Karen E. Norum, Ph.D.
University of South Dakota
knorum@sundance.usd.edu
 

There is a conversation or discourse (I use these terms interchangeably) happening related to our public education system. Many of us seem to agree that the current system could stand to be improved. The conversation seems to center around what this "improvement" should look like. Is it possible to take what exists and make it better (Berliner & Biddle, 1995; Elmore, 1990)? Or is the system in need of transformation rather than improvement (Banathy 1992; Capra, 1996; Merz & Ferman, 1997; Reigeluth, 1994; Sarason, 1990; Waddock, 1995; Wagner, 1993)? These decisions appear to lie primarily in the hands of policy makers and school staff professionals because of how the education system is structured (A. A. Carr, 1995). Much of the existing literature related to this conversation is about how a policy effected systemic change in a school or how a school staff professional (usually a board member or administrator) effected change (A. A. Carr, 1997). Rarely do we hear from people outside of the school system?parents, childless taxpayers, the general public. Yet these people talk about the public education system and have their own discourse. They have stories about their experiences with the public education system, stories which serve to influence their current perceptions of the education system.

Practical wisdom is embedded in these stories (Fine, 1994; Schwandt, 1993); wisdom that can be authentically engaged in conversations about educational systemic change. According to Wheatley (1992), "We cannot hope to influence any situation without respect for the complex network of people who contribute to our organizations" (pp. 144, 145). A complex network of people generates systemic change in our schools and communities. Parents, students, community members along with school employees all are stakeholders involved in bringing about meaningful systemic change in the public education system. By bringing stories of people's experiences with the education system to the forefront, it is possible to begin to see connections between divergent concerns. As an example of divergent concerns, while parents of school-age children in general have a discourse, not all parents share the same discourse. Minority parents or different socio-economic groups have a sub-discourse, specific to their needs, experiences, and perceptions (P. Jenlink, personal communication, February 14, 1997). One of the challenges in educational systemic change is to bridge the sub-discourses to their community discourse and then bridge those different communities of discourse. Beyond bridging the different discourses, a further challenge is to then authentically engage this polyphony of voices in dialogic conversations about educational systemic change (P. Jenlink, personal communication, February 14, 1997).

Identifying and bridging these connections has implications for the systemic change process in education: under what circumstances do people see themselves as being able to influence the systemic change process? What direction for the systemic change process might come from the practical wisdom of others? To what extent is that wisdom authentically engaged in educational systemic change efforts?

I had the opportunity to explore these issues while conducting my dissertation research (Norum, 1997). Using a narrative approach?the nonfictional educational story (Barone, 1992)?four types of voices told stories of their experiences with the education system. In addition, I found my own voice telling a story.

Using Method to Give Voice

Stories are all around us and provide a rich source for research. "Humans are storytelling organisms who, individually and socially, lead storied lives" (Connelly & Clandinin, 1990, p. 2). Narratives are created quite naturally as we make of sense of and give meaning to events in our lives (Chase, 1995; Connelly & Clandinin, 1988; Cortazzi, 1993; Mattingly, 1991; Polkinghorne, 1988; Reason & Hawkins, 1988). We are surrounded by narrative knowing as we learn to read stories in school, learn about important historical events, watch movies and TV shows, tell a friend or spouse how our day went (Polkinghorne, 1988). A "nonfictional educational story" is a narrative. It is nonfictional in that it is based on events that really happened and/or experiences people really had. It is "educational" in this case because the setting is the education system and what emerges may persuade readers to rethink their own role or situation (Barone, 1995) related to systemic change efforts.

Nonfictional educational stories are typically found in popular literature and are composed in the style and format of literary journalism (Barone, 1992). They focus on human experience and "bring theoretical ideas about the nature of human life as lived to bear on educational experience as lived" (Connelly & Clandinin, 1990, p. 3).

Telling stories is a very human thing to do and we all have stories. In fact, telling our stories might be the most human thing we do. By telling stories, we remember our past, invent our present, revision our future, discover compassion and create community with kindred souls (Keen & Valley-Fox, 1973).

For my dissertation, I sought to capture the complex network of people who contribute to the organization we call the education system. I especially endeavored to share stories from people who do not have direct connections to the education system as this voice appeared to be underrepresented in the literature. The voices I looked for were those belonging to childless taxpayers, homeless parents or students, parents, and teachers. I found two childless taxpayers, one from a higher economic status to contrast with the voice of the homeless; a homeless student and young homeless parents; a brand new parent and a parent whose children have been attending public schools for a number of years; a full-time teacher and a substitute teacher.

Their stories were presented as a nonfictional educational story (Barone, 1992) about educational systemic change. This particular form of qualitative research creates a space for and values personal voice and the sharing of personal perspectives (Greene, 1995; Munro, 1993). It celebrates the uniqueness of divergent voices and the practical wisdom embedded in those voices. It opens the door for a polyphony of voices to be heard. The form paints a different kind of picture, allowing for different and possibly new kinds of understandings (Barone & Eisner, 1997). It also holds promise for making research studies appeal to a wider audience, thus potentially impacting educational practices, policies, public support, and systems (Zeller, 1995).

A Polyphony of Voices

Through the process of crafting the nonfictional educational story that became my dissertation, I struggled with where and how to place my own voice. Fine (1994) reminds us that researchers are not transparent and particularly in this type of research, they are "chronically and uncomfortably engaged in ethical decisions about how deeply to work with/for/despite" their storytellers (p. 75). Narrative research is essentially a study of experience (Clandinin & Connelly, 1994). My challenge was to craft an authentic story that maintained the integrity of the individual narrator's experience. Yet, because as the researcher, I sought out the stories, my voice became entangled with that of the others (Denzin, 1997). There is a danger that a story then becomes "a form of social and political prioritizing, a particular way of telling stories that in its way privileges some story lines and silences others" (Goodson, 1995, p. 94). Cortazzi (1993) adds,

The teller is not the only person telling the tale. The listener also shapes the story. Questions too, determine the direction and emphasis of the narrative. Even interviewer silence can have its meanings (p. 21). If the researcher chooses what to describe, she cannot remain neutral (Eisner, 1991). In fact, it is the researcher's intentionality that defines the starting and stopping points of the story (Clandinin & Connelly, 1994). Hatch and Wisniewski (1995, p. 131) tell us oftentimes, "the loudest voice is that of the author." An author's passions and prejudices not only motivate but accompany their writing (Webster, 1996). This makes for a "messy" text: "The writer-as-scribe for the other also becomes a cultural critic: a person who voices interpretations about the events recorded and observed" (Denzin, 1997, p. 225).

To reflect rather than distort (Price, 1996) the narrator's story, active collaboration between the storyteller(s) and the researcher is required. Casey (1995-96) advises, "interviewers need to respect the authenticity and integrity of narrators' stories, to see them as subjects creating their own history rather than as objects of research" (pp. 231-232). The researcher and storyteller must work together closely to come to a shared understanding of the narrator's story. It is a process of collaboration "involving mutual storytelling and restorying as the research proceeds" (Connelly & Clandinin, 1990, p. 4). The researcher is then responsible for faithfully reproducing that story (Blumenfeld-Jones, 1995; Goodson, 1995; Lincoln, 1993). As researchers, we must remind ourselves of Josselson's (1996) statement: "No matter how gentle and sensitive our touch, we still entangle ourselves in others' intricately woven ... tapestries" (p. 70).

In order to faithfully reproduce the stories I gathered, I strove to craft a text that corresponded to the lives of the storytellers and was authentic. Authenticity meant that the text would not only be faithful to the story lines provided by the storytellers; it also needed to convey the "feeling tone" of the lives involved, inviting the reader into a vicarious experience (Barone, 1995; Lincoln, 1993).

Because I share Etter-Lewis' (1996) view that storytellers are the authorities of their own life stories, I asked most of my storytellers to write their own narrative, using guidelines I provided. By using much of their narrative as is, as researcher, I became responsible for creating a space where the storyteller(s) could act and speak on their own behalf (Casey, 1995-96). This approach set up a dialogic process where I strove to clarify my understanding of the storyteller's story (Bohm, 1990; Casey, 1995-96; Lincoln, 1993).

After I received the written narratives, I followed up each one with a recorded interview. Thus, while each person was given similar guidelines for the narrative, each follow-up interview was unique. Each storyteller was provided the re-storying of their story, i.e., my version of their narrative as it would be presented in the context of the dissertation. Questions I had or ideas I desired more detail on were pointed out. The purpose of the interview was two-fold: it allowed me the opportunity to clarify fuzzy points; ask the storyteller to provide more detail about something in the narrative; and get responses to questions that weren't addressed in the narrative. It allowed the storyteller to also clarify and/or provide more detail about something he/she had written. The interviews also reinforced the dialogic aspect of this research: many times, we puzzled together over common concerns related to the education system.

Each interview was transcribed, word for word, utterance by utterance, and this data was incorporated into the draft story. This re-storying of the story was also shared with each storyteller for their comments. Each had the liberty and authority to change their actual words and comments on the chapter in general were welcomed. This continued the dialogic relationship as the research continued beside each person.

WORKS of Art; Works of ART

In the end, the nonfictional educational story I authored was a reflection of what was important to the storyteller(s) as well as me (the researcher). I chose to use the word "wisdom" to describe the insights, knowledge, and experiences captured in these stories. However, not every word uttered or shared in each story was always a "wise" or profound one. I left it up to the reader to determine if in fact there was "wisdom" embedded in the stories told and if there was, where was it? As a researcher with intentionality, I had to make that same determination. Based on my experiences, perceptions, knowledge, and intentionality, out of all the data collected, I chose what wisdom was "expendable" for purposes of the dissertation. In the end, what you read is not all the narratives and interview data collected. I had to make decisions about what to include for the dissertation and what to leave out.

Consequently, this dissertation was a WORK of art (T. Barone, personal communication, January 1997) as a story honoring the wisdom of these storytellers (as well as my own) was carefully crafted. These storytellers worked to provide a narrative both they and I would be pleased with; I worked to analyze the data contained in these stories, seeking guidance from the literature on narrative as research and from those who have pioneered this type of research.

It also was a work of ART (Barone, personal communication, January 1997) as I made artistic decisions inherent in this type of research: how best to re-present the data? Early in the process, I encountered a message design issue: how to clearly delineate the storyteller's voice from that of my own. Nonfictional educational stories are new enough that a preferred format does not yet exist to address this particular dilemma. Options considered included using a different font, margin adjustment, single spacing, or the use of italics. Because this was a dissertation, there was also the complication of considering what the Graduate School would accept. Because the passages in the storyteller's voice(s) are lengthy and also because it was what the Graduate School indicated would be acceptable, the message design issue was addressed by using italics for the storyteller's voice.

Another artistic touch came from my skiing adventures, which lead me to use a skiing metaphor as an underlying theme. I compared educational systemic change with skiing down a difficult, mogul-filled run. An excerpt follows:

Welcome to the terrain of (educational) systemic change! Like Outhouse, this terrain can be enticingly deceptive. On the surface, the issues look manageable?just as Outhouse looks manageable from the top. But, instead of jeep-size moguls that swallow you, we find issues that are so complex, their complexity cannot be fully fathomed until you are caught in the midst of them. Once caught in the midst of them, there are no easy routes out. Just as I found a guide to get me down Outhouse, we need guides to get us through the complexity of educational systemic change. In this nonfictional educational story (Barone, 1992), those guides will be found in the form of divergent voices, voices that are familiar with different aspects of the overall terrain. Just as there is more than one specific way to get down Outhouse, there is more than one way to negotiate through the complexity of educational systemic change (Norum, 1997, pp. 8-9).

A Creative Weaving of Threads

After collecting the data and writing the individual stories, I was left with a common researcher's dilemma: So what? What did it all mean? How to pull it all together? After all, it is expected that a dissertation will have a "conclusion" or "findings" section! As I reflected on what I had "found," I realized I had heard several themes entwined. Each voice had spoken independent of the others, yet similar themes emerged, creating a rich and complex pattern. While several themes emerged, I chose to focus on a duet of themes that materialized for me to bridge the different discourses: "School is boring. What is its purpose anyway?" These themes are snapshots of the conversations taking place related to educational systemic change.

I found the theme "School is boring" in the words of the storytellers. Here are two examples:

It was more like babysitting sessions and boring. No challenges. And you would just sit there.

For example, in high school, how many times do you really get to say anything?! I'm a talker, and I think the biggest challenge is just having to shut up. Fifty minutes, every class, and listening to one person go on and on and on. About whatever they decided they were going to go on about. (Douglas Morton, childless taxpayer)

It's just you know like "sit in a class," you know, "listen," you know they [the kids] feel like they're in church probably! It's like, you get tired of listening to this person just tell you this and tell you that; write this, do this, do that. (Tristan Welton, homeless high school drop out)

These words spoke to the structure of public school many of us seem to have come to accept: "learning" is organized into approximately 50 minute units, in which students compete for a grade as a symbol of how well they have learned (Perelman, 1992; Postman, 1993).

The second part of the duet, "What is its purpose anyway?," emerged from my familiarity with chaos and complexity theory. According to chaos and complexity theory, every system has a referential core: its heart; the thing that keeps the system from losing its integrity while reaching out and taking on new forms (Capra, 1982; Wheatley, 1992b). It is where the qualitative features of the system live (Capra, 1996). This core defines the system and identifies its purpose. Stories people tell about their interaction with an organization, whether it is a retail store, a governmental bureaucracy, or a public school, reflect characteristics of the perceived referential core of that organization. The stories I heard reflected characteristics of the perceived referential core of the education system:

There seems to be confusion over what's important to teach: they teach world awareness and humankind's fate instead of the basics. (Elaine Madison, childless taxpayer)

Well who's responsibility is it to make sure this kid gets a nutritious meal? I know that's a teeny tiny example but that was something that was brought up in one of the [CDM] meetings: should we have a little fund in case kids forget their lunch money? How do you know they forgot it? How do you know they didn't go buy a candy bar? While on the surface it seems providing a fund would be an easy solution, it ends up encompassing so many issues, including where does the role of the school end and that of the parent begin? (Janise Wyatt-Edmunston, new parent)

These excerpts suggested a lack of clarity about what the real, core purpose of the current education system is. This is supported by the literature (see Bestor, 1985; Brown, 1991; Buehrer, 1995; Giroux, 1988; Postman, 1995). One way to restore clarity about the purpose of the education system is to understand why and in what way education is vital to us (Bestor, 1995). Once that is identified, we will have the choice to consider what we want the referential core of the educational system to be in the future.

In the stories told, I heard visions of what the educational system could be and share two excerpts here:

...what we gotta do is make a better future for our children. And the only way to do that is to make school better?more activities, things to do that are interesting (Gillian Sherwood, homeless high school drop out and teen parent)

So I would say "prepare" for their futures but even more than preparing, I would say "care" about the kids. (Micayla Palmer, teacher)

As I heard these words of wisdom, I found myself frustrated and somewhat angry that these voices and many more like them are not heard in the current discourse about educational systemic change. Yet what they have to offer is insightful and powerful. Often, these words of wisdom spoke to practical concerns of the general public, indicating a keen sensitivity to changing circumstances and an awareness that as the social environment changes, the education system must also change. As I pondered how to describe what was happening with this "wisdom," I came up with a construct: "Expendable wisdom." I define "expendable wisdom" as knowledge that is not worth salvaging; not critical to the discourse; not sought out or listened to. Intelligence that is ushered out of the system.

One of my conclusions became that to identify a referential core and then determine how that referential core will be expressed in a given school and community, people have to be invited to the conversation. Then they must be included by having a voice. And finally, they must know they have been truly heard. They must be assured that their wisdom is not considered expendable. These components (being invited, being included, and being heard) comprise "authentic engagement" in the discourse. I then elaborated on the construct of "expendable wisdom" and how to authentically engage stakeholders in the current discourse on educational systemic change. I continued to use excerpts from the individual stories to reinforce my points.

Hearing ALL Voices

I entered the current conversation about the education system with a viewpoint: a large body of practical wisdom has been deemed expendable by neglecting and/or ignoring the voices of childless taxpayers, the homeless, parents, and even teachers. I revealed my bias by including a chapter that told my own story of my experiences with the public education system. Through the process of crafting a multivoiced, coherent, nonfictional educational story, I saw that "people bring a wide and diverse range of assumptions and tacit ways of understanding the world to any conversation" (Isaacs, 1996, p. 20). These assumptions and ways of understanding are revealed through people's stories. Stories have a certain engaging power and by giving voice to them, we are invited to come to know the world as others see it and reconsider how we ourselves see it (Witherell, 1995).

I was asked if I thought wisdom was inherent in stories; if all stories are always wise? While in these particular stories, I would not deem every word "wise" or profound, I found words of wisdom (keen insights) in each one of them. I found wisdom based on my experiences, perceptions, and knowledge. For me, this is closely related to the criteria for validity: if something makes sense, is believable, and is persuasive, for me, it is also "wise." I also discovered that even if some of the content of a story was not wise (in my opinion), as I thought about why the person was saying what they did, wisdom emerges from that dialogic interaction with the story. Wisdom also emerged from working beside these storytellers: although it was my intention that determined what to leave out and what to use out of the data collected, as the stories were restoried in the process described above, the storytellers witnessed this intentionality unfold and still had the opportunity to ensure that their story was being authentically re-presented.

Qualitative research itself is a recursive, dynamic process, the results of which we cannot predict (Ely, 1991; Chase, 1996). For me, it is an exploration of the endless star (Lintschinger & Capra, 1990). One way to explore the endless star is through personal experience methods of research, which have the power to make connections beyond the traditional academic research community to the fundamental human experiences of life (Clandinin & Connelly, 1994). The nonfictional educational story allows research to serve the community and open up conversations with a public audience (Barone, 1992; Clandinin & Connelly, 1994; Richardson, 1994). The method also has the power to make heard a polyphony of voices; voices that need to be heard in the current conversation about educational systemic change. At a minimum, we all bring experiential knowledge to this conversation; however, when we turn away from people's words by deeming them "expendable," we erase them. "With that erasure [people] are not able to see [themselves] as a speaking subject worthy of voice" (hooks, 1994, p. 149). All voices are worthy of being heard. The challenge is to continue to explore research methods that will allow us to hear voices?ALL of them.

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