The Measurement Problem

When Jonathan Swift wrote "A Modest Proposal" almost 300 years ago, he had a few targets in mind: absentee landlords, English politicians, an indulgent upper class. He was none too flattering about some of his fellow citizens, either, calling them out on domestic violence and drunkenness. But his famous satire had an additional target: social reformers who turned their pseudo-science on the problem of poverty and over-population and in trying to measure the problem created more misery. This is who he is referring to when he writes (on the bottom of the first page of the handout), "having turned my thoughts for many years upon this important subject, and maturely weighed the several schemes of other projectors, I have always found them grossly mistaken in their computation." One of Swift's points, even as he poses in the essay as a "projector" with a "scheme," is that it is almost as ghastly to see a starving infant and measure that suffering in terms of facts, figures and shillings as it is to propose to turn it into a "fricassee." Both practices turn a living being into a commodity to be consumed.

Over 100 years later, Dickens wrote Oliver Twist, which begins with a satire of England's Poor Laws and the pseudo-science used to address problems of English poverty. (Swift was perhaps smiling in his grave.) The novel's nightmarish "workhouse," where the orphaned, penniless Oliver spends his childhood, was designed not by sadists but by social reformers (though reading the novel, it is hard to tell the difference between sadists and social reformers as the scientists and politicians have figured out just how much gruel the starving children can get at each meal and Oliver, still starving, is severely punished for boldly asking for "more").

How do we measure social problems and what do our measurement tools say about us as a civilization?

This question was brought home to us today in class as Professor Stein, Lisa, Manny and Danielle recounted a recent panel discussion at the College and talked about the trend toward "evidence-based practice," a practice which emphasizes measuring the effectiveness of current programs in order to support good ones and eliminate bad ones. This seems as unobjectionable as wanting to measure issues like poverty and hunger in order to relieve them. But as we discussed in class, measuring is a complicated business: what do we measure? when do we start/stop measuring it? what gets left out of the process?

A story making the news today involves a high school in Rhode Island (link in "Check It Out" section on the blog). The school was failing and the superintendent was given 4 "models" to choose from in her task of turning the school around. One of the models involved firing all faculty and staff. Evidence to support this dramatic decision came in the form of studies which measured things like student proficiency at math (only 7% by 11th grade), retention rates (almost half the students dropped out), and academic performance (many students were failing at least two classes). Even as a teacher, I gotta admit this is some pretty gnarly data. But what these studies don't measure is that over half the students are living under the poverty line, and that many are non-native English speakers. One student, living with a single mom who works long hours in a factory, says that her teachers were the only constants in her life. How do you measure that?

These are questions for our own school as well as all departments are gearing up for review in a few years and need to perform and document elaborate "outcomes assessments." That is jargon for figuring out how well we do what it is we think we're doing. Just like "evidence-based practice," that seems pretty common sense, pretty unobjectionable. And I can imagine some measurement tools for what I do: essay exams, a certain kind of paper assignment, good attendance and solid student grades. But when I really think about why I do what I do -- to make students happy and engaged for a couple hours a week, to turn a student into the kind of person who can't put a book down, who is capable of greater empathy because he/she has learned through literature to understand how other people feel, who understands the power and satisfaction that come with being able to express oneself clearly and intelligently, and who maybe doesn't fully understand the impact of a class until, 15 years later, when he/she is reading to his/her own child -- how do I measure this? In answer, my own modest proposal that we measure how well a student retains a piece of literature by weighing the student, turning the book into a "fricassee," feeding it to the student and then weighing the student afterwards. (I profess, in the sincerity of my heart, that I have not the least personal interest in endeavoring to promote this necessary work, as I have already eaten all of my own books.)

Authorithy and Textbooks

What makes a good textbook? I think that we can all agree that a textbook is supposed to provide its readers with the facts. The purpose of a textbook is to teach its readers. However such books that would keep a student engaged and interested are those that have a strong viewpoint and argument. Does that make these books opinionated and to some extent biased?

I always thought that the educational system and process in today’s society (at least in the cultures I’ve been exposed to)is a very dangerous thing. I could go as far as to state that it just seems as another way to defend “their” financial interests. Is it just a business to have students interested in one topic and have these students develop into “experts” who then continue to focus their efforts on what someone else already did because no one speaks of “the truth”? But that statement just seems like a scapegoat, who is “them” anyways? After all, the passing of these experts means that “they” would be dead as well.

It is important to recognize however that we learn by what someone older than us teaches us, our parents, our teachers, religious figures, if any in our lives, politicians, and our professors. Essentially, someone tells us what they have been thought and that is how we learn. We take their words, and consequently their opinions as facts, and therefore our realities. Is that healthy?
Our whole childhood we are thought to take what is said to us to be true. In school we are forced to accept what our teachers tells us. It is not until we realize that the teacher spelled Mexico as Mejico and would not correct it once brought to her attention that we lose that bit of innocence. We open our eyes when we notice the teacher referencing to her teaching manual for algebra because not even she knows this stuff and that is when we realize that our teachers are not an obsolete, all knowing and righteous entity, but a human being just like us. What effect does that have on a developing individual?
As we continue our education it is not until college that we are asked to seek for other’s opinions and then think of our own position on things. Is it then, the responsibility of the student to go and seek his or her own truth and isn’t that truth really to some extent someone else’s already? When do we break free and create our own authority? Is it when we can impose our biases on others?


Finally during this week’s class we heard all sorts of terrible anecdotes about teachers and the impact that their words have on their students. Should teachers be better trained to deal with our children, and shouldn’t they be paid more for the responsibility they hold?

LAW And MORALITY

In his book the “Myth of Moral Justice: Why Our Legal System Fails to Do What’s Right” Rosenbaum, captures his readers with his analytical take on the failures in the legal system. In his first chapter he discusses and dissects the split between the moral and the legal, bringing to the reader’s attention the “avalanche of moral corruption and cynicism” in our legal system. He stresses how the legal system is willing to overlook many things because the concern isn’t solely serving justice but instead making progress on caseloads. And stresses that our legal system’s “path to justice” is the “soul crushing and dehumanizing” of the individual because justice is simply an “answer to injury, even if unjust”. All that matters is that the ruling be “legally correct”.
Rosenbaum questions the idea of the morality of the countless lawyers and judges (the difference between what’s right and what’s wrong), many of whom know the difference but regardless choose to become influenced by the “treadmill towards resolution” in legal process, where truth loses a bit of its essence. Therefore, I would like to pose two questions; is it possible for courts to align their legal decisions with morality? Would you be one of those individuals who would give into a mob mentality and set aside your morality or would you take a stand and speak out against the unjust?

From Both Sides Now

We wrapped up class on Thursday by talking about the death of Howard Zinn. Professor Waterston mentioned an interview on Democracy Now! with several authors who knew, worked with and were influenced by Zinn. Author Naomi Klein was quoted near the end of the interview talking about Zinn's legacy: "Thinking about it the day after the State of the Union address, Howard's message was don't believe in great men, believe in yourself; history comes from the bottom up. And that -- we have forgotten how change happens in this country. We think that you can just vote and that change will happen for us. And Howard was just relentlessly reminding us, no, you make the change that you want."

I was also thinking about Obama's State of the Union address and reflecting on this week's cover of The New Yorker (Feb. 1, 2010, shown here), that has Obama walking on water and then in the final frame falling with a splash. I am someone who (still) believes in the greatness of Obama (though my image of our first Hawaiian president was more of him surfing rather than walking on the water), but also believes in "Howard's" message that "history comes from the bottom up." Where does the power to change come from? Is it a combination of good leadership and grassroots, or does the idea of the Great Man/Woman prevent the kind of social change Zinn called for?

(The historian in me feels compelled to say that we are returning to a familiar blog question here. If you are interested in checking out the blog archives, you'll see that we raised a similar question about heroes in the very first blog post.)