the claims: NSPCC briefing on home education

logicalincrementalism

The NSPCC briefing Home education: learning from case reviews claims to consist of ‘learning about child protection pulled from the published versions’ of seven Serious Case Reviews (SCRs) published between 2008-2013. In this and subsequent posts, I want to focus on the patterns of events that emerge from the case reviews, but I’ll also refer to examples of what happened to specific families or specific children. I’ve numbered the cases to anonymise the children as much as possible, but have linked to the published versions of the SCRs. I’ve listed brief details of each case below for reference.

Family 1 2007 serious maltreatment of adopted children
Child 2 2008 non-accidental poisoning with prescription drug
Child 3 2009 unexplained death
Child 4 2010 death due to severe malnutrition
Child 5 2011 suicide
Child 6 2012 death due to natural causes
Family 7 2013 neglect, and sexual abuse of adopted child

In…

View original post 1,821 more words

Advertisements

NSPCC briefing on home education: the law

logicalincrementalism

In March this year the NSPCC published a briefing entitled Home education: learning from case reviews. It’s based on seven Serious Case Reviews (SCRs) published since 2008 ‘where elective home education was highlighted as a key factor’ and ‘consists of learning about child protection pulled from the published versions of the reports’.

I got the impression from the briefing that the seven cases involved tragic situations in which parents had neglected or abused children and that home education had played a significant role in that neglect and abuse. The picture painted by the SCRs themselves is somewhat different. In only three cases was there unambiguous evidence that parents and carers were directly responsible for the harm the child suffered. In only one case were local authorities unaware of the challenges faced by the families or of the risk to children. There were several examples of healthcare actually contributing to…

View original post 1,820 more words

Gilbert Ryle and the brain

During a recent Twitter conversation I was urged to read philosopher Gilbert Ryle’s book The Concept of Mind, written just after WW2. ryle

The conversation was about the purpose of speech and evolved into a discussion of brain function. I enjoyed reading Ryle’s book – he thinks incisively, has a dry sense of humour and a strong sense of the absurd – and I think I grasped at least the key points of his argument.

On the mind

If I’ve understood him correctly, Ryle is saying:

1. When we talk about bodies and minds as if they are the same sort of thing, we make a ‘category error’. Even if we talk about bodies and minds as if they are the same sort of thing, we can’t infer that the mind exists in the same way as the body exists. A body is a publicly observable thing; we can see it, touch it, measure it, weigh it. We can’t do any of those things to minds; a surgeon couldn’t dissect out someone’s mind from their body. Ryle illustrates the point by comparing the clause ‘she came home in a flood of tears’ with ‘she came home in a sedan chair’; both clauses might be true, but they are true in different ways.

2. We use the term ‘mind’ to refer to a particular set of things that people do – thinking, feeling, knowing etc. But thinking, feeling and knowing are characteristics of people, in the same way as brittleness is a characteristic of glass. We might say ‘the glass broke because it was brittle’, but we don’t mean that the fact that the glass was brittle caused it to break; something else was the cause – like a stone striking the glass, or it being dropped.

3. Similarly, when we say “Jill stormed out of the room because she was angry” we don’t mean that Jill felt anger in her mind and the anger caused her to storm out of the room, we mean that something happened to make Jill feel angry and also to make her storm out of the room – someone was rude to her, perhaps. We don’t have to introduce a hypothetical construct like ‘mind’ in order to explain Jill’s feeling or her behaviour.

Having demonstrated that the concept of mind itself is flawed – it isn’t a thing inside human beings but a label that we attach to certain human activities, Ryle goes on to explore the far-reaching implications for the way we construe knowledge, will, emotion, sensation, intellect etc. I was with him up to this point.

On the brain

What was noticeable about The Concept of Mind is that Ryle hardly mentions the brain, except in respect of psychologists studying patients with brain damage. One could argue, with justification, that Ryle isn’t writing about the brain, he’s writing about the mind, or more accurately, the non-existence of the mind. Others have argued that the brain and the mind are the same thing, but that idea poses a problem if you don’t think the concept of ‘mind’ is necessary to explain thinking, feeling, knowing or behaving. So where does the brain come into all this?

Philosophers, brains and education

Philosophy isn’t my field, but I had come across Ryle previously. When my son started school, he was identified as having ‘special educational needs’. Years ago, when I was teaching, I’d taught kids like my son, and even more years ago had gone to school with kids like him, and I was puzzled as to why his not uncommon difficulties with literacy and numeracy seemed to be posing such a challenge for the education system. So I started reading up on the subject. One book I read was Deconstructing Special Education and Constructing Inclusion by Gary Thomas and Andrew Loxley, published in 2001. We were getting along swimmingly until chapter 4, ‘Thinking about learning failure, especially in reading’. Here, the authors questioned the existence of phonological awareness, a key concept in some models of learning to read, and they drew on the ideas of Ryle, Willard Van Orman Quine and Ludwig Wittgenstein, all philosophers of language, in support. Thomas and Loxley appeared to acknowledge the involvement of the brain in learning, but didn’t seem to know much about what happens in the brain during learning. They claimed, for example, that “When we learn to drive, we do just that: learn to drive – and we do so in a car, on a road” (p.69). From the perspective of a casual observer, maybe. But at the level of the brain, there’s a great deal of complex activity going on whilst learning to do something like drive a car. And of course some people don’t learn to drive however hard they try, and others can’t because of brain damage or physical disability.

Thomas and Loxley’s model of learning appears to be one in which the brain is an amorphous mass. For example, they cite Wittgenstein’s observation of seeds where he says;

nothing in the seed corresponds to the plant which comes from it: so that it is impossible to infer the properties or structure of the plant from those of the seed … so an organism might come into being even out of something quite amorphous, as it were causelessly; and there is no reason why this should not really hold for our thoughts.” (p.69)

Wittgenstein made this observation in 1947, two years before Ryle wrote The Concept of Mind. He prefaced his comment by being quite explicit about brain function:

No supposition seems to me more natural than that there is no process correlated with associating or thinking; so that it would be impossible to read off thought-processes from brain-processes. I mean this: If I talk or write there is, I assume, a system of impulses going out from my brain and correlated with my spoken or written thoughts. But why should the system continue further in the direction of the centre? Why should this order not proceed, so to speak out of chaos?” (Klagge p.98)

Thomas and Loxley also base their claim for the non-existence of phonological awareness on work by Karl Lashley and Antonio Damasio (p.70). In the 1950s Lashley had concluded that the ‘engrams’ he believed encoded memory were distributed evenly across the brain. Antonio Damasio’s work is much more recent, but the authors appear to have misunderstood it. They say “current knowledge of the brain provides a picture of indissoluble interconnections in which it is impossible to disaggregate, for example, the relationship of that which we call affect from that which we call reason” (p. 70). It’s certainly true that Damasio’s work showed that ‘affect’ and ‘reason’ aren’t clearly demarcated in the brain, but that’s as much to do with our constructs ‘affect’ and ‘reason’ as it is to do with the way the brain functions. You can’t deduce from that that the brain as a whole consists of ‘indissoluble interconnections in which it is impossible to disaggregate’ things the brain does.

Thomas and Loxley aren’t the only authors I’ve encountered who appear to have concluded that thinking, feeling and knowing aren’t an outcome of processes in the brain. I once ploughed through PMS Hacker’s Philosophical Foundations of Neuroscience (2003). What Hacker seemed to object to was neuroscientists referring to the brain as if it were an agent; as in ‘the brain detects…’ or ‘the brain responds by…’. I could see what he was getting at; one of the points Ryle makes about the mind is that if we have to construct it in order to explain what causes thinking, feeling and knowing etc., we then have to ask what causes the mind to cause thinking, feeling and knowing etc, and so on and so on in an infinite regression. I suspect Hacker sees the brain in the same way; that if we assume the brain causes thinking, feeling and knowing etc, we have to ask what causes the brain to cause these activities in another infinite regression. It makes more sense to construe thinking, feeling and knowing etc, as characteristics of people, as things people just do. But I think there are two problems with the arguments put forward by Hacker, Thomas and Loxley and Wittgenstein. The first is that they are making another category error and the second is that they have overlooked how the characteristics of things contribute to the causes of events.

Another category error

Ryle might not have been writing about the brain, but some of the people who are applying his reasoning to the brain are doing just that, and I think they are making exactly the same kind of category error that’s a key point in Ryle’s argument against the existence of the mind. Ryle, rightly, pointed out that even though we talk about the body and the mind as if they are the same type of thing, it doesn’t follow that they are the same type of thing. Indeed we know they’re not the same type of thing because bodies are publicly observable but minds aren’t. But bodies and brains are the same type of thing; brains might usually be hidden by the skull, but they can be dissected out, weighed, measured and made publicly observable. In other words, although there’s no evidence that the mind exists, the brain indisputably exists, is the same sort of thing as the body and is inextricably linked to it.

The characteristics of things

Ryle refers several times to the analogy of glass being brittle to show why we can’t argue that the mind must cause things to happen. He sees brittleness as being a ‘disposition’ of glass, something inherent in its nature that means it shatters rather than bends when certain causal events occur, such as it being hit by a stone. In the same way people have dispositional characteristics that result in them thinking, feeling or behaving in certain ways when certain causal events occur – they feel angry when people are rude to them, or sad when someone dies. Although I can see Ryle’s point, what he overlooks is the process that occurs when glass shatters.

Glass (mainly consisting of silicon dioxide) shatters rather than bends if hit by a stone, due to its molecular structure. And its molecular structure is an emergent property of the arrangement of the sub-atomic particles that make up silicon dioxide and that function according to the laws of physics. Biological organisms have structures that are much more complex than glass and they behave very differently to glass, but ultimately they are also made up of configurations of sub-atomic particles that conform to the laws of physics. It’s the configuration of the particles that makes glass behave like it behaves and allows human beings to behave as they behave; obviously because the configuration in humans is much more complex, we have constraints placed on us and affordances open to us that glass doesn’t have.

At one level, you could say that glass shatters if it’s hit by a stone because that’s just what glass is like; but at another level, being hit by a stone causes a reaction in the molecules of the glass that results in it not maintaining its structure and falling into fragments. Similarly, at one level you could say that people just get angry or feel sad when certain things happen, and you don’t need to invent some hypothetical thing called a ‘mind’ to explain it. At another level, that’s a cop-out, because it completely overlooks what happens in people’s bodies when they do get angry or feel sad in response to something happening.

Moving back to Bowlby

It was instructive to compare Ryle’s chapter on emotion with John Bowlby’s chapter on feeling and emotion in Attachment, published 20 years later. Bowlby applies Ryle’s line of reasoning to feelings. (He refers to ‘feelings’ rather than ‘affect’ or ‘emotion’ because ‘feelings’ encompasses the other two and is self-explanatory.) Bowlby doesn’t see feelings as having an independent existence but as characteristics of physiological processes, in exactly the same way as Ryle saw thinking, feeling and knowing as being ‘dispositions’ of people. Bowlby quotes philosopher Suzanne Langer;

“When iron is heated to a critical degree it becomes red; yet its redness is not a new entity which must have gone somewhere else when it is no longer in the iron. It was a phase of the iron itself, at high temperature.

As soon as feeling is regarded as a phase of a physiological process instead of a product of it – namely a new entity physically different from it – the paradox of the physical and the psychical disappears.” (Bowlby p.108)

Like Ryle, Bowlby concludes that people’s feelings and dispositions aren’t things with an independent existence in the ‘mind’, nor are they what causes people to behave in certain ways. But what he does recognise is that physiological processes are involved in feelings, and Bowlby appears to know a good deal more about those physiological processes than Ryle, Thomas and Loxley, Hacker and Wittgenstein.

Why does any of this matter, anyway? Isn’t it all a storm in a philosophical teacup? It matters because Ryle’s reasoning is being applied, and applied wrongly, to child development and education.

Child development and education

Something that’s intrigued me in my recent exploration of the child development and education literatures is their focus on theoretical frameworks developed prior to the 1950s. Lev Vygotsky died in 1934, Sigmund Freud in 1939, Wittgenstein in 1951 and Lashley in 1958. The Concept of Mind was published in 1949. But the 1950s saw a sea-change in our understanding of both genetics and brain function. In 1953, James Watson and Francis Crick published their work on the structure of DNA and in 1959 David Hubel and Torsten Wiesel figured out the basic mechanism for sensory processing from their work on the visual cortex of the cat. These two discoveries alone essentially spawned the modern sciences of genetics, molecular biology and cognitive neuroscience that have transformed biology and medicine. But these discoveries have implications for child development and education of which people working in child development and education often seem blissfully unaware.

I suspect that lack of awareness is because of the increased specialisation that’s taken place alongside a rapid increase in human knowledge over the past century or so. People studying child development or education have their work cut out getting a good knowledge of their own field, never mind studying genetics, molecular biology and brain science as well. But you don’t need a vast knowledge of genes, molecules or neurons to understand the principles of how they function, and if our understanding of those principles has changed in the last sixty years, it’s important to know how it’s changed. It’s disastrous to carry on using models of child development and education devised before we knew how genes or brains functioned.

I recognise that some people see brain science as the answer to everything – when it isn’t. We don’t need to know what’s happening in children’s brains to know whether a particular method of teaching reading or arithmetic has been effective, or to have to do a brain scan to demonstrate that maltreatment in infancy might have been harmful. But what happens in children’s brains is crucial to their development and learning, and the better we understand the processes, the better we will understand how to best support development and learning. If thinking, feeling, knowing and behaving are being construed, wrongly, as ‘just happening’ in children, and brain function and physiological processes are simply being overlooked, or worse, denied to be happening, we’re missing an important piece of the human jigsaw puzzle.

References
Bennett, MR & Hacker, PMS (2003) Philosophical Foundations of Neuroscience, Blackwell. Bowlby, J (1982) Attachment (2nd edition), Basic Books.
Klagge, J(2010) Wittgenstein in Exile, The MIT Press.
Ryle, G (1949) The Concept of Mind, Peregrine Books.
Thomas, G & Loxley A (2001) Deconstructing special education and constructing inclusion, Open University Press.

Acknowledgement: photograph of Ryle from Philosophy Pages http://www.philosophypages.com/ph/ryle.htm

Martin Narey on social worker education

The tragic death of Victoria Climbie in 2000 focussed attention on the effectiveness of social services departments. The Laming reports published in 2003 and 2009 made recommendations for reform, and the 2011 Munro review of child protection referred to gaps in social workers’ expertise. A couple of weeks ago, Sir Martin Narey, fomer CEO of Barnardo’s and previously Director General of the prison service, published his review of the education of social workers. Although Narey recognises the high quality of some social work education, he is generally critical of the admissions criteria, content, quality and regulation of courses and makes a number of recommendations for improvement. What was striking about the report, I felt, was not so much what it said, but what it didn’t say.

Narey opens by directly addressing the fact that his inquiry was a one-man one, that evidence was gathered through private interviews, and says elsewhere that he didn’t have detailed terms of reference. Conducting an inquiry in this way has several advantages; it’s quicker and cheaper, reports are shorter, more focused, and more likely to be read and acted on – and as Narey points out, it encourages contributors to be more candid (p.3). There are also disadvantages; the opinion of a single reviewer is more likely to colour the inquiry’s conclusions and no one else can evaluate the evidence they’re derived from – with the best will in the world, people might misremember or misunderstand the evidence they present.

In addition, in complex systems like education health and social care, all elements of the system are connected, directly or indirectly. This means it’s often cost-effective in the long-term to remove the causes of problems, rather than to keep putting sticking plasters on the problems themselves. (Ten of Narey’s 18 recommendations involve increased regulation, rather than addressing the causes of what’s going wrong.) In an inquiry with narrow terms of reference the primary causes of problems the inquiry has been set up to investigate might actually fall outside its remit and not even get a mention. This is exactly what appears to have happened in the Narey review.

Narey makes it clear that some social workers are very able, are educated to a high standard and have no trouble getting a job when they graduate. But the rest of the picture he paints is a bit bleak. It suggests that school-leavers with low qualifications are being admitted to over-subscribed courses that offer insufficient teaching, inappropriate work placements and that lecturers and supervisors are sometimes under pressure not to fail inadequate students. In 2011 some local authorities had 20% of social worker posts vacant despite nationally almost 30% of Newly Qualified Social Workers (NQSWs) being unemployed; local authorities were clearly reluctant to employ NQSWs perceived as inadequately prepared for the job.

Why on earth would this situation arise? Narey locates the causes primarily in the calibre of applicants for social work courses, the content and quality of courses and the availability and quality of supervised work placements. And he makes a number of recommendations related to these factors. It’s apparent from his report, however, that the long-standing crisis in social worker recruitment might be driven by factors that Narey doesn’t explore in detail, such as the level of social worker qualifications, the reasons for the core content of courses, the regulation of social worker education, and university funding.

Level of qualifications

Throughout the 20th century, the level of qualification required to become a social worker rose steadily. In the 1970s Birmingham University offered a postgraduate diploma, a master’s level qualification and a four-year social work degree. In 1994, the national route to qualification became a postgraduate diploma involving partnership with employer, but during the 1990s there was a significant fall in applications. In response, in 2003 the government introduced a three-year social work BA – a sandwich course that included two work placements – or alternatively a two-year MA for graduates. This means that in the last decade the level of social worker qualification has fallen, something that is likely to have had an impact on the expertise of NQSWs and on the willingness of local authorities to employ them.

Core content of courses

Narey comments in some detail on the content of social worker courses. The original course offered by Birmingham University in 1908/9 consisted of 117 lectures covering topics as diverse as industrial history, law, statistics and sanitation & hygiene, as well as visits to a variety of institutions, and traditionally universities have continued to focus on the principles underpinning social work. But recent complaints from students and employers include challenges about the relevance of the courses including “weeks and weeks…looking at Plato, Socrates and Aristotle etc” rather than “skills relevant to social work” (p.9). Another student complained “ I have so far learned nothing concerning signs of abuse… There is not enough practical experience or theory related to its actual use in practice”(p.9). Narey adds “employers need to be more confident that students at every university will graduate with an adequate grasp of the basics necessary for them to develop into competent and confident children’s social workers.” (p.9)

Narey complains about the current focus of social work on ‘non-oppressive practice’ (or ‘anti-oppressive practice’ – he uses the terms interchangeably). He points out that there is a serious downside to a view that encourages working in partnership with, and the empowerment of, parents whose children are at risk. What he doesn’t seem to fully appreciate is that ‘non-oppressive practice’ is, and always has been, fundamental to the ethos of social work. Of course if anti-oppressive practice is the only theoretical framework presented to aspiring social workers, that does pose a problem that should be addressed. Narey entitles his critique of anti-oppressive practice the politics of social work teaching (p.10). Politics is about the distribution of power, so an anti-oppressive model of social work is in a sense ‘political’, but it’s not clear if Narey is using the term in that way, or if it’s because he suspects that this dominant conceptual model originates with the progressive Left (p.13).

Having debunked one core concept in social work teaching, Narey introduces another. In his own list of what he thinks social workers should understand he includes child development and attachment theory as two separate items (p.10). At first glance this looks like one of the conclusions of the Munro review that refers to social workers needing to know about ‘child development and attachment’ (Munro p.96). The difference is that Munro and the sources she cites could be construed as seeing attachment as one facet of child development, whereas Narey unambiguously presents them as distinct issues. My conclusion in previous posts about attachment theory is that there’s a serious risk of social workers seeing child development not as involving attachment, but solely in terms of attachment, rather than as a highly complex set of interacting biological, social and environmental factors of which attachment is only one. Narey’s suggestion is likely to perpetuate that over-simplification.

Intriguingly, given his focus on conceptual models in social work, Narey says he has never discussed the international definition of social work with the current Secretary of State for education or with any of his predecessors (p.13). It would be interesting to know why.

Narey isn’t the only one to take issue with the content of social worker education. There’s also disagreement between universities and employers, but much of it appears to centre on the difference between education and training. It seems fair to argue that social workers’ education should include statutory frameworks, but it’s debatable whether signs of abuse, a highly specialised skill, should be included in education or be approached via on-the-job training. My guess is that the problem actually boils down to who pays for what. The budgets of universities and local authorities have been under pressure for many years, and it’s understandable why local authorities might want social workers to emerge fully formed from their university courses, but that universities don’t want to broaden what they offer unless they have to. The ultimate losers are, tragically, the most vulnerable members of society that social workers are supposed to support.

Regulation of social worker education

Narey draws attention to the facts that social worker education is regulated by three different bodies and that universities need to consult at least five different source documents to shape the academic content of courses. He observes in respect of the Health and Care Professions Council (HCPC) that social work sits ‘very oddly’ with the list of other professions it regulates (p.21). Social work isn’t the only profession in this situation. In 2009, the HCPC replaced the Council for Professions Supplementary to Medicine (CPSM) set up in 1960, which regulated several professions that fall broadly under the umbrella of medicine. When the HCPC replaced it, the regulatory remit was broadened and practicing psychologists and social workers were added to the mix. This caused some consternation amongst psychologists, previously regulated by their own professional body, many of whom didn’t see themselves as working in professions related to either health or care. Only two of psychology’s protected titles – clinical and health psychology – could be clearly classified as involved in health or care whereas others covered fields as diverse as international educational systems and business management. Doubts were expressed as to whether the HCPC could have the range of expertise required in order to regulate effectively. From what Narey reports, it’s still a relevant question.

University funding

I mentioned earlier the three-year BA in social work introduced in 2003, following a fall in applications for social work courses. Narey doesn’t address the causes of the drop in applications, but it’s worth considering what it they might be.

Prior to 1945, some students from less well-off families could access a university education via much sought-after Board of Education grants, often on condition that they became teachers after graduation. In 1962 student funding by local education authorities became mandatory. A steady increase in student numbers coupled with a policy decision to increase the numbers of graduates and universities, led to the Dearing review of university funding in 1996, which recommended the introduction of an annual contribution of £1000 toward tuition fees, and in 1999 student loans were introduced. That meant that a four-year social work qualification was a relatively expensive way of getting a degree, so it’s hardly surprising that applications fell. In an attempt to boost social worker numbers, the three-year BA was introduced in 2003, accompanied by the offer of a bursary. The bursary, counterintuitively, appears to have had little impact on social worker recruitment, but does appear to have encouraged applicants wanting a low-cost route to a degree (p.28). Subsequent reductions in government funding have resulted in universities becoming increasingly reliant on student fees as a source of income; universities can now charge UK students up to £9000 p.a. and students from overseas usually pay much more. It appears that some universities have adopted a ‘pile ’em high’ approach to social work degrees, attracting large numbers of students but failing to provide them with the qualifications that employers are looking for.

Thinking outside the box

Times change, and social workers are no longer preoccupied by the impact of industrial injuries or poor sanitation as they were in 1908 (although hygiene is still an issue). But as far as I can see the social worker role is fundamentally unchanged; it still has to address the problems people encounter often as a result of societal factors over which they have little control. That doesn’t appear to be how social work is viewed by central or local government, however. In the last three decades, there’s been a noticeable shift from viewing social workers’ clients as people who are primarily victims of circumstance, to viewing their problems as the outcomes of individual choices. Both ways of framing people’s problems are over-simplifications and neither is helpful, because in reality everybody’s problems are due to a complex interaction of systems pressures and individual choices.

Another apparent shift is in respect of the focus of social work. Narey advocates not only restoring the option to specialise in adult or child social care following basic generic tuition, but also suggests the development of children’s social work degrees. Although specialisation seems justified, from the outside it looks as if social work is becoming increasingly polarised, toward care for the elderly at one end of the spectrum and toward children at risk at the other (p.37). In other words, adult social work will be about care of the elderly and children’s social work will be about child protection, as if adults and children had no other issues to deal with.

The location of the source of problems in the individual – or in individual organisations (universities and regulatory bodies in the case of the Narey report) – is an inevitable consequence of successive governments adopting a ‘market’ model for services. This is because the free market model rests on assumptions about the behaviour of individuals; that people make rational decisions, that they have free choices about the goods and services they purchase and that their free, rational choices ensure that competition between suppliers drives up quality. In reality none of these assumptions holds true.

The narrow terms of reference of the inquiry have resulted in the impact of some key systems issues being overlooked. These include; the underlying economic model chosen by government for the delivery of public sector services, the way context and individual behaviour are framed by government, the remit of regulatory bodies, the way the underlying purpose of social work is perceived, and how higher education is funded.

And a shift of the focus of social work from problems at all levels from the individual to the societal, is an inevitable consequence of shrinking the public sector; as a result there will be a tendency to focus on people most at risk, rather than in addressing the underlying systemic causes of a wide range of obstacles that people encounter when they are trying to get on with their lives.