The Frightening Power of Stories
Stories are the force which holds our society together. Money is such a story. It is pretty worthless - a piece of paper, a coin, a line of code on a computer screen. My money is all on my phone. If we all visited the bank to empty our accounts, it would no longer exist. The banks would no longer exist. Yet it is a fiction we have all chosen to believe, and so it works. Everything is built on this wonderful fiction.
I love stories. But, they also have the power to ruin us.
In the 1950s, every athlete knew the story of the four minute mile. It was a mark no one could reach. It was physiologically impossible. Scientists said so.
Dr Roger Bannister knew the story. But he didn’t believe in the ending, because he knew enough about the science of the body to think that he could rewrite it.
You know this story, right? He was the first person to run a sub 4 minute mile in 1954: 3.59.4
But soon the time became routine. In 1964, a 17 year old, Jim Ryan, destroyed Bannister’s time while still at school. He ran 3:55.3, and ran sub 4 minutes 5 times before he left school aged 18.
This begs the question, what could Bannister have done if there were no story at all? Was it the story that made him just beat 4 minutes, rather than run as fast as he could?
How far did the story he knew to be false still hold him back from writing a better ending?
School Narratives
Stories take hold with an iron, invisible grip. Imagine you are a headteacher. Important people visit your school, and they have a narrative about X. They are uncomfortable with X. They are convinced that if you change X, students will make more progress.
They haven’t tested this story. They might want to. But they want to confirm the story of X even more. So, they visit the school for the day. They look for problems with X in lessons.
Inevitably, they find it.
Look for anything in a lesson, and you’ll find it. The students not visibly engaging; the presentation in exercise books; the whispered conversation with friends; the slow to start writing … blah, blah, blah. To a greater or a lesser extent you will see it in every single lesson you ever visit.
You visit to test your story. But in reality, you only visit to confirm it. Psychologists call this confirmation bias.
But naming it implies that smart people can avoid it. So let’s call it what it also is - universal human nature. As inevitable and automatic as breathing, as story telling.
What Does it Look Like in Your School?
So, there are 4 characters in this story. To make sure no one can identify themselves, there’s a hippo, an elephant, a rhino and a whale in this story.
So, I am the Hippo with the head, who is the Elephant in our story. The Elephant and I visit a lesson being taught by the Rhino.
The Rhino has asked their students to try 3 paragraphs of writing. These all follow a structure which has been taught to them many times, in different year groups.
We instantly believe that having a really high scoring model of this paragraph structure in action would lead to better performance and understanding. The Rhino has not provided one.
So, we take a look at what students write. I ask the Elephant to also count every single student in the class, and tally those who do not start the writing. I do the same.
There are none.
As you would expect, there is wide variability in the quality, speed and depth of what the students write.
This is seen as proof of X. The Elephant has been given the story of X. The Elephant is convinced that the variability of what we are seeing is proof.
The Story of X Can Have a Different Ending
Ok, let’s look at what the teacher now does. The Rhino walks the room, looking at answers. They spot what we spot. So, they take a goodish example, and put it under the visualiser.
The Rhino highlights 3 good things in the answer, and points out two faults which are holding it back. The Rhino corrects these two faults under the visualiser.
The students go back to their writing. They try to correct for these two faults. As you would expect, we spot that there is variability in how they respond.
“This is proof of X,” says the Elephant.
The Rhino circulates again, allowing students to write enough to reveal their misconceptions, or their success. The Rhino then picks another student’s book and tells the class that they are seeing a lot of effort in trying to correct for these two faults.
They put the new book under the visualiser and begin to ask the class questions based on what is there.
We leave the room and retreat to the Elephant’s office.
Proof of X, says the Elephant. This is what is holding our school back.
We have a discussion in which I argue the case that if you look for X, you will find it everywhere. It is just a story powerful people have told us to believe. But it is not the real story.
Unsurprisingly, the Elephant trumps me - the Elephant has to answer to these powerful story tellers, I don’t. Trump, trump, trump.
Does the Story Make Sense?
Fortunately for me, I’ve met these stories all my teaching life. I have an ace up my crumpled hippo sleeve. It is progress data.
So, I say to the Elephant, what was the Progress 8 of the Rhino’s class last year? It was +0.85. But they had a top set.
Ok, I say. Let’s talk about the Whale. The Whale is one of the top teachers in the school. Anyone observing the Whale’s lesson is instantly impressed. The Whale has the class in the palm of its fin. Every lesson, every time. The Whale is made for Progress 8. The Whale had the other top set.
The Elephant looks up the Whale’s progress 8. It is +0.9.
Aside: (The Whale doesn’t use a visualiser, but makes up for this by having 16 more years of experience than the Rhino, who is only 4 years in).
Now, imagine if every teacher in the school taught classes with the Rhino’s level of Progress 8. Imagine the Rhino in 5 year’s time!
How to Write the Perfect Story
Teaching and learning in this school has never focused on X. Instead, it has named a range of techniques which can be summed up in two principles:
Make students work hard.
Check for misconceptions in their learning at every opportunity.
This, by the way, is my story. I believe in it 100%. If everything you do is focused on these two principles, the end writes itself. Students make great progress.
But I am always testing this. I am just as biased as everyone else. So, I look for evidence that I am wrong.
That is why I asked the Elephant about the Rhino’s progress. I know that the Rhino was a master at those two principles. My story said it would end with great progress.
Sure, the Rhino’s students might have learned more if they had studied a model first. But the Rhino had teaching techniques which overcame that error. These techniques were deliberate habits. Over time, they were bound to produce great progress.
I was still prepared to be wrong though. I was prepared for the Rhino’s progress 8 to be low. I was prepared for good Progress 8 to be explained away by setting. I was prepared for the story of X to be true.
But it wasn’t true. It isn’t true. Yet the story of X is everywhere.
What did the Elephant do Next?
Well, that’s an interesting question. Let me answer it by looking at what you would do.
Write down something you believe to be totally true about your teaching.
That’s X.
You’ve read this. Are you going to check your Progress 8, the assessment data of your classes in every year in relation to the classes taught by the rest of your team?
Are you going to look at my two principles and try to apply them as the most important aspects of your teaching?
Or, are you happy with the story of X? Would you rather ‘know’ that you are right than find out you might be wrong?
Psychologists call this confirmation bias. But naming it implies that smart people can avoid it. So let’s call it what it also is - universal human nature. As inevitable and automatic as breathing, as story telling.