A curriculum for tomorrow’s adults

Dr Chris Kilham University of Canberra Canberra, ACT, Australia

Introduction

Recently I asked a group of primary school-aged children a series of questions:

• ‘Why do you go to school?
• ‘What does your teacher teach you?’
• ‘What do you do at school?’

These children were relatively young, and they were also much more focused on our ongoing activity. We were making afternoon tea, and our conversation was therefore punctuated by debates as to how high we could flip the pikelets and the relative merits of strawberry or raspberry jam. Yet, in spite of these weighty distractions, the conversation was direct, informative and wide-ranging. Stripped to a bare minimum, a number of their answers will be used as a springboard for further discussion in this paper.

For example, the ‘why’ of school attendances was variously summed up as ‘because, my mum, she makes us’, ‘to learn how to be a grown up’ and ‘to get a good job’. The teacher’s job, on the other hand, was thought to be: ‘reading and stuff’, ‘work’ and ‘some cool things but sometimes it’s boring’.

As for what they actually did at school, the interactions with peers took high priority, not just as a means but as an end in itself: ‘Tim and I, we play near the bubblers’, ‘I hang out with my friends’ and ‘My friends and I do things together’.

These answers might seem to be deceptively simple, but they show that, even at a young age, children have definite views on the ‘why’, ‘what’ and ‘how’ of their school experience. If we temporarily defer a formal definition and equate ‘curriculum’ to ‘school’ in the above conversation, then these children are in fact commenting on the curriculum in terms of rationale, content and methods. The children recognised, firstly, that school was considered important in their culture (they had to go) as it taught them how to behave in culturally sanctioned (‘grown up’) ways, including gainful employment. What was particularly intriguing were their perceptions surrounding what they were taught, versus what they did, at school. The teacher’s role and the curriculum associated with this seemed to centre on instrumental aspects, such as reading, work, and learning that had to be accomplished even if it was ‘sometimes boring’. The real business of school, however, was reflected in children’s descriptions of what they actually did at school, as opposed to what they were taught, – ‘I hang out with my friends’.

Taken together, the answers of these children suggest that school was experienced in terms of two complementary components of social and academic learning, which functioned to prepare them for an active role in society. This conception of curriculum will be expanded in this paper, followed by an examination of whether the curriculum is used in a sufficiently flexible and individualised way to foster positive community engagement by all students.

What do we mean by ‘curriculum’?

The term ‘curriculum’ is fundamental in education, though it has been interpreted differently over the years. Bobbit, writing in 1918, conceptualised it as an idealised process by which children became perfect adults and were successful in society. Subsequent definitions have restricted the term to educational experiences, rather than Bobbit’s all-encompassing life experiences.

Illustrating this point, Browder (2001) writes of ‘a defined course of study’. English (2004) prefers ‘a plan that guides the work of the classroom’ and Colwill and Peacey (2001) refer to ‘an entitlement of learning in terms of knowledge, understanding, skills and experience for all pupils’ (p. 121).

Another shift is that attention is increasingly focused upon the outputs of the curriculum, rather than the educational inputs and time allocation (Curriculum Council, 2002). Posner and Rudnitsky (1997) state this position forcefully and maintain that: ‘Curriculum is not a process … It does not refer to what is to be done in school or what is to happen in the learning process. Curriculum represents a set of intentions, a set of intended learning outcomes’.

Of these outcomes, there is general agreement that personal independence and social responsibility are particularly valued. This is evident in the ACT Department of Education paper, Every chance to learn, which states explicitly that: ‘The purpose of curriculum is to develop each student as a learner, as a person, as a community member and as a contributor to society’ (ACTDET, 2005). If we take this as a definition of a fully functioning adult, the rationale for schooling given by the children in the introduction to this paper – ‘To learn how to be a grown up’ – was not too far off the mark.

There are inevitable tensions as to how the curriculum can fulfil its intended purpose and outcomes. Meeting the particular needs of each child is important, and individualisation of teaching content and methods is one way to achieve this. However, in a climate of inclusion, there is a strong push to place students in a mainstream setting wherever possible. Is it always appropriate to do so? To address this issue, elements of the individualised learning model and the inclusive education model will each be discussed in turn.

Individualised learning versus inclusive education

Some of the earliest approaches to individualising learning relied on a developmental framework (Fleer, 2005). That is, the typical sequence of learning was taken as the curriculum: students who performed at the level of younger children would be taught the skills typical of that age group. Apart from problem of non-age-appropriate skills, it soon became apparent that some skills typically mastered at certain ages were not foundations for later development. Just because children usually learn to tie their shoelaces in kindergarten does not mean that an adolescent functioning at a five-year-old level has to master this same skill. However wearing shoes with velcro fasteners, instead of laces, overcomes this difficulty. That is, different methods can achieve the same outcome. This functional approach is now more influential than a developmental perspective.

More recently, the focus on the individual needs of children has given way to an increased interest in inclusion. According to Dymond and Orelove (2001), research papers on functional skills decreased by about 50% between 1995 and 2000, whereas articles on inclusion show the opposite trend.

This parallels an increased interest in the concept of Universal Design. This was originally borrowed from architecture in the 1970s, when it was noted that certain features (for example, ramps) that were designed to assist people with disabilities actually benefited the wider community (for example, mothers with prams) (Center for Universal Design, 1997). It was not long before educators noticed a parallel effect when accommodations for people with disabilities – such as providing visual supports to reinforce learning - improved the performance of many other students aside from those with identified learning needs (Zeff, 2006).

It is important to avoid making the mistake of prioritising the inclusive education model over the individual needs of children. In the first place, Universal Design is a valuable concept that has been used to advantage in many classrooms, but it is not the silver bullet for successful inclusion. It is easy to see why. The needs of some children are diametrically opposed to each other. One child may learn best through exposure to lots of noise and stimulation; for another, quietness may be the key. Although teachers can use verbal and visual supports simultaneously, it is not possible to be noisy and quiet at the same time.

A second concern about inclusive education is that there appears to be a trend that students with disabilities have more academic work in mainstream settings, whereas they are exposed to a more even balance between academic and non-academic activities in resource rooms (Dymond & Orelove 2001). Might the needs of the many be dictating the curricular for the few?

The remainder of this paper is concerned with the question of whether we should, like the youngsters in the opening scenario, expect more emphasis on the non-academic curricula. In particular, the focus is on social skills.

The academic emphasis in most mainstream curricula (above) is readily understandable. In the first place, incorporating material, such as social skills, into an already overcrowded academic curriculum would seem to be unnecessary, since most children seem to learn the skills of social engagement fairly effortlessly. Most children know how much eye contact to give, how to take turns in a conversation, and whether someone else is interested in what they are saying (Senju, Tojo, Dairoku, & Hasegawa, 2004). Another argument against over-emphasising social learning in the curriculum stems from the more contrived nature of interactions when they are teacher-directed. It has long been recognised that the best learning takes place in real life contexts (Hung & Tan 2004). Negotiating who takes turns in the playground, and receiving feedback from peers, are examples of these authentic contexts and they have effective natural learning consequences arising out of the activity itself. Similarly, it is also fortunate that most youngsters seem able to apply their playground learning to other social contexts. This saves the teacher having to teach ‘what comes naturally’.

The picture painted so far is about typically developing children. However, if we wish to have an inclusive school curriculum, we need to recognise that some children are particularly challenged by interpersonal situations. The danger of relegating social skills to the rough and tumble of the playground, instead of incorporating them more explicitly in the curriculum, is that social skills might be forgotten when teachers try to accommodate children with additional needs. There is a rising incidence of children with developmental disorders, particularly autism, who find it difficult to navigate the social world, despite having other strengths, such as visual processing and attention to detail.

The estimated prevalence of autism has risen dramatically in recent years (Gillberg & Wing, 1999). The trend continues in Australia, with a recent study concluding that 1 in 150 children aged between 6 and 12 years had a diagnosis of autism or Aspergers Disorder. (MacDermott, Williams, Ridley, Glasson, & Wray, 2006). The learning profile of this group is almost diametrically opposed to that of most children. Consequently, they are not well served by the common practice of being included in mainstream classrooms for ‘easy’ subjects that are conventionally thought to involve high social content but fewer academic demands (such as physical education, music and art). Nor do these students necessarily require individualised instruction in subjects that are traditionally considered ‘harder’, such as maths and science. These practices continue to be applied to this group, however, arguably because there is an assumption behind the current curriculum that all children grasp social understandings more readily than academic ones.

To develop the argument, an extended scenario is presented below. It is a composite of children encountered by the author and represents an extreme case - but it is often the radical departures that form the best tests of current practice.

If you visit your local preschool on any typical day, you will probably see some 20 or so youngsters engaged in a hive of activities. As you look around, you may be struck by all the skills that these children seem to have automatically acquired, without instruction. They are making friends, conversing, playing, and taking turns; they can understand body language, facial expression, tone of voice and personal space; and they can make a pretty good guess at what another person may be thinking. Also developing is pre-academic proficiency, an umbrella term denoting the skills required before instruction can usefully occur. These include an understanding of conventions, such as pointing and eye gaze, learning to wait (for short periods, at least), being able to jointly attend with the teacher on an item of interest, and knowing when they need help and being able to ask for it.

The staff explain that they can cater for individual needs because the children can already transition flexibly between tasks and respond to verbal instructions. Unless pressed, the teachers probably won’t mention that they rely on the child’s naturally acquired skills mentioned above, because all children acquire those skills effortlessly, don’t they?

Enter the child with autism. We shall call him Sam. You are struck by his good looks, but there is a remoteness about him that sets him apart from his peers. While they are happily engaged, Sam stands at the door with his hands covering his ears. His discomfort escalates and he begins to scream, then without looking directly at anyone he grabs a child’s skipping rope and heads for the door. He begins walking around the perimeter of the yard, twirling the string and crying. Neither the peer who is now minus her rope nor any other child will approach Sam.

The staff, who earlier seemed so confident, now seem uncomfortable and start trying to reduce the stimulation and quieten the other children. They send one teacher outside to supervise Sam and close the doors so he won’t be distressed by their voices and his peers won’t be upset by Sam’s crying. In this inclusive preschool, it seems that the only way the staff can manage Sam is by excluding him.

Startled, you seek guidance from Sam’s mother, who has remained to settle her son. She explains he has a wonderful memory. He has all-consuming passions and can recall every make and engine number of every Holden car ever produced. However he can’t dress himself and must put his hands over his ears because he is extremely sensitive to noise. He is overly susceptible to other sensations, too. He reacts to one particular teacher’s perfume by vomiting when she comes near, and he is wearing the same clothes he has worn on every previous occasion because he cannot tolerate the feel of new material on his skin. He is affectionate, but doesn’t like a cuddle and will stiffen when touched. Although he can read, he has difficulties with language and often seems not to understand what people are saying to him and simply repeats their words verbatim (called echolalia). He takes everything extremely literally and is therefore distressed by seemingly innocuous instructions such as ‘all eyes on me’ and songs like ‘I’m a little teapot’. He can’t comprehend body language or facial expression. Sam hates change, craves structure, and engages in repetitive and seemingly purposeless actions. (You glance outside and Sam is still twirling the string.) He avoids eye contact and does not know how to pretend or play with others. In fact, he has none of those skills we take for granted. He can’t take turns; constantly invades others personal space; and is unresponsive to body language and conversational pragmatics, such as tone of voice. He lacks a so-called ‘Theory of Mind’ (Baron-Cohen, Leslie, & Frith, 1985), being oblivious to the thoughts of others. He has problems with executive function, or the ability to plan, organise and monitor his performance (Ozonoff & Jensen, 1999). Sam also lacks pre-academic proficiency, and can’t wait or jointly attend. Requesting, pointing and eye gaze remain a mystery for him. Therefore, preschool is a confusing, anxiety provoking place for him, says Sam’s mother, and his behaviour needs to be interpreted as a response to this.

Sam, in fact, seems most comfortable in a setting with limited stimulation, minimal choices, few children, no changes, no verbal banter, and prior notice of cuddles. Instead, Sam and others like him, thrive best with maximum structure, visual rather than verbal supports, consistent routines, and measured, limited and concrete speech.

Thus, whilst inclusion in mainstream settings may be the best option for most children (Foreman 2005), it is clearly not the best option for all. The scenario deliberately focused on a child with autism to highlight this point, as there is general agreement that, of all the disability groups, children with autism are among the hardest to include (see Mesibov & Shea 1996 for a review).

There is plenty of research to suggest how a social curriculum for Sam might be individualised. In a review of the area, Olley (2005) suggests the use of social stories (Gray, 1998); play in natural settings (DiSalvo & Oswald, 2002); modeling (see Taylor, 2001); scripts, and technology (Charlop-Christy & Daneshvar, 2003; Mitchell, Parsons, & Leonard, 2006). If teachers learn these evidence-based approaches, they may avert the harassment, loneliness and depression experienced by many teenagers and adults with autism (Blanchard, Gurka &Blackman, 2006).
 
Another good reason to teach social skills rests in their link to employment, which acts as an avenue for active engagement in the wider community. Research supports the view that holding, and keeping, a job requires both academic on-the-job knowledge, as well as social competence (Varekamp, Verbeek & Dijk, 2006).

One factor in job retention is knowledge of the ‘etiquette’ of work. Bosses and employees alike are uncomfortable when fellow staff fail to recognise that there are sensitive ways to give and receive criticism, that use of the photocopier may have a pecking order, and that people are expected to chat over morning tea. Consequently, and despite having excellent skills and the potential to make a real contribution in their chosen career, these persons may find themselves out of a job. There is not necessarily a quick-fix solution: even with a support worker, a common complaint is the employee required further guidance about the social culture in their workplace (Tsang, 2003).

The question arises as to whether intervening at the school level, through modifying the curriculum, would assist more people to make a productive contribution to society, at least in the employment sphere. We know that people tend to change careers and jobs more often today than in the past. We also know, as Jarvis and Keeley (2003) remind us, that ‘Responsibility only for one's job has been replaced by pressure to be a good team player able to help the team continuously learn and improve’. Might this not suggest a case for more generic skills to be explicitly taught in school – such as philosophy and social skills? This would constitute a shift in current practice, but from an educational and philosophical viewpoint, it might be time to do so.

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