Our Dean of Students was telling me today about a presentation he recently gave, in which he highlighted views expressed by students on what ‘independent learning’ meant. They essentially said that it meant ‘learning on my own’. The sense is of an ‘absence’ or ‘lack’ – so independent learning is the same thing that happens in a seminar, lecture or tutorial, just without the support that such contexts provide. Independence seems to mean isolation, not autonomy.
In the humanities, we emphasise the importance of independent study. It’s part of learning and practising our disciplines. It develops skills that we describe to students as valuable for their future lives: defining a problem or question, pursuing a line of enquiry, synthesising evidence, critiquing others’ interpretations, constructing an argument. The products of such a process – still often essays – provide the raw materials for assessing students’ academic achievement. Far from being a deficit model, independence is part of being intellectually resourceful and productive (which can be brought to bear not just in individual but also in collaborative work).
The apparent disjuncture between the student and the academic understanding of ‘independent learning’ could be a real issue, not least in terms of students’ capacity to develop that ‘graduateness’ that seems to be associated with an ability to be reflective and to take responsibility and ownership for learning.
Recent UH graduates Lewis Stockwell and Florence Afolabi’s reflections in their recent post on the Guardian learning and teaching hub on collaborative/partnership vs consumerist/transmission models of HE delivery seem relevant here. In a context where student satisfaction stands as the main indicator of ‘quality’, the belief that they’re just being ‘left on their own’ is a potentially damaging one. Maybe it’s akin to the perennial issue with feedback. Do we need to invest more in explaining what independent study actually is, what it looks and feels like, its dead ends and u-turns as well as its moments of insight and discovery – and, importantly, its place at the heart of academic practice? Or is something more fundamental involved? Can we square the circle and remodel and describe independent study in a way that enables students to develop academic initiative and independence and allows them to feel supported (and, yes, satisfied) in doing so?
A colleague just forwarded to me an invitation to an event run by the Alliance for Useful Evidence on the topic of ‘Broadening the evidence base: science and social science in social policy’. ‘Broadening’ by this account means drawing on ‘the distinctive contributions can the natural sciences, engineering and social sciences’ – presumably the disciplines that can offer ‘useful evidence’ (I can’t quite get Thomas the ‘really useful engine’ out of my mind here). The idea of ‘useful evidence’ seems to me to collude with the highly problematic proposition of ‘evidence-based policymaking’, with all its misunderstandings, elisions and conflations. Rather than challenge the proposition itself, ‘useful evidence’ here merely stretches the definition (a bit like adding letters to the acronym STEM to stake a claim for disciplinary significance).
The January session on ‘Experts, publics and open policy’ offers at first glance greater potential for a genuinely broader discussion. The agenda describes (in rather predictable terms) the divide between ‘hard evidence’ (from economics or science) and ‘public opinion and attitude’. So this should be one to which historians can ‘usefully’ contribute, particularly those who have been pioneers for various forms of history in public. But will they even be there to do so? The message seems to be that the debate about ‘useful evidence’ is not for us.
I find science and maths a real draw. I often listen to The Life Scientific, Material World and More or Less podcasts ahead of more predictable favourites Making History, The Long View and History Today (though maybe not Friday Night Comedy…)
It was interesting to hear the recent interview on TLS with Sunetra Gupta, novelist and professor of theoretical epidemiology, in which she refused to recognise a division between science and arts, only different ways to express ideas.
From this perspective, the early commitment of Hatfield Technical College to Liberal Studies seems ahead of its time. All students were to have 10 per cent of teaching time allocated to subjects such as History, Economics, Politics, Geography and Modern Languages. It was thought that educating the next generation of engineers and technologists in this balanced way would serve the national interest. So it was rather fitting that C P Snow became the then Hatfield Polytechnic’s first Visitor in 1972.
The humanities have since come into their own as the institution broadened its scope and the model of reserving time for accessing another ‘culture’ did not survive. Now it seems an unrealisable ideal – and student choice may be delivering a narrower range of experiences than was imposed in the 1950s. Would we now be prepared to mandate that all students should take a module a year from different Schools or Departments? What would be the demands on lecturers or the effects on the ‘home’ students? What would be the implications for students’ grades? Then again, if we did do it, what might be the returns?
While academics tend to have a strong sense of disciplinary identity, many of us also have an inclination for greater integration of different ways of expressing ideas. And these may well currently be manifested only in podcast preferences.
But there is often more than unites than divides us. I often find Alice Bell’s blog Through The Looking Glass setting off some mental sparks and work aligning scientific and historical method has proved hugely interesting and useful. The case for interdisciplinarity between ‘science’ and ‘arts’ in meeting some of the biggest challenges we face, such as climate change or an ageing society, is now being made in stronger terms. But how often do we actually bridge the divide? Or if we do, do we tend to contribute to the greater whole from our respective positions as specialists in our disciplines, rather than getting to ‘play in each other’s fields’?