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CHAPTER 3

On Seeing the Morolin Teaching

David T. Hansen

_ ~ E ~ ~ : N _ ~ _ . I S. ~ c : ~ ~ ~ ~ . ~ ~ ~ ? ~ ~ e ~ ~ s ~ , " writes James Elkins (1996).o "ft-iiIters-ffie tI:iiD.g tffiit 15 seen and transforms th e seer" (p_ 12).Elkins's claim, to which I will retUrn throughout this essay, suggests

that seeing as a human experience constitutes more than the biochemicaloperations of the eye, just-as photography as an ar t involves more than th emechanical operations of the camera. Seeing denotes th e transformation ofa thing into an object; fo r example, a four-limbed moving creature becomeswhat we call a person, an oddly shaped thing becomes a stone, a mass ofwhite stuff becomes a cloud, a peculiar set of markings becomes writtenlanguage, an d so on ad infinitum. From th e moment people are born intoculture and language; they engage in this transforming process. As theymature, it becomes instantaneous, like th e speed of light, and taken forgranted, like th e ac t of breathing.

E1kins takes care to distinguish perception from fantasy. He is no t suggesting people can see whatever they feel like seeing. The term metamor-phosis embodies th e continuity between thing an d object, between th einchoate, endlessly varied stuff of the world and its transformation into identifiable, meaningful ob jects such as persons, stones, clouds, and books. Elkinsalso calls attention to th e reciprocal effect th e transformative process has on

A Lifein Classrooms: Philip W. Jackson and the Practice ofEducation, edited by DavidT. Hansen, Mary ErinaDriscoll, and Rene V. Arcilla. Copyright2007 by Teachers College, Columbia University. All rights reserved.Prior to photocopying items for classroom use, please contact the Copyright Clearance Center, CustomerService, 222 Rosewood Dr., Danvers, MA01923, USA, te!. (508) 750-8400, www.copyright.com

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36 A Life in Classrooms

the perceiver. Fo r example, from th e very instant that I am introduced to theperson wh o works in th e office next to me , I see that person as a colleague,as a potential supporter or rival, as a possible friend, as a fellow sojourner,and any number of other possibilities. This s eeing has no w altered my worldand me, however subtly. To take another example, th e very instant that I se efor th e first time a cell divide under a microscope, I perceive things differently than before. In short, the world in w hich persons dwell is a scene ofendless metamorphoses.

EIkins's claim ha s a familiar ring today among those wh o do qualitativeeducational research. It calls to mind th e widespread criticism of positivism that, over th e last few decades, has jarred that approach to social inquiry off it s pedestal. Researchers today strive to be more sensitive thanhitherto to ho w their ways of seeing affect th e objects of inquiry, an d viceversa (cf. Tyack, 1997). Many conduct their work mindful of how the veryact of perception compromises th e presupposition that coming to knowsomething boils down to aligning ou r "inner" mental representations with"outer" reali ty-an assumption that, in turn, presumes there is a pure ontological distinction between the subject (the perceiver) an d th e object (theperceived). Thanks to the influence of philosophers as diverse as John

Dewey, Michel Foucault, Hans-Georg Gadamer, an d Ludwig Wittgenstein,many scholars today treat the relation between the researcher and th e researched as more complicated than th e purified categories of positivismallow (Phillips & Burbules, 2000).

This "interpretive turn" in social inquiry, as Paul Rabinow and WilliamI Sullivan (1979 ) termed it in a widely influential book, was well underway in. ~ .th e late 1980s when I was a doctoral student at th e University of Chicago. My'i dissertation adviser, Philip Jackson, was attuned to th e sea change. He was

familiar with what Clifford Geertz (1983) called th e emergence of "blurredgenres" in th e social sciences (cf. Jackson, 1990a). Moreover, he ha d himselfalready made th e turn from a positivist orientation to an interpretive approachin studying educational practice (cf. JackSon, 1990b). I understand better now,with the benefit of hindsight, ho w profouhdly these transformations i n f l u - ~ ,enced the substance and style of th e guidance Jackson provided me. As aqualitative researcher , he was extraordinarily attentive to everyday humanactions and doings. His method ()fworking embodied a vivid example of thevalue in pondering mechanism an d metamorphosis in ho w one perceives th eworld. Indirectly, his approach also opened up considerable space for me todevelop my ow n methods of nquiry. In that space, which feels ever expanding, I learned ho w to regard teaching in ways that I have found enduringlyproductive and meaningful. In this essay, I will describe th e origins of thisoutcome.

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On Seeing the Moral in Teaching 3 7

FIELDWORK AS EDUCATIVE

I worked with Jackson as a research assistant on the Moral Life of SchoolsProject, a 3-year study (1988-1990) funded by the Spencer Foundation. Robert Boostrom (now at th e University of Southern Indiana and a contributor tothis volume) was th e other research assistant on th e project. Eighteen teach

ers also participated, nine from three elementary schools (one public, oneCatholic, one independent) and nine from three secondary schools (also public, Catholic, and independent). Over the course of the project, we all me t asa group every 2 weeks for dinner and conversation about moral aspects ofteaching an d schooling. We three researchers also observed hlindreds ofclasses. I concentrated on the high schools, as well as a few middle grades,and observed over 400 classes taught by ou r colleagues working at those levels (for further details, see Boostrom, Hansen, &Jackson, 1993; Hansen, 1995;Jackson, Boostrom, & Hansen, 1993).

Jackson, Boostrom, an d I me t at least once every week in Jackson's office to discuss ou r observations and other matters pertaining to th e project.His typical wa y of opening a meeting, as I recall it, was to ask: What did yousee? or Ho w should we begin? Once somebody had pu t something forward

for consideration, we would explore its possible meanings and ramifications.-: ~ 'r'We would pursue whatever direction th e conversation took and would keep \ j' ;;going ~ t i lit.was time to stop talking an d leave. I ?o not recall a single i n _ i ~ q \f;stance ID which Jackson told me what to look for ID th e schools and class- H~ ~ -."rooms. Nor to my recollection did he ever inform or guide me in bo w to look-It } ~ ,

j. "Neither in ou r very first meeting no r in ou r final on e years later did Jackson p ~ Jever pu t forth an observational schedule or a list of hings to count or check \off while observing. He did no t oblige me to read any particular books or Iarticles about qualitative research. Moreover, none of he courses I had taken!with him up to that point included any readings about methodology in social Jinquiry. .

I do no t recall a single instance in the history of th e project when Jackso n offered directives or guidance about validity, inter-rater reliability,generalizability, variables, hypotheses, research design, and so forth. According to many perspectives, these terms constitute the bread and butter ofgood research practice. Since I had read a range of works on research methodology, either on my own or in other courses, I remember sensing thatJackson's orientation was, shall I say, unusual. And ye t his entire presence asa teacher and adviser wa s unusual. I would call it Socratic: a wa y of workingin which questioning, doubting, and wondering are key elements and in which ith e student never quite knows th e teacher's ow n conclusions and convictions. t- - - - - - - - . - - - ~ ".-- . -- . . . . . . . .. '" . ' , . . . . . . . . . . . ", . . ~ . , . "I)The teacher's elusiveness combined with sustained inquiry into th e subject l'


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matter at hand can generate a productive tension that, in turn, fuels th e passion to learn (I've sought to capture th e profound influence ]ackson as teacherhad on me in Hansen, 1996). Socrates talked a lot, however, and ]ackson'sposture also involved silence and contemplation, as i f o speak about something too hastily (or confidently) would puncture it like a balloon. It woulddiminish or even trivialize the object in view.

I do not mean to suggest that ]ackson disregarded or disdained th e concerns that underlie the familiar vocabulary of validity, reliability, an d generalizability. Quite the contrary. I was struck by ho w detennined he was to pursuewhatever interested him in his fieldwork and by ho w open-minded he was aboutadopting standp oints, ideas, and methods that would help him. Nor am I presuming here to capture ]ackson's approach to research, which he ha s articulated himself (e.g., ]ackson, 1992a). Rather, what stands ou t for me no w isthe experience his orientation made possible for me. In the extensive classroom and school visits I undertook during those years, I was able to enactand cultivate all th e powers of perception, attunement, an d insight I ha dmanaged willy-nilly to develop up to that point as a human being an d as aninquirer. I appreciate more and more what it has meant to me, as a scholar,to have been provided the time and space in my doctoral r e ~ e a r c hto draw

upon whatever powers of perception I had as a person-not just some of hem,predetermined by a prior checklist of hings to look for, bu t al l of hem. Thisexperience was made possible by the steady, everyday example of]ackson'sscholarly focus, tenacity, an d integrity.

Th e fieldwork, for me, wa s an opportunity in th e richest sense of thatterm. It was rewarding to develop my ow n relationship with our colleaguesfrom th e schools I wa s regularly visiting. I.relished th e liberty to establishmy ow n schedule of classroom observations in coordination with what theteachers were up to an d to work out and test my ow n conjectures, interpretations, and, eventually, arguments, with helpful and timely input from]ackson, Boostrom, an d several of th e teachers. The schools, th e classrooms, th eteachers, th e students, th e curriculum, and so much more differed in striking an d provocative ways. The task of making sense.of these things p r o v e d ~ ,

to be intense, demanding, incredibly time-consuming, fascinating, and sometimes inspiring. During those years I lived and breathed the project. Mydreams at night were often filled w!th images emanating from what I heardand witnessed.

I visited one or another of he schools almost every day of the week andalso attended weekend activities such as sporting events. I sat in on th e ninemiddle and high school teachers' classes regularly, although in no lockstepsequence or order. r would observe on e or more of a particular teacher'Sclasses for several days in a row, in order to develop a feel for rhythm andflow. I always tried to reach class before a school period wa s s c h e d ~ e dto

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On Seeing the Moral in Teaching 39

start. If I arrived late, even a minute after a lesson ha d begun, I usually walkedaway without making my presence known an d would head to th e schoollibrary or cafeteria to wait out the per iod-or dash to the car an d drive to another schooL I followed this practice because I did no t want to interruptclasses in progress an d because I preferred observing them in their entirety.Often I wa s th e first person who entered the classroom. I always sat at the

.back or side of a room and sought to remain as unnoticeable as possible.AB

lessons proceeded, I avoided eye contact with teacher and students and triedto appear emotionally uninvolved with what was occurring. I spoke withindividuals during class time only if hey spoke to me.

I acted this wa y because I di d no t want to influence th e classrooms anymore than was inevitable. I learned to concentrate intently on observing th eproceedings. In time, I became so immersed in the process that I wa s invariably thrown into confusion when someone, usually th e teacher, did happento address me during class. To employ Elkins's terms, those moments ruptured the organic transaction between seer and seen.

For example, on e morning in March one of he teachers an d his studentswere discussing Indira Ghandi's career as a political leader. Th e question arosewhether she wa s related to Mahatma Ghandi. No on e knew. Suddenly, th e

teacher looked over and asked me if knew. Thoroughly startled, I sputteredthat I could no t say. My inability to state something I ha d actually known fora long time may have been a result of sudden nervousness, bu t I believe it 1istemmed from my utter absorption in taking in , in the literal sense of the ,.term, th e life of th e classroom. - = = , , , ~ - , " ; : : . . ' ~

To conSider a second instance, one morning ID April a science teacherwa s discussing with he r students a recent incident in which a student fromanother class had poured acid on th e belongings of a classmate. After expressing he r displeasure with the act, as well as he r concern fo r the boy whosethings were damaged, she asked students what should be done about it. Inth e midst of their discussion sh e suddenly turned to me an d said, "PerhapsMr. Hansen could talk to us about this. Startled out of my observatiortal mode,I walked to the front and posed a few questions about ho w students felt aboutth e incident. I wa s me t with curious looks and blank stares, as if hese seventh graders were thinking "Well, well, this guy who's been hanging ou t allthis time ca n actually talk. Very quickly, and in a natural an d matter-of-factway, the teacher elbowed me aside, retook the reins, and urged he r studentsto think about an appropriate sanction and to remember ho w important it isto respect one another's property and person. I slunk back to my seat, relievedto be out of the spotlight.

The incident occurred in the fourth month of the project, a time whenth e teachers and researchers were still becoming acquainted as participants.Just as I had a great deal still to learn about th e teachers and their work, so


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they did not yet perceive what I wa s doing in their classrooms. I di d no t ei-ther. In keeping with th e project's focus, I wa s iIl,terested in the everyday moraldimensions of what goes on in classrooms an d schools. But I di d not knowho w these dimensions would manifest themselves, no r even ho w to characterize them (despite or perhaps because of being reasonably well versed inmoral philosophy). I wa s attuned to familiar "moral" things such as how theteachers and students regarded and treated one another. But I wa s no t applyin g a preset moral theory that would help me categorize those things, no rwa s I testing a hypothesis. I did no t understand at the start of the project ho wto formulate a moral framework on teaching that would respect, at one andthe same time, broad educational values and the unrepeatable particulars ofteaching as a complicated, dynamic human practice. ( l am still working onthis task, for me a scholarly version of pursuing th e Holy Grail.) It was troubling and at times embarrassing no t to be able to offer th e teachers a clear,straightforward account of what I was only slowly, and in a piecemeal way,coming to identify. In those early months, things were so uncertain that th escience teacher simply assumed I must be a professional ethidst or moralauthority, somebody wh o could offer her and he r students superior expertise on matters of right an d wrong.

Jackson ha d shared with Boostrom and me the proposal that ha d securedfunding for th e project, which outlined in general terms th e experimental,open-ended, and long-term nature of he inquiry. The proposal di d no t specifywhat phenomena would be th e focus nor what framework of analysis wouldbe deployed to interpret them. In keeping with this approach, just as Jackson did no t offer observational checklists, so he did no t impose a particularmeaning or framework on the moral, Although my memory may be playingtricks here, it seems to me he actually steered ou r talk away from moral theories and philosophies, concentrating instead on our ow n observational reactions and speculation. We developed a abit of sharing conjectures about th epossible significance of what we were witnessing. Following Jackson's example, I learned to draw upon my readfug in philosophy, anthropology, andother disdplines, as well as upon fiction, p6etry, film, and more.

During one of ou r evening )l1eetings inJune, toward th e close of ha t firstyear of the project, several teachers expressed a feeling of being "left hang::..,ing" because they di d not know what I wa s "finding out" in their classrooms.They said they felt uncomfortable. The rest of th e group sympathized. Particularly since ou r project's focus wa s on th e moral life of schools, it wa snatural that th e teachers might feel they were being judged. And so they were,albeit no t in ways they might initially have imagined, no r in ways that I couldhave articulated at th e time. At this meeting, I responded to their concernsby saying that I wa s still trying to make sense of the moral import of he everyday exchanges and routines I wa s witnessing. I explained that I wa s no t zero-

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in g in on disputes, dilemmas, an d other dramatic events or issues that are th eusual focus' when th e topic of the moral comes up (and that many of ourevening conversations had pivoted around). But I could not be more spedfic.I simply did not know ho w to be . I recall eeling that th e intensity of my dailyobservations an d conversations wa s having an effect. It was shaping "the seerand the seen, " as Elkins might pu t it, bu t I ha d no language for capturing that l'

effect. Nor didJackson or Boostrom proffer such a language. Each was pursu-~ . '

in g hi s ow n particular interests related to the moral, which also centered !l. ~

around th e everyday world of the classroom. f-Over the ensuing summer, I wrote a paper on th e moral Significance of

classroom beginnings, those few minutes when teacher and students preparethemselves for th e day's lesson (Hansen, 1989). Jackson offered invaluablesuggestions an d ideas on this paper, my first as a qualitative researcher. Th etheme of the paper emerged from systematically reading th e pile of notes Ihad wri t ten based on my fieldwork (see below). Over th e months of observing, I had become increasingly aware of how productive some of the teachers' classes were. More an d more, these classes struck me as purposeful andengaging. Reading my collected notes, as i f they constituted a text in theirow n right, taught me that one reason for that feeling of purposefulness wa s

that th e teachers and their students got down to business in short order afterthe bell. They did no t dawdle, shuffle papers, goof around, or otherwise wastetime. They took ou t materials, pens, books, an d anything else they might needeven as they took their seats an d finished off conversations. In a nutshell, Icould see in my notes repeated evidence fo r the fact that th e teachers caredabout their work. They seemed to take advantage


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This outcome resulted, in part, from sharing my paper, bu t much more sofrom just being together more and more: at th e biweekly dinners and, aboveall, at lunch and at other breaks during th e schoolday when I wa s visiting.From the beginning of th e project, I had made it a habit to spend time withth e teachers after observing their classes and would talk for as long as theirschedules permitted.

During the second year of fieldwork, th e teachers had become so usedto my visits that, accordi ng to their testimony as well as my ow n observations,they took my presence in stride. We also talked more and more, although no tin so many words, about ou r various ways of perceiving th e world. For example, one of the teachers asked me at one of ou r evening gatherings thatsecond year whether I thought she had changed as a teacher. She explainedthat she herself was unsure about th e matter, even though th e project hadbeen stimulating he r to think in ne w ways about he r work and about what itmeant to be a teacher. I responded that I wa s seeing ne w things in he r practice but that I wasn't sure whether this fact meant that sh e had changed orwhether it signaled a change in me, such that I could no w see what wa s always there bu t did no t have eyes for before.

For me, th e ability to talk with th e teachers in more comfortable an d;, inquiry-oriented terms resulted no t only from ou r lengthy time together bu t/. also from th e extensive writing I di d throughout th e project. I took notes, ~ regularly while observing. I would jo t down words or phrases as certainit events and activities took place. At other times, I wrote rapidly in order to~ capture dialogue or to record th e precise sequence of doings. I kept track

of the range of activities undertaken during a class an d ho w much time wa sdevoted to them. That focus resulted, in part, from th e general orientationtoward the everyday mentioned above. I t also expressed, in retrospect, th efact that I had spent years at a previous job observing teachers who werelearning ho w to lead classroom discussions an d offering them highly detailedfeedback. Thus, I wa s drawing, in part, on habit (more on this below). Therewere also stretches of ime during which I simply watched and listened. Laterin th e day, after school wa s over, I would convert these field notes intolonger notes, describing activities at length an d generating questions ~ dprovisional interpretations. My wife and I had a frreplace in ou r apartment,and during th e long Chicago winters I would return from my fieldwork, lighta fire, and write fo r hours and hours.

In th e first year an d a half of the project, when I did th e bulk of my observational work, I took about 1,300 pages of field notes in 4-by-6 notebooks.I also recorded many hours of comments on a pocket tape recorder I kept inmy car, which I would talk into while particular scenes were still vivid. I converted these notes and recordings into over 600 8Z-by-11 pages of notes forreference use. I organized th e notes by teacher, by individual class, and by

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th e timing during class when particular acts took place. I numbered and datedth e notes sequentially. I described activities in narrative form and sometimesinterwove lengthy working interpretations. I kept separate files fo r eachschool, organizing sequentially an d by type th e many school events an d activities I witnessed. I also developed an annotated bibliography of what I readduring th e course of he project, including scholarly works in philosophy and

social science, as well as novels an d poetry. Finally, I kept a file that recordeddreams and other diverse reflections having to do with the project.

The upshot of all this observing, talking, an d writing wa s a perspectiveboth on teaching an d on how to study it that has served me through the presentday. Although I ha d done some school teaching before, and had also workedwith many, many teachers in other profession al capacities, I learned more aboutthe practice of eaching in this project than from all of hose experiences combined. That outcome wa s a function of th e longitudinal nature of th e project,of he insight of my dissertation adviser ]ackson and my peer Boostrom, and ofspending so much time with a group of emarkable teachers. Moved especiallyby]ackson's ever-present example, I ,learned a great deal about ho w to a t t e ~ dto and resp


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thrown into these worlds compelled me to expand my horizons of perception.Th e schools I attended had th e same impact. They featured teachers from allover the world, and there were children from near an d far as well. Th e schools'rituals and routines differed markedly from what I wa s used to in the UnitedStates, as did some of the teachers' styles. I remember a teacher, who wasfrom England, angrily shouting at a Nigerian boy, "Don't say 'What?' to m e -that's

whatAmericans

do!" Irecall

anotherteacher,

alsofrom

England,wh o

spent hours after school teaching me the multiplication tables so I could catchup with other pupils. I studied th e history of Britain and knew its kings an dqueens before I ha d ever cracked a textbook on American history. Like th eother pupils, at my wooden desk I used an old-style pe n that had to be dippedcontinually in an inkwell, a messy process (I went through countless sheetsof blotting paper) that inks me more with my grandparents than with today'schildren.

A difficult feature of these an d other moves while in grades K-12 wa sbeing wrenched from one group of friends an d suddenly parachuted into astrange, distant world where things had to start all over again (these werethe days before e-mail). That sometimes traumatic experience also compelledme to push my horizons of perception, i f only because I could no t presume

(nor could I pu t into words at th e time) what Jackson (1986) calls "the presumption of shared identity." I learned something about being a reader ofsubtle human cues in order to tune into th e cultural ethos. To echo a meta-

~ 1 1 ~ !phor from Clifford Geertz, .a ,person wh o wants to find his feet i n ~ 2 e t -' ~ ~ ~ting ha d better attend to nuance an d det:i.i:L .' " " ' .

" , Another consequence of hese journeys wa s discovering th e endless pos-sibilities of solitude. (Are those possibilities waning today because of e-mail?)I spent a lo t of im e on my own, especially before meeting ne w chums to hangaround with, bu t also ou t of habit. Th e poet Friedrich Holderlin (1990, p. 13 )evokes th e promise of solitude in his poem "When I Was a Boy":

When I was a boyA god often rescued me

From the shouts and.the rods of menAnd I played among trees and flowers

Secure in their kindnessAnd the breezes of heaven

Were playing there too.

And as you delightThe hearts of plantsWhen they stretch towards youWith little strength

"'\

On Seeing the Moral in Teaching

So you delighted the heart in meFather Hellos, and like EndymionI was your favorite,Moon. 0 all

You friendlyAnd faithful godsI wish you could knowHow my soul has l oved you.

Even though when I called to you thenIt was not yet wi th names, and youNever named me as people doAs though they knew one another

I knew you betterThan I have ever known them.I understood the stillness above the skyBut never the words of men.

Trees were my teachersMelodious treesAnd I learned to loveAmong flowers.

I grew up in the arms of the gods.

45

Holderlin makes plain that solitude does no t mean being solitary, like anatom in th e void. He speaks of learning to respond to th e voice of nature,endowed here with a beneficent intent infused into it, in turn, from th e"friendly an d faithful gods" whose presence mirrors back to th e bo y his senseof homage. Nature and th e gods have been his moral educators, teaching himho w to love even before he had th e "names," th e language, to describe hi seducation. No w he does have language. He is a poet with the words to sketchth e scene ofhis most fundamental instruction as a human being. That instruction was no t in customary knowledge and information, all "the words of men"that he could no t understand, perhaps because they were shouted at him,they were not "melodious," they were coercive (accompanied by th e rod)rather than invitational. Rather, th e knowledge he gained wa s th e grace ofgratitude for being, and he sings to his primordial teachers. He holds them inhis arms, which are th e lines of his poem.

Th e encompassing sense of gratitude that Holderlin describes can emerge ;:;W

from th e experience of solitude, understood as distinct from a state of exile, .r- --........ - - . - . - - - - . -

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llOnelineSs, or isolation. The experience is on e of pulsing in the very lap of. life. I part company with Holderlin in only on e aspect. Though I was a mi

grant from on e school to another as a boy, I do no t recall th e feeling of alienation from human institutions that Holderlin also evokes. Perhaps most of us

' ~ 1 n ," " , ~ ~ g ~ 2 ! -(though some relish it); w e learn to accept it, endure it, man-H1J age in it:even survive it. With its brick an d mortar an d bells and shouts, school~ i . ~ r :

is anything bu t a field of rees an d flowers. Solitude can be hard to find withinI. its walls; it is easier to be solitary. "How much more appropriate to strew

classrooms with leaf an d flower than with blood-stained birch-rods," wroteMichel de Montaigne. "1 would have portraits of Happiness there and Joy, withFlora and th e Graces" (Montaigne, 1592/1991, p. 186). Moreover, as To mJames writes (Chapter 7, this volume), school teaches many of us what William Golding portrayed in harrowing fashion in hi s Lord o f he Flies-thatchildren thrown together in school or elsewhere can bring considerable painto on e another.

But there is another side. For me schooling's moral impact was no t entirely problematic, no t solely a matter, fo r instance, of learning to fabricate apublic mask in order to hide private daydreams, musings, an d yearnings. Asrough-and-tumble as school was at times, I think 1 was fortunate to be surrounded day after day during those years by children from literally hither andyon. 1 learned a great deal about ho w to observe, adapt, play, an d talk.

While working in the Moralllie of Schools Project years later, 1 saw thatmy education both in and outside of school had been a process, at least in

t l ~part, of learning ho w to pay attention to th e everyday an d th e apparently,I:t\l ~ ordinary. 1 realized this was a habit in which I was at home, whether it in-~ l volves staring ou t a bu s window, walking alo.ng a forest path, watching a niece

or nephew at play, sitting in th e stands at a local basketball game where yo udon' t know anybody-or hanging o u ~in th e back of an unfamiliar classroom.The fact 1 became so swiftly absorbed in my school an d classroom observations during th e project, an d equally invested in th e solitude of writing an dreflection, reminded me that 1 was boUnd to th e human tapestry that is al

waysbefore us if we have

eyesto

see,i fwe're

willingto accept th e

metamorphoses to which Elkins refers.Th e sense of gratitude to the scenes of one's instruction can become sen

timental and obfuscate th e fact that) t depends on a sense of obligation. Thepainter Paul Cezanne provides a helpful perspective on ho w to step back from ~

\ th e sentimental and the consoling, and to remember that seeing th e world is \;j no t fantasizing about it bu t rather s being attentive to it. He says this about hisi artistic hopes: "A minuteill. thewoikl"s 1 i f ' e ' 1 ) ~ ~ ' ~ s rTo paint it in ts reality! And" forget everything for that. To become that minute , be the sensitive plate, .. .

give the image of what we see, forgetting everything that has appeared beforeou r time" (quoted in Merleau-Ponty, 196 4, p. 169; emphasis in original).


Cezanne's passionate ambition mirrors an ideal of qualitative researchwith its interest in "qualities" of human expression, action, accomplishment,failure, an d aspiration. Th e ideal ha s tw o parts. One is to capture those qualities in the moment of metamorphOSiS, as th e perceiver and perceived fuse.The other s to render them justly. Th e philosopher an d novelist Iris Murdoch(1970) sheds light on this dual challenge. In he r attempt to describe what it

means to be moral, sh e draws on the poet Rainer Maria Rilke's letters aboutCezanne. She writes: "Rilke said of Cezanne that he di d no t paint 1 like it', he Tipainted 'There it is'. This is no t easy, an d requires, in art or morals, a diSci-Jii~ (p. 59). "The greatest art is 'impersonal'," sh e goes on to write, " b ~ jJi,\cause it shows us th e world, our world and no t another, with a clarity which \startles and delights us simply because we are not used to looking at th e reaJ.......:world at all" Cp. 65). '"

Murdoch's claim discloses a second level of meaning in Elkins's distinction between seeing as metamorphosis an d as mechanism. In on e sense, asmentioned at the start of his essay, th e difference boils down to distinguishing biological operations of he eye from culturally an d linguistically informedperception. However, at another level these acquired ways of perceiving canthemselves become mechanical, with potentially deadening consequences.All too often, it seems, people look, judge, and move o n - a n d seldom lookagain. Their seeing is flattening rather than responsive. I see a teacher standing by he r door urging students to come in, sit down, and get organized, an d1 may see a busybody or somebody wh o enjoys power. However, if I' m willing to look again, 1 ma y discover that the teacher so values he r students an dtheir learning that sh e does no t have a moment to lose. In th e first instance,my seeing is mechanical, an unreflective result of a whole jumble of presuppositions I hold about teachers, schools, an d classrooms. In th e second instance, I'm moving beyond th e "I like it or dislike it" stance that Rilke criti cizesto on e guided by a question such as "W hat is this?"

Murdoch seeks to highlight th e genuine difficulty in learning to se e whatis there, rather than merely seeing. what we expect or want to see. That diffi

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culty findsexpression in

Cezanne's languageof becoming th e

passingminute,

being th e s e ~ ! ! i y t ; :plate, rendering of!,eself (metamorphosing) into an instru". . b' ~ \ ;I

ment capable of catching th e world in its passing form. When that transformationh"iippens,aS' it'does in Cezanne's oeuvre, both truth and justice areserved: truth because he ha s offered us insight into th e world and ou r expe- , ; '

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rience of t, and justice because, metaphorically speaking, he has let th e world l '

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speak to us rather than merely submitting it to ou r will, desire, or fantasy. He ..J-has no t pinned th e world to a wall with an a priori, fixed frame of reference(or, pu t differently, he ha s no t presumed the latter is th e only way to look).Rather than binding perception before it has even ha d a chance to try itselfout, he liberates it to engage a more fundamental source of obligation, namely,


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recognizing that th e reality of he world always exceeds th e terms of any framework or compound of theories.

Cezanne also expresses th e idea of a dialogue or transaction. In poeticterms, in order to listen to the world one also has to speak to it. Holderlincalls ou t to th e friendly gods, rather than passively awaiting their word.Cezanne, no t th e world, puts brush to canvas. He does so again an d again. He

,$ shows his work to othe:-s. He writes about it. HeH : ~ si ~ .

In sod o ~ ~ , _ e ! : ~ : : s

.~ J as i f the world needs his art as m ~ c : h .as he n e ~ d sIt. Rilke thouglft p ' ( ) _ ~ 1 : r y ' " " a f mooeor5peil if i!nhat not: oi:iJ.Y "iielp'us"t(5" s e i l i ~ " w o f l Q 'in ts i@1iY;butiithat the world needs to sustai n itself, espedally no w that humanity has gained

th e technological wherewithal to treat it as a mere thing rather than as a home.In his "Ninth Duino Elegy," Rilke (1923/1989) writes:

Here is th e time for th e sayable, here is its homeland.Speak and bear witness. More than everthe Things that we might experience are vanishing, forwhat crowds them out and replaces them is an imageless act.An act under a shell, which easily cracks open as soon asth e business inside outgrows it an d seeks ne w limits.Between th e hammers our heartendures, just as th e tongue doesbetween the teeth and, despite that,still is able to praise. (p. 201; emphasis in original)

Fo r Rilke, to praise is to name, just as Holderlin as poet learned to name~ " " ' _ ' : " ' ' ' ' ' , - ' ' ' : < : ' ' ' t ; , " , ' ~ ~ ~ ~ ' ~ " " . , .

his teachers an d his gratitude. It is no t just names, however, but the impulsebehind th e naming that counts. The ..sayabJe" encompasses everything wehave named- in a previous line, Rilke mentions "house, bridge, fountain,gate, pitcher, fruit-tree, window" - a n d ye t infused with a spirit of responserather than an ambition to grasp. Rilke's glance is no t backwards, no r is hea Luddite. He implies that we should go on building homes and bridges an d

!" ' vehicles an d all th e rest. But there is a way to do so with the moral purpose. ,;1' . _ -"_. :_. . . . _ . ~ , ~ ' . .. " . ~ - ' . - 'X:!! of treating th e world as a homeratherthan asasupermarket. We can treat!::J:,,the world as an e X i s t e r i t i a t p a r t i i . e r " t h ~ t ' " c a f i s t ; ; ~ s ; , - ; ; n a " " - m i k e s a claim uponJ}us, just as we make claims upon it. ~ e nRilke writes that "here" (rather

"j;han "now") is th e time for the'sayable, he means in hi s very poem itself,an d he means in all ar t and in all that might be artful in human life, which " "potentially encompasses th e entirety of our makings an d doings. Here is th e 'time for th e sayable. Gates, windows, fruit- trees-al l of i t - c a n become"Things" to praise rather than merely items to consume. We praise themwhen we attend to them, respect them, and see them within a totality ofmeaning. Th e capitalized T symbolizes Rilke's image of a wholly realizedlife of dwelling in th e world, a life in which humans and world sojourn to-


gether rather than in alienation from each other. The passing minute of theworld's life becomes no t fleeting bu t full. ,

Th e diarist Etty Hillesum, a deep admirer of Rilke's poetry, draws from r-his work _ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 2 . ! w ~ * ~ ~ . l _ a sif he world needs us humans to pre- !lJserve its meariirigs-and sustain its possibilities. Here is an entry from th e lastyear of her life (cut short at all to o young an age during World Wa r l) :

I want to carry you in me, nameless, and pass you on with a ne w and tendergesture I did not know before . . . I often used to think to myself as I walkedabout in Westerbork among th e noisily bickering, all too energetic members ofthe Jewish Council: if only I could enter a small piece of their soul. I f only Icould be the receptacle of their better nature, which is sure to be present n allof hem. Let me be rather than do . Let me be th e soul in that body. And I wouldno w and then discover n each one of he m a gesture or a glance that took themou t of themselves and of which they seemed barely aware. And I felt I was th eguardian of that gesture or glance. (Hillesum, 1981/1996, p. 202)

Hillesum's acute perceptiveness positions he r to discern th e humanity in herharried, hard-pressed, an d overworked colleagues. Her guardianship of thathumanity, in th e "nameless" gesture she creates n prose, issues from th e moral

responsiveness to he r world that she has learned to cultivate.Research articles are no t diary entries, just as they are no t paintings or

poems. It would be a genuine loss of light, clarity, an d instrumentality toconflate them. However, at least in some of its modes qualitative researchon teaching surely demands that th e inquirer b ~ c o m ea J5l!.ardian _otgesturean d glance, not out of a romantic urge to preserve th e unpreservable, no r ahagiograpruc impulse to gush, bu t rather out of a commitment to rendereducational significances. This ac t can, in turn, influence others to remem- ,be r to look and to attend.

No t everything in education needs flxing. Sometimes it 's th e perceiver'slens that most needs repair.

SEEING WITH

Gods, minutes, an d gestures. Things, guardians, an d gratitude. Holderlin, ' ~Cezanne, Rilke, and Hillesum share a solidarity with the unfathomable expe- 1i1rience of living, and they share a desire to understand. On e might say that (they learned no t so much t ~ _ ~ ? o k _ . ~ ~ _ ~ . < ; : ~ o r l d ~ ~ _ t ~"seS pith it"in a manner ' "that Maurice Merleau-Pont:y(1964) captures in describing some famous

l ~ ~j.

i ~ ~

20,OOO-year-old cave paintings in southern France:

Th e animals painted on the walls of Lascaux are not there in th e same wa yas th e fissures an d limestone formations. But they are no t elsewhere. Pushed


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'150 A Life in Classrooms

forward here, held back there, held up by the wall's mass they use so adroitly,they spread around the wall without ever breaking from their elusive mooringsin it. I would be at great pains to say where is th e painting I am looking at. ForI d o not look at it as I do at a thing; I do no t fi x it in its place . . . It is moreaccurate to say. that I see according to it, or with it, than that I see it. (p. 164;emphasis in original)

Seeing is metamorphosis, no t mechanism. Merleau-Ponty tries to formulate his sense that he is no t a spectator of he world bu t rather is a partidpantin it. He is no t a camera; he is a person. He can look "at" fissures and lime-

s tone formations an d call it a day-although even at that level his seeing hasalready been transformed, as th e very terms "fissure," "limestone," and "formation" imply (and a geologist might be gripped emotionally by those Things).As Merleau-Ponty notes, th e animals spread across th e walls. They move, undulate, and radiate. As he pays attention to them, they draw hi m in, an d in amore than metaphorical sense. In technical terms, i f he refused to give him-self over to them, he would no t see them in their ontological fullness. Th eanimals would instead be there "in th e same way" as th e rock and cracks uponwhich they are painted. Merleau-Ponty would leave th e cave th e same person he wa s when he entered. Seeing can remain mechanism.

Where are th e moral dimensions of teaching? Are they in the eye of the} beholder? Or are they there in th e classroom, "spread around" and over and~ in the actions of eachers and students? I f hey are there to be seen, ho w does~ one learn to see them? That question resided at th e heart of The Moral life of! Schools Project, and it was Philip ]ackson wh o made it possible for me to~ :engage it. His Socratic presence s ~ ta Qally example of what it means to be-1 ieve in th e worthiness of iUquiry ~ dto trust that one can learn to learn. Hi s1mode of inquiry suggested to me that giving free rein to human sympathies,~ disdpIined through a crudble of hard ,work, can help on e come to see th e

I" classroom world wi th th e moral, just as Merleau-Ponty learned to look wi th. ~ the paintings on the walls at Lascaux. I remember vividly what it felt like tot see the moralIife of a classroom move, undulate, and radiate. I could not write

1 hings down fast enough. .

\

hansen - on seeing the moral in teaching

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