for eating, the bell for summoning, and it
is through the perception of a human act and another person that the perception of a
cultural world could be. (pp. 347–348)
With this passage Merleau-Ponty expresses the importance of knowing the
relations among things. What becomes significant is not so much knowledge of
the artifact itself but knowledge of the relationship between it and the world.
Who has used the pipe? What was eaten with the spoon? Where was the bell
previously located? Gadamer (1990) calls this continual process of interpreting
the relations among past, present, and projected experience a “fusing of horizons”
(pp. 306–307). The artifacts that surround the human subject, whether material
(such as the pipe, the spoon, the bell) or linguistic (the stories we tell of our
experiences), become “commonplaces” for these ongoing interpretations. For the
English patient, his copy of The Histories becomes material evidence of his
ever-evolving and transforming self. Each time he rereads a passage, each time
he adds new words, he ritualizes the process of self-interpretation. At the same
time, his commonplace book serves as a location for communal interpretation.
As others read the book, their knowledge about the English patient deepens and,
(UN)BECOMING
A TEACHER
69
at the same time, their understanding of themselves changes. As they interpret
themselves, they interpret one another and their sense of community.
This formulation calls into question the location of “identity.” Is the sense of
self located in the human subject? Or is it somehow circumscribed in one’s
relations with others within a perceived and contextualized world of significance?
Sartre (1956) has suggested that when in the presence of another person, one
experiences himself or herself as viewed from the perspective of the other. This
is the experience of being judged, of being endowed with a meaning not of one’s
own making. One is no longer a being for oneself but, instead, a being for the
other. At the same time, one can become the subject that interprets the other.
One can also become the author of one’s own interpretations. These interpretations, however, cannot be extricated from one another. They overlap and intertwine within an ever-evolving and unstable web of contextualized relations.
Coming to know oneself occurs during the process of being in relations with
others — relations always mediated by the cultural objects that circumscribe lived
experience. A sense of self-identity does not really have a fixed location inside
the body of the individual but, rather, is ambiguously located amid the human
subject’s perceived and interpreted relations in the world. Further, some cultural
objects, because of their histories of involvement with human subjects, more
clearly announce some sense of self and collective identity. For the English
patient, his copy of The Histories is such an object.
This understanding of identity suggests that a sense of self or communal
identity is not stable, continuous, or fixed. Identity cannot be contained within
immutable categories. This theory of identity is, however, in the lexicon of
modernism, counter-intuitive. In the Western world at least, persons generally
speak about themselves as if they were somehow detached from others and the
world. As Taylor (1989) suggests:
Modern culture has developed conceptions of individualism which picture the human
subject as, at least potentially, finding his or her own bearings within, declaring
independence from the webs of interlocution that have originally formed him/her, or at
least neutralizing them. It is as though the dimension of interlocution were of significance
only for the genesis of individuality, like the training wheels of nursery school, to be left
behind and to play no part in the finished person. (p. 36)
A sense of personal identity cannot be subtracted from a sense of communal
identity; the sense of self alters as social relations and situations change.
Moreover, the memories of past selves change when they are viewed in relation
to new experiences. At the same time, because each person is always involved
in many discursive systems, the sense of personal and communal identity is
always multiple. Furthermore, as Davis (1995, in press) suggests, there is really
no fixed boundary between a sense of identity and a body of knowledge. Individual and collective identities and expressed knowledge continually shape one
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another. As the self continues to be reinterpreted, what the self expresses as
knowledge changes. Learning about things that are “not us” means being
involved in a learning relation that informs one about himself or herself. Sumara
(1996) calls this the continually evolving relation of “us/not-us.” Gadamer (1990)
uses the metaphor of conversation to announce this idea:
We say that we “conduct” a conversation, but the more genuine a conversation is, the less
its conduct lies within the will of either partner. Thus a genuine conversation is never the
one that we wanted to conduct. Rather, it is generally more correct to say that we fall into
conversation, or even that we become involved in it. The way on word follows another,
with the conversation taking its own twists and reaching its own conclusion, may well be
conducted in some way, but the partners conversing are far less the leaders of it than the
led. No one knows in advance what will “come out” of a conversation. (pp. 383–384)
Like a conversation, lived experience may be described as the interrelation
necessarily occurring between the human subject and everything not the human
subject. A sense of self is circumscribed among the interstices of the us/not-us
relation, and personal identity is generated through the interpretation of that
relation. Because these relations exist within normatively inscribed discursive
practices, to many people (particularly those of mainstream groups) they seem
seamless and invisible.
The continual interpretation of overlapping and intertwined relations sponsored
by the need to remain viable in the us/not-us relation means that conventionally
understood boundaries between self and other, human and world are not distinct
or fixed. In The English Patient, for example, the villa’s four inhabitants
frequently become confused about the beginnings and endings of personal and
collective identities. Through their ongoing practice of reading and interpreting
the English patient’s commonplace book they are able to make sense of these
blurred relations. However, it is actually not the text that becomes the commonplace where interpretations and understanding accrue. Rather, the interpretive
commonplace occurs within the cumulative and collective intertextual relations
among readers, texts read, other experiences, and contexts of reading. When the
villa’s inhabitants interpret The Histories, they are not merely commenting on the
text; as Iser (1989, 1993) has suggested, they are engaged in “literary anthropology,” in which responding to the text becomes a process of self-discovery and
self-interpretation.
It is also significant that the four characters feel estranged from their
remembered sense of self. That they are simultaneously strangers to one another
poses a double conundrum, because the inability to define themselves is only
exacerbated by this strangeness. How does one renegotiate the boundaries of
one’s sense of self when the associations and the landmarks are unfamiliar?
Although the characters desperately try to “read” the others’ thoughts — searching
for a trace of the other and, simultaneously, a trace of themselves — they find,
(UN)BECOMING
A TEACHER
71
over time, that the sense of self can only become known through shared readings
and interpretations of the English patient’s commonplace book. The book
becomes the cultural object that creates a commonplace for social and communal
interaction, helping each character to develop deeper understanding of the
relationship among past, present, and projected senses of self. Furthermore,
readers of The English Patient become part of this complicated process of understanding and self-interpretation. They become involved in a literary anthropology
in which their interactions in the commonplace, announced by their reading of
a literary work, redefine the boundaries of their various identities. At the same
time, this interpretive work helps them to develop deeper understandings of how
these identities are always culturally and historically effected.
The idea of the “commonplace location” announced by the reader’s interpreted
response to a work of literary fiction can become useful in understanding how
remembered, fictive, and lived identities interact within the curriculum of teacher
education. Just as the reader of the fictional text learns to integrate the self that
comes to the text with the emergent “reading self” conditioned by the text, the
beginning teacher must learn to integrate disparate senses of the “pre-teacher”
self, the “fictive” teacher self, and the “lived” teacher self. If curriculum is
understood as the intertextual relations among teachers, students, texts, and the
contexts of learning, the questions that should be asked of teacher-education
curriculum are: How does the tightly woven fabric of curricular relations teach
what student teachers learn? How do these learnings function to maintain or
integrate these disparate senses of self? Can what is known about the interaction
between readers and literary fictions illuminate the identity-negotiation students
experience while learning how to teach?
A COMMONPLACE LOCATION
Barthes (1974) makes a distinction between “readerly” and “writerly” experiences
that underscores the need to become creative with the print texts used in teacher
education. According to Barthes, writerly texts are those requiring greater-thanusual participation from the reader. As opposed to readerly texts, which attempt
to provide a tightly woven set of experiences, writerly texts contain more spaces
and gaps (Iser, 1978) for the reader to negotiate. Typical of novels such as The
English Patient, where readers need to become vigilant of how they are involved
in a more open (Eco, 1989) literary form, the writerly text disrupts the usual
seamlessness of the reading experience.
We believe that many teacher-education programs encourage a readerly rather
than writerly response from students. Like many forms of Western schooling,
learning to become a teacher resembles what Franklin (1990) calls a “prescriptive
practice,” in which theoretical knowledge is presented in university classrooms
geographically and ideologically distant from school classrooms. Like readers of
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the readerly fictional text, students involved in these readerly teacher-education
practices often become lost in a fantasy-text bearing little relation to their actual
experiences in the world. The move from a readerly to a writerly interaction
requires that the usual seamlessness of the “learning to teach” experience be
interrupted. Within the locations announced by these interruptions, readers
(beginning teachers) are better able to perceive the usually invisible architecture
of intertextual construction.
It was during our experience of reading and responding to The English Patient
with a group of English teachers that we became aware of the interpretive
possibilities offered by a “writerly” experience. Because we found this text more
open and ambiguous than most novels, several of us adopted the practice of
inscribing our reading responses directly “between the lines and in the margins”
of our copies of the novel. Because we (Dennis and Rebecca) found this
response practice useful, we came to believe that material inscription of a
reader’s thoughts into a text could convert usually “readerly” reader-text
experiences into more “writerly” ones. By making material our responses, we
interrupted the flow of reading and, as a consequence, opened new interpretive
locations. We found, for example, that by going back and rereading our
comments, we became more aware of how our “identities” were unstable,
multiple, and defied categorization. As we continued to read and interpret our
reading of The English Patient, we began to feel differently about ourselves and
each other. Because this reading and response strategy had been so successful in
our teacher reading group, we (Dennis and Rebecca) wondered what it would be
like to include it in the general curriculum and instruction course we were
teaching.3 Could we develop an activity to help beginning teachers understand
the complexity of learning to live a life that includes the practice of public
school teaching?
Like many teacher-education programs, the one in which we taught4 offered
pre-service teachers a combination of university courses and seminars, various
classroom observations, and practicum experiences. To encourage interpretations
of these somewhat disparate experiences, we had previously asked students to
keep daily journals. Rather than becoming a location for critical reflection on
experience, we found that the journals generally devolved into chronologies of
daily events. Because we wished to help students to understand how their various
experiences in teacher education were interrelated and interactive, we developed
an assignment we believed would provoke a more “writerly” reading and
interpretation of their learning-to-teach experience.
In previous years, we had included as part of our course John Dewey’s
(1902/1956) The Child and the Curriculum. As in many North American teachereducation programs, this canonical text had become a largely unquestioned part
of our teacher-education program. Because, at that time, we believed this text
continued to address contemporary educational issues, we used it as the foundation for a “commonplace book” assignment. After providing our students with
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some written information about The English Patient, and the concept of the
“commonplace book,” we gave the following directions:
Webster’s defines a “commonplace book” as a “book in which noteworthy quotations,
poems, comments, etc. are written.” Just as Herodotus’ The Histories functioned as a
commonplace for the English patient and others at the villa, we believe that your
commonplace book will evolve from individual “writing in,” responding to, and rereading
pieces of text in relation to various experiences you will have this semester. The purpose
for developing such a book for this course is to define a location in which to explore what
it might mean to live a life that includes the practice of teaching. We will be using John
Dewey’s (1902/1956) The Child and the Curriculum as the focal text for the commonplace book. We will be looking at sections of the essay as they relate to class discussions,
other readings, and in-school practicum experiences. You are encouraged to write/respond
“in the margins” and “between the lines,” and to insert notes, clippings, photographs, or
any other artifacts that help you to articulate your experience of learning to teach.
We hoped that through deliberately interrupting Dewey’s text with insertions
of their remembered experiences, students would find an opening in this text —
an interpretive possibility — within which they could begin to examine their
evolving senses of self-identity as teachers. This did not occur. Although students
did write “in the margins” and “between the lines” of Dewey’s text, their
responses closely resembled the content and tone of the journal entries we were
attempting to eschew. Rather than initiating a dialectical relationship with the
text, students continually reacted to the text by comparing it to their teaching
experiences. Sonja’s narrative presented at the beginning of this article, for
example, emerged from a written response she had made to Dewey’s (1902/
1956) call for educators to:
abandon the notion of subject-matter as something fixed and ready-made in itself, outside
the child’s experience; cease thinking of the child’s experience as also something hard
and fast; see it as something fluid, embryonic, vital; and we realize that the child and the
curriculum are simply two limits which define a single process. (p. 11)
Dewey’s idealized formulation of the intertextual quality of curriculum, for
Sonja, became a critical commentary on her own response to Kelsey. She wrote:
I understand that the child’s experience must, somehow, be considered along with the
teaching of the subject matter. But what about my experience? My responses to student
misbehaviour and defiance are not likely what Dewey would expect — and they are not
what I expected. I’m quite confused about who I’m supposed to be as a teacher. It seems
like this person is very unlike me or the teacher I expected I would be.
This entry was written after she had spent several days observing and
participating in the teaching of junior high classes in an inner-city school. Sonja’s
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troubling experience occurred in the midst of course activities focussing on the
subject of classroom organization, management, and discipline. Because one of
our course aims was to help students become aware of the metaphors used to
describe classroom interactions, we encouraged them to reread sections of The
Child and the Curriculum dealing with the teacher’s role vis-à-vis students and
the curriculum. They were also asked to read several other articles on this subject
and, with teachers, to participate in seminars on classroom organization and
management.
We had hoped that the activity of inscribing their responses to these various
activities into Dewey’s text would help generate critical class discussion around
issues of curriculum, pedagogy, and teaching and learning to teach. We expected
that these discussions would illuminate for students the complex identity
negotiations and transformations necessarily accompanying these activities. It was
in the midst of a class discussion in which students were asked to share some of
their commonplace book constructions that a number of students (including
Sonja) revealed the dissonance they felt among the idealized teaching image
implied by Dewey’s words, the images of the teachers they expected to be, and
the remembered images of their interactions with students during their practicum.
Comments such as “I’m not acting like the teacher I wanted to be” and “I’m
surprised to find myself sounding like teachers I didn’t like” were typical. Our
immediate response was to ease the students’ anxiety by taking up their questions
of “what to do” about students like Kelsey. Near the end of class, however,
Sonja expressed her exasperation with these efforts by suggesting that these sorts
of discussions would not help her to know how to handle situations such as her
encounter with Kelsey. We knew she was right, and this realization provoked us
to call into question the procedures we were using to guide student response and
interpretation. Why had our recent innovation merely reproduced the typical
dissonance between projected and lived experiences of teaching?
In the end, we concluded that we had chosen the wrong kind of text to
announce the desired commonplace for critical response. Because it presented a
relatively seamless and unified theory of the relation between the child and the
curriculum, students found their own experiences difficult to integrate into the
text. The act of “interrupting” the text with their own responses did not create
a location for critical enquiry into the identity transformation occurring while
they learned to teach. Although it was not immediately apparent to us, we
eventually learned that the very construction of Dewey’s text and the context of
reading was what prevented them from doing so. To respond to Dewey, students
first needed to situate themselves as readers according to the text’s conditioning
qualities.
Like many Western philosophic texts of this type, Dewey’s text functioned as
a particular technology (de Castell, 1990a, 1990b) that excluded marginal subject
positions and reading identities. Because the text was authoritative in tone and
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in presentation (that is, the author was presented to students as a philosophic
authority), and the context of reading was “schooled” (that is, subject to the
conditioning “ranking and sorting” functions of the university classroom), and the
responses were further subject to the gaze of the teachers (that is, they functioned
as material for curricular assessment), students’ experiences were effectively
delegitimized. We realized that if we wanted to offer students an opportunity to
enquire critically into the processes and practices conditioning their “learning-toteach” experiences, we needed to construct a reading location that would provoke
them to become different sorts of readers (Eco, 1994). This text, we believed,
needed to present some of the competing discursive practices associated with
learning to teach so that students might come to understand the complex identity
negotiation they were undergoing within their teacher-education program.
A WRITERLY TEXT
Rather than using one complete text as a location for reading response and
interpretation, we created a “writerly” text by juxtaposing selections from various
published texts with quotations from research transcripts.5 The final product was
an example of bricolage, in which seemingly unrelated fragments were collapsed
into one textual form. Because we wanted to make explicit for students that we
had constructed this text, we performed an oral reading for them. We named it
“Stories of Teaching” and have reproduced it here:
Stories of Teaching
“Once assignments are made and students begin work, it is essential that the teacher be
aware of student progress. This can be accomplished by circulating throughout the
classroom and systematically checking each student’s work. The teacher should scan the
class for a minute or two at the beginning of seatwork activity to make sure that everyone
has begun.” (Evertson & Emmer, 1982, p. 28, cited in Arends, 1991, p. 171)
“High school is hell. Most teachers don’t understand how awful it really is. There is
nowhere to hide. If it’s not the teachers watching you, it’s all the other kids.” (Taylor,
Grade 11 student)6
“Panopticism, as discussed by Foucault (1977) in his book Discipline and Punish, a
history of the prison system, is derived from the word “panopticon,” a plan for an
efficient prison designed in the early 1900s. Its most innovative feature was a design that
allowed the warden constant surveillance of the prisoners from a vantage point in a tower
surrounded by cells for individuals. Because these cells were fully open in the front (bars
only) and lit from behind, prisoners were exposed at all times. Foucault writes:
They are like so many cages, so many small theatres, in which each actor is alone,
perfectly individualized and constantly visible. The panoptic mechanism arranges
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spatial unities that make it possible to see constantly and to recognize immediately. (p.
200)
The idea of the panopticon, Foucault suggests, has polyvalent applications:
It is a type of location of bodies in space, of distribution of individuals in relation to
one another, of hierarchical organization, of disposition of centres and channels of
power, of definition of instruments and modes of intervention of power, which can be
implemented in hospitals, workshops, schools, prisons.” (p. 205)
“It was Mr. Moscowitz’s first year of teaching. He wore a plaid suit, was short, and had
terrible facial acne. His only crime was he could not control the class. Control was
everything. Mr. Moscowitz didn’t carry authority in his body, so it didn’t matter that he
asked you to sit down.” (Goldberg, 1993, p. 12)
“Although educational research of the last decade has come to acknowledge the degree
to which the teacher mediates between the child and the curriculum, the response of
curriculum developers, book publishers, and administrators to this perception of the
potential power of the teacher has been to prescribe teacher/student interactions by
providing scripts for their discourse. The move to acknowledge the influence of teachers
and, simultaneously, to control it is evident in . . . the scripts imposed in teachereffectiveness courses and evaluation protocols.” (Grumet, 1988, p. 90)
“I think at certain points, I did become assimilated into school life but I don’t feel a part
of it. I don’t think I ever did. I felt bad because I didn’t like the school environment. I
never felt it was healthy or natural, I never felt comfortable there.” (Jamie Owl, student
teacher, cited in Britzman, 1991, p. 112)
“When I first started teaching this novel and all these personal emotions came up, I
thought that I would do like always — subtract myself from them. But that hasn’t been
very easy. I’m not sure you can do that without causing a great deal of harm to yourself.”
(Ingrid, high school English teacher7)
“The primary responsibility of every professional is to render the service needed by the
client, not what the professional prefers. Therefore, teaching behaviours are determined
by student need, not teacher style. Skilled teachers have a repertoire of styles.” (Hunter,
1994, p. 12)
“For those who leave this world to enter teacher education, their first culture shock may
well occur with the realization of the overwhelming complexity of the teacher’s work and
the myriad ways this complexity is masked and misunderstood. But what occurs as well
is the startling idea that the taking up of an identity means suppressing aspects of the self.
So at first glance, becoming a teacher may mean becoming someone you are not.”
(Britzman, 1991, p. 4)
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Iser (1989) explains that the fictional literary text “provokes translations of
itself into terms of the prevailing situation” (p. 208). These translations, he
suggests, function like a “divining rod” that points to the impulses which led to
them. Because we believed our text functioned as a writerly fictional text, we
thought that by reading it aloud to our students, we would become part of the
event of divining. Grumet (1991) has described this divining function as a form
of “pointing to the world,” suggesting that teachers who choose to read to their
students “point” to some aspects of the world and not others. Shared reading,
then, announces a commonplace location within which to interpret intertextual
and interpersonal relationships.
As we read this text to our students, we were reminded that we were also
persons continually learning what it means to live a teaching life. In fact, we
found that we were emotionally moved by our own text, for although we had
organized the pieces of this text, before this event we had not read it aloud in a
public place. It was the public reading with our students that seemed to create
an emotional response. As we glanced across the room at each other we realized
immediately that each of us had had a similar response experience. The text had,
it seemed, collected our experiences and, during the event of reading, illuminated
for us why it was so difficult to teach about teaching — and why, like our
students, we felt the experience of splintered selves. Who were we becoming as
teacher educators? Did the selves that had been public school teachers still exist?
Or were our narrated stories about our prior experience as classroom teachers
describing other selves that remained alive only in the fictive reconstructions of
memories of those events? How was being a university teacher different from
being a public school teacher? Were we, like our students, attempting to
“become” the fictional image of university professor that we had constructed for
ourselves? And what of the “self” that stood before the students during the event
of reading? How does one speak when one gains, during an event of curriculum,
new understanding about oneself and one’s relations to others?
For us, this curriculum event had become a location for self-interpretation.
And so, as the students wrote responses to this text, we each did so as well. We
were grateful for this five minutes of space to collect ourselves and our thoughts,
for we knew that what would follow would differ from previous situations with
this class. There was a tension, an electricity in the air that was new. After the
five minutes, we asked whether anyone wanted to share what they had just
written. At first, there was only a trickle of response, largely concerning the issue
of “surveillance.” Within moments, however, came an avalanche of discussion —
often heated and emotional — about the experience of being “watched” while
learning to teach. Some students talked about the pressure they felt to acquire
more conservative haircuts, to buy “teacher” clothes, to remove earrings, and so
on. Others spoke about how they had carefully constructed responses to Dewey
and other readings they thought best typified those that might be given by a
“good” teacher. Others spoke frankly about how that day’s experience of
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responding to “Stories of Teaching” in the presence of their peers and university
professors had been yet another example of the appropriation of their feelings
and responses for classroom purposes. Others reacted strongly to the juxtaposition of comments from teachers and students, and particularly to Britzman’s
statement about “becoming someone that you are not,” suggesting that they
would never allow that to happen.
Some students in the class resisted the idea that learning to teach meant taking
up a new and often uncomfortable identity. Several students readily dismissed
responses to the text (their own and others’) that called into question the value
of “becoming a teacher.” They seemed immediately to understand what we
would later conclude: that learning to teach means engaging in acts of forgetting,
discarding, silencing, and ignoring. Because a number of students were clearly
becoming uncomfortable with this continued examination of their personal
responses, we decided to shift the discussion by using our own response to the
text as another interpretive location. We specifically discussed how our response
was conditioned by our public school teaching experiences. In addition, we
explained that our reading of the text was affected by other conditions in our
lives. One of us, for example, read this text as a white, middle-class woman who
was also a writer of fiction, and who researches what it is like for women writers
to teach in public schools. The other read this text as a white, middle-class man
who is interested in the function of the literary imagination in school settings.
Although it was also true that he read this text as a gay male, and that this
“writerly” text provoked a strong response around issues of silencing and
surveillance, this information was not disclosed to the students. (We mention this
here, because, as we will later show, it was this deliberate omission that further
reinforced, for us, the problems with developing teaching around “fictionalized”
identities.)
Because we felt some students needed another opportunity to express and
extend their response, we asked the class to think about the day’s reading and
response activity and to write a page or two of critical interpretation. The
following excerpts are representative of the range of responses given:
Anjali:
This entire semester I have felt exhausted, and I now think it’s because I feel
like I am always being watched. It’s even worse than being a student in school
because while I’m teaching I know that I’m also being taught. How can you
really be yourself when you feel exposed all the time?
Andrew:
At first I was really annoyed by the Britzman quote. I thought, “I’m not
becoming someone I’m not!” But then I thought about how I am worried that
I should not be working part-time in a bar if I’m a student-teacher, and I
probably should not wear an earring. And, I know that there are some things
about myself that cannot become known in schools, and that is unfortunate,
because they’re some of the things that make me feel unique.
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Mena:
There really isn’t anything about me that I think I need to change in order to
be an effective teacher. I don’t feel at all like I’m becoming someone else, nor
do I think that students are being watched all the time — at least not in a
negative way. Observation is an important part of teaching, I think.
Geoff:
For me, teaching is not about surveillance, becoming someone I’m not, or
reciting scripts made by someone else. I find that I’m able to be exactly who
I was before teaching. In fact, because I’m teaching in the community where
I was raised and went to school, I’m not noticing some of the difficulties
relating to students that other student-teachers seem to have. Maybe not
everyone should be teaching?
As we reflected upon this class, it became apparent to us that the reading of
and responding to a more “writerly” curricular text had announced a commonplace location for interpretation. The complexity of multiple and competing
identities came into full relief for many of our students as they responded to this
text. Suddenly, it became more apparent (to them and to us) that learning to
teach meant learning about oneself and, for many, it meant learning how to
become someone else. This activity created a curricular space in which we could
discuss how we and our students were located within competing discursive
practices that functioned to shape our teaching and non-teaching identities. For
us as their teachers, it meant examining our complicity in the practices we were
critiquing. In our teaching journals we wrote about the discomfort this reading
and response event had created for each of us:
Dennis:
I thought that the move from public school to university teaching would make
it possible for me to be more open with my students about my gay identity,
but as I was reading the “Stories of Teaching” to the class I realized that
although my teaching location had changed, my teaching identity had not. I
was still trying to enact teaching with a fictive teacher identity. Because I have
not “announced” myself as gay, many students, I am sure, assume that I am
straight. I am disturbed that I did not explain to the class that I had read and
interpreted this text as a gay male. And, in the end, it was this withholding of
an important aspect of my identity that prevented me from participating fully
with them in an enquiry of what it means to live the life of a teacher.
Rebecca: I tell students that they are in the midst of becoming teachers and that this
course will be part of that experience. I speak about my own experience in the
classroom, but only as an outline: where I taught, what I taught, whom I
taught. I don’t tell them I am running away. Running away from conversations
about diets, hockey pools, and despair in the staffroom. Running away from
an institution where I feel constrained, watched, unappreciated. Running away
from an environment where I kept my writing life distinctly separate from my
writing classroom. If I told them all this, they too might run screaming from
the classroom.
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These responses helped us understand that it was important to continue to
investigate, with our students, the dissonance between normative practices that
circumscribe learning to teach and the remembered, lived, and projected experiences of those who come to the practice of teaching. It helped us to understand
that we needed to ask students to map the landscape of their pre-teaching
identities, the ones formed while they were learning to teach, and the ones they
experienced in front of students during their practicums. Using the “three
identities” formulation as an heuristic device helped us and many of our students
to understand better what was at work during their teacher-education program.
A commonplace location was announced that assisted in the negotiation of these
disparate and often competing senses of self-identity. Further, it helped render
problematic the belief that learning to teach was a project that could be completed during teacher education. Most important, it created a critical location where
students could begin to enquire into how the act of teaching shapes the identities
of those who choose to teach. And, for many, this meant wondering whether they
were prepared to make this transformation.
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Despite the difficulty she encountered with Kelsey in the early stages of her
practicum, Sonja successfully completed her teaching degree. Although this
might seem like cause for celebration — after all, she was able to develop a
successful teaching identity and manner — we find ourselves feeling ambivalent.
We continue to ask ourselves what provokes students to respond to teachers as
Kelsey responded to Sonja? What identity transformations must occur for
teachers like Sonja to be able to avoid these challenges?
We have come to believe that often these situations arise when students
become aware of the competing and conflicting identities embodied by the
beginning teacher. As Sonja stood among students in the classroom, both she and
they were, in some way, aware that behind the mask of “teacher” there stood
another self, another life, another set of experiences removed from the rituals of
public schooling. Because the “fictive” teacher Sonja had been constructing had
not yet become woven into her pre-teaching and lived-teaching identities, it
conflicted with both. When this occurs, the body of the teacher betrays these
identity conflicts. Although Sonja was able to step into the role “teacher,” she
had not acquired the culturally defined teaching manner. We find that we are
more depressed than excited by Sonja’s success, for we understand that for her
to have been successful, she must have developed a “lived” teaching identity that
appeared unified and seamless to her students. This, of course, does not mean
that Sonja’s sense of identity was or is this way — she simply learned to suppress
those aspects of herself unbecoming to the identity of public school teacher.
It is crucial for teacher educators to understand that for some students the
merging of disparate identities is relatively simple and unproblematic. Those who
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represent mainstream groups are generally already closely aligned with cultural
images of what teachers should look like and of the sorts of lives they should
live. For others (such as visible minorities, immigrants, lesbians, and gay men),
however, the dissonance between the identities they bring to teaching, the fictive
teaching identities they construct, and the lived experience of teaching is often
vast. Negotiating the territory among these conflicting remembered, lived, and
projected senses of identity is, for many, an exhausting and often insurmountable
task (de Castell & Bryson, 1993; Ng, 1993).
For us, the inclusion of a more “writerly” text of curriculum rendered more
visible than usual the competing discursive practices in learning to teach. From
our and our students’ responses, and the many discussions that followed this
activity, it became clear that this text announced a commonplace location for
interpretation which, like those announced by the reading of literary fictions,
functioned to collect and reorganize previously unconnected past, present, and
projected identities and experiences. Through the interpretation of our and our
students’ responses to this text we were able to articulate more clearly how
pre-teaching, fictive, and lived teaching identities and experiences continually
fold into one another while an individual teaches and learns about teaching.
For many students “becoming a teacher” entails not enriching their lives with
a wider repertoire of abilities and insights but, rather, discarding and excluding
various identities and experiences that do not conform to the constricting cultural
myths and practices conditioning the teacher-education curriculum. We use the
phrase “(un)becoming a teacher” to affirm the already well-announced (Britzman,
1991; de Castell & Bryson, 1993; Lewis, 1990) need in teacher education to
render visible the usually invisible homogenizing practices associated with
learning to teach. Rather than uncritically celebrating the process of becoming
a teacher, we strongly believe that university teacher-education programs must
create commonplaces for interpretation that make explicit the various discursive
practices and competing identities which converge as students learn to teach. The
phrase “(un)becoming a teacher” is meant to suggest that learning to teach is a
form of “unbecoming” the identity one brings to the process of learning to teach.
The phrase also announces that these identity negotiations and transformations
are often considered personally “unbecoming” by the individual undergoing them.
As we have experienced personally, and as many of our students have told us,
becoming a teacher means changing who you are. For some, this is an “unbecoming” experience.
For us, (un)becoming a teacher means making more explicit for beginning
teachers the cultural myths about teaching reproduced as they learn to teach. One
way to accomplish this is to participate with our students in writerly interpretive
practices that make us face each other and ourselves. Our experience suggests
that engaging in these practices often produces a curriculum more ambiguous and
disruptive than usual. We believe, however, that these disruptions are not only
important, but necessary in university-based teacher-education programs.
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
We are grateful for the detailed and helpful comments of Madeleine Grumet, Deborah Britzman,
Mary Bryson, and Brent Davis on an early draft of this paper. We are also indebted to Hans Smits
for suggesting the applications of the English patient’s “commonplace book” to teacher education.
NOTES
1
The preceding narrative is a fictionalized account of Sonja’s experience. In order to create a text
that would invite readers into Sonja’s experience, we developed this fictionalized account based
on the narrative of experience she presented in class and further conversations we had with her
after this in-class disclosure. All names (other than the those of the authors) presented in this
narrative and in the rest of this article are pseudonyms. Because this article is an interpretation
of the authors’ teaching experiences, the specific anecdotal information depicted in it emerges
from our teaching journals and notes, course assignments and documents, students’ journals, and
personal memories of these teaching events.
2
For another example of the consequences of the “fictive” teacher identity, see Sumara’s (1995)
article “Counterfeiting,” in which he discusses how these identities produce fictionalized teacher
responses to literature read with students in schools.
3
This course occurred during the students’ first “professional semester.” During this semester
students took several other courses (educational psychology, subject-specific curriculum courses,
and foundations courses) and completed a six-week practicum.
4
At the time this course was taught we were both graduate students in the Department of
Secondary Education at the University of Alberta.
5
These research transcripts were part of Sumara’s (1994) study, The Literary Imagination and the
Curriculum (published in 1996 as Private Readings in Public: Schooling the Literary
Imagination).
6
This comment was made during an interview the first author had with a student as part of a study
of the experience of reading literature in school (Sumara, 1994).
7
Ingrid made this comment during an interview about her reading and teaching of Wyndham’s
(1955) novel The Chrysalids to a group of Grade 10 students. This interview was part of the study
described in note 6.
REFERENCES
Arends, R. (1991). Learning to teach (2nd ed.). New York: McGraw-Hill.
Barthes, R. (1974). S/Z (R. Miller, Trans.). New York: Hill and Wang.
Britzman, D. (1991). Practice makes practice: A critical study of learning to teach. New York: State
University of New York Press.
Bruner, J. (1990). Acts of meaning. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.
Davis, B. (1995). Why teach mathematics: Mathematics education and enactivist theory. For the
Learning of Mathematics, 15(2), 2–9.
Davis, B. (in press). Mathematics teaching: Toward a sound alternative. New York: Garland
Publishing.
de Castell, S. (1990a). Literacy as disempowerment. Philosophy of Education, 4, 10–25.
de Castell, S. (1990b). Teaching the textbook. Linguistics and Education, 11(9), 74–84.
de Castell, S., & Bryson, M. (1993). Queer pedagogy: Praxis makes im/perfect. Canadian Journal
of Education, 18, 285–305.
(UN)BECOMING
A TEACHER
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Dewey J. (1902/1956). The child and the curriculum. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
Eco, U. (1989). The open work. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.
Eco, U. (1994). Six walks in the fictional woods. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.
Evertson, C. V., & Emmer, E. T. (1982). Preventive classroom management. In D. Duke (Ed.),
Helping teachers manage classrooms (pp. 2–31). Alexandria, VA: Association for Supervision
and Development.
Foucault, M. (1977). Discipline and punish: The birth of the prison (A. Sheridan, Trans.). New York:
Pantheon Books.
Franklin, U. (1990). The real world of technology. Toronto: Anansi Press.
Gadamer, H.-G. (1990). Truth and method (2nd ed.) (J. Weinsheimer & D. Marshall, Trans.). New
York: Crossroad. (Original work published 1960)
Goldberg, N. (1993). Long quiet highway: Waking up in America. New York: Bantam Books.
Grumet, M. (1988). Bitter milk: Women and teaching. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press.
Grumet, M. (1991). Lost places, potential spaces and possible worlds: Why we read books with other
people. Margins, 1(1), 35–53.
Herodotus. (1954). Histories (A. de Sélincourt, Trans.). Harmondsworth, UK: Penguin Books.
Hunter, M. (1994). Enhancing teaching. New York: Macmillan.
Iser, W. (1978). The act of reading. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press.
Iser, W. (1989). Prospecting: From reader response to literary anthropology. Baltimore: Johns
Hopkins University Press.
Iser, W. (1993). The fictive and the imaginary: Charting literary anthropology. Baltimore: Johns
Hopkins University Press.
Kerby, A. P. (1991). Narrative and the self. Bloomington: Indiana University Press.
Lewis, M. (1990). Interrupting patriarchy: Politics, resistance, and transformation in the feminist
classroom. Harvard Educational Review, 60, 467–488.
Merleau-Ponty, M. (1962). Phenomenology of perception. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul.
Ng, R. (1993). “A woman out of control”: Deconstructing sexism and racism in the university.
Canadian Journal of Education, 18, 189–205.
Ondaatje, M. (1992). The English patient. Toronto: McClelland and Stewart.
Sartre, J. P. (1956). Being and nothingness. New York: Pocket Books.
Sumara, D. (1994). The literary imagination and the curriculum. Unpublished doctoral dissertation,
University of Alberta, Edmonton, Alberta.
Sumara, D. (1995). Counterfeiting. Taboo: The Journal of Culture and Education, 1, 94–122.
Sumara, D. (1996). Private readings in public: Schooling the literary imagination. New York: Peter
Lang.
Taylor, C. (1989). Sources of the self: The making of the modern identity. Cambridge: Harvard
University Press.
Wyndham, J. (1955). The chrysalids. London: Penguin Books.
Dennis J. Sumara is assistant professor of English language arts education and curriculum studies in
the Faculty of Education, Simon Fraser University, Burnaby, British Columbia, V5A 1S6. Rebecca
Luce-Kapler is a doctoral candidate in the Department of Secondary Education, Faculty of Education,
University of Alberta, Edmonton, Alberta, T6G 2G0.
Official-Language Minority and Aboriginal
First-Language Education: Implications of
Norway’s Sámi Language Act for Canada
David Corson
ontario institute for studies in education
Norway has given official-language status to the languages of its aboriginal peoples, the
Sámi, yet Canada has accorded that status only to English and French, the languages of
the colonizers. In Norway, the 1992 legislation giving major language and cultural rights
to the Sámi has had a major impact on Sámi education. This Norwegian experience has
significant implications for official-language minority and aboriginal first-language
education in Canada, shedding light on such important topics as minority teacher education, minority first-language pedagogy, curriculum texts, community attitudes to minority
languages, language support services, school administration, devolution of control, cultural
incorporation, and the maintenance of cultural identities. As a result, in this article I
question the appropriateness of official policies and language practices in Canada.
La Norvège a accordé le statut de langue officielle aux langues de ses peuples
autochtones, les Sámis. Cependant, le Canada n’a accordé ce statut qu’à l’anglais et au
français, langues de ses colonisateurs. En Norvège, la législation de 1992, accordant des
droits linguistiques et culturels majeurs aux Sámis, a eu un impact considérable sur
l’éducation de ceux-ci. Cette expérience norvégienne qui comporte des implications
significatives pour l’éducation relative à la langue officielle des minorités et à la langue
maternelle des autochtones au Canada, jette un éclairage sur des sujets importants pour
les minorités tels: la formation des maîtres, la pédagogie relative à leur langue maternelle,
les attitudes de la communauté à l’égard des langues des minorités, les services de soutien
linguistiques, l’administration scolaire, la dévolution du contrôle, l’incorporation culturelle
et le maintien des identités culturelles. Par conséquent, je remets en question dans cet
article le bien-fondé des politiques officielles et des pratiques linguistiques au Canada.
The history of contact between indigenous peoples and their colonizers has been
a steady escalation of pressures on aboriginal peoples to conform to the imposed
cultures. The injustices and the inappropriateness of dominant-group educational
policies and practices for minorities of all kinds, have had their most strking
impact on aboriginal peoples. In short, an alien culture, imposed on aboriginal
peoples by invasion and conquest, became institutionalized for them when a
system of schooling based solely in the alien culture and in its language(s)
became their only route to education. As a result, the task of reforming aboriginal education has important implications for reforming education for minorities
of all kinds.
84
21, 1 (1996): 84–104
ABORIGINAL FIRST-LANGUAGE EDUCATION IN NORWAY AND CANADA
85
Whereas Norway has now given official-language status to the languages of
its aboriginal peoples, the Sámi, Canada has given official-language status only
to the languages of the colonizers themselves. Although Canada’s action is a
desirable and necessary recognition of the importance of French and English to
this country, our policy makers’ failure to give some matching legitimacy to the
country’s aboriginal languages seems unjust. It reinforces the injustices of
dominant-group educational policies and practices that have left aboriginal
peoples with few alternatives other than linguistic assimilation and eventual
cultural assimilation.
THE CANADIAN PARALLELS
Official-Language Minority Education
Although most major educational constituencies in Canada have policies that give
official-language minorities their own schools, the territories and some provinces
do not routinely give official-language minorities control over the running of
their own schools, as stipulated in the Charter of Rights and Freedoms (Corson
& Lemay, in press). In addition to these differences across regions, other more
tacit policies and practices still combine to make the country’s official-language
minority provisions less effective and fair than they could be.
Rampant assimilation of official-language minorities is a problem in many
places. Landry and Allard (1987) argue that effective minority control of schools
is needed to ensure that mother-tongue usage is encouraged and valued in as
many contexts as possible. They recommend that minority-language schools
should try to offset the constant contact with the majority culture and tongue that
children receive outside schools. Where official-language minorities are not in
control of schooling, this counterbalance is likely to be missing (Cartwright,
1985; Landry, Allard, & Théberge, 1991).
Lack of home support also helps official-language minority assimilation,
because schools can only do so much and cannot replace the family and institutional role in promoting language vitality (Churchill, Frenette, & Quazi, 1985).
Landry and Allard (1987) also indicate that without a dynamic curriculum which
not only promotes belief in a minority language’s value, but also increases
competence and use of a mother tongue in the home, this assimilation will
continue. Clearly, the value placed on a language by the wider community, in its
laws and in its policies, affects the value its speakers will attach to it.
To increase the value placed on French in Ontario, Cartwright (1985) proposes
the creation of territorial zones in northern and eastern Ontario in which both
French and English would be the official languages. This proposal would
increase pride in language and culture for the Franco-Ontarian minority. In
Francophone schools themselves, Levasseur-Ouimet (1989) recommends that the
pedagogy be culturally liberating. Pedagogy should avoid reproducing dominant
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DAVID CORSON
aspects of the majority culture by giving legitimacy to the minority students’
culture and by respecting their variety of the language. Because teachers in these
schools are agents of change and liberation, they need to be specially educated
in their own training institutions to prepare them for this role.
Aboriginal First-Language Education
Similar points can be made about aboriginal first-language education. But, as
mentioned, Canada’s aboriginal peoples are in a far more parlous position,
because they lack the linguistic protection the Charter offers official-language
minorities, and there are relatively few guarantees of schooling in their own
languages, much less widespread aboriginal control over that schooling.
Exemplary school programs using an aboriginal language as the medium of
instruction do exist in Canada, but they are few. In a survey of 458 schools,
Kirkness and Bowman Selkirk (1992) found that less than 4% of schools reported use of an aboriginal language as a medium of instruction, and most of these
were in the Northwest Territories (Blondin, 1989; Brossard, 1990; Feurer, 1993;
Herodier, 1992; Littlejohn & Fredeen, 1993).
Many writers offer policy recommendations to promote revival of aboriginal
languages and cultures (e.g, Annahatak, 1994; Armstrong, 1993; Burnaby, 1984a,
1984b, 1989; Chartrand, 1988; Crago, Annahatak, & Ningiuruvik, 1993; Dorais,
1990; Drapeau & Corbeil, 1992; Faries, 1993; Heit & Blair, 1993; Kirkness,
1989a, 1989b; McEachern, 1988, 1993; McEachern & Moeller, 1988; Paquette,
1989; Pitawanakwat, 1989; Sawyer, 1988; Stairs, 1994a, 1994b; Toohey, 1986,
1989). Burnaby (1987), Dorais (1988), Heimbecker (1994), Ryan (1992), and
Toohey (1985) all see aboriginals’ control of their own institutions as basic to
any kind of reform aimed at ending deculturation and language-stripping.
THE NORWEGIAN EXAMPLE
Major educational reforms followed legislation in 1992 awarding language and
cultural rights to Norway’s Sámi people. These aboriginal peoples are now
guaranteed first-language education in and official status for the Sámi languages,
as the languages of identity of most Sámi people living in Norway. Although the
new provisions for Sámi-as-a-second-language education (Corson, 1995) are also
relevant to Canadian education, in reviewing the effects of the Sámi Language
Act, I concentrate on provisions for Sámi as a first language.1
The intricate links between successful first-language planning policies for the
Sámi languages, the development of Sámi identity, and the reduction of social
problems in the Sámi community seem relevant to the sometimes desperate social
situations of some aboriginal peoples in Canada. Valuable insights can be gained
from recent research on Sámi identity in the Sápmi (Sámiland) about social and
behavioural issues among aboriginal youth. Kvernmo (1993) indicates that the
87
presence or absence of behavioural problems among Sámi young people and the
quality of their future lives is closely linked to the relative strength of their
ethnic consciousness. This Sámi identity, in turn, is strengthened by parents’
positive attitude towards their own Sámi identity and especially to their Sámi
language. Kvernmo presents use of a Sámi first language at home as the key
factor in establishing Sámi identity. But because the eradication of the aboriginal
languages of the home and community was a deliberate educational policy in
Norway as late as the 1970s, as it was in Canada and elsewhere (Brossard, 1990;
Corson, 1993), the ending of those policies in recent decades has not been
enough to end the language eradication. Consequently, school systems, not only
in Norway, are now reversing that language-policy emphasis, so that the school
allies itself with the home and the community by supporting aboriginal languagemedium education throughout compulsory schooling. Norway’s experience in this
area is highly instructive.
THE NORWEGIAN SCHOOLING SYSTEM
In Norway, because responsibility for curriculum is delegated to schools,
innovation to suit local contexts is encouraged. Cooperation between home,
school, and local community is seen as essential, because the school is required
to address the differing religious, political, and/or cultural values children
experience in their homes. Primary education (first to sixth grades) presently
begins when children are 7 years old.2 It is policy in primary schools for one
teacher to take the same pupils from the first to the sixth grade, and for the
children to remain with the same class group throughout all nine years of basic
education. In the lower secondary years, team teaching is common, with the
same three teachers sharing the teaching and management of two classes. This
practice reflects the marked commonality of the basic schooling offered in
Norway: individual differentiation exists, but mainly within heterogeneous
classes, which include children who might be treated elsewhere as exceptional
and withdrawn for some of their classes. The integration of linguistic-minority
children is part of this pattern for Norwegian education. All young people
between the ages of 16 and 19 have a statutory right to three years of upper
secondary education or training, regardless of qualifications at entry level.
THE SÁMI CULTURE AND LANGUAGES
The Sámi are the oldest known population of Scandinavia, dating from prehistoric times (Aikio, 1984). Like Canadian aboriginal peoples, the Sámi have been
known by other names given them by dominant cultures. In English, they have
been called Laplanders, but their officially accepted name is now “Sámi.” The
largest Sámi population lives in Norway. About 25,000 of these are Sámi speakers, and this figure is increasing rapidly, following the proclamation of the Sámi
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language laws. Most speak Northern Sámi, which is the largest of the nine Sámi
languages and the basis for the standard Sámi orthography. But two other Sámi
languages, Southern Sámi and Lule, are also spoken in Norway. Speakers of Lule
can understand the two other languages with some effort, but Northern Sámi and
Southern Sámi speakers cannot communicate directly with each other.3 As a
result, the training of Sámi teachers is based in three different centres: Trondheim (Southern Sámi), Bodø (Lule), and Kautokeino (Northern Sámi).
Half a million people live north of the Arctic Circle in Norway, but only about
50,000 of these are Sámi. In recent years, the Sámi have had to engage in major
public protests to protect their environmental rights and territories. Like some
Inuit and First Nations peoples, many older Sámi in Norway are trilingual (Aikio,
1986). As well as using their own language, they speak the language of their
colonizers, the Norwegians, and also Finnish, which from the Middle Ages
onwards had status in Northern Scandinavia as the language of commerce.
Because the Finnish and Sámi languages are related to each other, but not to
Norwegian, the Sámi find Finnish easier to learn and they communicated with
Norwegians in the 1800s using that language (Aikio, 1986).
Early missionaries from the 15th century insisted that the Sámi drop their own
language for religious purposes and use Finnish, which the missionaries
commonly spoke. Later missionaries burned sacred artifacts of the indigenous
material culture or sent them off to museums. They also put Sámi shamans to
death. What remained of the material culture in Finnmark was destroyed by a
German scorched-earth policy in 1944, when every building in the County of
Finnmark was systematically destroyed in expectation of a Russian attack.4 Like
Canada’s aboriginal peoples, the Sámi have been the victims of strong official
assimilation policies, lasting for almost 400 years. Norwegian and other settlers
in Sámi areas rarely acquired the Sámi language, and were often offended by its
use. Even today, traditional folk music practices (the yoik) are still lowly
regarded by parents in the heart of Sámi territory, because older Sámi parents
have been made to feel ashamed of some of their culture’s customs. But the clan
cultures remain very distinctive, with many customs and practices comparable to
those found in Arctic Canada.
For other Scandinavians, the Sámi languages are closely associated with reindeer herding and breeding. This is a common but far from exclusive occupation
of the Sámi, practised in the nomadic heartland, around the town of Kautokeino,
by about 20% of the local clan members, but by only 5% of Sámi in Norway as
a whole. Entire specialist categories of classification in the Sámi languages are
linked to technical aspects of reindeer herding and also craftwork (duodji).
Consequently, the continuation of traditional activities such as reindeer herding,
small farming, duodji, and fishing is a strong factor maintaining the Sámi
languages. These activities are now fully integrated into the Norwegian economy.
The research reported here was carried out in Kautokeino,5 a town of 3300
people, most of whom are Sámi clan members. Karasjok is the other major
89
centre of the Sápmi, which stretches across Norway, Finland, Sweden, and into
Russia. Clan cultures are different in each centre. Because the reindeer migration
routes concentrate in the area around Kautokeino, it has the largest Sámi clan
group in Scandinavia and is the nomadic and cultural centre.
SOCIAL AND POLITICAL ISSUES
Some social issues in Arctic Norway parallel those in Arctic Canada. Although
there is relatively little substance abuse among the Sámi, partly because of a long
history of prohibition on alcohol enforced by conservative members of the
culture themselves, unemployment at above 20% is a leading social issue for
Sámi communities. This unemployment especially affects many older people,
who are less well educated. Associated with youth unemployment is the large
number of adolescent students in senior secondary schools who bring their own
children to school with them. The number of unmarried mothers is unusually
high, partly because of the Sámi custom of having children at an early age. The
birth rate among Sámi is also well above the country’s average.
Many more highly educated Sámi have graduated in recent decades, and there
is great demand in Norway for educated bilingual and bicultural Sámi. Although
many more Sámi teachers-in-training are graduating each year, their range of job
options in bureaucracies, policy agencies, and politics means that relatively few
enter teaching, or if they do, few stay very long. Young Sámi women are now
the highest-educated social group in Norway, and they noticeably outnumber
Sámi men in senior administrative and professional positions. This unusual situation has come about largely because young Sámi men from nomadic backgrounds see the traditional occupations as more desirable for them, whereas
young women have recognized the value of education and seized it when it
became more freely available in recent decades.
The maintenance of Sámi cultural identity is a major concern inside and
outside the Sápmi. A revitalization of Sámi identity and culture followed the
building of modern towns on the ruins of war. Sámi people now prefer to
describe themselves as Sámi first, and only as citizens of Norway. A new image
of a Sámi person has developed, integrating the modern world into the traditional
culture to make the Sámi more self-confident and secure in their identity. As
mentioned, pressure to sustain identity today is mainly in terms of language, and
less in terms of traditional activities. Pan-Sámi solidarity is also an important
expression of identity, as the Sámi develop more formal links across the four
countries they inhabit. The new youth radicalism in the 1990s is a factor
promoting cultural unity and identity. The young regard even the wearing of
small items of traditional clothing at rock concerts or discotheques, or using a
few Sámi words as greetings, as cultural bonding actions of great importance.
Cultural identity is also sustained by the factional tension within Sámi, dating
back to the 19th century, when two rival but cooperating factions, the conserva-
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tive and the radical, began to develop. These two factions are a complex sociocultural phenomenon. The radical faction has its roots in the more economically
disadvantaged Sámi who inhabit the coastal regions of Finnmark and Troms,
people heavily affected by the depression in the 1930s, who became involved in
radical, Marxist, and later social democratic political movements. The more
conservative faction centres on the relatively affluent and more bourgeois
reindeer-herding families, whose privileged economic position is now guaranteed
by the reindeer-herding laws that give Sámi sole control of this industry, even
though it is now integrated firmly into the Norwegian national economy. This
factional divide is institutionalized in the Sámi Parliament, where it may be
having a positive dialectical effect, with the radical wing trying to drive the
culture forward politically while the conservative wing works to sustain the
culture’s values. The relative absence of this dialectic among many Canadian
aboriginal and official-language minority groups may be significant for cultural
maintenance and future revitalization.
SÁMI LANGUAGES AND EDUCATION
Norwegian compulsory schooling has operated much in its present form for 200
years. For the Sámi, there is thus an historically shaped, conservative view of
what the school is and what it can be. Even so, there is growing interest in
changing schools to make them more “organic” to the cultural communities that
they serve. Experiments using the Sámi language in primary schools began in
1967. It is now both a medium of instruction and a subject in secondary schools.
The first Sámi language-medium senior secondary school (16- to 19-year-olds)
opened at Karasjok in 1969, and a vocational senior secondary school operates
in Kautokeino. The latter emphasizes Sámi traditional crafts and the modernization of such traditional occupations as reindeer breeding and marketing. Two
universities also offer the languages as a subject, and the Teachers College at
Alta offers courses in the Northern language and culture for Sámi and non-Sámi.
In large towns such as Kautokeino and Karasjok, the Northern Sámi language is
the everyday language of almost all Sámi.
Although the Sámi College (Allaskuvla) in Kautokeino originally (in 1989)
offered only teacher training, it now provides a variety of courses and programs
in higher education to students drawn from across the Sápmi. Fluency in one or
other Sámi language is a requirement for permanent appointment to staff,
because most classes are conducted in Sámi, and Northern Sámi is the language
of administration in the college. Staff members conduct research on cultural
needs, language planning, and educational innovation. As well as four-year
programs of training for basic school teachers, there is also a three-year
kindergarten teacher training program. According to staff at the Allaskuvla, the
Sámi education system is strongest in early childhood education, but all
provisions have gone ahead rapidly since the early 1980s. As in other aboriginal
91
settings, the preschool and kindergarten years provide more flexibility and
opportunity for integration of Sámi culture and values.
FIRST-LANGUAGE PROVISIONS IN THE SÁMI LANGUAGE ACT
Following Norway’s ratification of the International Labour Office (ILO)
convention on indigenous peoples in 1990,6 the Norwegian Parliament introduced
the Sámi Language Act to strengthen official use of the Sámi languages and to
declare Sámi and Norwegian equal languages with equal status. Enforced from
1992, this Act affects three areas (Magga, 1995): laws concerning the Sámi
Parliament, operating since 1989, courts of law themselves, and laws for
education. The Act’s purposes are to enable the Sámi to safeguard and develop
their language, culture, and way of life, and to give equal status to Sámi and
Norwegian (Magga, 1995). To oversee the language’s future, a Sámi Language
Council is yet to be created. Its members are to be appointed by the Sámi
Parliament and its role will be to advise and report on all matters affecting the
language. The legislation responds to Article 27 of the “International Covenant
on Civil and Political Rights,” which is interpreted as obliging nations to
discriminate in favour of indigenous minorities by taking affirmative steps to
ensure the integrity and survival of the minorities themselves.
The administrative area for the Sámi languages covers six municipalities in
Finnmark and Troms, Norway’s northernmost counties. Obligations under the Act
apply to any public body serving an area that includes these six districts in whole
or in part. In relation to Sámi first-language education, the new Act is interpreted
as providing the following for children living in these “Sámi areas” (Magga,
1995):
• all children have the right to receive instruction through the medium of Sámi
in all subjects;
• until the seventh grade, parents have the choice of whether their children will
receive instruction in or through Sámi;
• from seventh grade, the pupils are able to decide this for themselves;
• children receiving instruction in or through Sámi are exempted from
instruction in one of the two forms of Norwegian (bokmål and nynorsk); and
• local education councils may allow children with Sámi as their mother tongue
to be taught through the language for all nine compulsory years.
Outside Sámi areas, the following first-language provisions apply:
• instruction through Sámi may be given to pupils with a Sámi background;
• if there are no fewer than three pupils in one school whose mother tongue is
Sámi, they can ask to be taught through the language (this requirement is
likely to change so that even one pupil in a school can ask to be taught
through Sámi);
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DAVID CORSON
• anyone, regardless of background, has the right to be taught Sámi; and
• Sámi history and culture are included in national curriculum guidelines as
topics that all children should be familiar with.
Initial fears that many parents would withdraw their children from Sámi-medium
instruction in Sámi districts, thereby weakening the language’s range of
influence, seem unwarranted. Sámi parents in five of the six districts are already
strongly supporting Sámi-medium education. Under the Act, local authorities are
entitled to make the language obligatory for all nine years of compulsory
schooling, and this seems to be eliminating the incidence of opting out.
THE PRACTICE OF SÁMI FIRST-LANGUAGE EDUCATION
Support Services: The Role of the Sámi Education Council
The National Curriculum Guidelines (1987) set out only entitlements to weekly
hours of instruction in the Sámi languages at each grade level. But these are
being rewritten to treat Sámi-medium and Norwegian-medium schools in the
same way. Making schools more Sámi is not a problem in theory, because the
guidelines are so wide, but school practices as yet have not come even as far as
the guidelines. Real power over the curriculum is presently in the Minister’s
hands. But proposals are going to the Sámi Parliament to give greater levels of
curriculum control to the Sámi Parliament. Sámi politicians are reluctant to
accept this development, except in partnership with the Ministry, because the
need to change schools totally to reflect the culture, in the interests of cultural
survival, is not apparent to many older parliamentarians, who have experienced
only one type of schooling and can conceive of no other.
Organizational control lies with the municipal board and with each school’s
administrators. Every school has to have its parents’ board, which includes all
parents, but because schools in the Sámi districts seem large and forbidding
places to many Sámi parents, there is still widespread parental alienation.
Sámi instruction outside the six counties is paid for by local municipalities out
of special Sámi supplement funds, provided by the national government and
channelled through county education offices. Inside the six districts, every
teacher must study Sámi, but only for two hours per week, which does not
produce much proficiency in those beginning from scratch. Because several
generations were discouraged from using their own languages, individuals
equipped to use Sámi as a medium of instruction are often not from these
generations. The present curriculum guidelines insist that all teachers show
respect for the culture, be able to use the language, and be familiar with the way
of life.
Key external functions lie with the Sámi Education Council. This council has
a statutory role to advise Sámi parents, both inside and outside the six districts,
93
who write to them, or who are referred by school boards and other agencies.
This advice can cover several things: language maintenance matters, including
inquiries about motivating children to maintain the language; what language
rights the Sámi possess under law; and how to get school boards to act in
recognition of the Act. The Council also advises the Ministry on Sámi affairs.
The Sámi Education Council also produces high-quality texts for all levels and
all subjects of basic schooling, in Northern Sámi, Southern Sámi, and Lule languages. Some of these textbooks are similar to those used in Norwegian-medium
schooling, but are written for Sámi as a first language. The Council also translates some texts from the Norwegian for such curriculum areas as mathematics,
where direct translations of the Norwegian are sufficient. But mainly the
Council’s staff write new texts, with Sámi cultural content, to replace existing
Norwegian texts written for the national curriculum. These sometimes cost
500,000 krone (Can$100,000) per published book, which is expensive, because
of the small print run. So far almost every subject for every year of the nine
years of basic schooling has a textbook, a teacher’s guide, and a student workbook written in Northern Sámi. Work on books in the other two languages is
well advanced. In those areas of the curriculum where no materials have so far
been produced, most teaching is still through the medium of Norwegian.
Finally, the Council engages in corpus language planning to augment and
intellectualize the Sámi vocabularies, so that education can be carried on in those
languages at increasingly more senior levels. Word borrowing and creation goes
forward as the need arises. To preserve the native morphology of Sámi, the
preferred source languages for lexical borrowings are Finnish, English, and
Norwegian, in that order.
Independent of the Sámi Education Council, a high-quality teen magazine is
produced monthly. This is funded by the Ministry of the Family, and by the
Sámi Culture Council, which began work in 1993. The magazine is distributed
to all Sámi children in Norway. It gives the Sámi languages genuine status as
first languages among adolescents and encourages them to use Sámi themselves.
It also helps unite children scattered in regions away from the official districts,
and encourages them to see the culture as a unity. Sámi students in Kautokeino
greatly appreciate this glossy magazine and look forward to it each month. Most
articles are in Northern Sámi, with some in Southern Sámi and Lule.
Policies and School Organization: Culture and Language Incorporation
In the Sámi districts, schools opt for specially modified first-language syllabuses,
but when Sámi pupils outside the six districts want Sámi, they still often receive
Sámi only as a subject. Although the Act prescribes entitlements, it is difficult
to change this practice, because without a large injection of teachers and money,
just getting the Sámi language in many schools is difficult enough, even in big
cities.
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DAVID CORSON
Although qualified teachers are available throughout the country, only now are
teachers-in-training at the Sámi College being taught in Sámi, using Sámi
cultural values. Previously all teachers were taught “the Norwegian way” or “the
Swedish way.” But “the Sámi way” tries to see the world with Sámi at the
centre, not at the edge. It uses Sámi cultural ideas, values, and literature. The
Sámi way is more holistic; there are fewer subject boundaries. Emphasis is laid
on oral ways of teaching, especially based on “living” cultural stories as parables
for teaching values, ethics, and lifestyle. Sámi College teachers-in-training are
motivated to incorporate this traditional narrative approach into their teaching so
that future Sámi children will not have to learn so much from books.
A developing problem is how to extend the Sámi way into teaching Sámi
children living outside the six districts. It is hoped that teachers trained in this
way at the Sámi College will gradually infiltrate the wider school system.
College staff already feel the need to become activists for this method. This
initiative is especially important for the very young, because once they come to
expect this in their education, education at later stages will gradually change to
meet that expectation. Later, teachers-in-training graduated from schools of this
kind will themselves insist on a greater incorporation of the culture. Sámi parents
have to be educated too, so that they see the advantages of all this for their
children and expect to receive a more sophisticated cultural product from
schooling, along with broader forms of personal development for their children,
not just a bland qualification.
The growing curriculum influence of modern information technology poses a
new problem: how to get Sámi values represented in that technology, when those
values are best manifested in face-to-face interaction? To address this problem,
the Sámi College has become the only place in Norway where students learn
how to produce their own teaching materials and computer software for
developing classroom resources. This program is operating in cooperation with
the Sámi Education Council, who have much experience producing materials.
Publishers also visit Kautokeino to teach students to produce their own materials,
and teachers come from all over Norway to study in this course.
An innovative form of egalitarian school administration has been undergoing
trials in many Norwegian schools for over a decade. This practice is relevant to
the non-hierarchical way the Sámi relate to one another. In Kautokeino’s primary
school, the three school leaders have only three-year contracts as co-administrators, and then return to teaching posts in the same school. As administrators, all
three are equal in status and each has an area of responsibility: one for teachers,
one for children, and one for curriculum and pedagogy. Responsibility for plant
and facilities rotates, and a budget policy committee handles finances. After three
years of trials, the arrangement seems to be working well, with few problems.
Parents appreciate having more than one person to relate to, and the approach
makes use of the special skills and strengths of each person as an administrator.
Over time, many staff in schools with this form of administration will fill
95
leadership roles, if elected to do so by their colleagues. As a result, no-one in the
school setting has the unusual powers of ascribed control that principals
conventionally have.
Sámi First-Language Instructional Practices
Sámi-as-a-first-language schooling is provided in basic schools across the six
districts, and in many other centres across the country. The choice of Sámi
language used in schools (i.e., Northern, Southern, or Lule) is decided according
to the needs of students and the region of the school. In the capital, Oslo, only
Northern Sámi is taught. In Kautokeino primary school, all three Sámi languages
are taught because some Southern and Lule speakers have come to Kautokeino
to study duodji and reindeer herding. Around Trondheim, Southern Sámi is the
principal language, whereas in Bodø, Lule is the medium.
Sámi first-language pedagogy remains rather conventional. Following the
Welsh immersion model, immersion in the language as a medium of instruction
was provided for teachers-in-training for the first time in 1993. Genuine
immersion for many children is difficult because of the languages’ low status
outside the six districts. But in Kautokeino and Karasjok, Northern Sámi is
widely supported and is happily used, even by adolescents, who are subject to
the strong inducement to use Norwegian that the teenage entertainment culture
offers. This readiness to support and keep using the language is expected to
spread gradually to adolescent Sámi outside the six districts.
Especially in Kautokeino, “learning [the language] while doing” is fostered by
reindeer-herding activities and through duodji in the curriculum, because the
specialist vocabularies for these practices do not exist in Norwegian. Also, for
three or four days and nights at a time, children live with nomadic families in
a kind of “mountain school,” living in lavvos (teepee-like tents) and learning the
culture and language. There is an immersion preschool in Sámi open to all children in Kautokeino, with daily half-day attendance paid for by the municipality.
In 1994 a new first-language methods course for teachers-in-training was
introduced into the Sámi College. This course uses the communicative method
(Corson, 1990) and aims to produce fully bilingual school graduates in the Sámi
districts, and considerable bilingual proficiency among Sámi-as-a-secondlanguage students elsewhere. There is no staged testing or assessment across the
system. More oral assessment will be used when the new communicative method
is introduced by teachers fully trained in its use.
For Sámi-as-a-first-language pupils, all subjects are taught in Sámi until Grade
9 (when students are 16 years old), provided that teachers and texts are available.
Norwegian-medium classes are provided where there are gaps in the Sámispeaking staff. The Sámi-as-a-first-language pupils are entitled to as much
Norwegian-as-a-second-language instruction as Norwegian-medium Sámi-as-a-
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DAVID CORSON
second-language children receive in Sámi. Inside the six districts, Norwegian
receives a balanced place in the curriculum. In Kautokeino, Sámi first-language
pupils begin Norwegian in Grade 2, for two hours weekly, with four hours
weekly in Grades 3 through 6. In Grades 7, 8, and 9 at Kautokeino basic school,
there are three classes for each grade (two Sámi-medium and one Norwegianmedium). Elsewhere, withdrawal teaching is sometimes used for Sámi-as-asecond-language learners in classes with mixed Sámi-as-a-first- and Sámi-as-asecond-language students. Norwegian classes in Kautokeino are getting smaller
each year, as the prestige of knowing Sámi increases. In 1994 there were not
enough children for a Norwegian class in Grade 7.
Parents in the Sámi districts are now very willing for their children to learn
through Sámi, reversing parents’ earlier tendency, still found in some places, to
stigmatize the language. But students begin to use Norwegian more, as a
language of play, as they get older. This may be because of the influence of
television, where all leisure activities are presented in Norwegian. There is no
more than 50 minutes of Sámi television fortnightly, produced in Karasjok and
of only moderate quality. There is no Sámi television pitched at teenagers, and
only an hour of Sámi radio daily. But the teen magazine, mentioned above,
already fills a very important language-support role.
Kautokeino and Karasjok are the only two senior secondary schools that give
Sámi-medium instruction in many subjects. They also provide Norwegianmedium instruction in separate classes where numbers warrant, or, more
commonly, where the teachers are not proficient Sámi speakers. No more Sámi
senior secondary schools are planned. Students travel to these two schools from
the other Sámi districts if they prefer a Sámi-medium senior secondary school.
Kautokeino senior secondary school has 150 students aged 16 to 19. The
curriculum includes the world’s only course in reindeer herding as well as
duodji, general education, commercial subjects, and mechanical and agricultural
training. Because few teachers at this level are fluent in Sámi as yet, and because
every class includes Norwegian-speaking students, most teaching is in
Norwegian. This is not likely to change soon, even when all Sámi school
graduates are Sámi first-language speakers, because many students come from
outside the six districts, especially to study duodji and reindeer herding.
Assessment occurs at the end of secondary education in a Ministry examination,
written in the Sámi language. This examination is prepared by a teacher of Sámi.
Almost all Sámi-as-a-first-language teachers are Sámi.
School graduates in Kautokeino and Karasjok are genuinely bilingual in
Norwegian and Sámi. They are the most successful bilinguals in the country.
There is now greater Sámi language use among children than 15 years ago,
including children whose parents are culturally mixed. Even non-Sámi-speaking
parents in the six districts prefer to enrol their children in Sámi-medium classes
because the status of Sámi has increased due to the Sámi laws. But Sámi
97
graduates outside the six districts are much less proficient in the languages,
although this varies with the quality of the teachers and the teaching they receive.
For example, only about 30% of Sámi-speaking teachers at the lower secondary
level are formally trained. Unqualified teachers are paid a little less and are
appointed only from year to year in Norway. Teacher unions see this as a
necessary way to get language and culture expertise into the schools; they agree
to it for the sake of the children and the aboriginal culture.
CONCLUSION: IMPLICATIONS FOR CANADA
Although some point to the relative strength of Canada’s ancestral languages
compared with those in other countries (Wardhaugh, 1983), there has been a
rapid and alarming decline in retention of these languages in recent decades. In
an overview of work on aboriginal language retention across Canada, Shkilnyk
(1986) reports that Quebec is the only province where a pattern of decline in
aboriginal languages has been reversed. As a result, most of Canada is rapidly
losing the main bearers of aboriginal cultural identity that supports self-esteem
and promotes positive social behaviour, as Kvernmo’s (1993) research suggests.
Authorities note that only Inuktitut, Cree, and Ojibwe have enough mothertongue speakers to survive as living, community languages (Foster, 1982). Yet
very little is being done in education to remedy this situation (Kirkness &
Bowman Selkirk, 1992). At the same time, many official-language minority
communities are experiencing such strong pressure to assimilate that their
continued existence as language communities is at risk (Landry & Allard, 1987).
Through this rapid language loss, the majority of aboriginal and many
official-language minority children in Canada are losing touch with who they are,
where they come from, and what place there might be for them in the
contemporary world. Their cultures are being gradually stripped from them. The
results of this tacit policy, in remote communities and in urban centres, need no
rehearsing here (Heimbecker, 1994; Landry, Allard, & Théberge, 1991).
The Norwegian government and education system have responded to the
accumulated research evidence about the importance of mother-tongue maintenance for minority-language peoples. When they are without this maintenance, and
where their languages are not languages of wider communication, minority
first-language children may arrive in schools with their first languages relatively
underdeveloped in certain contexts, styles, and functions. At the same time, their
grasp of the majority language may be limited to a small range of functions,
often linked to passive activities such as television viewing. For these children,
intensive early exposure in school to the majority language, and school neglect
of their first language, may result in low achievement in the majority language,
a decline in mother-tongue proficiency, and academic failure. The crucial
recommendation for policy makers seems straightforward: Early and continuing
programs that maintain the languages of minority first-language speakers are
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DAVID CORSON
needed to avoid the routine injustice of widespread and discriminatory school
failure, and to help reverse the culture-stripping mentioned above.
In Canada, the need for more coordinated language planning at the national
level to revitalize aboriginal languages under threat, to maintain and develop
those capable of survival, and to foster and promote mother-tongue education,
seems an urgent concern for policy makers. The Sámi Education Council offers
a model for Canada to learn from, especially in the non-partisan way the Council
works to develop and promote all three Norwegian Sámi languages. This unity
of purpose and the single-mindedness of the organization in advancing the
educational and linguistic interests of all Sámi, are among the Council’s many
attractive features.
Official-language minorities do have the Official Languages Commission in
Ottawa to advocate on their behalf. But this seems an educationally limited role
when compared with that of the Sámi Education Council. A planning and
coordinating agency, similar to the Council, has long been recommended for
aboriginal education in Canada. For example, Larose (1984) argued that as the
first step in allowing “une amérindianisation réelle de l’école,” it will be
necessary to develop “un réseau de commissions scolaires autochtones sur une
base nationale” (p. 70). A National Aboriginal Language Policy Conference in
the late 1980s additionally urged the creation of a National Native Languages
Institute to ensure the revitalization and survival of aboriginal languages across
the country. Although this initiative was rejected in a later Assembly of First
Nations study (Jamieson, 1988), the narrowness of a “languages institute” hardly
captures the potential for unity of educational purpose that the Sámi Education
Council is realizing through the strength derived from the official status Sámi
languages now have. As a first step in development, aboriginal languages need
extensive status as official languages of Canada, within clearly defined districts,
not unlike the territorial zones for Francophone Ontario proposed by Cartwright
(1985).
Although official-language minority control of schooling is already mandated
in the Charter and is in place in many constituencies, there is also a trend now
towards devolving control of education to aboriginal communities (Taylor, Crago,
& McAlpine, 1993). This devolution should lead to variety and diversity in the
educational and language planning responses of bands and provincial authorities,
to suit local contexts and needs. But what this scenario lacks is overall coordination of the kind the Sámi Education Council offers to all Sámi in Norway, and
increasingly across all the Nordic countries where Sámi live. Supported by the
reforms of the Sámi Language Act, the Council is now authorized to give special
attention to those geographical areas where Sámi languages are “officially
proclaimed.”
Endangered languages in Canada need the protection of some similar legislation proclaiming language territories within which special resources can be
mobilized. Also, some similar authority is needed to oversee that mobilization
99
with advice and support. But Norway goes beyond even these provisions, through
its minority teacher-training efforts.
The Sámi Allaskuvla complements the work of the Council and also gives life
to the Act. In doing so, it offers official-language minority and aboriginal
first-language educators an example of a culturally and linguistically appropriate
form of teacher training. The Allaskuvla’s use of the minority language as the
vehicle of teacher education, and its development of “the Sámi way” as its
backdrop of living cultural expectations, prepares the minority teachers as
genuine agents of cultural revival and legitimation.
All these things are contributing to the elevation of the Sámi community.
Political consciousness and sense of identity are also awakening among the many
Sámi living outside the Sámi homeland, even in places where previously they
had a negative view of their own culture. Following the proclamation of the Act,
the Sámi languages have become available as a recognized political voice at the
same time as the people’s political will has begun to assert itself. It is likely that
schools controlled and run by remote and paternalisitc bureaucracies, staffed by
teachers whose culture is not the culture of the local community, will get in the
way of these developments. Aboriginal communities in Canada commonly play
little role in policy making. Non-residents who work for remote ministries or
boards tend to assume these responsibilities (Toohey, 1985), although for a
minority of peoples the situation is changing (Brossard, 1990), as it already has
for many official-language minorities.
But when majority-culture educators look at minority children, they tend to
focus on what those children lack, and usually what they see is the absence of
a high level proficiency in the majority language. This lack becomes the focus
of the schooling they offer those children. It is common for observers of educational reform to claim that policies of compensatory, multicultural, and anti-racist
education imposed from afar make little difference to inequality.
These externally devised policies can ignore the root cause of that inequality,
which is very often linked to an absence of first-language maintenance, vernacular literacy, and cultural incorporation within the curriculum of minority schools.
Only a local community can really decide what is right for them. But this is no
extraordinary concession for governments to be making to groups of their citizens, because devolving social policy decision making in this way is no more
than consistent with modern notions of social justice: To act justly in policy
action does not require a conception of what the overall just society would be,
because this will ignore real differences in interests between groups; rather it
requires as many conceptions of justice as there are distinct possible conditions
of society or subsets of society or culture (Corson, 1993). Every situation is a
new setting for instigating the search for a contextually appropriate conception
of justice.
Such a devolution of decision-making power would mean real changes in
Canada’s public policy ground-rules. The Sámi experience suggests that these
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DAVID CORSON
aims cannot be achieved by tinkering with existing policies. Nothing less will do
than the devolution of real control over education to the official-language minority and aboriginal peoples themselves, including real control over all aspects of
their lives that bear upon it. As Dorais (1985) concludes: “[on] ne pourra remédier à cette situation qu’en changeant les règles du jeu et en rendant [aux eux]
des pouvoirs économiques, politiques et culturels bien réels” (p. 97). In Norway,
these powers have been returned to a once-oppressed group, the Sámi, and the
result is a revitalization of Sámi identity and a consciousness of cultural unity
and uniqueness. Above all, there is a sense that the Sámi themselves are now the
agents of their own emancipation.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My thanks to the following for their assistance as informants in this study: Karen Juuso Baal and Jon
Meløy at the Guovdageaidnu senior secondary school; Bodil Baasland, Gert Grimsgaard, and Eva
Tuv at the Ministry of Education, Research and Church Affairs, Oslo; Asta Balto and Vuokko
Hirvonen at the Sámi Allaskuvla, Guovdageaidnu; Reidar Erke at the Nordic Sámi Institute,
Guovdageaidnu; Leif Halonen at the Municipal Office, Guovdageaidnu; Ellen Inga O. Hætta, Berit
Ana Sara, Lisa Baal, Inger Maria Gaup-Eira, and Hans Arild at the Sámi Education Council,
Guovdageaidnu; Maia Hætta and Inger Seierstad at the Guovdageaidnu basic school; Anton Hoem
in the Department of Educational Research at the University of Oslo and the Sámi Allaskuvla,
Guovdageaidnu; Rolph Jerpseth at Bislet Teacher Training College, Oslo; Alf Isak Keskitalo at the
Guovdageaidnu Sámi Museum; and Khalid Salimi at the Antiracisistisk Senter, Oslo.
My thanks too to Sylvie Lemay at the Ontario Institute for Studies in Education; Jorunn Møller
in the Centre for Teacher Education and In-Service Training at the University of Oslo; and Tove
Skutnabb-Kangas at Roskilde University, Denmark.
NOTES
1
This study was undertaken with the support of two agencies: the Royal Commission on Learning
in Ontario, and Multiculturalism and Citizenship Canada in Ottawa. Unless otherwise indicated
in the text of this article, factual details came from two or more of the informants listed in the
Acknowledgements. The study involved focus groups, with key informants in their institutional
settings; unstructured and semi-structured interviews with other key informants; documentary and
archival analysis; and observations of schools and classrooms in the town of Kautokeino
(Guovdageaidnu). Two informants commented on a draft of the study.
2
From 1997, all children will begin school when they are 6 years old and there will be 10 years
of basic education. At present, 6-year-olds attend compulsory play-oriented pre-schools. There are
subsidized government and privately run daycare provisions for children from their first year of
life.
3
The differences between these Sámi languages may parallel the differences between three of
Ontario’s Native languages: Cree, Oji-Cree, and Ojibwe. This is not to say that the Norwegian
diversity is equal to the much broader range of languages in Ontario, much less Canada as a
whole. However, Norway has less than half the population of Ontario, and far less than half the
educational resources to spread over a very extended geographical territory.
4
Part of the tragedy of this German action is that on the day Hitler ordered the burning of
Finnmark, Stalin decided not to mount an offensive by way of Norway.
5
The Sámi spelling for the town’s name is “Guovdageaidnu,” and this is gradually replacing the
Norwegian spelling.
6
101
Articles 27 and 28 concern rights to independent forms of education and general language rights:
governments shall recognise the right of these peoples to establish their own educational
institutions and facilities, provided that such institutions meet minimum standards established
by the competent authority in consultation with these peoples . . . Children belonging to the
peoples concerned shall, wherever practicable, be taught to read and write in their own
indigenous language or in the language most commonly used by the group to which they
belong. (International Labour Office, 1990, p. 16)
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au Québec, 14(4), 66–71.
Levasseur-Ouimet, F. (1989). Enseigner en milieu minoritaire: réflexions sur la pédagogie. Éducation
et Francophonie, 17(3), 16–22.
Littlejohn, C., & Fredeen, S. (1993). Indian language programs in Saskatchewan: a survey. In S.
Morris, M. Danesi, & K. McLeod (Eds.), Aboriginal languages and education: The Canadian
experience (pp. 57–84). Oakville, ON: Mosaic Press.
Magga, O. H. (1995). The Sámi Language Act. In T. Skutnabb-Kangas & R. Phillipson (Eds.),
Linguistic human rights: Overcoming linguistic discrimination (pp. 219–233). Berlin, Germany:
Mouton de Gruyter.
May, S. (1994). Making multiculturalism work. Toronto, ON: OISE Press.
McEachern, W. R. (1988). Materials development for Native language programs. Canadian Journal
of Native Education, 15(1), 39–42.
McEachern, W. R. (1993). French immersion programs. In J.-A. Archibald & S. Selkirk (Eds.),
Selected papers from the 1988 and 1990 Mokakit conferences (pp. 99–108). Vancouver, BC:
Mokakit Education Research Association.
McEachern, W. R., & Moeller, P. (1988). Indian/Metis language programs and French immersion:
First cousins or distant relations? Journal of Indigenous Studies, 1(1), 21–26.
National Curriculum Guidelines. (1987). Mønsterplan for grunnskolen [Curriculum for basic
schooling]. Oslo, Norway: Aschehoug.
Paquette, J. (1989). Minority education policy: Assumptions and propositions. Curriculum Inquiry,
19, 405–420.
Pitawanakwat, M. (1989). Anishnawbe language and culture: Essential use and practice. Canadian
Woman Studies/Les cahiers de la femme, 10(2/3), 73.
Ryan, J. (1992). Formal schooling and deculturation: Nursing practice and the erosion of Native
communication styles. Alberta Journal of Educational Research, 38, 91–103.
Sawyer, D. (1988). The writing process and Native students. Canadian Journal of Native Education,
15(2), 15–21.
Shkilnyk, A. (1986). Canada’s aboriginal languages: An overview of current activities in language
retention. Ottawa, ON: Department of the Secretary of State.
Stairs, A. (1985). La viabilité des langues autochtones et le rôle de l’écrit: l’expérience de l’Inuktitut
au nouveau-Québec. Recherches amérindiennes au Québec, 15(3), 93–95.
Stairs, A. (1994a). The cultural negotiations of indigenous education: Between microethnography and
model-building. Peabody Journal of Education, 69(2), 154–171.
Stairs, A. (1994b). Indigenous ways to go to school: Exploring many visions. Journal of Multilingual
and Multicultural Development, 15(1), 63–76.
Taylor, D. M., Crago, M. B., & McAlpine, L. (1993). Education in aboriginal communities:
Dilemmas around empowerment. Canadian Journal of Native Education, 20(1), 176–183.
Toohey, K. (1985). Northern native Canadian language education. Canadian Review of Sociology and
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Toohey, K. (1986). Minority educational failure: Is dialect a factor? Curriculum Inquiry, 16,
127–145.
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Toohey, K. (1989). A response to “Minority education policy: Assumptions and propositions.”
Curriculum Inquiry, 19, 431–435.
Wardhaugh, R. (1983). Language and nationhood: The Canadian experience. Vancouver, BC: New
Star Books.
David Corson is Professor in the Modern Language Centre and the Departments of Educational
Administration and Curriculum, at the Ontario Institute for Studies in Education, 252 Bloor Street
West, Toronto, Ontario M5S 1V6.
Recensions / Book Reviews
La créativité des aînés: le paradoxe de l’avenir
Par Marie-Claire Landry
Montréal: Les Éditions Logiques, 1994. 225 pages
RECENSÉ PAR MARCEL DE GRANDPRÉ, UNIVERSITÉ DE MONTRÉAL
Marie-Claire Landry a publié en 1992 un livre sur la créativité des enfants. Elle
est professeur au Département des sciences de l’éducation de l’Université du
Québec à Montréal depuis sa fondation, il y a 25 ans. Elle contribue à la formation des maîtres par un cours sur la créativité où se rencontrent des étudiants de
toutes les catégories d’âge inscrits à plusieurs programmes.
Son cours ouvre des approches de créativité peu communes. Elle offre aux
jeunes et aux moins jeunes des outils indispensables pour se libérer d’attitudes
conformistes qui ne sont plus adaptées à la réalité, aux aînés des moyens de
maintenir la communication avec leur entourage, de continuer à croître et à se
valoriser dans la société.
La créativité des aînés: Le paradoxe de l’avenir lance aux aînés une invitation: abandonnez la facilité et choisissez des sentiers inusités qui vous feront
vivre un troisième âge créateur.
Douze chapitres de présentation typographique agréable déterminent ce qui
constitue le “troisième âge.” Ils font l’inventaire de l’expérience accumulée, de
la maturité avec ses vues nouvelles sur la vie, des projets qu’on aurait voulu
réaliser, des améliorations qu’on aurait souhaitées pour rendre le milieu plus
enrichissant.
Le volume rappelle les notions développées dans le cours et met en relief la
continuité qui va de l’adolescence au temps de la retraite: évolution des valeurs,
richesse de l’expérience, variété des activités adaptées aux capacités physiques,
intellectuelles et émotives de chacun.
Chaque chapitre s’ouvre sur une illustration amusante et suggestive à la fois.
La lecture est facilitée par de nombreuses citations en exergue, des exemples de
personnages connus, des suggestions concrètes et détaillées, la proposition de
lectures pour compléter chacun des thèmes.
Chaque âge tirera profit de cette lecture. On comprendra mieux ses aînés. On
pourra entrevoir sans angoisse l’approche de cette étape de la vie. On découvrira
de nombreux moyens d’en faire une période enrichissante pour soi et pour les
autres.
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La pensée et les émotions en mathématiques: métacognition et affectivité
Par Louise Lafortune et Lise St-Pierre
RECENSÉ PAR LISE LEGAULT, UNIVERSITÉ DU QUÉBEC À TROIS-RIVIÈRES
Cet ouvrage est le fruit d’une imposante recherche visant “à concevoir et à valider du matériel didactique pour intervenir sur des facteurs affectifs et métacognitifs de l’apprentissage des mathématiques.” Il s’agit d’une recherche qualitative
à laquelle ont collaboré plusieurs professeurs de mathématiques de l’enseignement collégial, qui ont apporté leurs suggestions pour la conception du matériel
didactique et participé à l’expérimentation et à l’évaluation de ce même matériel.
Un certain nombre d’experts dans les domaines de cette recherche ont également
contribué à la validation de ces activités didactiques. Le résultat de ce travail est
publié en deux volets.
Le présent ouvrage regroupe 35 activités dont la plupart sont particulièrement
adaptées à l’enseignement des mathématiques et des sciences, alors qu’un autre
ouvrage Les processus mentaux et les émotions dans l’apprentissage présente 30
activités utilisables dans toute discipline scolaire, y compris les mathématiques
et les sciences. Toutes les activités décrites dans ce premier ouvrage sont classées
en douze catégories: travail d’équipe coopératif, discussion de groupe, jeux et
simulations, schémas, modelage, rétroaction-communication, évaluation, autoévaluation, observation, auto-observation, activités d’écriture et activités de
lecture. Pour chacune de ces activités, on retrouve une présentation bien structurée: d’abord une brève introduction, puis une énumération des objectifs affectifs
et métacognitifs visés, la procédure et les précautions à prendre pour mener à
bien l’activité, des suggestions d’utilisation, les avantages et les limites de
l’activité et enfin, les sources et références pertinentes. Les enseignants découvriront maintes activités intéressantes à utiliser en classe pour créer un climat
d’enseignement qui tienne compte des aspects métacognitifs et affectifs intervenant dans l’apprentissage des mathématiques et pour susciter — selon la préoccupation fondamentale des deux chercheurs — un environnement permettant de
venir à bout des difficultés d’apprentissage. Est-il besoin de préciser que cet
ouvrage s’adresse à quiconque désire rénover sa pédagogie?
Loin de ce courant qui persiste à centrer les interventions sur l’information à
transmettre aux élèves, les conditions matérielles de cette transmission, les
nouvelles techniques (informatique, vidéo . . .) et le contenu même de cette information, les auteurs du présent ouvrage considèrent qu’il n’y a pas de contenu
disciplinaire “pur.” Auteur de plusieurs recherches, Louise Lafortune en particulier a constamment visé à éclairer l’aspect mixte de cette discipline couramment
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identifiée à la raison, en explorant les ressorts et les freins affectifs qu’elle met
en jeu: attitudes, émotion, motivation, attribution, confiance en soi. L’apport dans
le domaine de la métacognition marque un pas de plus dans cette analyse approfondie. Rares sont les chercheurs qui ont mené une telle réflexion centrée sur
l’analyse des activités cognitives comprises dans le contrôle conscient et délibéré
qu’une personne peut avoir sur le déroulement de ses démarches cognitives en
mathématiques.
L’ouvrage s’avère d’autant plus riche et important qu’il ne s’en tient pas à un
discours théorique, mais propose des pratiques pédagogiques et didactiques
précises et concrètes propres à être utilisées non seulement dans le champ disciplinaire de la mathématique, mais aussi dans celui d’autres disciplines. Un
ouvrage remarquable que tout enseignant aurait avantage à scruter, un ouvrage
qui devrait retenir tout particulièrement l’attention des professeurs, ainsi que celle
des étudiants en formation des maîtres.
Old Boys: The Powerful Legacy of Upper Canada College
By James Fitzgerald
Toronto: McFarlane Walter and Ross, 1994. xx + 369 pages
REVIEWED BY MARY PERCIVAL MAXWELL, QUEEN’S UNIVERSITY
This book should be read by many more educators and social scientists than I
suspect it will be. Most will be inclined to dismiss the publication as not relevant
to the interests of academics and educators. They should not. They have a lot to
learn about the underlife and identity formation in a school that has played and
continues to play an important part in Canadian education and society.
The author selected 71 interviews with old boys from the 300 oral histories
recorded. The interviews are grouped into four sections roughly corresponding
to the time periods of the previous four principals and cover old boys who
attended the school from 1919 to 1993. The accounts are dramatic and sometimes poignant. They include the names of classmates, masters, and principals
then at school and forthright judgments of their character and effectiveness.
Although these oral histories reflect some editing, they are rich, primary
sources on many themes. The themes include: the role of the student subcultures;
perceptions of the school’s role in the respondents’ experiences in their personality development and intellectual, athletic, and interpersonal skills; and views
on the school’s role in class reproduction. The interlocking themes of competition, homophobia, homosexuality, patriarchy, sexism, racism, and abuse permeate
many accounts in all periods. Many students report that the academic education
they received was excellent and stimulating, and the access to top-quality,
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extensive extracurricular resources second to none. Others report less positive
experiences.
Resistance to adult authority is a significant feature of adolescent life and
many of us remember vividly, and with humour and celebration, the acts of
resistance or “pranks” of our school days. Such incidents tend to be the most
salient memories we keep and use to identify “our clique” or “our year.” Yet
although one would expect reminiscences of a considerable amount of adolescent
resistance to authority in any school or institution, the amount of criminal and
delinquent behaviour on and off school property that is reported, admitted to, or
boasted about in this book is astounding. The litany of first-hand accounts of
lying, stealing, cheating, drinking under age, driving while intoxicated, drug use
and peddling, bullying, abuse of students by fellow students and teachers, and
vandalism permeates every section of the book. Perpetrators and victims alike
describe these incidents in detail, as well as how they were affected by the
deviance.
Despite the delinquency, unlike their working-class counterparts, none of the
“old boys” got caught up in the criminal justice system. Although many report
experiencing feelings of insecurity and social inadequacy in adolescence, none
gives the impression that he did not feel confident about his future occupational
success in the higher echelons of business, the professions, the arts, or politics.
Most people whose interviews are included in this volume are members of one
of the institutional elites in Canada and many are also sons and grandsons of old
boys who have played or are playing prominent roles in Canadian society.
Although the information is implicit, this book reveals much about how social
class protects against the risks of deviance and fosters ambition and success.
Private schools have much to teach the public school system, some of it good
and some bad, and this volume and the other 200-odd oral histories could
provide excellent research material. One would hope that there will be more
interest in research on Canada’s elite (male, female, and co-ed) private schools
as a result of the publication of this volume.
L’activité éducative, une théorie, une pratique: l’animation de la vie de la classe
Par Pierre Angers et Colette Bouchard
Montréal: Bellarmin, 1993. 194 pages
RECENSÉ PAR COLETTE BARBEAU, UNIVERSITÉ DU QUÉBEC À TROIS-RIVIÈRES
Voici enfin paru le septième ouvrage de la série L’Activité éducative: une
théorie, une pratique, écrits développant une conception pédagogique originale
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et proposant une vision renouvelée de l’apprentissage. Pierre Angers et Colette
Bouchard sont reconnus à la fois pour leurs travaux de recherche théorique sur
l’apprentissage et pour leur expertise quant aux façons d’intégrer dans l’école une
activité pédagogique qui soutienne et favorise une démarche authentique d’apprentissage chez l’élève.
La perspective adoptée pour traiter de l’animation de la vie de la classe est
intéressante à plus d’un titre, même pour le maître peu familier avec l’activité
éducative, mais désirant instaurer un climat de travail et animer une vie de
groupe dans une classe où les élèves pourront apprendre avec joie et atteindre les
objectifs d’apprentissage qui leur sont proposés. Les thématiques touchées
permettent d’appréhender toute la richesse de l’intervention pédagogique, trop
souvent réduite aux procédés de questionnement de l’élève ou de gestion de la
discipline en classe. L’aménagement de la salle de classe est développé sous
plusieurs facettes, entre autres, la question des valeurs à privilégier en classe, des
interactions à créer et à soutenir, des démarches d’apprentissage à lancer et à
consolider, de la dimension culturelle à inscrire au coeur des activités de classe.
L’intervention se déploie aussi dans d’autres dimensions pour faire de la classe
un milieu de vie et un lieu d’apprentissage authentique. La classe exige une
direction éclairée et rigoureuse; à cet effet, le maître y inscrit des points de
repère qui permettent à chaque élève d’apprendre à apprendre et de se situer en
regard du programme d’apprentissage. Des indications très spécifiques sont
fournies aux maîtres qui désirent mettre en oeuvre des projets dans leur classe:
les différentes facettes de l’intervention didactique sont clairement décrites pour
chacune des étapes et illustrées de nombreux exemples de classe.
Cette vision large et stimulante de l’animation de la classe redéfinit la place
du maître et éclaire les différents aspects de son rôle d’accompagnateur, de guide
pour les élèves qui lui sont confiés et précise cette fonction d’initiation à la
culture que l’école se doit de remplir auprès de ces jeunes dont elle est responsable.
La voie que nous proposent ces deux pédagogues québécois est exigeante et
oblige à de nombreuses modifications aux pratiques routinières qui constituent
malheureusement trop souvent le quotidien de la salle de classe. Faire de la
classe un lieu qui satisfasse les requêtes de l’intelligence oblige à subordonner
l’enseignement à l’apprentissage et à redonner la primauté à l’activité éducative
de l’élève. La tâche est complexe, mais les nombreux exemples apportés en
démontrent la faisabilité; elle est délicate, compte tenu de la diversité des milieux
scolaires et de l’hétérogénéité des clientèles, mais toutes ces classes et ces
enseignants qui ont collaboré à la recherche offrent des garanties de réussite.
L’ensemble des ouvrages qui complètent la série constituent toutefois les pièces
nécessaires pour estimer la portée, la valeur théorique et l’efficacité de cette
conception pédagogique. Dans la mesure où “l’art d’apprendre est l’une des
formes les plus hautes de l’activité humaine et [où] l’initiation à cet art est la
fonction première de l’école” (p. 180), les pédagogues Angers et Bouchard
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contribuent de façon exemplaire à indiquer une voie riche et vibrante pour que,
dans l’école, germe et se cultive le plaisir d’apprendre.
Le parent entraîneur
Par Claire Leduc
RECENSÉ PAR CLAIRE BROCHU, UNIVERSITÉ DU QUÉBEC À TROIS-RIVIÈRES
Suite à une analyse réflexive de sa pratique professionnelle comme travailleuse
sociale et psychothérapeute familiale, où elle intègre les approches systémique
et humaniste (Rogers, Maslow, Fromm), Claire Leduc présente un modèle éducatif basé sur la recherche du “juste milieu” en éducation. Le parent entraîneur,
c’est ce parent qui a “pour but premier l’autonomie de l’enfant dans l’interdépendance” (p. 16) et qui se fait un devoir de transmettre avec amour des valeurs
claires qui nourriront l’âme des enfants. Il répond avec plaisir aux trois besoins
essentiels de l’enfant: la santé-sécurité, l’affection et l’éducation. Il communique
bien et respecte la personnalité de son enfant tout en exigeant son plein rendement. Il n’a pas peur de faire face aux conflits et problèmes. Ses enfants “sont
autonomes, confiants et joyeux. Ils ont des problèmes par moments, mais ils sont
outillés pour y faire face . . . Ils expriment clairement ce qu’ils ressentent. Ils
savent se fixer des objectifs et les atteindre” (p. 82). Le parent entraîneur se
distancie de l’attitude des parents absents, insouciants des besoins de l’enfant et
négligents, des “baby boomers” à tendance “peace and love” qui pensent que
leur enfant sera beaucoup plus heureux s’il est élevé avec beaucoup d’amour et
sans contrainte, des parents autoritaires qui tracent une voie indiscutable à leur
enfant, sans respect de leur personnalité et des parents abusifs qui, par des
paroles et des gestes violents, brisent l’intégrité et l’âme de leur enfant.
Ce livre comprend cinq parties. 1. Deux questionnaires qui permettent au
lecteur de se situer par rapport à son style d’autorité (absent, débonnaire, entraîneur, autoritaire, absent): des situations conflictuelles à cinq choix d’intervention.
(Juste le fait de répondre au questionnaire provoque déjà une réflexion éducative.) 2. L’explication des cinq styles de parents incluant de beaux tableaux
résumant les caractéristiques de chaque style de parent par rapport aux thèmes
suivants: l’identité des enfants, les relations avec les enfants, leur santé, leur
sécurité, les études et le travail des enfants, les valeur des enfants, les conséquences fréquentes chez les enfants. 3. Comment devenir un parent entraîneur:
des conseils très intéressants qui tiennent aussi compte du contexte social et
socio-économique actuel des parents: entrer en contact avec son enfant, le
rejoindre dans son expérience, répondre à ses besoins, l’encadrer, lui donner du
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temps gratuit, prendre sa place comme parent; les attitudes de base: autonomie,
responsabilité, respect de soi et de l’autre, cohérence, discernement, confiance;
les outils privilégiés: pouvoir démocratique, communication, résolution de
problèmes, stimulation du potentiel; les actions: accompagner, expliquer, prendre
du recul, stimuler, trancher, consoler, soutenir, questionner, empêcher, limiter,
bâtir un programme; le réseau social du parent entraîneur. 4. Conseils particuliers
par rapport aux problèmes spécifiques aux différents âges de l’enfant et de
l’adolescent, ainsi qu’aux différents types de famille. 5. La psychothérapie
familiale: quand et qui consulter? Comment se déroule la thérapie? Chaque
chapitre se termine par des propositions d’exercices qui permettent des prises de
conscience et des mises en pratique des principes et conseils exposés.
Après avoir utilisé auprès de jeunes parents et de futurs enseignants le “thermomètre des parents” proposé dans ce livre, j’ai pu observer sa pertinence
comme cadre de référence pour situer les interventions éducatives, pour provoquer des réflexions fort riches et orienter un processus de conscientisation et de
démarche personnelle chez les éducateurs. L’auteure définit deux types de parent
entraîneur: l’affectif et l’éducatif. Elle préconise, dans un couple où il y a soidisant toujours un parent affectif et un parent éducatif, de travailler à la complémentarité des rôles. Cela va toujours, dans un premier temps, dans les familles
traditionnelles. Mais qu’en est-il du rôle d’entraîneur des autres éducateurs
comme les enseignants ou des parents des nombreuses familles monoparentales?
Est-ce que les enfants qui vivent avec ces derniers sont condamnés à un déséquilibre éducatif certain? S’il est peut-être plus réaliste, dans le cadre d’une thérapie
familiale brève, d’apprendre aux parents à mieux vivre avec qui ils sont, serait-il
si utopique, dans une démarche de formation à la compétence parentale, d’aider
les parents entraîneurs de type affectif à devenir plus éducatifs et vice-versa?
L’intégration des deux pôles n’est-il pas un objectif de formation à atteindre?
D’autre part, je ne me rallie pas à l’idée qu’un parent doive avoir un amour
conditionnel de son enfant pour pouvoir agir en parent entraîneur éducatif, même
si c’est une réalité qui se rencontre.
Without a Word: Teaching Beyond Women’s Silence
By Magda Gere Lewis
New York: Routledge, 1993. 207 pages
REVIEWED BY BRENDA L. BEAGAN, UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA
1
This is a very eloquent book, which uses almost-poetic prose to explore the
contradiction between women’s silence as oppression and as resistance. Lewis
draws together concrete experience with theoretical abstractions to explore the
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meaning of silence. She is not so much offering teaching strategies as raising
questions about how the contradictions of women’s speaking and silence present
pedagogic possibilities, spaces and strategies for teaching and learning.
I found this a truly engaging text; I agreed emphatically with it in places, and
disagreed equally emphatically in others. This is the stuff of which intellectual,
political, pedagogical debates are created. I found the chapter on feminist
teachers in the classroom particularly valuable, largely because Lewis draws on
very concrete examples of her experiences teaching, including how to work with
men in a feminist classroom. The discussion of psychological, social, and sexual
dynamics in feminist classrooms would be useful reading for all feminist
teachers.
Some of her strongest statements arise when Lewis draws on students’ writing
for examples of the theoretical points she is making. In fact, one of the most
powerful aspects of the book is her use of a wide range of “texts”: her own
experience, her students’ stories, films, literature, public events, classroom
interactions where she was teacher or student. At the same time, perhaps because
she uses such wide-ranging material, the book at times lacks a unifying coherence. I was left feeling that she never quite got to the full complexity of women
and silence and, therefore, to the meaning of teaching beyond that silence.
Lewis conceptualizes women’s silence as on the one hand socially imposed —
the erasure of women from history, the stilling of our voices — and on the other
hand an act of resistance and transformation. She argues that women’s silence
is usually understood simplistically as victimization, oppression, and thus “is
often used to suggest seductively simple pedagogical strategies in the form of
validative and supplementary models of education . . . aimed at getting women
to speak” (pp. 41–42).
It is always difficult to strike a balance between structure and agency; in this
text Lewis slides towards the side of structure, leaving women as primarily
victims. For example, she describes the disruption of her academic life when her
desk was turned into a baby changing table three different times. Yet she does
not ask why she allowed that (and some other women allow it and some other
women do not allow it). She argues that she had no option but to make mothering “a fully engaging activity” — but many women do not see her position as
their only option, and neither they nor their children suffer particularly.
However, although Lewis tends to examine women’s silence from the position
of “women-as-victims,” she also allows for silence as a form of active resistance.
She insists that we need to hear both voices and silences, to make meaning out
of what women say as well as what women refuse to say, and why we refuse to
speak. Pedagogically, the point is not to make the classroom “safe” for women
to speak; the point is to make sense of the politics of silence.
The important pedagogical implications of Lewis’s analysis — such as that “the
potential power of a pedagogical practice . . . is its ability to bring people to the
point where they care to listen” (p. 49) — are limited by her tendency to over-
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generalize Women. She insists emphatically that she does not intend to universalize or to “totalize all experiences of all women” (pp. 12–13). Yet she makes
such sweeping claims as: “women’s collective consciousness . . . the central
feature of which is the experience of silence” (p. 13). She does not say “the
central feature of which is for me the experience of silence” or “which is for
many women . . .” Clearly, Lewis is naming for herself, but she is also taking it
upon herself to name for others. And although she speaks articulately of the
violation that occurs when women’s words are reinterpreted and appropriated,
there is also the violation of “speaking for,” which Lewis herself falls into. When
she names women’s experience of academia as one of discomfort, violation, and
lack of welcome, my classroom experiences of celebration, success, belonging,
engagement, stimulation — which are equivalently valid — are erased.
For women to break cultural dictates of silence is, without a doubt, risky.
Lewis describes with great poignancy the pain and struggle with which women
break silences, and the risks we take in doing so. Consequently, feminism in the
academy (as elsewhere) requires a willingness to risk. We should not assume that
we will be rewarded for holding an oppositional perspective. Nor should we
expect not to be opposed. We may indeed have to pay — or at least not profit —
when we break silences, but we can still do it. Women can legitimate each
other’s speech, a powerful way to undemiine male dominance, to free ourselves
from oppressive social practices. Yet Lewis denies that we can do even that:
“because of our relative powerlessness, women cannot assume the position of
legitimators of men’s or women’s discourse” (p. 131). This is a dangerous
inflation of very real social costs into social-structural impossibility.
In the same vein, Lewis makes some extremely valuable points about how
women take care of male students in feminist classrooms. But she conflates a
whole range of very different costs when she says, “Women know that, historically, not caring has cost us our lives: intellectually, emotionally, socially,
psychologically, and physically” (p. 161). My refusal to take care of the male
students in my graduate seminars may make me a “strident feminist bitch” and
not very popular, but that is not the same as a woman’s losing her life if she is
not sufficiently attentive to her battering husband. Risking popularity and risking
survival cannot and should not be conflated. I am not arguing that being oppositional is not risky. Of course it is. Yet at the same time, we may blow risks out
of proportion, creating of them insurmountable obstacles that leave us immobilized.
Sometimes women maintain silence for survival. Sometimes women are silent
to maintain privileges. It is important to be clear which is which. Lewis fails to
make this distinction, partly because of her inadequate attention to the impact of
social location, such as racial positioning. The same silence may mean very
different things for white women and women of colour. As Loma Weir (1991)
argues, the silence of white women often conceals power whereas the silence of
women of colour is often based on marginalization in the classroom and fear that
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they will not be heard. And although white women’s silence often arises from
very real feelings of powerlessness, we cannot allow those feelings to obscure
the always relative power we hold because we are white (Chater, 1994). To me,
this means questioning what the actual costs of a given action might be: Will it
really cost me my job if I speak out? Or will I just lose the approval of others
of my “race”?
What Lewis describes as women’s social and emotional survival is sometimes
simply heterosexual privilege, or male approval. When I refrained from saying
answers I knew were right in my Grade 10 biology class, it was partly because
boys did not like smart girls. If I stayed silent, boys were more likely to like me
and I was less likely to be marginalized by other girls. My choice of silence was
based on a desire for popularity and male approval, not a need for survival. The
perceived risks of breaking silence may be different for heterosexual women than
for lesbians — because as lesbians we are already marginalized, we are already
not playing by the rules. We have no heterosexual privilege to protect.
I have a button that says “Silence is the voice of complicity.” This is one
aspect of silence Lewis largely ignores. She focuses on women’s silence as
oppression or as resistance which often it is. Yet it also holds multiple other,
contradictory meanings: silence as weapon, silence as safety, silence as control,
silence as communication, silence as political act, silence as hearing, silence as
withdrawal. I watched my father wield silence as a tool of power, refusing to
engage in conversation until my mother hit on the right topic. I have watched
women wield silence as a tool of resistance, refusing to engage with classroom
discussions that did not allow for their rage as women, as people of colour. I
have watched women choose silence when they knew speaking in support of me
(a lesbian) might cost them male approval.
Although Lewis does point out the irony of the fact that choosing silence as
resistance and being silenced have the same end effect, she does not go far
enough with that complexity. Nor does she explore silence as complicity, and
therefore speech as refusing privilege. Although she carefully examines the fears
that keep women in silence, she does not go far enough with how we can teach
women to move past or through those fears. As Audre Lorde wrote in 1984, in
the end silence does not protect us from those things we fear:
We can sit in our corners mute forever while our sisters and ourselves are wasted, while
our children are distorted and destroyed, while our earth is poisoned; we can sit in our
safe corners mute as bottles, and we will still be no less afraid [p. 42] . . . and while we
wait in silence for that final luxury of fearlessness, the weight of that silence will choke
us. (p. 44)
Although Lewis quotes from Lorde in several places, it is disappointing that she
has not fully engaged with the implications of “The Transformation of Silence
Into Language and Action” in this text.
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115
NOTE
1
The ideas in this review arise in part from discussions with Bethan A. Lloyd.
REFERENCES
Chater, N. (1994). Biting the hand that feeds me: Notes on privilege from a white anti-racist feminist.
Canadian Woman Studies/Les cahiers de la femme, 14(2), 100–104.
Lorde, A. (1984). The transformation of silence into language and action. In A. Lorde, Sister/Outsider
(pp. 40–44). Trumansburg, NY: The Crossing Press.
Weir, L. (1991). Anti-racist pedagogy, self-observed. Resources for Feminist Research/Documentation
sur la Recherche Feministe, 20(3/4), 19–26.
Pour que vive la lecture: littérature et bibliothèques de jeunesse
Sous la direction de Hélène Charbonneau
Montréal: Association pour l’avancement des sciences et des techniques de la
documentation (ASTED), 1994. 241 pages
RECENSÉ PAR NOËLLE SORIN, UNIVERSITÉ DU QUÉBEC À MONTRÉAL
De prime abord, Pour que vive la lecture: littérature et bibliothèques de jeunesse
est un ouvrage collectif qui se situe dans le nouvel espace qui considère l’acte
de lecture dans le rapport entre le lecteur et le texte. Il existe toutefois deux
façons d’aborder la pratique de lecture littéraire. Il y a celle, très répandue, de
la lecture dite “expressionniste” par laquelle le lecteur est convié au plaisir de
lire, où le lecteur est valorisé au détriment du texte. La seconde pratique de
lecture est celle de la lecture comme activité productrice du texte. L’acte de
lecture réside alors essentiellement dans un travail centré sur le texte pour en
décrire et en analyser le fonctionnement et pour actualiser les opérations cognitives productrices du sens. Cependant, ces deux pratiques de lecture, tout
exclusives qu’elles soient, ont leur terrain privilégié et leur raison d’être. Ainsi,
la recherche du plaisir de lire comme fin ultime de l’acte de lecture est tout à fait
louable, voire souhaitable en dehors de l’école. La bibliothèque, la maison,
l’édition sont ses lieux de prédilection. Par contre, cette attitude devient limitative
lorsqu’on tente d’en faire un objet d’enseignement, le plaisir de lire ne s’enseignant pas.
Dans Pour que vive la lecture: littérature et bibliothèques de jeunesse, la position prise par les auteures face à l’acte de lecture en évacue presque totalement
les aspects théoriques et la lecture comme démarche cognitive et langagière,
optant plutôt pour une conception de la lecture relevant du seul plaisir de lire.
Ceci s’explique par l’instance qui a présidé à la publication de cet ouvrage, soit
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l’Association pour l’avancement des sciences et des techniques de la documentation (ASTED), par les auteures en majorité bibliothécaires ou oeuvrant dans le
milieu des bibliothèques, ou de formation en bibliothéconomie et enfin, par la
portée que l’on attend d’un tel ouvrage, qui est “d’accroître l’intérêt pour la
littérature de jeunesse et de favoriser son rayonnement dans les bibliothèques”
ainsi qu’en atteste la quatrième de couverture. De part sa vocation ainsi déterminée, Pour que vive la lecture, pensé principalement à l’usage des bibliothécaires,
se révèle un ouvrage essentiellement pratique.
Pour que vive la lecture est divisé en quatre parties. La première partie,
intitulée “Des livres pour le quotidien . . . et pour les jours de fête,” traite de
l’écriture pour la jeunesse à travers divers sujets: une réflexion personnelle sur
le métier d’écrivain pour les jeunes; une analyse des besoins particuliers des
jeunes en matière de lecture; un bilan de la production québécoise du livre pour
la jeunesse ainsi qu’un tour d’horizon du livre de jeunesse en France; l’étude du
héros sériel dans la littérature de jeunesse au Québec; une interrogation sur le
lien entre l’illustration et le livre pour enfant; un survol du marché de la traduction dans les maisons d’édition québécoises. Parmi ces articles, il faut souligner
l’article de Dominique Demers, qui pose un regard critique particulier sur les
séries en littérature de jeunesse dont certains romans sont de véritables modèles
photocopiables. Outre les dangers inhérents à cette production de romans de
grande consommation, nous devons toutefois questionner la priorité du destinataire, qui entraîne un glissement du langage et un appauvrissement de la qualité
littéraire.
La seconde partie est centrée sur les “Lieux pour le savoir et l’imaginaire.”
Elle traite exclusivement des bibliothèques: bref historique; aménagement des
locaux; activités d’animation du livre; choix des livres pour développer une
collection pour la jeunesse; organisation des collections pour la jeunesse dans les
bibliothèques scolaires ou municipales; promotion de la lecture en fonction des
besoins des jeunes lecteurs. Dans la troisième partie, consacrée au plaisir de lire
et au rôle de l’enseignant et de l’animateur, les sujets sont les suivants: la
“lecture plaisir” comme activité scolaire; la formation de jeunes lecteurs permanents; un programme d’animation du livre pour la jeunesse proposant le développement des attitudes propres au véritable lecteur; le rôle d’animateur dans une
bibliothèque publique. Parmi ces articles, celui de Michelle Provost intitulé “Le
plaisir de lire et l’enseignant” propose des avenues intéressantes d’intégration de
la lecture comme plaisir aux activités scolaires. D’après elle, si le plaisir de lire
ne s’enseigne pas, “les conditions favorables à [son] émergence, elles, relèvent
de stratégies d’enseignement bien concrètes et bien identifiables” (p. 161). La
dernière partie, “Des chiffres révélateurs,” ne comporte qu’un seul article. À
partir d’enquêtes et de résultats statistiques divers, Suzanne Pouliot dresse un
“profil provisoire du lectorat de 6 à 16 ans.” On pourrait adjoindre à cette partie,
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117
la bibliographie de Paulette Bernhard. Elle y recense un certain nombre d’ouvrages pertinents aux différents sujets abordés dans ce recueil.
Les auteures de cet ouvrage collectif s’inscrivent donc dans une pratique de
la lecture expressionniste, où le plaisir de lire prédomine sur une approche plus
cognitive de la lecture, où l’on focalise l’attention sur le lecteur et son plaisir
alors que le véritable rôle du lecteur est de traiter le texte pour qu’il devienne
non pas un objet de consommation, mais un objet de connaissance. Le recueil
ainsi conçu peut s’avérer toutefois un bon outil pour la clientèle visée des
bibliothécaires, surtout par le côté pratique qu’il offre. Il peut également inspirer
nombre d’enseignants soucieux d’intégrer à leurs stratégies de lecture, certaines
conditions favorisant l’émergence du plaisir de lire chez leurs élèves. Il peut
enfin intéresser tous ceux qui, de près ou de loin, se préoccupent des jeunes
lecteurs et de la littérature de jeunesse.
Women and Leadership in Canadian Education
Edited by Cecilia Reynolds and Beth Young
Calgary: Detselig, 1995. 253 pages. ISBN 1-55059-116-9 (pbk.)
REVIEWED BY BENJAMIN LEVIN, UNIVERSITY OF MANITOBA
A book such as this raises an interesting question as to who qualifies as a
reviewer, especially because so many Canadian scholars in the area of women
and educational leadership are themselves contributors to the volume. As someone with an interest but no special expertise in gender issues in education, my
focus in this review is this book’s contribution to educational administration
rather than its success as a work of feminist scholarship.
Women and Leadership is the first volume to present a compilation of Canadian research on gender and educational administration. The 18 contributors
include 17 women and one man, almost all of whom are Canadian academics.
The book has 16 chapters in three rather loosely defined sections. The first four
chapters deal with general issues of gender, the next six chapters report empirical
studies of women administrators in various settings, and the last six chapters
discuss issues of leadership. The editors provide an introduction to the book as
a whole, a brief introduction to each section, and a postscript by Young that
looks ahead to future possibilities for scholarship in this area. Reynolds, the other
editor, wrote the first chapter, which reviews briefly but thoughtfully various
conceptual frames for understanding women’s experience in education.
It is heartening to see Canadian work being collected and published in this
way. Typically in Canada we are all reading and citing American or English or
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Australian work, unaware of what our own colleagues are doing around the
corner (relatively speaking). The lack of connection in Canada is evident in this
volume in that so few of the chapter authors cite each other’s work (presumably
they do not know it), even though there are many common ideas among the
chapters. The book makes an important contribution simply by putting this work
into the public domain.
Many edited volumes are unsatisfactory because the chapters do not make a
coherent whole. The aim of this book, however, was to showcase the diversity
of scholarship on gender issues in educational administration in Canada, so the
differences among chapters are precisely to the point. Paradoxically, even though
the editors sought diversity in this collection, one finds considerable commonality. Only two chapters plus the postscript could be described as primarily
conceptual; all the rest of the work is empirical. Even so, the range of empirical
work is rather narrow. Eleven of the 16 chapters are based largely on interviews.
Two chapters are primarily quantitative. The dominant form of research in the
book involves describing the experiences and struggles of women attempting to
work in organizations that continue to devalue them and their work.
Although this research is important (about which more shortly), it is not
sufficient. “Telling our stories” is not enough; one must also be able to make
sense of these stories and to see how they lead to deepened understanding and
to action. Here several chapters are less satisfactory, because their theoretical
underpinnings are rather thin. Description of the problems women face are not
always accompanied by either an analysis of causes or suggestions for improvement beyond continuing to struggle. Much current conceptual work on gender
reviewed in Reynolds’ initial chapter does not appear in the empirical contributions. In her postscript Young rightly calls for moving beyond narratives and
stories to work that has a stronger analytical, conceptual, and critical orientation
(my terms, not hers).
At the same time, in the continuing desire to tell stories similar to many others
already told, one recognizes the powerful sense of exclusion and devaluation
many women feel, and acknowledges how potent is the need to commune with
others who have had the same experiences. To live in a world in which one is
confronted by irrationality and wrongdoing while others apparently do not even
see these phenomena leads one perhaps to wonder about one’s sanity. Hearing
others say the same things provides legitimacy for experiences and views that
would otherwise be suppressed, at a cost. Creating this legitimacy is one contribution of feminist research.
Reading through these chapters reminds one just how different the world is for
women, and how seldom we recognize these differences. Being ignored, being
treated as less important, being excluded, being overlooked are the daily lot of
many women who are or wish to be in administrative roles in education. Taken
as a whole, the work in this book documents persuasively a continuing double
standard in hiring and in expectations for women in administrative roles. All the
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119
efforts over the last 20 years to improve equity in our organizations have not yet
changed these fundamental facts very much.
It is also clear that the situation of women in education is powerfully affected
by their more general situation and status; issues of childbearing and childcare,
images of femininity, marriage structures, and the organization of work have
enormous bearing on how women educators are seen and see themselves. In this
respect the book provides a useful counterpoint to revisionist attacks on so-called
political correctness; after reading this volume one could not possibly believe that
our school systems or universities are now skewed in favour of (if that phrase
has any meaning in this context) women. It is still, unmistakably, a man’s world.
Most women know this, even if not all men acknowledge it.
I do not mean to suggest that the book is a litany of complaints. Although
many chapters do discuss the barriers women face, they also embody a spirit of
optimism and commitment to education heartening for all educators. Given
current conditions, we all need to believe that better things are possible and that
our efforts can make a difference!
Un siècle de formation des maîtres au Québec, 1836-1939
Par Thérese Hamel
Montréal: Éditions Hurtubise HMH ltée, Cahiers du Québec, coll. psychopédagogie, 1995. 374 pages
RECENSÉ PAR MONIQUE LEBRUN, UNIVERSITÉ DU QUÉBEC À MONTRÉAL
L’ouvrage de Thérèse Hamel vient à point nommé dans un Québec qui révise de
fond en comble, depuis deux ans, ses filières de formation des maîtres. La
perspective socio-historique adoptée par l’auteur s’appuie sur une solide grille
d’analyse où elle considère l’enseignement comme construction sociale. La
segmentation de l’appareil de formation des maîtres, nous dit Hamel, s’est faite
dès le début selon l’appartenance sexuelle, l’état de vie laïque ou religieux du
personnel et la composante ethno-linguistico-religieuse. Ainsi, les premières
écoles normales à surgir ont été celles des garçons. D’autre part, les religieux ont
longtemps été, dans le secteur catholique et francophone, une part importante du
personnel enseignant. Se réclamant de la perspective interactionniste, l’ouvrage
parle de deux types de contrôle sur l’enseignement: un contrôle général, qui
touche les grandes orientations de l’enseignement, l’approbation des programmes
et la certification des enseignants, d’une part, un contrôle institutionnel relatif aux
acteurs sociaux et aux valeurs qu’ils prônent, d’autre part.
L’ouvrage offre un panorama complet des diverses étapes de l’évolution de
la formation des maîtres, de 1836 à 1939. L’année 1836 voit la naissance offi-
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cielle, par un acte législatif, des écoles normales. Quant à l’année 1939, elle
marque l’abolition du Bureau central des examinateurs, principal concurrent des
écoles normales de l’époque. Entre ces deux dates, on voit l’hégémonie du
Bureau central, jusqu’en 1898, puis son déclin relatif, surtout sous l’inspecteur
général Magnan, car il ne faisait que sanctionner des compétences élémentaires
par des examens, alors que les écoles normales, par un véritable curriculum,
assuraient la professionnalisation des futurs enseignants. Hamel nous renseigne
d’ailleurs fort bien sur les conditions d’admission aux examens, sur les critères
d’évaluation des candidats, et, par ricochet, sur les programmes en vigueur dans
les écoles, puisque ceux-ci forment la base des examens du Bureau central.
Quant au programme des écoles normales, on y souligne la place prépondérante
faite à la pédagogie à la fois dans les premiers manuels de l’époque et dans les
pratiques, de même que la diversité des filières de formation et la place de plus
en plus grande de la culture dite générale.
Le tableau brossé par Hamel est dynamique et recourt volontiers à des analyses de cas particuliers. Ainsi en est-il de ce portrait vigoureux de la querelle
Verreau-Laflèche relativement aux écoles normales. Le second, ardent ultramontain, se prononce contre les écoles normales d’État et tient tête au premier,
directeur d’une école normale laïque. Hamel n’a garde d’oublier la féminisation
de la profession et la croissance des écoles normales de filles dès le début du
XXe siècle. Elle éclaire également d’un jour nouveau les deux types d’institutions qui se développent dans le Québec des années vingt: les scolasticats-écoles
normales et les écoles normales de type universitaire, ce qui nous vaut une
comparaison entre francophones et anglophones. On voit nettement l’évolution
des écoles normales, particulièrement de 1929 à 1939, l’allongement de la
scolarité, le souci pour une formation de plus en plus scientifique et l’alignement
sur le modèle du cours classique. L’ouvrage se clôt sur une analyse des conceptions éducatives prévalant à cette époque de stabilité idéologique: prédilection
pour les valeurs chrétiennes, préservation de la race et de la nation, valorisation
de l’éducation domestique, de l’agriculture et de l’histoire nationale. Elle mentionne cependant quelques mutations issues de l’essor des sciences humaines, en
particulier la psychologie de l’enfant, la sociologie et l’histoire de la pédagogie.
On ne saurait trop louer l’éditeur d’avoir consenti à nous présenter une
iconographie soignée, souvent touchante, toujours appropriée. Quant aux tableaux
et graphiques qui parsèment l’ouvrage, ils résument au mieux les patientes
compilations de l’auteur. Hamel a le mérite de souligner les différentes étapes
de l’institutionnalisation de la formation des maîtres durant un siècle, sujet sur
lequel nous n’avions, jusqu’à maintenant, que des travaux épars ou parcellaires.
Elle le fait de façon rigoureuse, en démontrant que, s’il est un art, voire une
vocation, l’enseignement est également une science qui s’acquiert, un métier
qu’on a circonscrit dans un réseau bien délimité de responsabilités partagées, au
fil des décennies.
The Canadian Journal of Education is
indexed in / La Revue canadienne de
l’éducation est répertoriée dans
Répertoire canadien sur l’éducation/
Canadian Education Index, Canadian
Magazine Index, Canadian Periodical
Index/Index des périodiques canadiens,
Canadian Women’s Periodicals Index,
Contents Pages in Education, Current
Index to Journals in Education, Education Index, Educational Technology
Abstracts, Linguistic and Language
Behavior Abstracts, PAIS Bulletin,
Public Affairs Information Service,
Psychological Abstracts, Research into
Higher Education Abstracts, Sociology
of Education Abstracts, Special Education Needs Abstracts, Studies in
Women Abstracts.
INSTRUCTIONS FOR AUTHORS
The Canadian Journal of Education publishes original research pertaining directly but not
necessarily exclusively to Canadian education. It also publishes short research notes, discussions, review essays, and book reviews. The CJE does not publish literature reviews,
applied pedagogical materials, and administrative documents.
Although manuscripts accepted by the CJE come from a variety of research traditions,
their relevance to Canadian education should be evident, they should offer arguments with
clearly marked premises, inferences, and conclusions, and their form and content should
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The CJE accepts article manuscripts of up to 6,000 words, all notes, references,
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Pierrette Bouchard et Jean-Claude St

Transcription

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