Sunday, March 1, 2015


I've heard talk of the "pearl-clutchers" who object to the sex-ed portion of the new Ontario Health and Physical Education curriculum, but I've never met any. My suspicion is that, apart from a handful of people belonging to fringe religious groups (such as the small group that gathered to protest at Queen's Park on last Tuesday), no one really objects to this update. Why? Maybe because contrary to what many of the media stories on the new curriculum would have us believe, this is an extremely tame sex-ed program. In fact it's not about sex at all.

As I tweeted on the day the curriculum was released:

It's not just orgasms that are MIA; pleasure in general gets short shrift, though at least the concept is mentioned—eight times in the 2015 release, up from five in the 2010 version. And, yes, there are those "shocking" references to wet dreams, vaginal lubrication and masturbation in Grade 6, but since these topics are mentioned (once each) in one of the optional teacher prompts, the likelihood of them making their way into actual classroom teaching or discussion is slim. By contrast, teaching about abstinence or delaying sexual activity (eleven mentions) is not optional: it is clearly a part of the curriculum that is expected to be taught—in fact it, is listed as one of the "key topics" for Grades 7 and 8. STIs are another key topic for these grades. There is a lot of information about STIs in this curriculum, as of course there should be, but as I said in my tweet, the balance between "scary" and "fun" topics may strike some as skewed.

Or rather it would be askew if this were a sex-ed curriculum: that is, a curriculum about sex and sexuality. It is not. The Human Development and Sexual Health portion of the Health and Physical Education curriculum is in fact a harm-prevention program whose aim is to educate kids about the possible dangers they may encounter as they grow into sexual beings. That is precisely how the government has framed the new curriculum in their parent guides and news conferences, and most of its "controversial" parts can be explained in light of this aim. Education minister Liz Sandals has pointed out, for instance, that young kids need to know the proper names of body parts so they can communicate with family members and police if they are being abused. Older kids need to be aware of anal and oral sex in the context of STIs, since rates of teen pregnancy in Ontario have dropped while STI rates have risen—the reason being, according to Sandals, that teens are engaging in pregnancy-avoidant sexual behaviour, unaware that alternative acts carry other risks. The new lessons about online behaviour and sexting are safety-focussed in obvious ways, as are the anti-bullying sections, the LGBTQ sections, and the new additions about consent.

All of these new emphases are welcome, and they all make sense given the government's explicit goal of keeping kids safe and healthy. One would be hard pressed to object to a program that furthers such a goal. Which is why, as I mentioned at the beginning of this post, so few people oppose the new curriculum. Progressive parents and educators, and organizations such as Planned Parenthood support it, but so too do well-known conservative pundits and columnists, such as Margaret Wente and Michael Coren. (See also this thoughtful post by a Baptist pastor from Eganville, Ontario. )

I'm happy that there is wide support for this curriculum and that it will finally be implemented in September of 2015. Kids need sexual harm-prevention education. But they also need sex education. As I said in my post on the 2010 version of the curriculum,
The pornographic rival has not gone away. And progressive sex education for Ontario kids is still lacking.

Sunday, February 1, 2015

Too Much F***ing Homework, Part 2

Four days after our unsatisfactory telephone meeting with the vice-principal, we received an email from him. He had spoken to the history teachers as well as the head of the history department, and he wanted to enlighten us as to the "facts" of the multi-step project to which we had objected. Clearly he felt that our daughters had given us misinformation rather than facts. The facts, he informed us, were straightforward: the project was assigned on December 12—well before the Christmas break (although the last day of school was December 19); the kids were given three sessions in the library to work on it (two before the break and one after); and the librarian had told the students during the first library session that the notes were due the week after Christmas break (something both daughters, who are in different history classes, refute). The underlying message of the email seemed to be that our daughters were liars or slackers or both, and that any reasonable child would have been able to complete the project (over the holidays?) without undue stress.

Had he chosen to speak to any of the students in, for instance, my daughter E's class, he would have learned that the first library session was taken up with a lesson on "how to take notes," that during the second one, the computers were down (so the research session was cancelled), and during the third one, the computers were so slow that it was impossible to conduct research efficiently. Leaving aside for a moment the question of the many ways in which technology (for which the infrastructure is still mostly inadequate or unreliable) often renders school assignments more unwieldy and time-consuming than low-tech equivalents, such as, say, a persuasive essay about a topic discussed in class—leaving aside that important question for the moment, it is clear that this particular multi-step history project was not a project for which enough class or library time was allotted, nor was it designed as an in-school project, as E's teacher's admonishment that kids had better work on it over the holidays (contra the homework policy) makes clear. On paper, it may appear reasonable and doable (though even that is disputable), but the reality for the students actually carrying out the assignment is quite different; "evidence" collected solely from the teachers who designed and assigned the project cannot be expected to reflect that (student) reality.

The vice-principal's email made it clear that he was interested primarily in defending the school's practices, rather than resolving the persistent problem of teachers' collectively assigning homework that far exceeds the limits set forth in the Toronto District School Board's homework policy.

My husband and I  decided, in light of the VP's follow-up email, that tackling the problem by means of reasonable—or unreasonable, expletive-laden—discussion with the school's administration was going to prove futile. After considering possible next steps, we decided to to approach our local trustee first and the school's own Mental Health and Well-Being committee second. Stay tuned.

Sunday, January 18, 2015

There’s Too Much F***ing Homework, Part 1

It’s been a tough couple of weeks in our household. As usual, the source of the stress is school. At this time of year, when teachers are under pressure to submit grades for the second report card, stress flows abundantly and continuously from the high school into the home. The result is tears (on the kids’ part), yelling (on everybody’s part), and swearing (on a certain adult’s part). The swearing occurred during a telephone meeting involving my husband, the vice-principal of my daughters’ school, and me.

The meeting began courteously enough, with me enumerating the ways in which we thought the girls’ workload in the two weeks following Christmas break was not only unreasonable and developmentally-inappropriate, but also contrary to both the letter and the spirit of the Toronto District School Board’s homework policy. This policy, about which I've written and tweeted at length (see this post), stipulates that “homework assignments for students in Grades 9 to 12 shall be clearly articulated and carefully planned with an estimated completion time of two hours or less.” It also states that “no homework shall be assigned on scheduled holidays as outlined in the school year calendar or on days of significance.” Elsewhere, the policy emphasizes the importance of teachers’ spacing assignments in consultation with one another. (Read the entire document here.) 

As we explained to the vice-principal during our meeting, the girls both had multiple projects, tests and assignments due in the first two weeks after the Christmas break. (One daughter had to deliver a speech on the same day that two major projects were due.) Both girls were staying up until midnight every night, scrambling to complete the work, and both were anxious and miserable as a result. We asked the vice-principal how the bunching together of so many due dates was in compliance with the homework policy. We also questioned why teachers were allowed to assign projects in the few days before the holidays began that were due in the first or second week following the break. Was this not a violation of the homework policy’s position on holiday homework?

The vice-principal’s response to our questions was dispiriting. He argued that the clustering of due dates was okay if the kids had been given enough lead time for each assignment. And the homework wasn’t holiday homework if it had been assigned two weeks before the holidays. We pointed out that the most significant and time-consuming of the projects—a multi-step history project, with a separate due date for several pages of references and notes,* as well as a multi-media component—was assigned just six school days before the break, at a time when students were scrambling to complete all the pre-Christmas break projects. The vice-principal countered that all of the requirements of the history project were outlined in the assignment handout and in the rubric, as if the very fact that it was written down negated the possibility of its being too much work for the time allotted to it. We pointed out that kids are not expected to work on school work over the holidays, yet our daughter’s history teacher explicitly warned the students that if they wanted to do well, they would have to work on their projects over the holidays. We noted that if our daughters restricted their homework time to two hours per night and did not work over the holidays—in other words, if they followed the board’s homework policy—they would not be able to complete their projects. In general, we said, if they were to follow the homework policy, they would most likely receive grades in the 50-60% range in all of their subjects. 

None of what we were saying seemed to register with the vice-principal. He kept repeating that the students were given ample time for the projects and that all the requirements were laid out in the rubrics, and when my husband said that the rubrics were irrelevant and that our daughters had not in fact been given ample time to complete the projects unless the holidays were counted as work time, the VP asked, “have they been ill?” At that point my husband snapped. “No! There’s too much fucking homework!” He slammed the phone down.

I immediately apologized for my husband’s outburst. I did say, however, that I thought what he (the vice-principal) had just heard was a parent’s frustration over the school’s unwillingness to entertain the possibility that there could ever be too much homework, or that homework stress might not be simply an individual student's problem—that it might be, rather, a systemic problem stemming from a persistently unreasonable workload. I wanted to get off the phone myself at this point (I actually wouldn’t have minded slamming it down, as well), so I ended by asking what our recourse was, if we felt that teachers were not adhering to the homework policy. We could talk to the teacher, he said (a course of action that he knew had already proved fruitless), or to him.

*We enquired as to the pedagogical value of having kids hand in notes, since (as Chris Liebig noted in a tweet) the only valid criterion by which notes can be judged is the quality of the product they help produce. The vice-principal first said students were to hand in the notes so as to receive “feedback” on their research. Why were the notes being marked, then, we asked, if the purpose was merely feedback. The vice-principal told us that he thought the notes weren’t being marked, but later confirmed in an email what we already knew, that the notes were indeed being marked, and that they would not be handed back before the bulk of the project was due. So much for feedback. The lengthy and detailed notes being due several days before the rest of the assignment meant that this particular project was, in fact, two projects disguised as one. 

Friday, October 24, 2014

The Debate about Digital Literacy: Moral Panics, Contradictions and Assumptions

The following is an edited version of comments I made as a participant on a "Digital Literacy" panel at the recent "Understanding Media Now" conference, hosted by the Association for Media Literacy.

We’ve been encouraged to be provocative here, so to that end, I’ll tackle the question [posed by the moderator] of the “anxieties and opportunities presented by digital literacies” by first considering the often heated rhetoric surrounding this subject. In my reading for this panel, I came across many urgent exhortations: to heed the call of the “digital revolution” in education; to accede to the “imperatives” of “knowledge-age learning technologies”; to attune ourselves to educational “combustions that are as inevitable as they are mysterious;” to prepare a “creative class” able to meet the challenges of the “Knowledge Economy” brought about by the “Knowledge Revolution.”*

I also came across the phrase “moral panic.” I learned that it is a term used in sociology and cultural studies to describe a public response to perceived risk, especially risk stemming from a change in values or practices from one generation to the next. For instance, in the 50s and 60s, there was a moral panic surrounding youth culture and rock and roll, and another one surrounding television; there was a lot of public handwringing about what these new phenomena were going to do to youth and by extension to the wider culture. I think it’s safe to say that in the case of technology in particular, nearly every significant advance or invention has precipitated a moral panic. It stands to reason, then, that digital technology, which has become such a salient part of our lives, and our kids’ lives, would elicit a similar response. 

I'm not suggesting that all discourse about digital literacy is a form of “moral panic.” Certainly the conversations occurring at conferences such as this one, especially the many expressions of enthusiastic optimism regarding the educational possibilities of digital technology, are difficult to square with any notion of panic. But it occurred to me while listening to these conversations that enthusiasm and panic may be two sides of the same coin—mirror responses to uncertainty in the face of change. I do believe that the sense of urgency pervading the debate about digital literacy comes from a kind of fear: a fear that we, as teachers, parents and citizens, will be unable to get on top of the game-changing new digital technologies before they get on top of us and our kids. So maybe the concept of “moral panic” is useful, even if it is not entirely apt, in that it allows us to see the debates over media and digital literacy in the context of a history of public worrying about technology—including educational technology. (Remember all those TVs perched on metal stands in classrooms of the seventies?) As such, the notion of moral panic may be able to give us some perspective and breathing room to think through what if anything needs to be done. 

What is to be done? It seems to me that the urgency surrounding this question is compounded by a tension at the heart of the debate, a tension having to do with the term “digital natives.” This metaphor has been rightly criticized for lacking explanatory power and for glossing over the diversity of children’s experience. But it is nonetheless a concept that continues to inform the debate about digital literacy and to contribute to its urgency. Article after article, position paper after position paper, tells us that our kids have been born into this new digital world, face-booking, snap-chatting and texting away from toddlerhood, yet we adults don’t understand it, our schools don’t reflect it, and the kids are floundering as a result. But the contradiction is that if the current generation of school-aged kids are digital natives, why would we need to teach them to be digitally literate? What could we teach them? Did we have to teach kids of my generation how to watch TV or talk on the phone? Or how to make televisions or phones? 

Hovering at the edge of these questions are two mostly unexamined premises propping up the argument in favour of integrating technology into the curriculum. One is the premise that if something is ubiquitous in our kids’ social environment, it must be brought into the classroom, either as a subject area or as a teaching tool. Why? Because it is ubiquitous in kids’ social environment. But if we were to follow that (circular) line of reasoning to its logical conclusion, we could end up with an argument in favour of, for instance, incorporating junk food into the curriculum—teaching kids to understand it and make it, perhaps in partnership with companies such as McDonalds. I’m not trying to imply that technology is comparable in its effects or potential educational value to junk food; the point is, rather, that the argument from ubiquity is not logically sound and should perhaps not be used to drive curricular or pedagogical change. Ideally, curricular decisions should be driven by what we’ve decided we want education to be: Do we want it to reflect prevailing socio-economic and cultural trends, or to offer some form of resistance?

A second, related premise of the argument in favour of teaching digital literacy can be summed up by the phrase, “resistance is futile.” Digital technological change is "the new normal,"† the thinking goes, so we’d better get used to it, in our lives and in our classrooms. This argument from inevitability is as question begging as the argument from ubiquity: technology, outside and inside the classroom, is inevitable because it’s, well, already upon us—in other words, inevitable. But this argument is even more pernicious in my opinion, since it sidesteps the inconvenient question of the democratic control of education, ceding rhetorical victory to the discourses and arguments emanating from the very industries that stand to benefit the most from our unthinking acceptance of them. 

The presupposition of inevitability prevents us from engaging in simple thought experiments, such as, what if we decided tomorrow that in Ontario we wanted all our K-12 schools to adopt a technology-free Waldorf approach (as at least one school in the Toronto District School Board has done), or a low-tech, Finnish-style approach? What if we decided that education is not synonymous with anxiously attempting to render our country more economically competitive? I’m not arguing in favour of (or against) any of these positions, but the very fact that they seem so absurd and far-fetched shows that the rhetoric used in discussions about these questions is more obfuscatory than clarifying, and can have the effect of forestalling true debate. 

Which leads me to the question raised earlier about anxieties and opportunities surrounding digital technology and literacy. My own anxiety as a parent has to do with what the anxious rhetoric surrounding digital literacy can lead us to do. And by us, I mean parents and schools and governments. One thing that it has led us to do is to spend a lot of money on technology for schools, even though the research to date has failed to show a significant impact (good or bad) on learning. I’m not opposed to technology in schools, but when the provincial government announces that it will be spending 150 million dollars to put iPads in classrooms, while it’s making cuts elsewhere in education, it gives me pause. And when anxiety about digital literacy leads schools to embrace partnerships with companies like Google, which have terrible track records in terms of protecting users’ privacy—that also gives me pause. Which brings me to my final anxiety (well, I have many anxieties, but my final one for today): that the urgent focus on digital literacy—on embedding it throughout the curriculum—risks eliding the conceptual and practical distinction between education and training. As parents, I know we’re supposed to be acutely anxious that our kids may graduate from high school without possessing the so-called 21st century skills they’ll need to function in the global economy. But for one thing, digital technology is always changing, so we can’t predict what specific skills kids will need. And for another, I want my kids to be educated, not trained. I guess I'm old-fashioned enough or hopeful enough to think there can still be a difference. 

* Quotes from Allan Collins and Richard Halverson, Rethinking Education in the Age of Technology (New York: Teacher's College Press, 2009) and Michael Fullan, "There is Something Different about 2014," 

†See the People For Education report, Digital Learning in Ontario Schools: The ‘new normal’.

Wednesday, October 22, 2014

Digital Helicoptering

I recently participated in a panel on digital literacy, as part of the “Understanding Media Now” conference, hosted by the Association for Media Literacy. As part of my reading for this event, I came across the following description of what parent engagement might look like in the era of digital education:
[Child's mother] is able to find a moment almost every day to check in on class websites of both her children. Here she can see the homework that was assigned. She can click on her son’s name (Tommy) or her daughter’s name (Emily) and access a special parent portal where she inputs her unique password. It gives her a timeline for outstanding homework and future homework. She can also log in to classroom instruction to understand exactly what has been taught so that she can better support her children’s learning from home. She can access a log of marks to date and see for herself how each of her children is doing. The assessment plan is available so she knows each of the assessments completed and/or planned and also their relative importance. This helps her to focus her kids toward aligning their time commitments appropriately. She can also access their class schedules online with test dates included which helps her to make sure that she steers clear of important school dates when booking orthodontic appointments for the kids. There is even a place for two- way communication with the teacher so that if an issue comes up the teacher can let her know and vice versa. She can also access Tommy’s IEP online and make notes to herself about possible input she would like to provide at the next teacher conference.*
To which my response is WHAT?! So plain old analogue helicoptering is a very bad thing that will come between a kid and her grit, but digital helicoptering—courtesy of “Big Mamma” in this scenario—is A-ok? With advocates for digital technology like this, who needs detractors?

*“What if: Technology in the 21st Century Classroom,” Ontario's Public School Board's Association, p. 21.

Monday, August 4, 2014

"How to prepare your kids for the social pressure cooker of camp" (or why I don't send my kids to camp)

I first came across the article, "How to prepare your kids for the social pressure cooker of camp," in the June issue of the North Toronto Post. I tried to comment but wasn't able to do so without a Facebook account. (The article irritated me, but not enough to induce me to join Facebook.) After a bit of online sleuthing, I found the same article on a certain overnight camp's website: it so happens that the article's author, who is a renowned restaurant critic in Toronto, is also the director of the "certain camp" in question. The article was cross-posted by the director herself to the camp's blog, and comments were—ostensibly—welcome. So I left a comment. A mildly critical comment. And then one day, out of curiosity, I revisited the camp website, only to find that the comment had been removed. I suppose its removal is not all that surprising. After all, parents who have thrown their kids into the camp's "social pressure cooker," in some cases for weeks on end, would be the people most likely to read the comment. But would it be a terrible thing to open up a true dialogue about the way kids' camps are structured and run? Would it be a terrible thing to question why we assume that "social pressure cooker" boot camps are good for kids?

This is the comment I left:
So why not schedule in some downtime? Why would I want to send my eight-year-old into a "hyper-stimulating,​" "high octane social pressure cooker"? What sane parent would? This description strikes me as encapsulating everything that is wrong with camp these days. Where is the camp for kids who want to enjoy nature, make friends, and have fun, but aren't interested in being "hyper-stimulated"?

(See also Camp Keep-Me-Busy)

Saturday, July 12, 2014