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Academic ideology and the new attention to teaching.

I AM USING THE TERM "academic ideology" in a sense similar to Jay Lemke's.(1) He discusses classroom decorum and the balance between the "rule" that students are not to speak to one another during class and the fact that a certain amount of interstudent conversation is permitted during any class meeting except examinations. Lemke sees the "code of student silence" as belonging to that category found in many social situations where the rules are largely pro forma, yet nevertheless honored as the rules. "I propose that they [only-sometimesenforced rules] operate as part of an ideology; that is, as a system of beliefs that systematically hides its own true social functions. If the rules were strictly enforced, the ideology would be exposed as such because we would have to question the basis of a rule whose enforcement made our lives impossible. But by permitting a rule to be broken as often as necessary to avoid this, this maintenance continues to serve its hidden function" (LS 236). In this essay, and in his subsequent book Talking Science,(2) Lemke explores how the teaching of science is governed by the ideology of individualism, which, in class, stays back, so to speak, and emerges in a few selected places, one of which is testing. Lemke describes how the restrictions on talk create a "picture of classroom learning that distorts its social nature to make it seem as if each student is solely responsible for what he or she learns or fails to learn in class" (LS 236). He argues that this classroom ideology is a fundamental part of the social "system of awarding grades, opportunities, jobs, and radically different standards of living." In turn, "At the base of this system, of course, behind the grades and before the opportunities, most often stand test results. According to this interpretation, it is no accident that the only classroom activity type in which the rule against talk between students is strictly enforced is test taking, that moment when the social process of the classroom is temporarily replaced by an artificial set of separate, isolated individuals" (LS 236). Tests in science courses represent an ideological node that exercises the influence of the "technocratic elite" (TS 139) in the teaching philosophy of most American schools. When in any classroom, this ideology constrains the learning styles of future generations in ways similar to how the footbinding of female infants subsequently constrains a class of adult women.

A good picture of the corresponding situation in the academy with regard to teaching is Jane Tompkins's recent "postcard" to her students:

Dear Students,

When I pay attention to the subject matter in class, instead of you, I get excited, think of an idea that just has to be said, blurt it out, and more often than not, kill something. As in the Dickinson poem ("My life had stood / A loaded gun / In corners"), when I speak the report is so loud it deafens. No one can hear anything but what I've said. Discussion dies. It seems it's either you or me, my authority or your power to speak. What do I do that shuts people up? Or is this a false dilemma. [sic: there is no question mark] Help!(3)

Although asking her students for help, Tompkins, by virtue of her having published this "postcard" in an academic journal, is also concerned about the generic situation in which the teacher's voice overwhelms the interpersonal aspects of a class. Most of us welcome the change in language register that lets established members of the academy ask for help in their teaching, though few of us would agree that Tompkins is on the edge, margin, periphery, or boundary. The question is: what does it mean when those in the center ask for help from their students?

To me it is a sign that there is an unacknowledged ideology at work (in the partial sense that Lemke describes), in the teaching of Tompkins and people like her, who are, unconsciously, inhibited by this ideology, and that, perhaps more immediately, she is so much a part of it that public announcements of frustration must precede efforts toward change. Tompkins is struggling to find the language to get out from under the received academic ideology in which most of us participate to one degree or another. She began her (literary) academic discussion of teaching in her short piece "Me and My Shadow," which came out in New Literary History in 1987.(4) Since then there has been discussion of her announcements, most welcoming, but some welcoming with the question of what took so long for her to understand this problem. Tompkins might have felt less surprised at her frustration had she remembered the struggle of Louise Rosenblatt, following Dewey and other educational reformers, who tried to change academic ideology in the thirties. That same academic ideology led some, perhaps most, scholars to patronize their teaching responsibilities, and led to the crisis of undergraduate teaching described in Ernest L. Boyer's recent Scholarship Reconsidered.(5)

Although Tompkins feels discomfort with the "authority" of her opinion, the institutional contact points of that authority emerge through her ability to make her judgments stay on the record permanently through grades and tests. The values and social forces associated with this practice govern the wider traditional academic reduction of teaching, often heard in the casual observation that academics don't need to be taught to teach: testing and grading have been doing what teaching should be doing. Part of Tompkins's struggle is that she cannot just come out and ask why she was not taught to teach. However, one can sympathize with her struggle, in part, because the history of testing of all kinds is so long, as will be outlined shortly.

This essay will first consider testing and grading in school and some of the institutions sustaining their ideology. After reviewing part of the history of ceremonial assessment (testing, grading, measuring, ranking), I will suggest the relation of testing to how technocratic, military, corporate, and, ultimately, androcentric ideologies are affecting academic teaching. Finally, I will reflect on the prospects of faculty development and technology in the service of teaching that will recognize the roles and benefits of exchanging work, response, criticism, and value judgments, practices which could move us toward an academic style more responsive to what society now urgently needs. I refer to this style as a pedagogy and scholarship of disclosure.(6)

F. Allan Hanson traces mass testing back about 3,000 years to the Chou dynasty in imperial China, where it was a means for "identifying the talented among the common people."(7) If his reading is correct, the purpose of testing is unchanged between yesterday's and today's "imperial" societies, especially because the structures of political rulership, even in "democratic" societies, are not that different today. Hanson's discussion of subsequent dynasties shows a similar situation: "the class holding power, wealth, and prestige was composed mainly of administrators and bureaucrats in the emperor's civil service. Membership in this class depended more on passing the civil service examination than on parentage . . . for nearly a thousand years, beneath the overall control of an emperor, China was governed by a meritocratic elite" (TT 187). Whether or not the ruling class was "truly" meritocratic, it held power, wealth, and prestige. One purpose of the test must have been to control the distribution of power and wealth. So the Chinese tests-functioned in ways consistent with what Hanson wants to show about today's tests, namely, that "they are mechanisms for defining or producing the concept of the person in contemporary society and that they maintain the person under surveillance and domination" (TT 3). As he explains from his Foucauldian perspective, his inquiry was undertaken in part to document the overwhelming level of surveillance, and consequent implicit domination, taking place, in general, in Western (industrialized) societies. Hanson's study is wide-ranging, including vocational, drug, authenticity, chastity, loyalty, and other kinds of tests in his investigation. Yet, a large part of his discussion pays attention to schools, and, by implication, to the habituation of all young people to the permanent status of testing in their lives.

Tests are found everywhere in the process of education. They punctuate progress through the grades, with quizzes, hourly tests, midterms, and final examinations serving as the staple measure for certifying that courses have been successfully completed (or not) and at what level. Recent legislation requiring that all students be given education appropriate to their ability has ignited an explosion of testing to identify those students who require special education, of either a remedial or enriched variety. Then there are the standardized tests that measure students' psychological profiles, interests, and intelligence levels. These are given in enormous quantities: from 100 million to 200 million . . . in the American school system each year, an average of from two and a half to five standardized tests per pupil per year. These tests are used to evaluate the schools as well as the students.... [There is] gathering momentum for states to require further standardized tests to determine if students have attained the minimum competency necessary to be promoted at certain grade levels and to receive a high school diploma. The system of higher education pours out its own alphabet soup of further standardized tests: PSAT, SAT, and ACT for college admissions and scholarship competitions; GRE, LSAT, MCAT, GMAT, and numerous others for admissions to graduate or professional schools. (TT 10)

Testing and grading are normalized to such a degree that only a small minority of students, teachers, and administrators can conceive of any alternative to this system. The practices are the legal tender of school, and removing them seems to many as drastic as converting a money economy to a barter economy: everything would change. The fact that alternatives are not understood as viable is one way of saying that testing and =grading are manifestations of the ideology of schooling.

One of the interesting features of Hanson's study is that the comparison of today's testing with previous testing in nontechnological societies shows that the purposes of testing may be independent of technology, and that, therefore, one must stipulate forces deeper than science and technology that overtake them for political purposes. These forces are related to how the testing epidemic grew out of intelligence testing that began earlier in this century. Hanson observes that "Test givers are nearly always organizations while test takers are individuals. Organizations are richer and stronger than individuals, so a power differential is established at the start. The asymmetrical relation of power is further evident from the total control that the test giving agency exercises over the situation" (TT 304).

There is one human institution in which "total control" of the organization over the individual remains a "legal" and, to many, necessary feature of-that institution: the military. It is therefore no coincidence that intelligence testing got its start in this society when the army found a way to distinguish officers from everyone else: the intelligence test. According to Hanson's (and Stephen Jay Gould's(8)) account, the idea of possibly measuring intelligence began in the nineteenth century, under the influence of Darwinian considerations--the struggle for existence, survival of the fittest. But it did not get its real boost into mass usage until the army, with its need for leaders who would win the war, agreed to the mass testing of the Stanford-Binet intelligence test in 1917--the Army Alpha test. One ridiculous result coming out of this test-of-the-test was that the "average mental age of white Americans turned out to be 13 (barely above the level of morons)" and the average mental age of blacks was about ten and a half. But in spite of such results, Hanson continues, intelligence tasting became the standard practice: "With the development of written, standardized intelligence tests that could be easily administered to unlimited numbers of subjects, the dream of Terman [the psychologist who established and named the Stanford-Binet test] and other American psychometricians was on its -way to .-ealization. Now it would be possible to determine everybody's intelligence and to use that information to channel people in directions where they presumably would both find personal satisfaction and make optimal contributions to society commensurate with their abilities" (TT 212). As we can see in retrospect, the relation of the announced salutary expectation to the actual effects of such testing was that the "dream" was mendacious, concealing the role of intelligence testing in establishing an elite and perpetuating racism and other forms of domination. The ridiculous results cited above were ignored because of the more desirable prospect of having a legitimate technique in the hands of testing organizations that could and did control the lives of large numbers of people. This technique survives today not only in continued intelligence testing, but in other forms of nonmedical mass testing we routinely accept. Gould's discrediting of the single-factor concept of intelligence, as well as the work of others who have proposed multiplefactor concepts, have had no effect on such testing thus far.

One reason for this lack of effect is that testing, and especially intelligence testing, is largely sustained by the continuous ideological regeneration provided by the military, which had been supported until recently by the cold war. Douglas D. Noble documents how educational practices have been regularly and continuously derived from the practices of military training. He claims that "the influence of military research has been arguably the most historically significant and the least acknowledged influence, both on computer-based education specifically and on the alignment of education with technology more generally."(9) Like Hanson's, Noble's study is heavily documented and wide ranging, his having disclosed broad-based connections between military ideals, research, geo-political aims, styles of thought, and means of control and the institutions, styles, and practices of education. Just as intelligence testing originally emerged when it became a "tool," an "instrument" that can be administered on a large scale, the follow-up was, since that time until the present, other forms of technology first developed by and for the military and well-funded by the government, and then making its way into society through the schools. As a result, people educated in those schools have the mentalities that are today unable to face how this society is changing.

The military link to education through technology is quite direct in the case of the development of education technologies. Although it is not widely understood, military research in "human engineering" has been the prime incubator, catalyst, and sponsor of educational technology throughout this century-from the classification and selections tests of World War I, to the programmed instruction and teaching machines of the 1960's, to the most sophisticated, computer-based "intelligent" tutoring systems of today. According to a recent report of Congress's Office of Technology Assessment (1988), military agencies have provided three-fourths of all funding for education technology research over the last three decades, and within government agencies, the military spends seven dollars for every civilian dollar spent on educational technology research. (CA 2)

As I suggested earlier, the technology itself is not the problem: it is the ability of the military to become accepted as the model of how teaching and learning should take place that has been retarding any genuine steps to recognize that schools are institutions which must be run in ways almost exactly opposite to how the military is run. Noble's summary of the meaning of his title helps to make this point. "So the classroom arsenal is many things: a stockpile of technological paraphernalia; an assemblage of people and machines idealized as a smoothly-running technological system; a production site for the manufacture of human beings as species of information processing technology; a laboratory for research on human performance; and a locus of legitimation and funding for psychological research" (GA 8). When Jane Tompkins wonders why her students immediately cease their discussion when she speaks, one reason is that students, in both immediate and distant ways, feel the ideological forces represented by Noble's identification of the military and classroom sites: they feel that the commander--regardless of their denial of this thought--has spoken and that her words are in fact some sort of directive, some instruction that must be carried out. This does not happen all the time or in every classroom, but it happens enough, to enough teachers of every gender, race, and class for us to understand it to be an effect of the ideology described by Hanson and Noble, an ideology that functions as Lemke described--only sometimes.

When I first entered college, I still remembered World War II and the heroism of the military, and I was grateful for it. When I graduated, President Eisenhower, the hero himself, warned against the danger of the "military-industrial complex." In this century, military interests have grown continuously. I do not recall a political party that could win an election challenging the allocation of funds for the military. With few exceptions, the public has supported the need for defense. Because the existence, shape, and size of military expenditures are unquestioned, the efforts supported by these funds serve a military ideology. In college and graduate school, I thought of the benefits accruing from the military--radar, for example, which was developed at my college, M.I.T.--as the silver lining of the wars and the cold war. But in view of Noble's formulations and the problems about teaching raised by Tompkins and many before her, we should be thinking of this technology differently.

Pursuant to its ideology, the military has a thought style,(10) and its technology, educational and military, was made to conform to this style. The element of this style germane to this discussion is what Noble calls "the military need for complete control of the training process, which is viewed as a `personnel subsystem' ancillary to the design, development and implementation of complex weapons systems" (CA 5). Standardized tests in ancient China came from the desire to maintain a governing elite, and our own testing mores came from the need to discriminate among soldiers. Training technology--computers and so on--came from the need to prepare soldiers to operate complex aircraft, missile systems, and other "smart" weapons. Behavioral objectives and mastery learning came from the need to be utterly certain about how soldiers will behave in war. The leitmotif in all military psychology even before high technology is command and control, with all social relations organized in an uncompromised hierarchy. In view of how many people are involved in military planning and production, in the organization of people and their lives and families toward these ends, in support of the national budgeting committed to these enterprises, is it not clear just how overwhelming a feature of our cultural and educational landscape is military ideology?

Cognitive science is considered by most people to be an "innocent" academic subject. But Noble traces the history of this subject back into the fifties, when people like Herbert Simon became enamored of "artificial intelligence." At that time, before miniaturization, the demands made by the development of complex weapons systems led researchers to conceive of people as "information processing systems," as one component of a weapons operation which was conceptualized to run automatically. Miniaturization made it seem more and more possible to create a "man/machine system." At first, there was the attempt to simulate human thought processes on the computer. But gradually, as smaller computers became increasingly the object of attention, researchers began thinking of people as if they actually were computers, but whose principles of functioning were still not understood. Scientists sought to eliminate the distinctions between human and artificial intelligence. The term "cognitive" in "cognitive science" represents intelligence in a certain purity of thought idealized in logic, that has long been an interest of Western science, a value found at least as far back as Plato.(11) This concept of a "pure" logical intelligence teamed up with the American psychological ideal of "pure" behaviorism--the principle that human behavior is reducible to quantifiable stimulus and response patterns and capable of manipulation through "behavioral engineering"--to produce the characteristic idealism of today's cognitive science.

Noble reports that Simon substituted the term "problem-solving" for what he previously called "decision-making" in his studies of administrative systems. He also reports the Simon used the term "problem-solving" synonymously with his partner Allen Newell's "information processing" (CA 42, 43). The importance of these terminological developments is equal in consequence and meaning to the importance of using the male pronoun as the generic. These new terms are just as socially masculine as the pronoun is literally masculine. The term "decision-making" is least liable of gender identification. But the term "information-processing" did not arrive from studies of how people go shopping, but of how computers translate one form of information into another. "Problem-solving" refers to the practical use of this translation, a use that is necessarily isolated from the larger context in which the problem arises. It is akin to the term "trouble-shooting" which assumes a smoothly functioning automatic mechanical system, such as a television set, developing a "problem" in this function. The television technician finds the problem and "shoots" the trouble. But the human problem solver envisioned by Simon is a pilot or a missile operator whose "problem" is the destruction of the enemy. This vocabulary, even in the military context alone, substitutes a concept of automatic mechanical human behavior as an improvement over such outdated and inapplicable terms such as "bravery" or "daring" as the terms which explain, describe, or characterize military success.

There is an unacknowledged fantasy in the program of cognitive science that intellectual work must be separate from its feelings and passions, must be autonomous relative to its human and social contexts. Studying cognition means discovering a pure essence of thought which is performance in an automated system whose larger purposes and functions are still in fact humanly directed, but "efficiently" so by those few who hold military and scientific power. Noble's point is that schools and universities are describable in these terms. He shows that the military is the main sponsor of the "union of educational technology and cognitive science." This union appears in all levels of educational enterprise as the emphasis on "thinking, intelligence, problem-solving, and learning strategies, which relies on research supported almost entirely by military funds."(12) only do these terms imply the absence of feeling and passion, however, they also aim to deemphasize or eliminate the interpersonal, collective, collaborative elements in learning, as well as political consciousness, motivation, or initiative. The extraordinary ideological and practical influence of the "military-industrial complex" on education is one of today's manifestations of the historic masculine hegemony in the control of knowledge end power.

The Autumn 1990 issue of signs considers how androcentric values have affected women drawn to computer technology. In their critical introduction to the issue, Ruth Perry and Lisa Greber observe, "The uses to which computers have been most readily put, the ways in which their capabilities have been conceived, the language that has grown up to describe their functions, the social practices that mark computer rooms, classes, and businesses--all of these constitute a gender-coded system that is less hospitable to women than could be predicted from the characteristics of the technology itself."(13) One of the essays which documents the foregoing claims describes how two female students brought to a programming course at Harvard thought styles that conflicted-with the customary styles of teaching programming. Sherry Turkle and Seymour Papert report that this course "taught that there is only one right way to approach the computer, a way that emphasizes control through structure and planning."(14) The two women who brought different ("bricolage") styles of work to this course each reported that they had to dissemble--to not honor their own instincts about how to think through the material. Turkle and Papert describe this as an ideological problem: "Yet those who wish to approach the computer in a noncanonical way are discouraged by the dominant computer culture, eloquently expressed in the ideology of the Harvard University course. They are asked to change their style to suit the fashion when they begin to interact with the official computer world, committed to a formal, rule-driven, hierarchical approach to programming" (135).

Paul N. Edwards's essay renders the views of Turkle and Papert even more threatening and adds the element of gender identity not present in Noble's discussion. Women perceive the computer world as "hostile and dominating" because, Edwards suggests, of connections between "computer science research, the culture of engineering, and the deeply entangled institutions of military service and of masculinity as political identity in an age of high technology war--connections that provide a bridge between the masculinity of war and the different but related masculinity of the world inside the computer."(15) In large part because of the military "encroachment . . . into the civilian arena" its "ideological dimension . . . is the degree to which such developments are acceptable to the populace, and become seen as `common-sense' solutions to civil problems" (111). Insofar as military ideology is associated with defense and national safety, it conceals its role as the protector of androcentric hegemony in civilian life as well as in schools. As Lemke described an ideological presence, one sees the military presence in schools and universities only rarely. Its action through the "hard" sciences and especially through the extremely rapid growth of computer technology makes it clear how close this ideology is to the presumably idealistic values of truth and knowledge-seeking in the university: "Today computer scientists enjoy a mystique of hard mastery comparable to the cult of physicists in the postwar years. Computers provide them with unblinking precision, calculative power, and the ability to synthesize massive amounts of data. At the same time computers symbolize the rigidities of pure logic and the impersonality of corporations and governments. By association with the miracles of its machinery, computer work is taken to require vast mental powers, a kind of genius with formalisms akin to that of the mathematician, and an otherworldliness connected with the ideology and iconography of the scientist" (105).

The ideology represented by these ideals infiltrates the humanities as well. The lead essay in the December 1993 issue of College English is "The Cognitive Paradigm in Literary Studies."(16) The authors review several possible cognitive approaches to the study of literature and finally come upon the best one, in their judgment, Mark Turner's Reading Minds: The Study of [English in the Age of Cognitive Science.(17) Here is one passage from the essay describing Turner's work:

Turner suggests that cognitive rhetoric can be exploited to conduct practical criticism at the level of the individual phrase, at the level of the entire literary work organized in terms of a controlling conception or metaphor, and at the level of genre.... At the level of the phrase, he focuses on analogy, "a blanket term to cover all cases in which we understand one concept in terms of another concept" (121). Analogies or metaphors have three aspects: a target domain, and a mapping "of entities, relations, knowledge, reasoning patterns, image-schemes, and semantic structure from the source to the target" (158). Basic-level metaphors connect specific domains--LIFE IS PLAY or DEATH IS DEPARTURE--and are instantiations of generic-level metaphors which relate more abstract concepts (or generic-level schemes), "basic ontological categories (such as entity, state, event, action, and situation, aspects of beings . . ., event-shape . . ., causal relations . . ., image-schemes . . ., and modalities" (161). (854-55).

Having taught in English departments for about thirty years, I have still to come upon a teacher who will teach literature in this style. Some, like these authors, wish for such knowledge; but others, less fearfully, but similarly motivated by the ideology of science, still pursue "theory" in the humanities as if it were a higher form of knowledge, as it has been traditionally viewed in physics. For many, to give new ideas the status of theory is to remove it from the everyday classroom; theory is not meant for teaching. In the case of Turner, what does theory do? Well, it "exploits" cognitive rhetoric. Then it establishes such categories as "source" and "target" domains. Then it stipulates verbal formulas such as "life is play" to be "domains." And then, in general, it keeps track of as many "schemes" as it can find. John M. Bizup and Eugene R. Kintgen present material which depends on the separation of theory from teaching, which follows the ideology of computer and cognitive science described by Edwards and Noble, and which includes in its theoretical descriptions language that identifies the proximity of cognitive science to military thinking. This means that academic ideology has not progressed that far from ancient China, especially in regard to teaching.

The January-February 1989 issue of Academe, the publication of the American Association of University Professors, is entitled "The Corporate University." It has five essays on how and why the university is becoming more like a corporation. Richard Rollin writes, for example: "Thinking collegially does not mean thinking of academic departments, for example, as 'administrative units.' 'Units' implies interchangeability, and no academic department worthy of its program can be replaced without changing that program.... The only context in which 'unit' has been traditionally employed to refer to a collective of people is in the military. But even the most rigidly rank-conscious academic department will not operate with the kind of mission-focus that characterizes, say, an infantry battalion."(18) Rollin is calling attention to how the vocabulary of self-reference in the university reflects its stiffening ideology. The use of the term "units" follows from the university administrations' eagerness to identify with corporations, and, less directly, from corporations' collaboration with, and emulation of, the military. In addition to its being a common military term, "unit" is also related to individualism, which views unenfranchised people as a collection of individuals, but tacitly retains the collective sense for the ruling in-group, the corporate "team." The boards of trustees of most universities are mostly corporate representatives. A "unit" is always hierarchically placed in its class, as in the military. It has thus become permissible for universities to dissolve such units as departments of sociology(19) if they are not "productive." Rollin continues:

If students are reduced to customers and faculty to employees, it follows that education is a "product" and those who produce it are expected to exhibit "productivity." Productivity, of course, is most conveniently measured quantitatively. Hence, higher and higher student-teacher ratios, though they can become an embarrassment when the institution is rated by accreditation organizations and prospective students, can be presented to some constituencies (especially political ones) as evidence of institutional "efficiency." There are always studies which purport to show that students learn as much in a course enrolling 150 as 15, but in these cases, "learning" is typically defined in quantitative terms.(15)

Just as the military thought style has helped to introduce the educational vocabulary for knowing and learning, the corporate thought style and its "hard-nosed" concern with "the bottom line" is pressuring universities to think of themselves not as schools but as players in a competitive market. This requires quantitative measurement of teaching as well as of "learning" through the use of machine-gradable exams for students and other measures of activity susceptible of "information processing." The fact is, as Richard Levinson observes, that universities "are becoming complex bureaucracies governed from the top down by administrative elites."(20) And these elites, as Sheila Kaplan and Adrian Tinsley show in their contribution, are comprised overwhelmingly of men. Only ten percent of the nation's 3,000 higher education institutions are led by women. Of the seven most powerful figures in any one academic pyramid, only one is female.(21)

It is inadequate to describe this situation only as "sexist." This is not a matter of advocating the cause of a gender-circumscribed constituency alone. Values which affect all people--and which a large portion of the academy, including many men, reject--are being pressed into the school experience through administrative fiat, selective curricular funding, and calls for quantitatively documented accountability. This situation may be demonstrated with reference to a document entitled "Evaluation of Teaching Handbook" put out by the Dean of Faculties Office at Indiana University, Bloomington, in 1986. Although I will not cite statistics, I do know that some such policy, whether formally announced or not, exists at most postsecondary institutions. The academy's attitude toward teaching, newly criticized by the recent Carnegie Foundation report, Scholarship Reconsidered by Ernest Boyer, may be seen from this "internal" document at Indiana University.

Here is how the policy is presented: "There are two important reasons for evaluating teaching: to aid in administrative decisions (tenure, promotion in rank, salary increases); and to diagnose areas for improvement. The measures employed to serve each of-these purposes will be somewhat different. For personnel decisions, faculty members need information that measure overall teaching effectiveness. For improving teaching, faculty members want information that can help identify strengths and problems. Distinguishing the purpose is critical. It influences sources and kinds of information collected, criteria focused on, how information is analyzed and reported, and to who findings go."(22) In this paragraph, we find the premises for the Dean's initiative in sponsoring this publication: to help administrators and to get the faculty to teach better. From the perspective of the administration there is really only one premise of provide a quantitative, documented (that is, "scientific") basis for administrators to make "personnel" decisions. Now why is this premise a piece of ideology? The ideology is: administrators are the most important and powerful members of an academic community. Some of us who think about and compare universities--Harvard or Yale, for example--would say this is not the case, but rather that faculty members create a university's public identity. Still others will say that the university is identified by the student body--the regularly changing group of the young public getting their degrees from the university. Very few people would identify the local staff, drawn from the local citizenry, as contributing to the university's identity. And extremely few people would try to say that it is the special combination of populations and their historical, social locations that creates the university's public identity.

This is what I am getting at: the attempt to pay attention to teaching is already ideologically constrained by its having been placed under the aegis of administrative personnel decisions. That is, teaching should not be studied and discussed by all teachers, but the teaching of individuals must be evaluated by statistical instruments which provide "information" for administrators to make distinctions among individual-faculty-members. From the very outset, it is the evaluation of teaching, rather than the understanding, growth, or encouragement of new styles of teaching that is the concern of the university's administration. If faculty members were considered as determining the university's identity, they all would be involved in the study of teaching. University administrators are ideologically aligned with scholars and researchers in most academic fields, fields which, as Susan Miller has observed, wish "to remove [their] members from the defining activity of any sort of academic practitioner teaching."(23) If students were considered as determining the university's identity, they too could be involved in determining how subjects can be studied and taught. But except behind the closed doors of the classroom (that is, subversively), neither the faculty nor the students can change the style, classroom structure, social relations, and accreditation for achievement in the university. And as this pamphlet suggests, administrators wish no such changes. The ideology of teaching is rigid and is tied to the traditional university structure of the course, the grade, the professor.

Some have observed that the practice of using student evaluations as contributions to the study of teaching is a step in the direction of taking university teaching seriously. The use of such evaluations began in the sixties, along with elective-only optional pass-fail grading. This latter choice remains marginal and relatively unimportant in most universities today, but these same universities seem to think student evaluations have a bearing on teaching. The Dean's pamphlet cites studies to show that, along with chairperson's evaluations, "systematic student ratings" are "the most common sources to assess teaching."

Because student comments "pose problems when trying to sample, analyze, and summarize for personnel decisions,"(24) the machine-readable rating system is the most commonly used instrument. Furthermore, the most reliable portion of the often complex evaluation form is the summary statement section in which the student rates, overall, the instructor, the course, the exams, the lectures, the class discussions, and perhaps, the instruction, whatever that may be. Almost all forms ask students to judge the teacher's ability to explain material, preparation, availability, enthusiasm, and ability to make the subject interesting. Anonymity for the students is considered essential, and the statistical analysis is considered as authoritative a reading as one can get.

As I will document briefly toward the end of this essay,(25) the serious attention paid by the administration to these often ungainly and elaborate forms already takes them out of students' hands. Because they are standardized and systematized, and almost always given without regard to which subjects the courses address, they are only an instrument of judgment--indeed a grade given by the students in the same way that a grade is given by the instructor. Instead of opening up teaching and learning to discursive attention, they add judgmental attention to the teaching/learning relationships. If, for example, the availability and personal contact of the teachers are important, how authentic will they be if teachers feel they are going to be graded on them? The coercive psychology that characterizes grading systems for students is now applied to teachers. A university administration which uses this system, however, cannot assimilate the view that machine readable teacher-evaluation is an extension of the problem it is trying to solve. In academic ideology teaching does not really count not because it cannot be measured, but because it is ultimately subversive of that ideology.

With regard to the possibility of revising this student evaluation of teaching ceremony, 1993 shows very little change from 1986. At the University of Rochester there was an initiative to change the questionnaire. However, only one change was proposed: include a student self-evaluation section. The previously used rating-scale questions on the course and teacher have remained; the means of "reading" the questionnaire have remained the same--machine-and no attempt was made to acknowledge that courses in different subject matters need to be evaluated differently. Even though courses in drawing, writing, anthropology, math, and biology each require different bases for judgment, it is steadfastly maintained in the interests of administrative expediency that the same questionnaire is equally appropriate for all courses: the questionnaire remains what it has always been--an anonymous and potentially damaging survey of the students' sense of the instructor's ethical stance. Student opinion remains an administrative tool and does not become, even in the smallest way, a factor in how courses are conceived, designed, required, or conducted.

In the discipline of writing--the academic subject that has perhaps the most latitude in respecting each student's subjectivity, conviction, and political awareness--the same ideology overwhelms its teaching. Richard Ohmann characterizes the incoming student's view of college this way:

a newcomer to college, . . . she is invited both to assume responsibility for her education and to trust the college's plan for it; to build her competence and to follow a myriad of rules and instructions; to see herself as an autonomous individual and to be incessantly judged.

The writing class heightens these tensions. Writing. The word whispers of creativity and freedom; yet there is usage, there are assignments and deadlines, there is the model of The Theme, there are grades. We tell students to find their own voices, yet most feel subtly and not-so-subtly pressed to submerge their identities in academic styles and purposes that are not their own. They have little understanding of their world, and not all that much experience of it, but the academic paper calls for a knowing posture and for the routines of mastery.(26)

This description shows the contrast between the university's self-presentation to students and students' actual experience. The self-presentation part invites students to assume responsibility and find their own voices; the students' actual experience is the attempt to meet all the requirements and to put up with being "incessantly judged" and graded. As long as students tend to consider this contradiction benign, they will expend their efforts working and trusting that they will become certified. But such certification represents an out-and-out ideological suppression leading to the belief, for example, that it is "natural" to be incessantly judged-"competence evaluation" is the term that conceals the practice of judgment-that it is natural to work alone and be responsible only to the teacher and the requirements, and that "assuming responsibility" for their education actually means compliance with the teaching situations, whatever they may be. It "incessantly judged" does not mean speaking up and working with teachers to make changes in how subjects are taught and learned.

As Ohmann describes it, the "whispers" of the writing class vaguely hint at its being a context for speaking up and speaking out. Because this opportunity is rarely built into the course plan for writing classes, or at best is severely constrained by the constancy of judgment, the writing class is a particularly painful scene of disappointment. Ohmann also describes in the chapter preceding the one I cited, how writing handbooks collaborate in discouraging writing about connections between local scenes, situations, and feelings and issues of political and social consequence. The ideological standard for writing is only to achieve clarity and grammaticality on a document-by-document basis, where the topic itself and the writer's relation to it is considered out of bounds. Thus, if any student expected feminist thought about the identity of the personal and political to be a legitimate presupposition of writing, he or she would be disappointed; if the assumption were active--and more and more young teachers are encouraging it-and the writing convention such as "do not use 'I"' is invoked on usage grounds, students will notice that this convention enacts the ideological value of the disengagement of the individual from the general topic being written about. But to the extent of their tacit subscription to the traditional academic ideology, students, like Jane Tompkins, won't be able to find the language to offer the challenge effectively. And also, why would any student then want to go through the trouble of learning to write with awareness and conviction, much less with reference to history and human experience, when he or she will be paid much more in most work situations not to have conviction and, rather, to write the solution of your problem with a minimum of thought about anything else?

If the practices of writing in any discipline included notice of the interested character of writing conventions, and then explored such conventions comparatively, students might then observe the connections between language and ideology, might then distinguish between received language and language invented for new occasions, between language use among different parts of society. But if students are viewed by writing program administrators as "not knowing how to write a coherent sentence"-and many, many students are thus characterized- this creates the ideological constraint on teaching in the same way that the administration at Indiana University constrained teaching--by placing evaluation of individuals in the forefront of its inquiry. The ideological constraint emerges in pedagogical practice in university classrooms as the assumption that teaching goes only one way; the students are there for remediation or "improvement" in the same way that "teaching" is in need of "improvement." Students are conceived as a group of individuals just as teachers are, and both are given places in the academic hierarchy by the "highest" member of the pyramid, the administration, itself lower on the social and political pyramid than its corporate overseers on the boards of trustees.

The history of university teaching demonstrates the ideological features of the American--perhaps the Western--view of education as a process through which young people acquire enlightenment or knowledge from older, authoritative people. In my school experience, teachers were considered replacements for parents and are treated that way: female teachers teach young children, male teachers older children. The fact that one can see the analogy between family and school at all documents the ideological grounding of the organization of the university and of how students are perceived and treated. However, if the modern history of university teaching is viewed in the context of David F. Noble's account.(27) of the beginnings of universities in the European Middle Ages, where women were deliberately excluded, academic ideology is clearly just a local manifestation of the androcentric basis of society that has been in effect longer than anyone can document.(28)

Madeleine Grumet's address to teachers makes a related point, and her style of presentation itself contributes to the argument:

We, the women who teach, must claim our reproductive labor as a process of civilization as well as procreation. We can continue to escort the children from home to the marketplace as did the paidagogos, the Greek slave whose title and function survive in pedagogy, or we can refuse the oppositions and limits that define each place and our love and work within them. The task is daunting.... These words, for all their intensity, have been sifted through the sieves of academic discourse. The very institutions that I repudiate for their perpetuation of patriarchal privilege are the ones within which I have found the voice that tries to sing the tune of two worlds. This writing has been interrupted and informed by driving the kids to the pool and to soccer practice, by the laundering of sweaty sports socks and mildewed beach towels, by the heat of the summer sun and the soft summons of the night air.(29)

Perhaps we may observe our responses to this passage as a function of our gender identity to see if the point is not made: what do we think and feel as Grumet becomes lyrical by including the quality of domestic and subjective experience that supported the writing of her book? How do we respond to terms such as "reproductive labor" with its deliberate, forceful affirmation that this form of "labor" may be used to describe teaching? What might we think of changing our concept of teaching from the transmission of knowledge to others, to "helping to reproduce and nurture new cultural generations"? How willing are we to accept the connotation of teacher as slave and to let our anger mobilize our commitment to changing the social relations of schools and classrooms? How capable are we, finally, of overtaking the academic discourse that we seem forced to use and making it speak in new registers, new voices?

It is this "we" about which many of us critical faculty members are thinking. We ought to be honoring the subjective and intersubjective experience of the teaching of language and literature, and of other subjects as well. We ought not to have to conceal this experience or use it subversively. Susan Miller, in rejecting the need for "male-coded fortitude"(30) in political causes, urges that our collective recognizing, using, and exploring classroom experience, indigenous to the "class" of students, teachers, and scholars, is the political step that can give academic ideology a better role to play.

In view of the foregoing considerations, the matter of ideological change in the academy is not an intellectual riddle. One reason I have highlighted the roles of tests and grades is that, on the one hand, these are probably the most coercive practices in the academy and, on the other, they are susceptible to actual change of practice. In 1976, Sidney B. Simon and James A. Bellanca edited an important essay collection, which appeared, in part, in response to the academic agitation of the late sixties and early seventies when people were thinking about grades more than they are now.(31) One value of this book is that it reviews practically every factor affecting grading and every alternative to it. However, it is especially valuable in that it indicates just which schools have tried other forms of response to student work and accomplishment, showing that there was no reduction in the quality of the students' work, or in the frequency of their admission to colleges and professional schools, when there was prose evaluation or other forms of nongraded faculty reporting. As the editors observe, the elimination of the grading culture is something everyone wants but "few initiate" (63).

In 1973, the few schools that did initiate such changes formed the National Consortium of Experimenting High Schools which "surveyed 2600 two- and four-year colleges in the United States." As Richard Curwin reports, here is the result:

Ninety-seven percent replied to the questionnaire with results that surprised even the survey committee. Less than 5 percent indicated that grades or rank in class were an absolute necessity; 18 percent responded that the admissions office had no policy and could not promise fair review; 77 percent indicated that students whose transcripts provided other designated information would receive "fair and equal review." Written evaluation, computer-printed descriptions, and test scores topped the lists of needed information for four-year colleges. The vast majority of public two-year schools needed only a diploma, or a birth certificate showing the applicant to be at least 18 years old. individual college responses are catalogued in the College Guide for Experimenting High Schools.(32)

Even though this survey is informal, the only feature of the responses consistent with the ideology of testing and grading is the reported use of standardized tests for admission to college, a practice in better health now than it was twenty years ago. Putting that fact aside for a moment, the survey shows that grades and rank in class are to most colleges not important, and that other faculty notations of a discursive sort, are (or would be) just as important to determine if an applicant is to be admitted. This fact suggests that if, in 1973, grading and class ranking stopped in grades K through twelve, but the SAT continued, by today, colleges might be admitting a whole generation of students that has gone through school mainly under discursive evaluation practices.

The 1973 alternatives to grading, testing, and ranking were also known, more or less, in 1933. Often they were actually practiced before the schools were overtaken in the late-nineteenth century, as Grumet describes in parts of her book not cited here, by the organizational styles of industry, corporations, and the military. Therefore, it may be redundant to show that in 1993, at the Modern Language Association (inter)national convention in Toronto, the same problems and the same solutions have reappeared. Nevertheless, there is some indication that the prospects for change may themselves have changed. This is suggested both by changing concerns at convention sessions, and by pedagogical initiatives with classroom networks and e-mail.

One session at the 1993 MLA meeting was "Roundtable Discussion on Evaluating Teaching," proposed and led by Betsy Hilbert of Miami-Dade County Community College. The paper-writing participants, with the exception of the convener, were not named in the program. Ten people each contributed two- to four-page statements, and these were sent to the participants in advance and at the session. The thirty participants came away with ten descriptions of how teaching is evaluated at our universities; no papers were read. The upshot of the session was that members reached a distinction between assessment and development that we may view as a step toward change in teaching. Here in part is how this happened.

Professor Victoria Moessner from the University of Alaska at Fairbanks presented several instances of the abuse of the students' teacher evaluation forms at her university. One such instance, referring to the machine-graded statistical evaluation form filled out by all students in all courses, IS:

Students fill out these forms believing that the terms "Excellent, Very Good, etc." have the generally accepted meaning found in any dictionary. They usually do not know that the statistics from the evaluation forms can produce the following kinds of statements: "Using evaluations for . . . the committee figured the average score for questions #1-4 for the years . . . that number is 3.68, which is in the Good to Very Good range, two-thirds of the way to Very Good. The average decile for these years . . . is 3.4 University-wide and 3.0 within the College of Liberal Arts. The Department Head . . . says that scores are low for that particular department." This person's teaching was deemed not good enough for promotion.(33)

While on average, students considered this teacher to be near "very good," the department head's opinion that that score was "low for that particular department" supervened on the meaning of the terms to the students in such a way as to cause the promotion to be denied.

Moessner offered other examples of the manipulation of statistics, suggesting that, as many believe, statistics insure understanding of very little for those on the low end of the hierarchical structure of authority. She concludes that the use of statistics in the practice of evaluation actually amounts to the use of them: "Very Good is possibly not Good enough." "The only recourse an individual faculty member has is to hire a lawyer and file grievances. This costs the instructor thousands of dollars and possibly years of long drawn out litigation." The various instances show that regardless of what technique is used, as long as evaluation proceeds in one direction, it necessarily involves giving a false picture of teaching that almost always jeopardizes teachers and fails to understand what the-students actually experienced in that class.

Faculty development as an evaluative practice was suggested by the contribution of Thomas Philion, an English education faculty member at the University of Illinois at Chicago who reported on research he did when in graduate school at the University of Michigan. There, Philion supervised student teachers in secondary schools. At the session he proposed that perhaps faculty evaluation in the university could proceed along lines similar to those in some secondary schools. This suggestion presupposes a "two-way street": the idea that university teaching should learn from secondary teaching techniques could establish one form of pedagogical mutuality now missing from academic teaching-the willingness and contexts for "trading" with teachers of all grade levels. As a basis for a critical conversation with cooperating teachers (those in whose classroom a student teacher is working) and student teachers, Philion reports that narratives (as an evaluative technique now used in postsecondary programs that do not grade, such as these at Brown, Evergreen, end Alverno, for example) describe his experience in the class, written in the first person, and offering "my own thoughts and emotions" as well as his perceptions of what took place.

I had more satisfying and productive conversations with my cooperating teacher if I emphasized description as opposed to evaluation. Part of this had to do with the fact that my cooperating teacher had worked in public schools for eighteen years and didn't look kindly upon a young graduate student telling her what to do; but it was connected as well to the fact that she wanted to know more about how her students were responding to the new approach she was taking. Telling stories about what I had observed enabled me to satisfy my cooperating teacher's desire for more information, and at the same time, to set up a context for a more critical conversation about teaching practices.

While unremarkable from one standpoint, Philion's account includes his awareness of the social differences between himself and the cooperating teacher, thus establishing a basis for collaboration and mutuality in their individual relationship ("didn't look kindly upon a young graduate student") as well as in the institutional relationship between school and university. In this case, a change in teaching philosophy creates a change in authority balance. The university observer is no longer felt and understood as "above." Philion notes that "narrative becomes a catalyst for the sort of professional conversation that--rarely occurs between teachers within--educational institutions of any kind." He continues "one complaint that some might have about this approach is that there isn't any explicit indication of a qualitative judgment. I must say that I perceive this absence as one of the strengths of this approach." Indirectly, this is a response to Richard Ohmann's point that students are "incessantly judged." It is the sense of the formal necessity of judgment that, potentially, is most dangerous to students and teachers. Philion--as well as several others at the roundtable--were describing the elements of a collective scene of teaching, in which teachers of different kinds meet with one another regularly and enter one another's classrooms, observing what is taking place, and then reporting to one another what they see. It is this ongoing conversation, this regular, continuing attention to the experiences and actual interactions of teaching that would be a welcome replacement for the "official" moments of judgment.

A distinction between assessment and development emerged from this session: assessment refers to a procedure that leads to a discrete, ceremonial, "final" judgment; development refers to the continuous processes of mutual and self-evaluation in a variety of discursive, collective contexts at the classroom and departmental levels. Participants with secondary school teaching backgrounds and more familiar with development found sympathy for this practice among postsecondary faculty members. The majority of participants, who worked at universities using assessment practices, considered development to be more useful as a teaching practice than assessment. All session participants agreed that our task is not to suspend evaluative judgments but to place them in a new context--use them with a new set of assumptions and with new practical purposes, so as to give these judgments more pedagogical weight. Evaluations are given informally, collectively, continuously, and mutually.

Perhaps unexpectedly to some of us, a credible context for such change in the style and quality of teaching is increasingly reported by those using interactive, computerized classrooms, supplemented by e-mail. The classrooms themselves are acquiring a new status, a new position in the thinking lives of students. On the other hand, teachers who are aware of the secondary character of the technology are most likely to use it responsibly to let it contribute to changing the social relations of classrooms. In a recent essay, Sheila Ruzycki O'Brien of the University of Idaho, observes the following: "Although conferencing via e-mail can be a tool to effect a more student-centered environment in the classroom, the technology itself does not create this result. I have found that e-mail facilitates my own pedagogical approach . . . which . . . balances student concerns, my own suggestions, and course materials."(34) The foregoing principle distinguishes O'Brien's report from the others which tell "how I use the computer." It is further significant in that she is describing a literature class, rather than a composition class (in the "composition" journal), suggesting the flexibility of her teaching style. E-mail ("asynchronous communication") permits the following to take place:

(1) Enlarged working (professional) identities. Unlike some situations where a fictional name is permitted [as described by Lester Faigley(35)], O'Brien requires the real names, and permits anonymous contributions in cases where the writer presents material that could be embarrassing.

(2) The contribution of response and opinion, "on-line," before the class meets in person. For each meeting, each class member knows at least something about how others understood the literature. There is knowledge of different perspectives as well as their sources. Students' perspectives become part of the course's subject matter.

Aiming to achieve routine, disciplined opinion-sharing among class members, the teacher used the technology to habituate all class members to this principle: each class member is responsible to contribute his or her own, and to learn everyone else's, perspective. As a result, the teacher's role changes as all class members' interactions become the basis for public, plenary discussion, which contrasts with the traditional discussion class in which the teacher on the one hand and the student group on the other are juxtaposed categories. Networking permits students the same out-of-class autonomy enjoyed by teachers; while this arrangement does not enforce discipline, there is much less need for "enforcement" (even though it remains the teacher's responsibility) and many more instances of improved motivation to participate. O'Brien emphasizes what a difference it makes that "I'm not alone in knowing students' interests and what disagreements have occurred" (MF 83). While dissemination of students' work in classrooms has gone on in the past, especially in art and creative writing courses, the combination of the principle of dissemination with the ability to do it quickly, easily, and frequently moves toward an epistemologically decentered classroom without indulging in the fantasy that the teacher is just another student.

In previous essays(36) I discussed the "contingent curriculum," which describes the phenomenon of letting each course's curriculum develop partially in response to how class members take up curricular plans given by the teacher and partially in response to how the interests and identities of students could shape the collective effort of the class. This principle is similarly facilitated by classroom networks and e-mail, as described by Dan Quigley last year. His several examples show that customized assignments, along with new collective readings, geared to questions and issues appearing "on-line," can be improvised as responses to significant class-member disclosures. The basis for students to contribute to the syllabus, curriculum, reading list, or other course plans should be in response to articulated interests, personal and political, just as the course plan reflects the instructor's professional interests and judgment. If the-principle of availability to change is assumed in course-planning, then a changing curriculum can take place through individual initiative and collective agreement:

It is the potential of the online syllabus to remain malleable and responsive to individual classes and even individual students that demonstrates most clearly the concept of an evolving syllabus. Although initially an online syllabus may lay out a best-guess image of the course, in practice it must evolve with the course, taking shape as does each class. The syllabus, which cannot be complete until the class is complete, thus provides an accurate record of what each class becomes and the work it accomplishes, whereas still fulfilling the requirements of the school's administration. Such a syllabus also provides a more accurate picture for the teacher's self-evaluation.(37)

We could add that it provides a better picture for anyone's evaluation of the course, of the teacher, and of its substance, without risking the teacher's job and reputation. Furthermore, with this step the opportunity for initiative and the reduction of testing and grading are accomplished at once. There is enough information in the online course records to overcome the reductionism characteristic of the existing techniques of learning of students' responses to a course.

The reports by the teachers cited above (Philion, O'Brien, Quigley) are neither revolutionary nor unfamiliar. Yet it seems clear that in teaching relationships and classrooms governed by the principles they describe, there is no need for recorded ceremonial judgment, for the rank ordering of students' performances, for the impersonal statistical processing of grades or other summary judgments. Especially in the classrooms of O'Brien and Quigley, two features are salient: on the one hand, the long process of students' development in a course is on the record, so to speak, should there be problems in the future; and on the other hand, the high level of mutual disclosure in such classrooms creates a broad portfolio of work by all: both success and failure are related to self-understanding and collective opinion rather than to a rank ordering of the total membership. This is a teaching ideology that welcomes, cultivates, and integrates each class member's contribution; it penalizes no one in order to honor some and reject a few.

Academic ideology has traditionally separated the teaching from the subject matter and from the persons involved in both. Perhaps this is why Jane Tompkins felt that she "killed" something in her class when she spoke. The standards of conversational exchange in class have been only a minor part of most academic teaching; private conversation may take place between academics and between students. But there has been little mutuality. Judgment, isolated from relationship and conversation, takes place, officially, in only one direction. If, in the attention to teaching, sharing judgments takes place freely among university teachers themselves, and if these judgments contribute to regular exchanges about teaching in the university community, then similar exchanges can take place between teachers and students: student narratives of the teaching in a classroom then actually contribute to how business is done in a classroom, but they do not threaten a teacher's prospects for promotion, salary increases, and tenure, any more than a teacher's judgments should threaten a student's prospects for success. In a scholarship and pedagogy of disclosure, judgment and evaluation go both ways.

This style of academic functioning moves academic work closer to the rest of society. The registers of classroom and network exchange, serious and frivolous, are part of the work of the class, part of scholarship and criticism, teaching and learning, judgment and evaluation. The social relations among class members are the bases for scholarly and pedagogical development; they motivate and sustain research, communication, and dissemination. While none of us knows the outcomes of these changes in academic teaching, we should expect that some will change Lemke's classrooms and answer Jane Tompkins's calls for help.


(1) J. L. Lemke, "The Language of Science Teaching," in Locating Learning: Ethnographic Perspectives on Classroom Research, ed. Catherine Emihovich (Norwood, NJ., 1989); hereafter cited in text as LS.

(2) Jay L. Lemke, Talking Science: Language Learning, and Values (Norwood, NJ., 1990); hereafter cited in text as TS.

(3) Jane Tompkins, "Postcards from the Edge," Journal of Advanced Composition, 13, no. 1 (Fall 1993), 451.

(4) Jane Tompkins, "Me and My Shadow," New Literary History, 19 (1987), 169-78.

(5) Ernest L. Boyer, Scholarship Reconsidered: Priorities of the Professoriate (Princeton, 1990).

(6) David Bleich, "Collaboration and the Pedagogy of Disclosure," College English, 57 (January 1995), 43-61. In the foregoing essay, I use the simpler term "pedagogy of disclosure" and outline some of its features. In the present essay, I want only to say that this pedagogy, and a related style of scholarship, is one answer to the need to rethink our academic ideologies.

(7) F. Allan Hanson, Testing, Testing: Social Consequences of the Examined Life (Berkeley, 1993), p. 186; hereafter cited in text as TT.

(8) Stephen Jay Gould, The Mismeasure of Man (New York, 1981). This is the best end most interesting historical account of intelligence testing, as well as the most compelling argument against it: there has never been any empirical reason, Gould shows, for the "single factor" theory of intelligence, that is, that IQ corresponds to something real. The evidence suggests to Gould and others that, more likely, intelligence comes in different modes and is not a single capability.

(9) Douglas D. Noble, The Classroom Arsenal: Military Research, Information Technology, and Public Education (Bristol, Pa., 1991), p. 3; hereafter cited in text as GA. Also, Douglas D. Noble, "Mental Materiel," unpublished essay, (1989).

(10) Ludwik Fleck, Genesis and Development of a Scientific Fact (1935; rpt. Chicago, 1980). 1 prefer Fleck's term because it is more informal. However, it is the model on which Kuhn's term "paradigm" was developed in a more formal direction.

(11) Still the best challenge to this fantasy is Hubert L. Dreyfus, What Computers Can't Do: A Critique of Artificial Reason (New York, 1972). Among the many noteworthy aspects of this study is that the critique of artificial intelligence is, with a small adaptation and in a footnote, applied to a critique of Chomskyean linguistics, which shares much of the ideology of science with devotees of artificial intelligence and cognitive science.

(12) Noble, "Mental Materiel," p. 8.

(13) Ruth Perry and Lisa Greber, "Women and Computers: An Introduction," Signs, 16 (Autumn 1990), 93.

(14) Sherry Turkle and Seymour Papert, "Epistemological Pluralism: Styles and Voices Within the Computer Culture," Signs, 16 (Autumn 1990), 134; hereafter cited in text.

(15) Paul N. Edwards, "The Army and the Microworld: Computers and the Politics of Gender Identity," Signs, 16 (Autumn 1990), 103; hereafter cited in text.

(16) Joseph M. Bizup and Eugene R. Kintgen, "The Cognitive Paradigm in Literary Studies," College English, 55, (December 1993), 841-57; hereafter cited in text.

(17) Mark Turner, Reading Minds: The Study of English in the Age of Cognitive Science (Princeton, 1991).

(18) Richard Rollin, "There's No Business Like Education," Academe, 75, no. 1 (January-February 1989), 14-15; hereafter cited in text.

(19) At my university and at Washington University in St. Louis, for example.

(20) Richard Levinson, "The Faculty and Institutional Isomorphism," Academe, 75, no. 1 (January-February 1989), 23.

(21) Sheila Kaplan and Adrian Tinsley, "The Unfinished Agenda: Women in Higher Education Administration," Academe, 75, no. 1 (January-February 1989), 18-22.

(22) Dean of Faculties, Indiana University, "Evaluation of Teaching Handbook," Internal Document (1986), p. 5.

(23) Susan Miller, Textual Carnivals: The Politics of Composition (Carbondale, 111., 1991), p. 193.

(24) Dean of Faculties pamphlet, pp. 8, 9.

(25) From presentations at a December 1993 MLA session.

(26) Richard Ohmann, Politics of Letters (Middletown, Conn., 1987), p. 252.

(27) David F. Noble, A World Without Women: The Christian Clerical Culture of Western Science (New York, 1992).

(28) This is the view given by Gerda Lerner in her book The Creation of Patriarchy (New York, 1986).

(29) Madeleine R. Grumet, Bitter Milk: Women and Teaching (Amherst, Mass., 1988), p. 29.

(30) Miller, Textual Carnivals, p. 186.

(31) Degrading the Grading Myths: A Primer of Alternatives to Grades and Marks, ed. Sidney B. Simon end dames A. Bellanca (Washington D.C., 1976); hereafter cited in text.

(32) Richard Curwin, "In Conclusion: Dispelling the Grading Myths," in Degrading the Grading Myths, pp. 144-45.

(33) Victoria Moessner, unpublished paper, delivered at the Modern Language Association national convention, Toronto (December 1993).

(34) Sheila Ruzycki O'Brien, "The Medium Facilitates the Messages: Electronic Discourse and Literature Class Dynamics," Computers and Composition, 11 (1994), 79; hereafter cited in text as MF.

(35) Lester Faigley, Fragments of Rationality: Postmodernity and the Subject of Composition (Pittsburgh, 1992). Chapter Six is "The Achieved Utopia of the Networked Classroom," pp. 163-99. The sample transcript is of students communicating under fictional and humorous (frivolous?) names (pp. 170-78).

(36) David Bleich, "Reading as Membership," ADE Bulletin, 102 (Fall 1992), 6-10; "Collaboration and the Pedagogy of Disclosure," College English, 57, (January 1995), 43-61.

(37) Dan Quigley, "The Evolution of an Online Syllabus," Computers and Composition, 11 (1994), 170.
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Author:Bleich, David
Publication:New Literary History
Date:Jun 22, 1995
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