Is It Possible to Care Only About Data?

This isn’t a satirical piece. (The last two posts were.)

I meant to say something about the comment I reposted the other day, the one that appeared on Eduwonkette’s blog in January 2009. The commenter warns against that sly sort of conformity that can take over a person in academia—the temptation to say those things that will lead to publications, speaking engagements, and grants—and urges Eduwonkette (and all of us, I suppose) to remain willing to admit to error.

It struck me as a wise, thoughtful letter from someone who knew a thing or two. Two sentences, though, gave me pause, not because I disagreed with them, but because I saw room for qualification: “But you didn’t want to play the policy game. All you cared about was data.”

Now, the person was addressing the comment to Eduwonkette, but I want to consider it more generally. It is easy to see how the first sentence could be true for someone. Many of us don’t want to play the policy game. The second sentence—is it possible? Does anyone with a serious interest in education care only about the data? Would that even be a good thing?

I have noticed a common assumption on both (or multiple) sides of the education debates: that a person should “follow the data,” and that a reform or policy is viable only if it has “evidence” to support it. (Evidence and data are not identical—the word “data” is often misused—but that’s another matter.)

It makes sense that one should look at the evidence behind any initiative. Why should anyone pursue a reckless, unproven reform on a large scale? Why subject schools and districts to experiments that have little evidence in their support? Granted, one has to experiment now and then, but one should do so with caution.

But “evidence” has meaning only in relation to your goals and values. Evidence supports or does not support a conclusion—but that conclusion must have some bearing on your aims. For instance, a certain kind of instruction could be correlated with higher artichoke consumption, but unless you’re trying to get the kids to eat more (or fewer) artichokes, this won’t mean much. Often policymakers speak in terms of “achievement” and “success”–but achievement of what? Success at what? They are usually referring to test scores—a limiting goal, given the nature of the tests.

If your goal (or one of the goals) is to give students background in literature, mathematics, science, languages, history, and arts, then the evidence of the curriculum’s worth can be found in its content and the lessons. If students are reading Chaucer, if the teacher is leading lively discussions and directing students’ attention to Chaucer’s word-play and satire, then the good is self-evident (if you think learning Chaucer is a good thing). But this goal is fairly unpopular with with those who want to see quick, concrete results.

Another goal might be to prepare students for the challenges of adulthood, such as college or the workplace. Hence “college and career readiness.” Policymakers supporting this goal might ask employers and college admissions officers what they seek in their applicants. They would then judge curricula and instruction by these criteria. Such an approach makes sense on the surface but has flaws; employers and admissions officers may take certain kinds of knowledge for granted and not think to mention them. In addition, the point of getting into college or getting a job is to start building one’s life (not just to get in). Thus, one needs qualifications that transcend the immediate ones.

If the goal is to prepare people for civic life, then the evidence-gathering becomes trickier still. One might ask: who are the people whose editorials get published, who hold political office, or who speak at town hall meetings? What kind of rhetoric and knowledge do they show in their writing and speaking? What kind of education did they have? This is faulty, though, because there are many ways of participating in political and cultural life besides writing editorials, holding political office, or speaking at town hall meetings. If civic participation means engagement in constructive discourse on matters of public concern, then we’re in better shape, as we can identify the attributes of such discourse and the knowledge required for it. Even so, we might disagree over the priorities and emphases.

One could stick with the goals that carry the clearest evidence—graduating from high school, getting a job, etc.—but such goals justify only the most basic and pragmatic sort of education. Some would say that’s just plenty; if students want more than that, they should find it on their own. But that would put vast numbers of students at a disadvantage. Those who could afford a fuller education would study literature, history, languages, and so forth (in private schools or in wealthy public schools), while others would have little exposure to such things.

Thus it makes no sense to speak of “evidence” except in relation to what one is trying to do. Once one has established the goals, there are still more challenges, since the appropriate evidence can be difficult to define and gather. Much of it shows itself only over a long period of time. Much of it comes from individual experience. Many people dismiss individual experience as limited and biased, but it also has strengths, if we treat it responsibly.

My point here is not that we should disregard evidence or data. That would be irresponsible. Rather, we should ask, evidence of what? What are we trying to do, and why? What sort of information would help us see whether or not we are accomplishing it? How should we go about interpreting such information? How can we stay true to our goals but admit to mistakes and misunderstandings? How can we speak and work with those whose goals are different?

Never Forget How to Let Go of a Bad Hypothesis

In blog-land, I know I am an insignificant creature among insignificant creatures. Up goes another blog. Three people read it. There I go posting a comment on someone else’s blog. I put an hour into it, and then look aghast at my day. If blogs get forgotten, blog comments get doubly and triply forgotten.

Not always, though. In late January 2009, when Eduwonkette “hung up her cape,” a comment appeared on her blog. Though anonymous, it clearly came from a wise and knowledgeable person. It is about the importance of admitting that you’re wrong, when you are wrong. (“Eduwonkette” was the pseudonym or “mask” of the magnificent education blogger Jennifer Jennings, now assistant professor in the Sociology Department at NYU.)

I think I was moved to something like tears at the time. Maybe not tears, maybe just a gulp and a lot of thinking. I have thought back on that comment many, many times. I have no idea who wrote it. The person used the pseudonym “Right2BWrong” (just for the occasion, I presume).

I am reprinting it here, with full attribution: it first appeared as a comment on Eduwonkette’s Education Week blog on January 27, 2009, the day after the last day of the blog. I will comment on one aspect of it in a separate post.

Here it goes:

Like everyone here, I am sorry you will not be blogging, but agree that you are making a wise choice. Finishing your dissertation is the key to your future and NYU is not a bad place to make money while you do it.

Since no one else has dared to offer any advice, I will. As you know, anonymity gives people a chance to say what they really mean without the fear of reprisal. So, let me offer this anonymous advice. Whatever else you do with the rest of your life, do not become any of the people your critics once imagined you to be.

As you recall, before your unmasking, many of the people behind the studies and press releases and policy “think” tanks you reviewed tried to guess who you were. What did they guess? Some thought you were a policy wonk whose only interest in data was to score political points. They speculated as to who might be funding you; some wondered about EdWeek’s motivation. Others thought you were a disgruntled DOE employee out to settle a personal vendetta against certain people. Some thought that, given your actual skills with data, you were a tenured academic, an ivory tower radical set to bring down the system without any concern for what might be built to replace it.

These are people who commonly battle it out in educational research “debates.” Is it any wonder your critics assumed you were one of them? But the critics were wrong.

Do you recall what bothered them most? They couldn’t figure out whose side you were on. After all, everyone on both sides of these issues has a vested interest in keeping this battle alive. If schools are not broken, who would be paid to fix them, who would be paid to report that the fix did or did not fix it, and who could build a coalition to fight the fixers or organize those who really believe in fixing? The game is called “cops and robbers.” There is no game called “robbers” because that is not much of a game. But you didn’t want to play the policy game. All you cared about was data.

And you had a secret weapon, the ultimate superhero advantage: Your future and your past were not dependent on the outcome. Consider the work of some people twice your age who have spent a professional lifetime dedicated to a hypothesis that does not seem to supported by the data, most of which has been gathered too late in their careers for them to turn back. Consider the people whose reputations are built on their being the “data guru,” but who you have exposed as being perhaps one standard error below proficient in that role. Even some people your own age are already invested. Consider the work of some people your own age whose dissertations started with a policy conclusion and ended with a lot of data massaging, the numbers caressed until they could provide their funders with a happy ending.

You weren’t invested. You could follow the data. If your hypothesis was supported, you could report that. If your hypothesis was not supported, you could report that. In the blogosphere, you can even publish null results, something not as widely accepted in the academic world.

But soon you will become a bit more like your critics. As you grow in your academic career, you will find that certain results, certain publications, lead to opportunities. A sincere, scientific paper might result in a paid speaking engagement. A line of research on some policy might lead to an offer to head a new research department. In the academy, work that supports the current wisdom will help to secure your tenure. Success supporting a hypothesis may bring offers to edit a journal, write a book, or, who knows, become Dean. Success in the academic world may even lead to offers of much more money from a think tank or policy group, especially for someone who can communicate to a large audience. Oh, the places you could go — with all that money!

Soon, you will enter the world in which your critics live. You have visited many times, but soon you, too, will be a resident. No more green card. Full voting rights. Fully invested in the game.

So, how do you avoid becoming any of the people your critics thought you were? Here is the secret. Never forget how to let go of a bad hypothesis. The world of educational research is full of people who must, absolutely must, be right. Their reputations, their careers, their salaries, their retirement, and their personal relationships — their entire lives are dependent on being right about a hypothesis. Never allow yourself to fall into a position in which you become a slave to a hypothesis.

Years from now, remember that your critics tried to attack you here by proving, just once, that you were wrong about something. Any little analytical error would suffice, even if it was because they had provided you with the wrong data. They thought that by showing you were wrong, they could destroy you. In their world, being right is all that matters, regardless of the data.

The policy wonk, dependent on funders; the disgruntled employee, obsessed with petty squabbles; and the ivory tower radical fighting the system all have one thing in common. None of them can afford to admit when they are wrong. If you think about your heroes, even those who have been in this game for 20 or 30 years, you might realize that they all are people who are still willing to admit when they are wrong. Some of them are blogging, just around the corner…

Remember: Being right is a good defense, but being able to admit that you are wrong is the best defense. It is the secret superhuman strength that all real researchers possess. You have it now. It is yours to lose.

Like others here, I, too, look forward to hearing about your work and hope you will continue to contribute to educational research in the years to come. I hope that you are always right about everything. But the only sure proof that you have not become who your critics wanted you to be will be in the times when you report that you were wrong. I doubt you’ll need to say it often, but you will find a great strength in saying it when you do.

Good Luck,

Anonymous Still 

Philanthropist Funds Misfit Database for Kindergarten

At a recent conference titled “Producing College-and-Career-Ready Tots,” the opening speaker warned that the new assessments for kindergarteners did not yet carry sufficiently high stakes. “We’re putting great effort and money into determining which children are following directions, which ones are working well in groups, which ones are matching letters with sounds, but if they can’t do these things, then what? ‘Oh well?’” he sneered rhetorically. “We’ve had too much of ‘oh well.’ We can’t afford ‘oh well’ any more.”

The room darkened for the next presentation. Billionaire philanthropist Roger Row stepped up to the podium, into the spotlight, and clicked his clicker. As the throbbing music began, the screen showed little children in rapid succession—one sliding down a slide, another forming the number 2, another filling in a bubble on a test, and another holding a classmate’s hand. Then the scene switched to a spreadsheet of names, scores, and designations. Row zoomed in on one of the cells, which read “MISFIT.” The music stopped.

“Imagine,” began Row, “just imagine a really big idea. Think of the biggest idea you’ve ever thought in your life. Now, what you’re going to hear today is a ten-times-bigger idea. It’s an idea that will shake away the tragic failures in our society.”

He proceeded to show a graph. “Statistics show that children who cannot read job descriptions or write resumes by grade four are forty percent less likely to complete college or earn more than twice the minimum wage than those who can. In third grade, they’re only thirty percent less likely. So if you extrapolate backwards, you find out that kindergarten is the time of judgment, the time when children get sent either to heaven, as it were, or to hell. So we must identify those children who are being sent to hell—and the teachers who are sending them there! Yes, we must identify those teachers!” (Applause.) “To this end I have donated thirty million dollars for the construction of a National Misfit Database.”

Children identified as “misfits” would be entered in the database, along with all available personal and demographic information. Their teachers would be linked to them; a teacher with two or more misfits in the class would have a red light flashing next to her name. “That way,” explained Row, “we can identify those teachers who are setting up child after child for distress, romantic rejection, achievement gapping, cognitive dissonance, weird clothes, and future unemployment. Look at this girl with untied shoes. She’s a misfit, and her teacher already has a red light. The principal is now looking into ways to replace the teacher so that the child and her classmates have a chance of making it in the world.”

An audience member asked whether some of these “misfit” children might not simply be dreamy,  nervous, forgetful, or in some way different from the others. “Absolutely,” said Row. “Thank you for bringing it up. Chances are, if I had been tested in kindergarten, I would have been labeled a misfit too.” (Laughter.) “That’s why we have to get ourselves into the mindset of testing them relentlessly. Because the data add up. We can make better judgments when we’ve got reams of data.”

Row then enjoined the audience to visualize the future. “Think of the workplace of the 22nd century, the 23rd century,” he said, as the lighting changed to blue. “Think of the employment agencies and all the information they will have. They can look you up and see if you were a misfit at any time in your life! That will have an electrifying effect on our schools. It will be as though the entire school system went whitewater rafting”—he displayed a photograph of that very activity—“and found themselves heading headlong down a vertical waterfall. AAAH! the school system screams. Try that yourselves! Scream AAAH!” The audience screamed “AAAH” and broke into laughter. “You see? More of that, and you won’t see teachers tolerating the status quo while Mindy draws a tree instead of a data tree. You’ll hear her saying this instead.”

He displayed a video of a teacher telling a little girl, “Mindy, you’re supposed to draw a data tree. Now why don’t you turn and talk to Joshua, who knows what that is. Joshua, make sure Mindy does it right, OK? I’ll come back in a few minutes. Frederick, what’s that you’re drawing? You’re not supposed to draw a dark forest. What ever gave you the idea that we were here to draw a forest? Look at the objective on the screen. Class, give Frederick your support. What’s today’s objective? All together now!” The class responded in chorus: “To draw a data tree!” The teacher nodded. “That’s right. So, Frederick, I’m putting you down as a misfit for now, but if you start over and draw a data tree, I’ll take the label away, and you’ll be in the clear. Ready? Set? Go!”

As the lights dimmed, Row looked out at the audience with tears in his eyes. A rainbow spotlight lit up over him, causing “oohs” in the audience. “I would not be funding this database today,” he said, “were it not for the wonderful education I received, starting in kindergarten. My teachers challenged me in all ways but also encouraged me to pursue my own passions. They never worried about my differences. So I leave you with this thought. Be a kindergartener once again, in your heart. Now be a poor kindergartener, without opportunities, falling through the cracks, sure of being forgotten, unless someone records you and says that tough ‘M’ word that no one else will say. Let’s spend a moment of silence on that thought.”(Three seconds of silence ensued.) “Thank you, and enjoy the rest of your time here.”

Upon leaving the room, participants were interviewed on camera about their impressions. Those who said something other than “awesome,” “amazing,” or “inspiring” were entered into the National Misfit Database.

The Misuse of “Data” (the Word)

The misuse of the word “data” in education has been bothering me for a long time. People call all sorts of things “data” that aren’t data, with the intent, I suppose, of sounding scientific. At schools around the country, teachers working on “inquiry teams” examine “student data”–that is, their essays and other work. Why not just call them essays? My complaint goes beyond the trivial. When you call things “data” that aren’t data, you distort both the things themselves and the methodology used to examine them. So let’s keep “data” where it belongs.

The Oxford English Dictionary defines the mass noun “data” as “Related items of (chiefly numerical) information considered collectively, typically obtained by scientific work and used for reference, analysis, or calculation.”

So, for instance, student test scores, ages, family income, ethnic background, and home languages could be considered data. The first three are numerical to begin with; the latter two can be sorted and counted.

Survey results are “data” but must be treated with caution, as seemingly like elements might not be similar at all. Seventy-two percent of students might indicate that they are “happy” with their school, but “happy” could mean many different things.

Certain things are not data but are routinely called data. These include lessons, conferences, student work, lesson plans, lesson observations, reflection pieces, and more. These must be rescued from the “data” denomination and called by their real names.

Why? Because when you are reading student essays, you may well be looking for general tendencies, but you are also treating each one on its own. You could calculate how many essays had clear thesis statements, but that wouldn’t give you a clue about what the thesis statements actually were. Even among clear ones, some have more substance and promise than others. You could count how many paragraphs began with topic sentences, but a paragraph need not always begin with a topic sentence. Much depends on what the student is trying to do. An essay has an interplay of ideas, details, and organizing principles; it cannot be broken into bits that then add up to the whole.

Why do some educators and many policymakers want to call everything data? I presume it’s because it makes the work sound more scientific. There are two problems with this. First, slapping scientific terms on things doesn’t make them scientific; it’s an insult to science and mathematics. Second, education is not and should not be entirely scientific. It draws amply on the humanities and builds and sustains culture.

Humanities are not fuzzy, flimsy, or fluffy. They have their own logic and standards; they are just as exacting as the sciences but in different ways. Discerning the remarkable in Robert Frost’s sonnet “Design” (thanks to Michele Kerr for reminding me of the poem) takes a good ear, an understanding of sonnets, and even some knowledge of plants and philosophy. But it takes more than that. You have to be well attuned to poetry’s shifts and structures. You may grasp something of the poem at a naive level, but as you read on and on, and come back to it over time, you grasp more. Yes, there is some systematic methodology in poetic analysis, but systematic methodology alone won’t get you far. You need to build yourself a realm and dwell in it.

That’s part of what education does: it builds realms. It is exacting, exhilarating work, and only some of it is data.

The Mayor’s Dream Dialogue

The New York State Legislature has passed a law prohibiting the publication of teachers’ test score ratings but allowing parents to view them.

New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg isn’t happy about this. He has decreed, therefore, that principals and assistant principals shall call all the parents to inform them of their right to see the scores.

Now, I am sure he has heard from many a reputable source about the problems with value-added ratings and the importance of regarding them skeptically. Yet he remains convinced that these ratings hold Truth.

But what makes him think principals agree with him? What makes him sure that they’ll say what he wants them to say on the phone? What does he hope they’ll say?

Perhaps he is hoping for a million conversations like this:

Principal: Hello, may I please speak with Leonora Thonge?

Ms. Thonge: Speaking.

Principal: Good morning, Ms. Thonge. This is Principal Eigenvalue of your son’s failing school P.S. 2345. I am calling to tell you that you may come to the school to view your teachers’ value-added ratings–that is, the ratings based on test score data.

Ms. Thonge: Oh, please tell me now! I have been desperate for the truth!

Principal: I would like to… but the ARIS database is down, and I am not allowed to give you the information over the phone. The union has my hands tied, you see. That’s one of many reasons why you should consider a charter school for Bernard.

Ms Thonge: I understand. I will be there shortly.

(Half an hour later, in the principal’s office.)

Ms. Thonge (weeping): His English and math teachers are both below average? And I thought they were so intelligent, so caring…

Principal (handing Ms. Thonge a box of tissues): There, now. It’s common for parents and students to think well of a teacher. That’s why we need the data to set the record straight.

Ms. Thonge: Are you sure these ratings are correct? I have heard that they are often wildly inaccurate.

Principal (in a confidential whisper): Don’t believe it. These are based on hard data and state-of-the-art formulas, and that’s as true as true can be.

Ms. Thonge: But what am I to do now? Where am I to take my Bernard, my poor little boy?

Principal: Well, as you may know, we’re a turnaround school. This means we will be firing half of the teachers soon. The ones we keep will be the ones with above-average ratings. I’m the Interim Turnaround Principal and won’t be here much longer myself. So you are welcome to wait it out. However, it’s a gorgeous day, and I suggest you go shopping!

Ms. Thonge: What do you take me for? Do you think I want to buy anything after hearing this shattering news?

Principal: No, no, I meant school-shopping! You can ask for their value-added scores and choose the school that promises the most growth for Bernard. I will recommend a few for you.

Ms. Thonge: Do they have a Shakespeare program, like this school does? Bernard loved the Shakespeare so much. He sometimes had the whole family act out scenes.

Principal: Shakespeare isn’t on the test. That’s part of what dragged  our school down: tearching things that weren’t on the test. The schools I’m recommending are completely test-aligned–or will be, once they start. They’re all brand-new. This will be good for your son. There won’t be any history to hold him back.

Ms. Thonge: Oh, thank you, thank you for putting my son first!

Principal: Thank the data. Without the data, none of this would be possible. We would all be trapped in our human ways.  In fact, I’m about to go to Data Mass, which starts at noon. You are most welcome to join me.

Ms. Thonge: Thank you! I will join you in adoring the data, from which all blessings derive, and then I will check out some schools. Oh, what a day of joy! Before we head over, do you mind if I ask you something off script?

Principal: Off script? I’m a figment of the mayor’s dream! I don’t know how to go off script.

Ms. Thonge: Let me put it this way. What do you really think about all this?

The principal flushes into life, and they end up talking for another hour. The mayor, still dreaming, waves his arms and shouts, “Cut! Cut!” but to no avail.

The End

Tetrahedra and Truth

Let’s say you have a tetrahedron (a polyhedron consisting of four conjoined triangles). You project each of its points onto a flat surface, along lines perpendicular to the surface. Depending on the tilt of the tetrahedron in relation to the surface, you will end up with either a triangle or a quadrilateral.

Now, both the triangle and the quadrilateral tell truth about the tetrahedron, but neither one tells the complete truth. However, if you rotated the tetrahedron and captured enough projections along the way, then you could determine the tetrahedron’s shape from the projections alone (if you already knew that it was a convex polyhedron). In other words, by considering the changes of the projections in time, you could see beyond the projections’ two-dimensional aspect to the tetrahedron’s three-dimensional shape. (You can try rotating a tetrahedron here.)

To even begin this project, you have to suspect that there’s something beyond the flat shapes that you see. You think: “Yesterday it had four sides. Today it has three. Something’s up with that.” Without such suspicion, you’re a prisoner in Plato’s cave, believing in the shadows on the wall because you’ve seen nothing else.

Now, suppose the tetrahedron were not stable in shape. Suppose it were crumbling or melting. Then you could not determine its shape from the projections. You could only approximate it—that is, by observing projections very close to each other in time and trying to spot abnormal changes. A sort of calculus would come into play. The more regular the tetrahedron’s disintegration, the more accurate your calculations would be. The projections would only pick up certain kinds of changes; they wouldn’t show concavities, for instance, if the edges were still intact.

Things get even more complicated if time itself is unstable: if it slows down, speeds up, loops around, breaks apart, or comes to an end (in relation to some other measure). We won’t get into that.

Imagine, now, that the phenomena in our lives are (at their very simplest) tetrahedral. Our instant impressions are limited, as they don’t capture the full shape of the phenomena. It takes time, knowledge, and insight to perceive their shapes.

We should not, then, place much value on the instant update or newest thing (the quick projection of part of the tetrahedron onto paper), except insofar as it adds to our knowledge and understanding. The latest projection is in itself no treasure; we must look to the old ones as well and—since we can’t spend all our time observing projections of tetrahedra—to other people’s interpretations of these shapes.

This is why we study history, literature, science, history of science, mathematics, philosophy, and music. It’s also why our current drive to collect instantaneous data on everyone (where we are, who our friends are, what our emotional reactions are to every possible product or classroom gesture) will do more harm than good. The purposes of such data-gathering are limited, even crude; the point is not to build wisdom or understanding, but to boost sales, test scores, and other quick results.

For example, developers and marketers have been considering the use of biometric bracelets not only in classrooms but in everyday life. Your bracelet will tell some subset of the world where you are, what you’re doing, and how you’re responding to that activity. Marketers and customers, then, can respond to you accordingly. But what happens, then, to friendship, which depends on voluntary disclosure and voluntary reserve?

Suppose I meet with a friend for dinner; what I do not say is as important as what I do, and both are my choice, to the extent that we choose such things. I learn about my friend through the things she chooses to tell me and the things that make her pause or stay quiet. Biometric bracelet data would ruin this. (“I see you were at the doctor’s office earlier today. Is everything OK? … Oh, is that so? I know you had a brain scan there. Why a brain scan, of all things?”) 

We can gather all sorts of data about people, but such data are little more than flat projections. Take that in stride, and those flat projections, maybe, can tell you something. Treat them like the real stuff, and you send your brains rolling down the hill.

  • “To know that you can do better next time, unrecognizably better, and that there is no next time, and that it is a blessing there is not, there is a thought to be going on with.”

    —Samuel Beckett, Malone Dies

  • Always Different

  • Pilinszky Event (3/20/2022)

  • ABOUT THE AUTHOR

     

    Diana Senechal is the author of Republic of Noise: The Loss of Solitude in Schools and Culture and the 2011 winner of the Hiett Prize in the Humanities, awarded by the Dallas Institute of Humanities and Culture. Her second book, Mind over Memes: Passive Listening, Toxic Talk, and Other Modern Language Follies, was published by Rowman & Littlefield in October 2018. In April 2022, Deep Vellum published her translation of Gyula Jenei's 2018 poetry collection Mindig Más.

    Since November 2017, she has been teaching English, American civilization, and British civilization at the Varga Katalin Gimnázium in Szolnok, Hungary. From 2011 to 2016, she helped shape and teach the philosophy program at Columbia Secondary School for Math, Science & Engineering in New York City. In 2014, she and her students founded the philosophy journal CONTRARIWISE, which now has international participation and readership. In 2020, at the Varga Katalin Gimnázium, she and her students released the first issue of the online literary journal Folyosó.

  • INTERVIEWS AND TALKS

    On April 26, 2016, Diana Senechal delivered her talk "Take Away the Takeaway (Including This One)" at TEDx Upper West Side.
     

    Here is a video from the Dallas Institute's 2015 Education Forum.  Also see the video "Hiett Prize Winners Discuss the Future of the Humanities." 

    On April 19–21, 2014, Diana Senechal took part in a discussion of solitude on BBC World Service's programme The Forum.  

    On February 22, 2013, Diana Senechal was interviewed by Leah Wescott, editor-in-chief of The Cronk of Higher Education. Here is the podcast.

  • ABOUT THIS BLOG

    All blog contents are copyright © Diana Senechal. Anything on this blog may be quoted with proper attribution. Comments are welcome.

    On this blog, Take Away the Takeaway, I discuss literature, music, education, and other things. Some of the pieces are satirical and assigned (for clarity) to the satire category.

    When I revise a piece substantially after posting it, I note this at the end. Minor corrections (e.g., of punctuation and spelling) may go unannounced.

    Speaking of imperfection, my other blog, Megfogalmazások, abounds with imperfect Hungarian.

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