Democratic Dilemmas: Joint Work, Education Politics, and Community (Suny Series, School Districts: Research, Policy, and Reform)

Democratic Dilemmas Joint Work, Education Politics, and Community

Julie A. Marsh

Democratic Dilemmas

SUNY series, School Districts: Research, Policy, and Reform

Meredith I. Honig and Julie A. Marsh, editors

D E M O C R AT I C DILEMMAS Joint Work, Education Politics, and Community

JULIE A. MARSH

S TAT E U N I V E R S I T Y O F N E W Y O R K P R E S S

Published by

State University of New York Press Albany © 2007 State University of New York All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission. No part of this book may be stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means including electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

For information, contact State University of New York Press, Albany, NY www.sunypress.edu Production, Laurie Searl Marketing, Michael Campochiaro

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Marsh, Julie A. Democratic dilemmas : joint work, education politics, and community / Julie A. Marsh. p. cm. — (SUNY series, school districts : research, policy, and reform) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN-13: 978-0-7914-7127-2 (alk. paper) ISBN-13: 978-0-7914-7128-9 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Educational change—California. 2. Education and state—California. 3. Community and school—California. 4. Decision making—California. I. Title. LA243.M35 2007 379.794—dc22 2006021965 10

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To the memory of John Gardner, whose life pursuits to strengthen community and enhance democratic participation will forever inspire me to pursue work, volunteerism, and a life dedicated to improving the common good.

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Contents

List of Figures and Tables Acknowledgments Introduction

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Overview of Two District Cases: Unlocking a Puzzle Historical Context of School-Community Connections Grounding the Study: A Lens for Understanding the Two Cases Study Background and Methods Reflections on and Implications of the Research Chapter Outline One

Setting the Stage State, Regional, and Local Context for Joint Work Key Facets and Activities of Joint Work Who Was at the Table What Was on the Table: Vision and Purpose How Participants Interacted and Made Decisions What Was Achieved Summing Up the Cases and Looking Ahead

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CONTENTS

Participation and Power

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Power and Its Many Faces Participation Patterns and Biases Explanations and Implications for Democratic Practice Summing Up and Looking Ahead Three

Institutional Discord and Harmony

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Democratic Inclusion and Professional Autonomy Market Perspectives and Democratic Inclusion Conditions Affecting Institutional Relationships Summing Up and Looking Ahead Four

The Democracy-Bureaucracy Face-off

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Organizational Forms and Democracy Organizational Structure: Rigid versus Flexible Organizational Culture: Controlling versus Learning Leadership: Top-down versus Distributed How Resources Affected Organizational Climate Summing Up and Looking Ahead Five

Climates of Trust and Mistrust What Is Trust? Institutional Trust Interpersonal Trust Foundations of Trust and Issues of Representation Summing Up and Looking Ahead

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CONTENTS

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Implications for Policy and Practice in an Era of Accountability

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Key Tensions and Dilemmas Revisited Policy Implications: Accountability as Community Responsibility Democratic and Educational Outcomes Practical Lessons Unresolved Dilemmas and Unanswered Questions Appendix A

Methodology

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Appendix B

Mid Valley CAP Participants

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Appendix C

Highland Strategic Planning Team

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Notes

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References

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Index

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Figures and Tables

FIGURE I.1 FIGURE I.2 FIGURE 1.1 FIGURE 1.2 FIGURE 1.3 FIGURE 1.4 FIGURE 2.1 FIGURE 3.1

TABLE TABLE TABLE TABLE

1.1 1.2 1.3 1.4

TABLE 3.1 TABLE 4.1 TABLE 5.1 TABLE 5.2 TABLE 5.3 TABLE 5.4

Dimensions of Democratic Joint Work Democratic Governance Models Highland Criteria for Strategic Planning Team Membership How Structure Encouraged a Focus on the Common Good Failure to Persuade Others: Losing a Fight versus Losing an Argument What Form Joint Work Took in Highland and Mid Valley The Dependence of Norms of Preclusion on Contextual Features of Joint Work Conceptions of Educator-Layperson Roles in Educational Decision Making Descriptions of Case Study Districts (1998–99) Mid Valley Districtwide SAT-9 Results 1998–2000 Highland Districtwide SAT-9 Results 1998–2000 Overview of How Democratic Joint Work Unfolded in Mid Valley and Highland A Sample of Views on the Proper Role of Educators versus Noneducators Student Demographic Variation within Districts Teachers’ Attitudes about the District and Its Leaders Patterns of Interpersonal Trust Reported Level of Trust for Superintendent Perceptions of Representation

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TABLE 6.1 TABLE A.1 TABLE A.2

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Lessons for Achieving Deliberative Democratic Joint Work in Practice Description of School Samples in Mid Valley and Highland Interview and Focus Group Totals for Mid Valley and Highland

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Acknowledgments

Like the subject of my research, joint work, the process of completing this manuscript relied on the collaboration and contributions of many individuals. First, I am forever grateful to the more than 100 individuals in the case study districts who graciously and generously shared their time and insights with me. I would also like to thank several individuals who provided critical guidance on this research from its early stages, particularly Milbrey McLaughlin and Eamonn Callan, as well as Woody Powell and David Tyack. I also deeply appreciate the many individuals who offered invaluable advice on my work over the years, including Archon Fung, Clarence Stone, Patti Gumport, Tony Bryk, Joan Talbert, Meredith Honig, my friends and colleagues at Stanford and RAND, members of the Annenberg Institute’s School Communities That Work Design Group on Family and Community Supports, and the anonymous reviewers for this manuscript. Several organizations also helped make this research possible, including the Center for the Study of Teaching and Policy (CTP) and the Spencer Foundation. I consider myself very fortunate to have received this financial and intellectual support. Finally, I would like to acknowledge my family and friends for their endless support. In particular, I would like to thank Steve Mayer for enduring this journey with me and encouraging me to stay the course.

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Introduction

This book addresses a critical challenge facing America’s public schools: how to engage citizens in the process of educational improvement. In the current high-stakes accountability environment, schools and school districts are under enormous pressure to improve teaching and learning. Given limited fiscal, human, political, and organizational capacity, many administrators have come to realize that they cannot do the work of reform alone and have increasingly called for greater community “collaboration”—often launching parent involvement initiatives, public dialogues, and business-school partnerships. Moreover, there is widespread agreement among practitioners and researchers that community support and involvement matters to school and student improvement. Many studies have demonstrated that marshaling community resources and developing local civic capacity are necessary conditions for bringing about and sustaining systemic education reform and improved student achievement.1 What the field is lacking, however, is a detailed understanding of how to engage the community in systemwide improvement efforts and how to do it well. OVERVIEW OF TWO DISTRICT CASES: UNLO CKING A PUZZLE

In this book, I hope to shed light on these issues by examining collaboration between educators and citizens in two K–8 school districts in Northern California. In the first district, Mid Valley,2 the superintendent and board president appointed a group of community leaders to participate in the Community Accountability Project (CAP), an initiative to improve systemwide education through enhanced community involvement. The design of this endeavor was a bifurcated process in which community leaders (the “Advisory”) first met as a group over the course of a year to generate their own ideas; shared and discussed these ideas with the school board and central office; and

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ultimately coconstructed action items. In the first year, community advisors met monthly with district staff to develop the goals and activities of CAP and decided upon four strategies to pursue jointly with the district, such as inventing new district and communitywide systems to support teachers. After three tense “study sessions” involving community members, the school board, and district leadership, no actions were taken on the proposed ideas. The investment of two years and more than $400,000 left participants and observers embittered by the experience. In the second district, Highland, one teacher, parent, principal, and student from each school met with local citizens, district administrators, and board members to develop long-range strategies to improve districtwide student achievement. Building on a ten-year history of strategic planning, the district convened a three-day, facilitated meeting of brainstorming, discussion, and priority setting that occurred in rotating small and large groups. Guided by professional facilitators and explicit norms of participation, the group ultimately agreed upon four key strategies: expanding time for teaching, learning, and planning; developing interventions for students; getting students ready for kindergarten; and K–12 articulation. Following the dissemination of this plan, the district organized “action teams” to assist in planning for implementation. Over time, the district implemented many of these jointly constructed ideas, and most participants left the experience feeling empowered and willing to participate again. In the end, these cases present an intriguing puzzle: Why did two districts with seemingly similar intentions and contexts—regional location, size, grade configurations, financial resources, long-tenured superintendents— achieve widely disparate results? The cases also raise fundamental questions about what constitutes and contributes to democratic success and failure. Although the second district was seemingly more successful in achieving an egalitarian and deliberative process, and realizing its goals, it nonetheless showed signs of democratic imperfection. By constraining conversations and precluding any talk related to particular interests, this district may have inadvertently silenced traditionally disenfranchised individuals. Conflicting cultural norms and language barriers may have further inhibited participation of these individuals. As such, the book also engages the following questions: Why is it that in the first district, smart people with good will and plenty of resources could not achieve results? What enabled leaders in the second district to mobilize the community and accomplish its goals? And was it really a success if certain stakeholders were denied a genuine voice? A large body of historical, theoretical, and empirical research helps illuminate and obscure these questions and issues. In this chapter, I briefly examine this broader context and then present a useful framework for understanding collaboration. I conclude with a brief background on the study itself and an overview of the remaining chapters in the book.

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HISTO RICAL CONTEXT OF SCHOOL-COMMUNITY CONNECTIONS

Efforts to strengthen ties between schools and the community have been with us since the beginning of public education in America. With antecedent examples from the Progressive Era (e.g., Jane Addams’ Hull House, Willard Wirt’s Gary Plan), efforts to connect schools and communities surfaced on the national policy agenda for the first time in the mid-1960s with the Kennedy administration’s call for the participation of low-income citizens in educational and government decision making.3 Federal legislation, such as the 1965 Elementary and Secondary Education Act and subsequent amendments to this legislation, also encouraged schools to collaborate with outside agencies. In recent years, the work of the National Education Goals Panel and the Goals 2000 federal legislation similarly linked improvements in teaching and learning with strategies of civic engagement and school-community partnerships. The U.S. Department of Education currently cites parent and community involvement in planning, implementing, and evaluating school improvement efforts as one of 11 key components required of all Comprehensive School Reform program grantees. In addition to the federal government, states, districts, schools, and individual reformers around the country have legislated, implemented, and experimented with school-community collaboration. For example, many whole school reform models—including Henry Levin’s Accelerated Schools, James Comer’s School Development Program, and Robert Slavin’s Success for All—embrace parent involvement as a key ingredient for educational improvement. Many states and districts have implemented sitebased decision making with parent and community participation. Still others have experimented with coordinated educational, health, and social services. Individual classrooms, schools, districts, and states also have implemented service-learning programs, business partnerships, and civic engagement initiatives—all variations on the broad theme of linking schools and communities. While much of this activity occurs at the school level, districts also regularly engage the community in ongoing practices and reform efforts. For example, many districts partner with community organizations, businesses, and city and county agencies for after-school programs, arts programs, and literacy initiatives. Many of the same districts invite citizens and parents to serve on advisory committees, planning groups, and task forces to help develop the districts’ mission and long-term goals, as well as specific policies around safety, facilities, and standards. Numerous organizations around the country provide funding and technical assistance to facilitate these civic engagement efforts, including Public Agenda, the Annenberg Institute for Educational Leadership, the National Issues Forum, the National Education

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Association, the Public Education Network, the Harwood Institute for Public Innovation, the League of Women Voters, and the Kettering Foundation. Like the conceptions of community, the rationales for collaboration are equally diverse, representing a range of perspectives, including the following: • Moral-civic. Responding to a perceived “crisis of legitimacy” of public schools and institutions, some leaders and reformers view collaboration and civic engagement as a means to bolster waning participation and confidence in public schools and a necessary step to strengthen democratic values and institutions.4 Those within this camp often draw on evidence that greater involvement of all citizens in public institutions strengthens the civic health and quality of a community, building cohesion, trust, and social networks.5 • Social justice. Others argue that without greater accountability to and involvement of all citizens, disenfranchised and minority voices are unfairly silenced. • Student centered. Other policy makers, practitioners, and reformers note that stronger school-community connections enhance children’s development—often drawing on empirical evidence that students learn more when parents are actively involved in their children’s education;6 students acquire important academic, social, emotional, civic, and vocational competencies when participating in community-based organizations and programs;7 and out-of-school experiences affect participation in school.8 Still others assert that collaboration between schools and other community organizations more effectively serves the needs of the whole child.9 • School or organization centered. Finally, some believe parents, citizens, and community organizations enhance the capacity of schools and districts through contributions of physical and human capital (e.g., volunteering their time in schools, tutoring students, donating materials, organizing after-school programs), as well as intellectual capital (e.g., helping to solve problems of management and the like on governance bodies). A more instrumental perspective asserts that public engagement ensures support for taxes and bond initiatives and therefore the fiscal solvency of the education system. Despite a lot of activity and rhetoric around this topic, there appears to be little conceptual agreement among efforts to connect schools and communities. While these initiatives all push on the need for different relationships between schools and communities, they do so for disparate reasons and in divergent ways. Moreover, as a whole, these efforts have produced an uneven track record—often failing to sustain community involvement or achieve other goals such as changed relationships and improved student outcomes.

INTRODUCTION

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GROUNDING THE STUDY: A LENS FO R UNDERSTANDING THE TWO CASES

Like the field of practice, there does not appear to be a coherent body of empirical research about attempts to connect schools and community. Instead, the research field consists of scattered studies that are often atheoretical and involve single case studies of school-level efforts.10 In addition, few researchers have thoroughly examined community collaboration at the district level. In fact, an emerging body of policy literature on the role of school districts rarely addresses issues of community. The majority of this research depicts community as context or barrier rather than actor or resource in reform.11 Compounding the lack of empirical research is a conceptual gap. Researchers tend to construe the problem of collaboration as the establishment of contractual relationships or the coordination of resources.12 Accordingly, the simple act of convening a group of individuals and/or organizational leaders is often labeled “collaboration.” When such a group fails to accomplish tangible results, this conception of collaboration provides little insight into what went wrong. While participants may have successfully coordinated schedules and coattended a meeting or two, they may not have clearly articulated goals, discussed expectations, negotiated roles, or developed consensus around procedures. In such a situation, why would there have been an expectation of results? At a time when policy makers and reformers continue to push for collaboration, it seems particularly important to gain a better understanding of what this looks like, what shapes it, and what might improve it. Democratic Joint Work: A Framework and Key Concepts Drawing on democratic theory and research on communities of practice, I offer a more nuanced way of conceptualizing the problem of collaboration. Within this interdisciplinary framework, the act of convening a meeting between professionals and laypersons is no longer sufficient evidence of collaboration. Instead, the framework calls for a more in-depth examination of who attended, the purpose of the meeting, how participants understood the purpose, negotiated roles, and arrived at decisions, and what they achieved. In the aggregate, these concepts and theory provide a useful framework for understanding how educators and noneducators (hereafter, “participants”) come together around a “table” to make decisions and take action to improve education and how to improve such endeavors (see figure I.1). These theories help focus on four dimensions of this process: who is at the table, what is on the table, how it operates, and what results.

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Democratic Theory WHAT is on the table —to what ends joint work is directed —vision & perceptions of purpose

WHO is at the table —who participants are —“community” represented

Communities of Practice

HOW it operates —rules of conduct —how decisions are made Democratic Theory

WHAT is accomplished —what joint work achieves —what participants gain

FIGURE I.1 Dimensions of Democratic Joint Work

Joint Work The concept of ‘community of practice’ comes from a social theory of learning that focuses on learning as social participation. According to this theory, our interaction with others in a work team or group “shapes not only what we do, but also who we are and how we interpret what we do.”13 A community of practice is thus a way to name the community created over time by people working together on a shared goal. This research indicates that what keeps a community of practice together is “joint enterprise” or what I call “joint work.” This concept is particularly useful because it refers to a process of coconstructing new roles and routines toward a shared goal. Etiene Wenger defines three basic features of this enterprise. First, joint work is a “negotiated enterprise” whose meaning results from collective and continuous interaction and give and take. This process of negotiation does not require homogeneity of opinion or total agreement. Instead, disagreement is often viewed as a productive part of joint work. Second, joint work is an “indigenous enterprise” that is defined and at least partially owned by participants. While the joint work may be shaped by conditions outside of the control of members, it is never fully determined by external forces. It is members’ interactions with and responses to these conditions that make the enterprise their own. Finally, joint work creates a sense of mutual accountability among all participants. This communal sense of responsibility generates implicit and explicit understandings of what is important and what is appropriate.14

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Thus, the concept of ‘joint work’ calls specific attention to how decisions are made: how participants understand their roles and responsibilities, as well as how they interact and negotiate their mission, roles, and responsibilities. Democratic Theory Democratic theory helps identify facets of joint work on which the communities of practice literature is silent—primarily, to what ends joint work is directed and who is at the table (and whose voice matters). These theories also speak to how decisions are made and what results. By combining these theories, the study’s framework helps specify and understand a particular subset of joint work: democratic joint work. As Figure I.2 illustrates, democratic theories outline models of decision making that fall along two continua. The horizontal spectrum focuses on who is involved and ranges from participatory to representative models of democracy. Participatory democratic theory suggests there is maximum involvement of individuals who will be affected by the decision at hand and that participants have equal power to determine the outcome of the decision. These theories argue that increasing participation in governance will enhance citizen interest in and understanding of politics, prevent abuse of power by elected officials, help individuals connect public and private interests, and assist in the acceptance of collective decisions.16

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Representative 3

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FIGURE I.2 Democratic Governance Models

Note: In this schematic, notions of deliberative, interest-based, participatory, and representative are best understood as ideal types, as opposed to exact models one implements. It is likely that in real-life settings, decision making or joint work may take on aspects of deliberative and participatory democracy or oscillate along both the horizontal and vertical axes (Mansbridge, 1983).15

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Many historians trace the origins of participatory democracy to Athens in the fifth and fourth centuries bce.17 In modern times, participatory democracy is often linked to the writings of John Dewey and Jean Jacques Rousseau. A well-known critic of elitist forms of representation, Dewey believed that without widespread public participation in democracy, policies would not reflect society’s needs and interests—but instead the private interests and knowledge of “experts” who are too removed from society to embrace common interests.18 Similarly, Rousseau responded to the perceived ills of representative government with a plea for direct democracy. According to Rousseau, widespread participation in decision making serves a variety of functions: it ensures good government; helps develop responsible citizens who learn to embrace matters beyond their own self-interest and to make connections between private and public interest: makes it easier for individuals to accept collective decisions; and increases individuals’ feelings that they belong in their community.19 The notion of participatory democracy gained widespread attention and popularity in America in the 1960s and 1970s as the result of perceived alienation from traditional democratic institutions. In part a response to the escalation of the Vietnam War, waning confidence in government, and a dramatic decrease in citizen engagement in politics, many academics and politicians at both ends of the political spectrum advocated for community control, decentralization, and workers’ control. Carole Pateman—an early and significant contributor to the revival of participatory politics—argues that the existence of representative institutions at the national level is not sufficient for a democratic society. Instead, there must be maximum participation by all people at the local level and in other spheres in order to provide individuals with “the necessary individual attitudes and psychological qualities.”20 As such, the major function of participation in this theory is educative, both in the psychological sense and in the pragmatic sense of facilitating practice in democratic skills and procedures. In years following Pateman, other theorists followed suit with pleas for greater political participation by citizens, including Benjamin Barber (1984) and his model of “strong democracy.” At the other end of the spectrum, representative democratic theory posits that widespread participation is not necessary, and, in fact, is potentially detrimental to democratic society. It is argued that increased participation from apathetic and disinterested citizens would weaken consensus around the norms of an electoral democratic system.21 In an ideal representative democracy there is limited participation of a minority of leaders who represent their constituents’ interests. While this stream of political thought dates back to many of the constitutional framers, it is most often associated in later years with the “elitist theory of democracy” advocated by Joseph Schumpeter and his disciples.22

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Schumpeter argued that “the typical citizen drops down to a lower level of mental performance as soon as he enters the political field” and “argues and analyzes in a way which he would readily recognize as infantile.”23 Given the “ordinary citizen’s ignorance and lack of judgment in matters of domestic and foreign policy,”24 Schumpeter believed that a minority of leaders were needed to be active in politics and make informed decisions. He further argued that competition among leaders for votes is what makes this system democratic. Other notable theorists in this camp include Bernard Berelson and Giovanni Sartori. The vertical continuum focuses on what is on the table and how things should operate and ranges from deliberative to interest-based models. An interest-based democratic model intends to maximize self-interest through a process of bargaining and voting. This conception of democracy assumes a “rational actor,” self-interested model, in which individuals calculate how to best maximize their personal gain and view political activity in terms of its “instrumental rationality.”25 Decisions are made by aggregative mechanisms (e.g., voting), and there is no requirement that reasons for decisions be stated publicly. Advocates of an interest-based model argue that individuals generally act in self-interested ways and that there is no such thing as the common good. This tradition is often associated with John Locke, who believed that in a democracy citizens are not asked to consent to each individual law or decision but to a fair process for making a law or decision. As a result, voters are bound to the results of decision making regardless of whether they agree with them—leaving room, however, for the coercion of voting minorities who are bound by laws that they might oppose.26 Although best known for his views on representative democracy (discussed above), Schumpeter also contributed to an interest-based conception of democracy. First and foremost an economist, he assumed that individuals generally act on narrow selfinterest. Comparing political competition for votes to the operation of economic markets, Schumpeter believed that when voting or choosing political parties, citizens, like consumers, choose “products” or policies that maximize personal benefits.27 Jane Mansbridge’s conception of “adversary democracy” also helps to define this end of the spectrum. Tracing its origins to Thomas Hobbes—who in seventeenth-century-England developed a political theory based on selfinterest alone—Mansbridge argues that the understanding of self-interest as the cornerstone of political life gained further acceptance over time. According to Mansbridge, modern adversary or interest-based theorists believe that there is no common good or public interest. As a result: Voters pursue their individual interests by making demands on the political system in proportion to the intensity of their feelings. Politicians, also

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pursuing their own interests, adopt policies that buy them votes, thus ensuring accountability. . . . From the interchange between self-interested voters and self-interested brokers emerge decisions that come as close as possible to a balanced aggregation of individual interests.28

In contrast, a deliberative democratic model seeks to promote the common good and base decisions on reasoned argument and public discourse. Theorists argue that this model contributes to better decisions; improves democratic and citizenship skills; and generally improves the quality of democracy over time. While many theorists over the years have adopted various names for the concept of ‘deliberative democracy,’ they share many of the same basic principles:29 • conversations and decisions are aimed at the common good; • decisions are based on reasoned argument and the merits at hand; • reasoning must be reciprocal, meaning participants appeal to reasons and premises that are shared or could be shared by fellow participants;30 • reasons given are open and public, and the information needed to assess those reasons are accessible; • there is a shared understanding that all voices are heard; • participants are accountable to all who may be bound by decisions, and formal linkages exist to ensure this accountability; and • action follows. The ideals of deliberative democracy have a long intellectual history, dating back to the writing of Aristotle and the political practices of fifth- and fourth-century Athens.31 Deliberative democracy also has deep roots in American history, where constitutional framers envisioned legislators deliberating and acting on “the good of the whole” in the formation of “republican” government. Eager to solve the inadequacies of government in the 1780s, men such as James Madison and Thomas Jefferson sought to establish a more accountable form of representative government—one that recognized the importance of deliberation to the success of democracy.32 Another “forefather” of deliberative democracy is John Dewey, who believed that democracy should be a form of social inquiry around moral and political issues. Like science, he argued, democracy required certain “cognitive virtues” such as openness, experimentation, communication, and toleration of diverse opinions.33 While Dewey never used the term deliberative democracy, his writings nonetheless describe a model of democracy that embraces its values—a process in which citizens inquire into issues of mutual concern, develop relationships “by means of give and take,” engage in dialogue, and seek to achieve common interests (as opposed to the private interests of an elite ruling class).34

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Political theorists often evoke Jürgen Habermas’ notions of discourse ethics as the foundations for the ideal of deliberative democracy. In this ideal, participants arrive at a problem with an open mind, engage in reasoned argument, have equal opportunity to make and critique proposals, and ultimately achieve consensus.35 And while deliberative democratic theorists recognize some limits to the unrestricted process of deliberation, they nonetheless agree with the basic Habermasian ideal of legitimation by argument. In other words, consensus is achieved, and norms are validated, when they are the result of reasoned argument—as opposed to the result of achieving a voting majority, which may reflect power not the more compelling argument. A revival of interest in deliberative forms of democracy emerged in this country in the later half of the twentieth century. Dissatisfied with the dominant liberal politics, its perceived overreliance on individual rights, and its inability to address important moral controversies,36 many political theorists and activists articulated an alternative model of democracy.37 Barber—whose theory of “strong democracy” relies heavily on notions of deliberation—responded to the “excess of liberalism” by positing a model of democracy that deals with public disputes and conflicts of interest with “a never ending process of deliberation, decision, and action.”38 Other individuals who have written about deliberative democracy include Amy Gutmann, Dennis Thompson, Joshua Cohen, John Elster, Jane Mansbridge, Seyla Benhabib, and Iris Marion Young. Implicit in these descriptions of the deliberative democratic ideal are common arguments as to why such a model is advantageous. First, theorists often contend that compared to alternative democratic models, the deliberative model contributes to decisions that are more:39 • Legitimate. Decisions may be more acceptable to those who receive less than they believe they deserve if they see that everyone’s claims have been considered on their merits rather than on the basis of power; • Impartial. Deliberative processes help by “filtering out self-or partial-interest appeals”;40 • Effective. By involving those close to points of action, deliberative bodies potentially bring in knowledge of how best to improve the situation, enhance participants’ motivation to implement decisions, shorten the feedback loop, and increase the learning capacity of the system. The deliberative process also brings critical information to bear on decisions in ways not possible in nondeliberative processes. For example, incentives are greater to reveal private information, and decision-makers are exposed to a wider range of perspectives; and • Equitable. While penalized under the alternative bargaining models, “resource-poor” groups may obtain better outcomes in a deliberative process that supports an equal voice for all participants—thereby improving distributive justice.

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Another common argument in favor of deliberative democracy is that the process yields important educative effects. In theory, deliberation offers opportunities for individuals to develop, practice, and improve democratic and citizenship skills, which further enhance the quality of democracy.41 Others argue that involvement in politics focused on achieving the common good enables participants to “become better human beings, acquiring both individual autonomy and a sense of common involvement.”42 Similarly, theorists believe deliberative practice encourages individuals to take broader views on issues than they might otherwise take; helps clarify the nature of moral disagreements and in the process open individuals’ eyes to potential misunderstandings and ways to settle conflicts; and helps democracies improve over time by identifying new ideas and enabling people to learn from past mistakes.43 Applying Democratic Theory to Joint Work A series of gradations or alternatives exist in between the ends of the deliberative-interest-based and participatory-representative continua. For example, a representative system can move closer to the participatory end when representatives represent fewer numbers of citizens and thus have more direct accountability to those whom they represent. Similarly, an interest-based governance body can become more deliberative by including public debate as a prerequisite to voting. Finally, not all forms of joint work will necessarily map onto this democratic schema. For example, some participants may believe in deference to professional authority, perhaps with consultation of lay opinion. In such a case, the interactions would sit outside of the democratic realm and would more closely approximate professional-client relations in which the professional claims a right to make decisions alone or with minimal input from clients. In the next chapter, I examine the two cases through this lens to understand what participants tried to achieve (promotion of the common good or private interests), how the endeavors operated (ranging from coconstruction, reason-based decision making to aggregative mechanisms such as voting and private decision making), who participated (all stakeholders affected by the decisions or selected representatives), and what resulted (action or no action). STUDY BACKGROUND AND METHODS

The book draws on data collected from January 1999 to January 2002 in two California districts. I selected these districts because they both viewed substantive collaboration of citizens and educators as a valuable part of their work and employed different organizational forms of this joint work. I also

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selected districts of comparable size, grade configurations, student demographics, and regional context to better isolate the phenomenon of joint work and the factors that shaped it. Finally, it helped that in both districts the superintendent enjoyed a long tenure—a rarity in most districts these days. This was another important selection criteria because I did not want to rediscover that leadership turnover is a barrier to collaboration. In the first district, Mid Valley, I conducted observations and interviews as the initiative unfolded, with additional reflective interviews conducted after the initiative ended. In the second district, Highland, data collection focused on an initiative that had already taken place. The decision to conduct a retrospective case was important to the design of this study. A pilot study in Mid Valley indicated that the initiative was encountering significant obstacles and that struggles were likely to persist. As such, I located a second case in the same geographic region to provide a strategic contrast to Mid Valley. Without the luxury of time to observe another collaborative initiative in progress and risk that it too might not fulfill its goals, I decided to conduct a retrospective case of Highland—a district that had completed its collaborative endeavor and demonstrated action. To address the limits of retrospective data, I interviewed a wide range of individuals to capture multiple accounts of the same events. I also used documents to confirm and disconfirm participants’ accounts—including notes and overheads from meetings, facilitators’ scripts, handouts disseminated at meetings, and planning documents. In all, I draw on more than 100 interviews and focus groups with key participants and observers; observations of formal and informal meetings; an extensive review of documents generated by participants and archival records; and survey data from teachers and principals. See appendix A for a more detailed description of the research design, sample selection, and data collection and analysis methods. REFLECTIONS ON AND IMPLICATIONS OF THE RESEARCH

While this study started as an examination of one district’s failed attempt to involve community, over the years it broadened into a more expansive endeavor. Puzzled by the disconnect between leaders’ intent and actions, as well as the strong commitment to collaboration and lack of results, I located a second case and eagerly examined the literature on this topic. As noted, I turned to the communities of practice and political science literature for theoretical grounding and direction. The concept of joint work and its translation of negotiating roles toward a shared goal resonated with the efforts in these two districts. Moreover, the words of district leaders closely mirrored the tenets of deliberative and participatory democracy and helped identify important dimensions of joint work. In the spirit of grounded theory, this

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study involved an iterative process of data collection and analysis44—moving from field work to analysis and consultation with theoretical literature, to a refinement and second round of data collection, to further data analysis, and ultimately to theory elaboration and practical lessons. Like Jane Mansbridge’s study Beyond Adversary Democracy—which she framed as one of “looking at what happens to an ideal under stress”45—this book examines the ideals of joint work and deliberative and participatory democracy as they unfold in settings teeming with potential obstacles. Aside from a few studies, there has been very little empirical work on deliberative democracy,46 and what little exists focuses on effects instead of process.47 Moreover, much of the research on communities of practice tends to reside in employment settings48—as opposed to the more political setting of joint work between professional educators and administrators, elected representatives, and laypersons. Finally, it is worth noting that the dynamic and complex nature of democratic joint work and the facilitating and constraining factors made writing this book extremely challenging. In some ways, I tackled the problem as if I were peeling away layers of an onion—examining one layer while holding the others constant, ultimately ending with what appears to be the core domain of trust. Yet “the onion”—or democratic joint work—is not complete without all of its layers. Moreover, one cannot fully understand the first layer without understanding the second on which it lies. Thus, the interactions among the four domains I take up in separate chapters—power, institutional beliefs and norms, organizational context, and trust—more accurately account for the unfolding of democratic joint work than any one layer in isolation. In the end, this process generated many theoretical insights about democracy and public schooling. In particular, the book speaks to the inherent tensions of deliberative democracy, competing notions of representation, and the foundational importance of trust to democracy and educational reform. The research also challenges dominant conceptions of accountability inherent in current policies such as the federal No Child Left Behind Act. These insights are particularly relevant in the current policy environment where accountability pressures have policymakers, administrators, and board members desperately seeking strategies for systemwide improvement in student learning. As such, the findings apply as much to the field of education as they do to political science and to anyone concerned more broadly with democratic institutions. CHAPTER OUTLINE

Chapter 1 provides an overview of the districts and the collaborative endeavors as they evolved over time. I briefly describe the similar state and local

INTRODUCTION

15

contexts in which the initiatives operated, as well as the demographics and histories of each district. I then examine the two endeavors against the indicators of democratic joint work outlined earlier: exploring the purposes of these endeavors, who participated, how they worked together and made decisions, and what they achieved. As the chapter details, participants in Highland came much closer to achieving the expressed goals of its collaborative endeavor than did the participants in Mid Valley. The remaining chapters seek to explain these contrasting stories and the factors and conditions that appear to enable and constrain democratic decision making and action. As such, each chapter takes up one of four interrelated factors and conditions: power, institutional values and beliefs, organizational context, and trust. Chapter 2 demonstrates the difficulty of keeping power out of the deliberative arena. I examine the patterns of participation within each district and find that differential status based on hierarchical position and style of speech among participants created unequal power dynamics in meetings among educators, board members, and citizens. These dynamics often constrained participation in both districts, but severely jeopardized the democratic nature of Mid Valley’s endeavor. Seeking explanations for these differences, I find that several structural features of strategic planning and a specific conception of representation figured prominently in Highland, which helped facilitate equal standing and participation. Chapter 3 shows that values, norms, and beliefs participants brought to the table—in particular, norms of democratic inclusion, professional autonomy, and market perspectives—greatly influenced how participants thought about their roles and how they interacted with others. Through analyses of participants’ views and case examples of participant behavior, I demonstrate that at times these values and orientations resulted in persistent conflict— particularly in Mid Valley—and at other times left room for learning and change—particularly in Highland. The chapter finds that contrary to popular belief, institutional tensions, especially between democratic and professional norms, are not insurmountable. Chapter 4 reveals that one cannot fully understand the dynamics of power or values without a clear picture of the organization in which collaboration unfolds. I demonstrate that everyday district matters such as personnel procedures, division of labor, resource allocation, language of rules, attitudes toward data, extent of delegation, and board relations greatly influenced the two initiatives. The Mid Valley case illustrates that the features of a bureaucratically entrenched organization and compliance-oriented culture conflict with democratic ideals and might hinder deliberation. In contrast, Highland’s case suggests that a more entrepreneurial organization that interprets rules with some flexibility, promotes learning over control, and distributes leadership complements the democratic aims of collaboration and might facilitate its enactment.

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Chapter 5 brings together the previous chapters by showing that trust is a foundational ingredient of collaboration and inextricably linked to the previously discussed domains of power, values, and organization. By examining patterns of trust among and between various categories of actors (citizens, school board, administrators, teachers), I find a pervasive climate of mistrust in Mid Valley and a set of more trusting relationships in Highland. I show that mistrust appears to lessen participants’ motivation to participate, while trust appears to build a sense of shared purpose and help participants find common ground. I also demonstrate that climates of trust and mistrust often depend on perceptions of representation (i.e., is the group assembled seen as sufficiently inclusive). Revisiting the theme of representation introduced in chapter 2, I also uncover a paradox within the model of democratic joint work—one that raises fundamental questions about the impact of such a model on individuals from traditionally marginalized groups. Chapter 6 presents conclusions and implications for educational and democratic reform. I first revisit the key tensions uncovered by this research and reflect on the implications of democratic joint work for education accountability policy. Next, I review the outcomes resulting from the two cases and demonstrate that collaboration done well can yield enhanced trust, commitment to support the district, learning on the part of participants and the district as a whole, and decisions that expand opportunities for student learning. Conversely, the chapter highlights the dangers of inviting individuals to join a deliberative process and then failing to uphold its principles. Building on these cases, I offer important lessons for administrators, policy makers, and community members, including a set of design elements and strategies for achieving the principles of joint work and deliberative decision making in practice. Finally, I highlight several unresolved dilemmas and questions emanating from this research.

ONE

Setting the Stage

IN THIS CHAPTER I describe the two collaborative endeavors. First, I situate

the cases in their state, regional, and local contexts and provide a brief historical background on the two efforts. Drawing on the principles of democratic joint work explained in the previous chapter, I then describe who participated, the vision for what this would entail, the ways in which participants interacted and made decisions, and what they accomplished. What emerge in this chapter are two contrasting stories of collaboration, one more successful than the other. STATE, REGIONAL, AND LO CAL CONTEXT FO R JOINT WO RK

To understand how the collaborative endeavors evolved in Mid Valley and Highland, one must begin with a broad understanding of the state and local contexts. The State: Accountability Pressures and Policy Flux The educational policy environment provides an important backdrop to the stories in both districts. In the late 1990s, the legislature—with the urging of two governors—passed a series of measures to improve education through enhanced working conditions, assessment, and accountability. Dramatically altering the nature and mood of education in the state, these policies included the following: class size reduction in lower elementary grades; the creation of a statewide testing program; the end of the practice of social promotion; and a new accountability initiative that included the public ranking of all public schools, rewards and sanctions for schools based on test scores, and capacity-building support for low-performing schools. 17

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For educators in both districts, this wave of new policies and programs created enormous stress. When asked how these new policies affected them and the quality of their instruction, teachers repeatedly expressed frustration. One Highland teacher noted, “It takes a lot of joy right out of the profession.” Similarly, a teacher in Mid Valley replied, “It’s impossible to do what we’re asked to do.” Many were particularly disturbed by the public rankings of schools. “The kids end up really losing out,” commented one Mid Valley teacher, “because you’re not really educating them to function in society so much as you’re just educating them to make you look good on the tests.” Many teachers, administrators, and school board members were simply exhausted from the pace of reform and constant change. As one Highland board member explained, “If the state jerks us around with new laws and new testing and stuff, the way they’ve jerked us around the last couple of years, that just makes it harder to stay with what we need to do.” In summary, the wave of new state policy created an atmosphere of constant change and pressure to produce higher test scores in both districts—one that mirrors the current national policy environment brought on by the federal No Child Left Behind Act. The Region: Innovation and High Cost of Living Both districts also resided in the greater Northern California Bay Area, a region famous for its natural beauty and thriving economy (at least at the time of data collection).1 Spurred by the growth of the Internet and high-tech industries, this region witnessed a rapid increase in wealth during the 1990s, particularly among the young and the entrepreneurial. Thriving, fast-paced telecommunications, computer, electronics, and biotechnology companies dominated the political economy of this region. The growth of these industries and the allure of potential wealth attracted workers from around the country and world. Yet not all residents benefited from the booming economy. The rising cost of living—including one the most expensive rental and housing markets in the country—made life for teachers, nonprofits, and other lower paid workers in the Bay Area extremely challenging and unattractive. Traffic and long commutes became synonymous with the region. While nonprofits struggled to find affordable office space, school districts throughout the region fought to attract and retain teachers, who streamed in and out of the area looking for higher pay and lower housing costs. Highland and Mid Valley were not immune to the impact of the region: both struggled to retain teachers and invested significant resources—bond money and general funds—to install and upgrade technological software and hardware in their schools.

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The Districts and Their Communities As detailed in table 1.12, the two districts were both midsized, serving fewer than 10,000 students and supporting fewer than twenty schools. Moreover, both districts were located in mixed urban-suburban neighborhoods with demographically diverse populations. They also benefited from long-tenured superintendents. Mid Valley The Mid Valley School District is situated in an urban-suburban community of approximately 80,000 residents. Despite the enormous wealth of its surrounding towns, the city is often referred to as a “poor cousin” due to its sizable lowincome and immigrant populations. Approximately half of city residents are

TABLE 1.1 Descriptions of Case Study Districts (1998–99)

Mid Valley

Highland

Schools

16 schools (elementary & middle)

13 schools (elementary & middle)

Student demographics

9.000 students 2/3 Hispanic, 1/3 White, 1/20 Asian 1/2 English Lang. Learners (ELL) 2/5 qualify for free/reduced meals 1/10 Special Education (2000–01)

8,000 students 1/2 white, 1/3 Hispanic, 1/10 Asian 1/4 ELL 1/3 qualify for free/reduced meals 1/10 Special Education (2000–01)

Workforce

500 FTE teachers 90 percent fully certified

400 FTE teachers 90 percent fully certified

Leadership

Superintendent in office ~ 10 years

Superintendent in office > 10 years

Fiscal overview

Expenditure per student ~ $6,000 Total expenditures ~ $50 million Total revenues > $50 million

Expenditure per student ~ $6,000 Total expenditures ~ $40 million Total revenues > $40 million

Note: Unless noted, data refer to the 1998–99 school year. While the numbers have been slightly altered to maintain anonymity, the basic proportions remain true.

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white, almost one-third Hispanic, fewer than 10 percent Asian, and a little more than 1 percent African American—marking a significant change over the past thirty years or so, when the city was home to a much larger African American population and fewer immigrants. While local government agencies are major employers within the city limits, several high-tech companies provide the majority of remaining city jobs. The focal point of the city is a historic downtown area lined with recently restored buildings, restaurants, and shops. Housing development follows a familiar pattern of an east-west divide, wherein wealthier and predominantly white residents have settled into homes in the hills and more diverse and significantly lower income residents rent apartments in the flatlands. Most residents locate the “power base” of the city in the west side, noting that citizens in the east side of town—who are predominantly Latino— vote less frequently. In interviews, current and former elected officials were quick to note that when running for office, astute candidates concentrate their campaign efforts on west-side residents. A former elected official reported that a key ingredient to winning an election is having ties to the two west-side Catholic parishes. As for community-district relations, it is widely acknowledged that most citizens are not active in district affairs. For example, few people attend board meetings. The elementary school district reflects the changing demographics of the city. Of the more than 9,000 students in grades K–8, in 1998–98, almost twothirds were Latino, fewer than one-third were white, and Asian/Pacific Islanders and African Americans together made up fewer than one-tenth of students—a striking difference from 1970 when more than three-fourths of the students were white. These students also were linguistically and socioeconomically diverse, with more than 50 percent classified as English language learners (ELLs) and about 40 percent qualifying for the Free and Reduced Price Meals program. The district oversees sixteen schools, some serving grades 6–8 and most serving grades K–5. The district organization and structure also are typical of California districts. An elected five-member Board of Education directs the overall policies of the central office and appoints the superintendent. The superintendent’s staff includes four assistant superintendents who oversee personnel, curriculum and instruction, and magnet schools. Additional staff members oversee a variety of other programs and services, including bilingual education, financial services, and staff development. In terms of the teacher workforce, Mid Valley employed approximately 500 full-time equivalent, certificated teachers in 1998–98, the majority of which were fully certified. The performance of Mid Valley students has been an area of much concern and attention for district and community leaders. As table 1.2 illustrates, while the district, like most others, demonstrated steady gains on the statemandated Stanford Achievement Test (SAT-9) assessment, its students in

SETTING THE STAGE

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TABLE 1.2 Mid Valley Districtwide SAT-9 Results (national percentile rankings) 1998–2000

Grade

Reading ’00/’99/’98

Math ’00/’99/’98

Language ’00/’99/’98

Spelling ’00/’99/’98

4 8

45/41/38 50/45/43

46/40/36 55/4240

45/44/39 52/46/43

40/36/29 38/31/30

Note: While the numbers have been slightly altered to maintain anonymity, the basic proportions remain true.

the aggregate were not achieving above the 50th percentile (except for a few subjects and grades). In the 1999 administration of the SAT-9, fewer than half of all second, fourth, sixth, and eighth graders scored at or above the 50th percentile in reading and math. The performance of ELLs and their acquisition of English also remains a challenge for the district. Mid Valley School District has a long history of reform, particularly the alignment of policies around standards. In recent years, the district devoted significant attention and resources to supporting new teachers. Mid Valley has benefited from stability of leadership, employing only two superintendents in the past twenty years. Historically, the teachers’ union appeared to have a good relationship with the district administration. In recent years, however, the union-district relationship has been characterized as “cool.” Although the union has remained somewhat skeptical of the district’s publicized budget woes and has repeatedly pushed for higher salaries, it continues to work closely with district administrators in planning and implementing many new state programs, including programs to support new teachers. Highland The Highland School District is located approximately thirty miles from Mid Valley. Unlike Mid Valley, which is more or less contiguous with one city jurisdiction, Highland serves students from more than five different cities and an unincorporated section of one county. Similar to Mid Valley, however, there is considerable variation in the neighborhoods and socioeconomic status of families served by the district. Like most communities in the Bay Area, the area comprising the district has experienced tremendous change over the past thirty years—from what many described as “a little bedroom community” comprised largely of white, English-speaking, middle-class residents to a more racially, ethnically, and linguistically diverse community. In recent years, the high concentration of older, reasonably priced apartments attracted many lower income residents to

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move in. As a result, the district is quite diverse, with enormous variance in wealth. As one board member explained, “we have kids who come to school in limousines and kids who come to school barefoot and live in cars.” The socioeconomic and ethnic diversity appears to follow similar geographic patterns to those of Mid Valley. In Highland, however, the division appears to be north-south, with some pockets of poverty scattered throughout. Schools located north, closest to the main highway, tend to serve larger percentages of ethnically diverse and low-income families. Schools closest to the hills, in the southern part of the district, tend to serve primarily white, middle- to upper-class families. The demographic diversity also can be mapped onto the various city boundaries. Several of the district’s schools are located within a very large, ethnically diverse urban city. Another group of schools reside in an urbansuburban community of fewer than 50,000 residents, three-fourths of whom are white. The remaining schools are located in two wealthy enclaves in the southern corner of the district, where the majority of residents are white. The demographics of the Highland School District reflect the diversity of the multiple communities it serves. In 1998–99, Highland enrolled approximately 8,000 students—half of which were white, fewer than one-third Hispanic, one-tenth Asian, and one-twentieth African American. Of these students, approximately one-fourth were English Language Learners and one-third qualified for Free and Reduced Price Meals. Thus, while Highland is more ethnically and linguistically homogeneous than Mid Valley, the socioeconomic status of total students is comparable. Moreover, like Mid Valley, the demographics of individual schools mirror the surrounding neighborhoods—thus several schools are primarily white with few students qualifying for meal programs, and others enroll high percentages of Hispanic students and ELLs. The district oversees thirteen schools, the majority serving grades K–4 and K–5, and a few serving grades 5–8. These schools range from a nationally recognized blue ribbon school to a persistently low-performing school. Like Mid Valley, an elected five-member Board of Education directs the overall policies of the central office and appoints the superintendent. In 1998–99, the superintendent’s staff included eight certified administrators, including an associate superintendent of curriculum and instruction, assistant superintendent of human resources, and directors of programs such as professional development, assessment, student services, planning/technology, and special education. The district also employed nine classified staff members, including an assistant superintendent of administrative services, directors of human resources, fiscal services, administrative services, and maintenance; and various supervisors and assistants. As for the teacher workforce, Highland employed approximately 400 full-time equivalent certified teachers, nearly all of which were fully certified. In terms of academic achievement, Highland students performed slightly above the state average, yet at or slightly below county averages. Compared

SETTING THE STAGE

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TABLE 1.3 Highland Districtwide SAT-9 Results (national percentile rankings) 1998–2000

Grade

Reading ’00/’99/’98

Math ’00/’99/’98

Language ’00/’99/’98

Spelling ’00/’99/’98

4 8

57/53/55 55/53/50

61/60/56 57/53/52

61/58/58 64/62/59

53/50/49 42/41/40

Note: While the numbers have been slightly altered to maintain anonymity, the basic proportions remain true.

to Mid Valley, however, Highland students score significantly higher— exceeding the 50th percentile in most grades and subjects. A selection of these results is presented in table 1.3, which indicates steady growth in scores over a three-year period. In the 1999 administration of the SAT-9, more than 50 percent of all second, fourth, sixth, and eighth graders scored at or above the 50th percentile in reading and math. Like Mid Valley, Highland has a long history of reform, particularly in the area of literacy instruction and technology. Many educators in and outside of the district describe Highland as “progressive” and “cutting edge.” The district employs site-based literacy coordinators in all schools, administers local performance-based assessments, and engages in continual planning and evaluation. Highland takes its location within the high-tech capital of the world to heart—integrating technology use into curriculum and instruction. Highland also has benefited from stability of leadership among the board and superintendent, who first took the position in the 1980s. It also has maintained a strong, nonadversarial relationship with the teachers’ union.3 Finally, the district appears to enjoy a positive relationship with its community. While no one cited examples of widespread community involvement, they all indicated that “we do not have a lot of outside folks giving us a lot of challenges.” KEY FACETS AND ACTIVITIES OF JOINT WO RK

The seeds of Mid Valley’s CAP initiative were planted in legislation introduced in early 1997, and it officially ended with the resignation of its director in March 2000. In Highland, strategic planning originated with preplanning activities in mid-1998 and continued with implementation activity ongoing through 2001. Table 1.4 provides an overview of these key activities, along with a summary of how the endeavors played out along the principles of joint work and democracy. The remainder of this chapter examines each of these categories in detail.

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TABLE 1.4 Overview of How Democratic Joint Work Unfolded in Mid Valley and Highland

Mid Valley

Highland

Timeframe

Early 1997–March 2000

Mid 1998–2001

Key events

Advisory meetings (monthly, August 1998–February 2000) 1st Study session (April 1999) 2nd Study session (August 1999) 3rd Study session (February 2000) Collaborative meeting (March 2000) CAP director resigns (March 2000)

Preplanning (early 1998) 1st day of planning (June 1998) 2nd & 3rd days (August 1998) Plan Dissemination (September 1998) Action teams (October 1990– April 1999) Plan adopted (June 1999) Implementation (2000–2001)

Who was at the table

More representative

More participatory

What was on the table

Deliberaive democratic intent Inconsistency of participant perceptions of purpose

Deliberative democratic intent Consistency of participant perceptions of purpose

How decisions were made

Not deliberative (except Advisory)

Deliberative

What was achieved

No action Disillusionment & shift to adversarial tactics

Action Learning, renewed sense of efficacy, willingness to participate in the future

History of Mid Valley’s CAP Initiative Mid Valley School District’s three-year attempt to initiate joint work started in early 1997 when the superintendent, working with a state assemblyman, shaped state legislation to fund and study a “pilot” district-run school improvement and accountability program. At the time, the state was developing a comprehensive state accountability system. Given that this system would take several years to develop, the pilot program was intended to test out the concept and “to review the benefits and ramifications of implement-

SETTING THE STAGE

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ing a system that links pupil performance with financial rewards” (AB 644, §1[a][4]). Under this legislation, the state superintendent would allocate financial rewards if he/she determined that the pilot school district made “substantial progress” toward meeting the goals of its accountability plan. Anticipating the passage of this legislation, the Mid Valley superintendent formulated a plan for the district: a committee of community members would determine benchmarks, annually analyze district data, judge whether the district as a whole made educational “progress,” recommend financial rewards for evidence of progress (to be funded by the state), and help develop next steps to improve future student performance. By making the district the unit of change and rewarding all schools for districtwide progress, such a system would theoretically avoid the competition and fragmentation that often occur in a school- or teacher-based model that rewards individual progress. The superintendent’s commitment to this program was evident in his public communication during this time. In a late-1997 editorial published in a local newspaper, he argued for a new accountability system. “[I]mprovement in student performance will not be sustained unless local school districts have the opportunity to implement incentive-driven models for students, teachers, and administrators,” he wrote, adding that the model must include community engagement and must link increased district income to student performance. In mid-1998 it became clear that the bill would not be signed into law. After making it through numerous committees in the state legislature, in July 1998 it died in committee without further action. Despite the demise of this bill, the superintendent remained committed to its concepts and decided to implement them in a new initiative called “Community Accountability Project” (CAP). In the summer of 1998 he appointed a group of community “advisors” to design this effort and a district administrator to direct it. In years past, this administrator had been a principal of a local school that participated in a regional reform effort founded on notions of school-community accountability, inquiry-based instruction, and cycles of continuous improvement. The director later hired two teachers from his former school to assist with CAP. Throughout the early months of the initiative and even through the beginning of 1999, district leaders remained hopeful that the state would ultimately fund CAP. Starting in late 1998, the superintendent worked with state legislators to urge newly elected Governor Davis to add funds to his statewide accountability plan to support other district-level accountability models. The original sponsor of the bill also voiced intentions to resubmit the bill. By mid-1999, however, it became clear that state funding would not materialize. Finally, some observers link the origins of CAP to a neighborhood survey sponsored by the city’s community-based collaborative (hereafter, the Collaborative), in which citizens indicated that education was the highest

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area of concern. The Collaborative recommended that the district collaborate more with city government and the community to improve education for all students. The Collaborative leader believed CAP was one response to the survey findings. History of Highland’s Strategic Planning Process Highland School District’s strategic planning process originated more than a decade prior to the 1998 sessions, at the beginning of the new superintendent’s tenure in the district. She believed the district needed a more powerful kind of strategic planning than had previously existed in the district—one that pushed it to set goals. After recruiting several board members to attend seminars on strategic planning, the superintendent and board adopted this new model, implemented for the first time in 1988. The process was designed around a well-known strategic planning model developed by an East Coast consultant—a model he initially designed for corporate clients but modified almost exclusively for educational organizations. The model specified many aspects of the process, including who should participate on the planning team, key guiding principles, the length of the session, and the steps to follow. Once the plan was drafted, the district was urged to form “action teams” that develop implementation plans, to revise the draft to include a resource allocation plan, and to submit the final draft to the board for approval. Finally, the consultant recommended that districts periodically review progress and update the plan over time. Accordingly, in 1988, the district staff—many of whom went to the consultant’s training sessions—organized the district’s first strategic planning session. Considered a very loosely organized process, the sessions primarily focused on defining the district’s mission and solidifying core beliefs. The Five-Year Plan included almost ten strategies and thirty action plans and defined core beliefs that still govern the district. The district then repeated this process every two to five years, modifying the structure each time (e.g., tightening the timeline so that plans covered two- to three-year periods, including participation by students). By 1998, the district had established a set of core beliefs—including statements such as “We believe learning is a life long process” and “We believe that all people must be supported to recognize their own potential for growth.” They also had adopted a mission statement underscoring the importance of promoting the success of all students, preparing them for the future, and encouraging them to reach their full potential. In addition, the district had adopted a set of parameters governing their strategic planning process—including guidelines such as “We will make all decisions based on the best interest of students” and “We will not tolerate prejudicial discrimination of any kind.” Finally, they narrowed the district’s goal to one: 100%

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of students will meet or exceed district standards. Given the consensus developed in the recent past around these beliefs, mission, parameters, and goals, district leaders decided that the 1998 session would not be “a complete renewal” of the strategic plan. Instead, it was intended as an update, to develop new strategies that achieve the district’s goal. By 1998, strategic planning had become deeply rooted in district practice. Without solicitation, district administrators and board members interviewed for this study repeatedly cited strategic planning as a key aspect of their organizational management and practice. WHO WAS AT THE TABLE

Both districts made efforts to constitute “representative” bodies to participate in joint work. In Mid Valley, community participants appointed to the Advisory were leaders of the community, including elected officials, parent and community activists, and respected professionals, many of whom had children in district schools. This Advisory also interacted with district administrators and school board members, who comprised another set of participants in the CAP initiative. Despite efforts to secure participation from union leaders, the district did not attain teacher representation. In total, the effort involved twenty-seven individuals: eleven from the community, fourteen from the district office and school board, and two school principals. In Highland, community participants selected for the strategic planning team included approximately one teacher, parent, principal, and in some cases, student, from each of the districts’ schools, along with some district administrators, board members, and community members from a local institute of higher education, police department, and city government. In total, sixty-two individuals participated: thirty-one school educators, twelve parents, nine district leaders or staff, three students, three citizens, two classified staff, and two facilitators. (See Appendix B and C for a detailed list of participants in both districts.) Returning to the democratic principles outlined in the last chapter, neither district achieved—nor intended to achieve—an ideal participatory process. Not everyone who could be affected by the outcomes was involved. Yet within the general representative realm, Mid Valley approached the more “elite representative” end of the spectrum, involving only influential leaders of the community and failing to involve one major stakeholder group likely to be affected by CAP, teachers. As I discuss later, this decision contributed to CAP’s demise. In contrast, Highland moved closer to the participatory end by including many more individuals who were likely to be affected by and responsible for implementing the decisions emerging from this process.

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Demographics of Participants In both districts, participants represent modest demographic diversity, including a mix of individuals of different gender, ages, and ethnic or racial backgrounds.4 Within the Mid Valley Advisory, males and females were almost equally represented (seven to six respectively).5 The majority of Advisory members were white (77 percent), while the remaining members were Latino. Adding in the rest of the district leaders who attended meetings and interacted with the Advisory, the demographics of all participants remain quite similar: approximately half of all CAP participants were female and half male; the majority (77 percent) were white, with some Latinos (19 percent), and one African American.6 In Highland, the majority of the planning team were white (81 percent) and female (80 percent). While seemingly homogenous, the group nonetheless mirrored the demographics of teachers and administrators in the district (this is not surprising, given the intent to involve at least one teacher and principal from each school).7 The Demos to Be Represented The districts conceptualized the community or demos to be represented in very different ways. In Mid Valley, the primary community to be represented was the community writ large or the city. Their formal connections—as employees or elected officials of government agencies, community organizations, businesses, and schools—and informal connections—as members, volunteers, and congregants of other organizations (e.g., chamber, churches)— arguably made them “representative” of individuals and broader citywide constituencies not present at the table. Aside from one principal, there were no current educators included in the initial group. Moreover, school district leaders (board, administrators) were included in the deliberations only at the end of the process. Participants were purposefully not typical of all residents but instead members chosen for their status as leaders. As one CAP staffer explained, “we want[ed] to put together some influential people from the community to sit on the advisory group.” This same person reported that given the political nature of the formation of CAP (around pending state legislation/funding), the board handpicked individuals who could “help influence the voting population in some way.” Thus, the district selected a longtenured principal to represent the education community; a parent volunteer who had served many years on the PTA (and who ran for elected office during the timeframe of CAP) to represent parents; and current and former elected officials and professionals to represent major county, city, and neighborhood interests. In Highland, the primary community was defined as local school communities with a slight hint at the larger community. The parameters of the strategic planning process, adopted in past years, asserted: “We will make no

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program decisions without participation by representatives of everyone affected.” Years of experience with strategic planning taught district leaders the value of involving multiple participants from each school. In words reminiscent of participatory democratic theorists, the district administrator in charge of strategic planning explained the importance of broadening participation to ensure future implementation of ideas: [D]oing it with that large a group is very cumbersome. But I think it’s more powerful because we’ve found in the past [with a smaller group] it’s powerful when you’re there [in the planning sessions] and then it just dissipates when [the plan] goes back [to sites]. They just can’t carry that intensity and the vision and the processes back to the site.

Almost 80 percent of strategic planning participants were stakeholders from local schools—students, teachers, staff, administrators, and parents. Given the district’s concern with enacting the strategies, there was a bias toward involving individuals with some “status” or linkage to local governance bodies such as site councils and parent-teacher associations. Like Mid Valley, Highland participants were expected to be leaders or “take on leadership roles with peers” (see figure 1.1 for a full list of selection criteria). Selection Procedures The way in which leaders selected participants indicates that both districts achieved attenuated forms of representation. Unlike more strict models of democracy with formal voting processes to ensure representation, both districts appointed the members of these collaborative bodies.8 In many ways these two cases are best understood as quasidemocratic in nature. Nevertheless, the mechanisms used to appoint members differed greatly. In Mid Valley, the board president and superintendent selected members based on their reputation as “leaders in the community.” In Highland, district administrators solicited recommendations from each principal for representatives that met the selection criteria listed in figure 1.1. Principals were also given a chart in which to recommend parents, teachers, students, and community members and indicate their corresponding gender, ethnicity, grade, program, employer, subject, and other important details. After receiving these recommendations, district staff utilized a matrix to assemble a group that represented the various stakeholder groups and to insure diversity of gender, ethnicity, and other characteristics. Unlike Mid Valley, Highland made a much greater effort to be “inclusive”9 by not simply inviting members that enhanced representation of all those affected by district policies (e.g., minority parents) but also providing supports that enabled their participation, including a translator, child care, and transportation. Another example of Highland’s efforts to broaden representation

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Attributes:

Represent:

• Reflective of values of community • Representative of district programs • Person of goodwill • Use of consensus • Subordinate special interests to good of organization • Take on leadership role with peers • Open minded • Committed • Builder, not blocker of creating future • Articulate

• • • • • • • • • • • •

Expectations: • Attend all three days • Become active leaders in analyzing and applying data to support site planning • Fit criteria • Serve on School Site Council (if possible)

• • • • • • • • •

GATE Bilingual At risk Special Ed Unions Mentor Title I Technology Literacy Math Grade levels SSC; DAC; PTA (school governance groups) Agencies Highland Foundation Experienced/new teacher Gender/ethnicity Socioeconomic diversity Local high school district Government Chamber Local business

FIGURE 1.1 Highland Criteria for Strategic Planning Team Membership

was data gathered via student forums at the middle schools. Prior to strategic planning, a group of students from each middle school attended a meeting at the district office to share ideas about what students like and dislike about the district and where they wanted change. The selection procedures in both districts, nonetheless, introduced some level of bias. In both cases it is highly unlikely that individuals selected held views that were significantly adverse to those in charge of selection. From the outset there was a certain degree of commonality of perspective among participants—evidence counter to the norm of inclusion. WHAT WAS ON THE TABLE: VISION AND PURPOSE

Leaders in both districts signaled deliberative democratic intent, indicating a desire to involve participants in improving the good of the district as a whole.

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In practice, however, participants in Highland more consistently understood the purpose of strategic planning, while in Mid Valley participants varied widely in their perceptions of CAP’s purpose or confessed to never grasping its purpose. Leaders’ Deliberative Democratic Vision In both districts, leaders signaled deliberative democratic purposes for these endeavors. As opposed to fora of interest-based bargaining—in which individual interests with the strongest backing win out over others—the initiatives in both districts were intended to encourage participants to coalesce around a shared mission, to expand their understandings of self as a part of a community, and to articulate ways of promoting the common good. In Mid Valley, leaders initially hoped to engage community members in a “mutual accountability” initiative that would improve education districtwide. When asked what CAP was intended to be, the superintendent explained, “We researched and designed an R&D [research and development] project that would help pull community together around a common vision.” Ideally, he envisioned a district where “different sub-communities articulate, ‘these are our interests, these are what we have in common and what action steps we can put in place to bring that about together and [be] mutually responsible with the schools.’” Similarly, the CAP director described the initiative as “a collaboration to do joint work with people who share a common interest in the quality of life in this community,” which is “different from setting up an us/them kind of relationship.” Throughout early meetings, district leaders repeated that CAP “isn’t just discussion,” but intended to generate action around what is best for the district as a whole. In Highland, leaders pledged to involve educators and noneducators in developing long-term strategies for districtwide improvement. According to the district organizer, the intent was for participants to decide what is best for all students “system-wide”: So [we were] trying to find ways to get them thinking differently than just coming with a narrow view. They’re asked to keep their own agenda items outside the door. Everybody comes with no identified roles—no teacher, custodian. Everybody comes in equally. And that’s really stressed. And if you have a particular bias or an issue, that’s not why we’re here. We ask people to not attend if they can’t feel that they can keep that apart. . . . We all come as just people without district office labels or anything else, just working for the good of the students and improving our achievement.

The primacy of common interests over individual needs is made explicit in the district’s criteria for team selection. As noted in figure 1.1, a desired attribute of team members was an ability to “subordinate special interests to good of organization.”

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Participants’ Perceptions of Purpose Despite the common leadership vision, participants interviewed in Highland demonstrated a much more consistent understanding of the purpose of strategic planning than did Mid Valley participants reflecting on CAP. Consistency of Perceptions in Highland Aside from a few skeptical caveats, Highland participants had a common sense of mission: to determine together where the district wants to go and how to get there. According to one principal, the purpose was “[t]o bring community members, parents, administrators, teachers, all of the different players in the [Highland] District together to create a plan that met the needs of all of the different members of the community—not just the teachers or just the students, but everybody involved.” Similarly, a teacher described the purpose: “To plan for the future and how we’re going to reach the needs of the children in our community.” The one major exception was Maria, a nonEnglish-speaking parent who understood the purpose as the district giving information to participants (I return to Maria in the next chapter). When probed, most participants also described the discussions as ones focused on the good of the district, instead of individual interests. For example, one student explained, “I thought everyone there was trying to not only improve their schools, or fill their own needs, but they also were willing to help our district as a whole.” Even those more skeptical of strategic planning agreed that the interactions maintained a “global” focus. One teacher who believed strategic planning was publicity driven observed, “There wasn’t anyone being overly pushy about his school’s concerns.” This consistent focus on the common good was facilitated in part by the structure of meetings (see figure 1.2). There were, nevertheless, a few exceptions. In particular, one parent, Judy, characterized the interactions as more interest based: “It was supposed to be the district as a whole, but it always came back to what you knew, so it was your own personal thing. . . . You had your own individual ideas. . . . And sometimes it would apply to the whole district, sometimes it won’t, depending on where you’re at.” Not coincidentally, this same parent admitted a selfinterested motive to her involvement in strategic planning, repeatedly noting a primary concern for her own children. “I have high-end-achieving kids,” she said, “and I would keep bringing up, ‘What are you going to do about those kids who are gifted? What are you going to do about those kids who already passed the norm?’” Inconsistency of Perceptions in Mid Valley In contrast, in Mid Valley, the idea of working toward the common good never congealed at the broader level when the community and board came

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The structure of Highland’s strategic planning sessions greatly encouraged and enabled a consistent focus on the common good of the district. These structures included: 1. Small Group Activities. The facilitators opened the first day of planning with a small-group activity entitled (on their script) “common ground.” In this activity, each member of a 6–8-person group was asked to finish three statements: “My name is . . . ,” “I’m here because . . . ,” and “I’m bringing to today . . .” At the end of this activity, facilitators asked groups to share with the whole group “common themes about why they are here.” As the title of the activity indicates, the purpose was not only to “break the ice” but also to help individuals see that their interests were tied to the interests of others. 2. Norms. Facilitators introduced and secured agreement on norms of involvement, such as casting aside personal agendas and thinking globally. Facilitators reportedly enforced these norms all three days and pushed participants to think about the district as a whole. “One of the ground rules was ‘stay on a strategic level,’” explained one of the facilitators, “And we talked about what that means. ‘You’re looking at the whole system here. There are times when you’re going to look at your school.’ And we would have to create that shift for them.” 3. Facilitators. The facilitators saw their role as listening to what people said and answering the question “Where’s our common ground here?” They often illustrated on poster paper common themes emerging from discussions, ultimately helping to synthesize the suggested strategies into four areas of mutual concern. 4. Decision Rules. Some believed the decision rule utilized in the final day also helped participants forge common ground. Instead of strict consensus taken by a vote, district leaders and facilitators agreed to adopt a strategy if participants generally “could live with it.” One board member explained: “And the question’s always on the table: ‘Can you live with this? Is there something that you can’t live with?’ . . . If there’s something that goes up there . . . as a recommendation, . . . [and] if there’s anyone in the group who feels strongly against it, it fades away. . . . So that what you end up with is a plan that can have broad support and that isn’t somebody’s agenda.” These structures and techniques not only helped to focus discussion on the common good, but also to foster reason-based decision-making (discussed in the next section).

FIGURE 1.2 How Structure Encouraged a Focus on the Common Good

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together. Moreover, there was considerable inconsistency in perceptions of the purpose of CAP. Some participants admitted to never really understanding its mission: I think very quickly it became apparent that no one quite knew what the mission was, including the people running the program. (Board member) [W]e haven’t done a very good job of explaining exactly what that’s all about. I think there’s a very clear view in the superintendent’s head and in the director of [CAP’s] head about what they’re doing and why they’re doing it. But that’s not true in others, including mine. (District administrator) Whatever it started out to be wasn’t really clear. And now I feel like for me I’m on a different mission now. (Community advisor)

And while some individuals could not articulate the mission, others conveyed a wide range of perceptions. Several people understood CAP as the initial pilot accountability program spelled out by the failed state legislation. Others noted that when the legislation failed, CAP’s purpose changed. Some believed it was to become a communication tool for the district. A handful of participants, however, believed CAP’s main purpose was to generate more money for the district. Yet others described this purpose as more of a hidden agenda. That is, perhaps community members were brought in under the false pretense of collaboration but were intended to serve other purposes. According to one district administrator: “[I]t was kind of brought in as a way to bring the community into the schools more so that they would support schools more financially, that it would be more willing to pass bonds or tax overrides or whatever.” As examined in more depth in chapter 5, these suspicions of ulterior motives contributed greatly to pervasive mistrust and the demise of CAP. Thus, as participants joined CAP, they held very different views about its purpose. Without a shared sense of mission, district leaders and community advisors started out on very shaky ground. In the joint Advisory-board study sessions it became clear that participants were not on the same page and were not necessarily working to achieve common ground. As many participants explained, the initiative took on a more interest-based tone over the course of the year, and meetings reflected little sense of shared goals. Unlike Highland, Mid Valley leaders did not focus on how to structure the process in ways that lead participants to a shared understanding of purpose or a broadening of private interests. It was not until the final study session in February 2000, when the district hired an outside facilitator, that the district attended to process. While this meeting resulted in more focused dialogue around common goals for the district, by all accounts it was too late. (The next section revisits these study sessions in more detail.) Yet the story in Mid Valley changes dramatically if one looks exclusively at the Advisory, where members shared a consistent understanding

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that they were working toward improvements for all students districtwide. Almost every community member and CAP staffer relayed a similar history and sense of purpose: once the state legislation died, the community group decided they did not want to disband but instead meet and develop strategies for community and schools to work together to improve education for all students. The CAP director explained the endeavor as “committing the time and energy to say . . . we have a common interest to keep that vision in front of ourselves. What’s our common interest? What are we trying to get done?” In expressing his satisfaction with this process, one community advisor reiterated this notion of working toward shared goals: “I’m glad to have had the experience to work with other qualified professionals from different backgrounds and collaborating together toward one common good.” At the first study session, when advisors introduced themselves and explained their motivations for participating, almost every one reported a similar desire to “look at the district as a whole” and “help all students meet new standards.” HOW PARTICIPANTS INTERACTED AND MADE DECISIONS

Despite similar intentions on the part of leaders in both districts, Highland came much closer to achieving a deliberative democratic process than did Mid Valley. The following section examines how these endeavors played out along the principles of deliberative democracy and joint work, including: coconstruction and ownership of mission, reciprocity and equal voice, using reasoned arguments, publicity, and accountability and credibility. A Deliberative Democratic Process in Highland Despite some struggles and tensions, Highland appeared to achieve a fairly deliberative democratic process in which participants took joint ownership and accountability for shared goals and arrived at final strategies via reasonbased discussions that adhered to the principles of reciprocity, publicity, and accountability. Coconstruction and Ownership of Mission Starting in early 1998, district leaders involved a wide range of individuals in prestrategic planning events to develop the agenda, the structure, and overall theme (“Target Tomorrow”) for the meetings. Throughout this period, the district also met with the outside facilitators who helped finalize the agenda and structure. Thus, the coconstruction of rules and ideas originated at the very early stages of strategic planning: it was more than simply a few district leaders mandating how meetings would proceed.

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This coconstruction continued throughout the three days. For example, at the start of the first day, organizers set out expectations that signaled participants would be working together to develop ideas. Facilitators also read out a set of process norms, such as: everyone participates; no one dominates; participation is equal and open regardless of status, rank, position, title, discipline; all ideas are valid; and disagreement can be productive if you do not make it personal. Participants then were asked to add to this list and to agree that this was a reasonable set of rules. Most participants interviewed affirmed that the norms were codeveloped. “The rules we created . . . as a group, so that everybody bought into them,” explained one principal. Starting on the second day, participants rotated in and out of small groups to develop the plan. In the first small group, participants were asked to discuss three questions: (1) What expectations do you have for each other during the session? (2) What expectations do you have for the two days of working together? (3) What expectations do you have for us as facilitators? Facilitators and participants reported that these discussions forged common understandings of their mission and roles. Participants saw themselves as setting the direction for their work over the next few days. On the final day, participants first engaged in a “visioning” exercise. In small groups, they created a “district Web page for 2001” focused on how the district would achieve its goal of 100 percent of students achieving standards, including two headlines and two “links” to other web sites. As each group presented its visions to the full team, facilitators directed everyone to “listen for common themes.” From here, groups reconvened to prioritize strategies that emanated from these themes. Once presented to the whole group again, the strategies were listed on a poster for everyone to consider. Each participant was given the opportunity to speak for or against a certain strategy. Facilitators then worked with the group to merge various strategies and decide upon the top four: (1) implementing a system of recognitions and interventions to assure individual student success; (2) ensuring that all children are prepared for kindergarten; (3) developing and implementing a unified K–12 educational system; and (4) expanding and restructuring the school day and school year to maximize learning opportunities. Once agreed upon, participants broke into groups to fine-tune the wording for those strategies. By most accounts, the final ideas were negotiated and owned by the group. Some described it as “an iterative process,” while others noted that “everything was sort of open for consideration.” Most participants also strongly denied that the process was “rubber stamping.” A principal attested to the authenticity and openness of these negotiations: “I felt like there were some things brought up that weren’t in the district’s original plans. And there was kind of a reason to push it away. But at least we had the opportunity to talk about it, and we had the opportunity to bring it up.” Another principal

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concurred: “[R]estructuring the school day and school year [strategy 4] was not even a dream before this discussion.” A board member agreed: “I don’t think it’s a fait accompli [like] ‘we just know exactly what’s going to come out of it,’” but also acknowledged that some ideas were already on the minds of district leaders. In describing the process, most participants also expressed ownership of the ideas generated and work completed. “You felt good about what you had accomplished,” commented one parent. Two counterexamples work against this general picture of jointly owned and negotiated work in Highland. First, the one non-English-speaking parent, Maria, did not view herself as a coconstructor of ideas. When asked what her role was in the strategic planning sessions, she replied, “I don’t do much except lend my presence. [She laughs.] In other words, just listen.” The second counternormative participant was the interest-based parent, Judy, introduced earlier. In describing the process, she exclaimed that “it seemed like they [the district] already knew what they wanted to talk about, but they were trying to involve us so that we all felt like we were going towards the same goal.” Using Reasoned Arguments Participants also consistently described strategic planning as two-way dialogue, intellectual exchange, and people explaining their point of view. According to one citizen participant: It was debating, but it was not arguing. . . . There were times when people would have different opinions. . . . You’d get some teacher saying, “We don’t have enough prep time,” and then some parent saying, “I don’t care about your prep time; I want you teaching my kid.” But it wasn’t sort of personal and defensive. And they then sort of talked through, “Well, what does that mean? How do we do that?”

The student described a similar reasoning process: “And then the people who weren’t really for that . . . strategy, . . . we asked them . . . what would they want? . . . Yeah, to explain their point of view, since they weren’t for the [ideas] that we had.” Once again, several structural features facilitated this reasoning process. First, small groups allowed significant amounts of time for in-depth conversation. Second, once all groups presented their priority, and these top ten to twelve strategies were listed on butcher paper hanging on the walls, facilitators gave each participant thirty seconds to present his or her arguments for or against various strategies. Many appreciated this opportunity to advocate for strategies about which they felt strongly. Moreover, this process publicized individuals’ reasons for wanting a certain strategy, which encouraged them to consider the proposed strategies based on their merits instead of

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who introduced them or which appeared to have more support. Third, the decision rule of, Can you live with this? helped, as one citizen explained, “to get buy-in without getting bogged down in consensus.” This rule prevented the decision-making process from breaking down in the face of one person whose views were counter to the general will of the group. Moreover, by asking the question, Is there anyone who cannot live with this as a strategy? facilitators often inspired participants to open up and make their reasons explicit. Despite the consistent view of deliberation in practice, there were several accounts of the reasoning process faltering. For example, one teacher, Tom, recalled an incident in a small group in which a principal from another school refused to engage in dialogue with him: He didn’t pay attention, it seemed to me, to my question, my concern, my thoughts. I can recall asking a question . . . “Ought we be so concerned with the poverty rate? . . . If the cost of everything increases, won’t they simply move out? . . . And his comment was, “No, next question.” It was real blunt. I thought, “You don’t know me, you’re an administrator from some other school in the [hills], you don’t need to be doing this right now. This is based upon the norms open to debate, open to questioning.” And that really . . . left a very sour taste in my mouth.

To Tom, the principal was not willing to listen to participants’ reasons and debate issues on the merits. This example also suggests a lack of reciprocity and shared sense of demos. From Tom’s perspective, the principal was not willing to listen because the idea raised did not apply to his own set of children and needs. Without a sense of shared interests, individuals tended to view the district instrumentally as a means to serve the interests of their school or subcommunity (see figure 1.3 for further discussion). Reciprocity and Equal Voice Most Highland participants also conveyed an understanding that participation in strategic planning required listening to all perspectives and appealing to reasons that could be shared by all participants, not just like-minded participants. When participants disagreed with an idea they were repeatedly asked to explain their reasons. Moreover, the thirty-second whip ensured that everyone had an opportunity to speak his or her mind and hear others’ views. Participants’ descriptions of the process were peppered with references to the ideals of reciprocity and equal voice. For example, one principal explained that “we made decisions about how do we want to best meet those [district] goals [by] listening to everybody’s ideas.” More directly, Lucy described the importance of empathy in this process: [S]o everybody’s coming from their own vantage point, which is what people need to hear, so you can at least understand and be empathetic to what

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Two divergent accounts of a participant’s failure to persuade others of an idea she cherished provide a useful perspective on how the reasoning process unfolded in Highland. It also raises important questions about how one’s frame of reference and expectations color one’s interpretation of events and interactions with others in a deliberative process. Recall Judy, the parent who felt that her ideas about “high achievers” kept getting “pushed aside.” She was extremely cynical about the process and portrayed it as “rigged” or one that did not involve authentic deliberation. To Judy, the inability to get her ideas on the final list of strategies constituted losing a fight. In contrast, another parent, Lucy, offered up ideas about which she too felt strongly—ideas about “abandoning old things.” Like Judy, her ideas were not adopted by the group. Unlike Judy, however, Lucy portrayed the situation as losing an argument. She recognized that other ideas had more “backing” and that she was looking at her one child while others, particularly administrators, came to the process with a more “global” perspective. She concluded that those speaking from this broader viewpoint were “going to have a lot more to say, a lot more experience than I [have]. And so it makes sense for them to at least try it this way.” When asked whether she thought the process was fair, she concluded, “I thought it was very democratic.” Lucy further articulated her understanding of the process: “Within your group, it has to be whoever’s going to win that best argument. It’s almost like a jury. . . . [W]hoever had the strongest argument is whom you’re going to go with.” Unlike Judy, Lucy still viewed the overall process as deliberative and democratic. In any deliberative process, there will be some ideas that lose and others that win. How one characterizes those wins or losses, however, appears to vary according to one’s initial expectations of the process. On deliberative democratic grounds, Judy’s arguments were not acceptable to others and may have been perceived as advancing a personal agenda. Given her interest-based frame, however, she did not see it that way. In her mind, her expected role was to give “a perspective of what you want to see for your children and . . . their learning.” In contrast, Lucy came into strategic planning with a sense that she needed to focus on all students and that decisions would be made according to the will of the majority. Given her deliberative frame, she viewed her loss as fair and acceptable.

FIGURE 1.3 Failure to Persuade Others: Losing a Fight versus Losing an Argument

the other person is feeling. If the teacher in the classroom can’t buy off on these strategies, then you’re lost. ’Cause it starts with them. And if the teacher’s not going to buy it, then it’s going to be too hard to implement.

According to Lucy and others, the discussions moved beyond “what is best for my kid” to a process whereby participants tried to understand others’

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views, lives, and needs. Again, the counterexamples previously cited suggest a strain of experiences that work against the principles of reciprocity and equal voice. Publicity Openness and publicity characterized virtually every stage of Highland’s planning process. Facilitators ensured participants opportunities to publicly air their views by writing ideas generated in groups on large poster paper displayed on the walls, changing the makeup of small groups, and utilizing the whip. Aside from a few counterexamples, most participants attested to this open dialogue. In addition, organizers made available information participants needed to make decisions about the district as a whole and to assess the ideas offered by coparticipants. The district devoted the first day of planning almost entirely to this purpose. As the district organizer explained, “the idea was to bring everybody up to the level of some knowledge about the district so that they could make better decisions.” Organized as a “jigsaw,” each small group assigned one member to become an “expert” on a specific topic—such as student demographics, staff development, and programs for special-needs kids— and report the information back to the group. That expert visited the corresponding “data center” set up around the room where district administrators provided information about the topic. Each participant also received a binder explaining district policy, students, instruction, staff development, special programs, and so on. The notebooks included a data report form for each section, allowing experts and group members space to note “key points to share with home group,” “emerging trends,” “implications from the data for student learning and achievement,” and “insights from home group discussion.” District leaders and facilitators focused attention not only on the content of the information but also on the pedagogy of imparting that information. The use of a jigsaw signaled a concern that participants not only receive the information but also absorb it in a manner that was most effective, which by all accounts was not via lecture. On this first day, and the subsequent two, organizers maintained a keen eye on ensuring access to information. Groups were arranged so that at least one administrator belonged to each group. According to facilitators, “the groups were set up strategically so that there were people in them who had information of what to do. . . . Like when they were looking at data, there was a person from the district who was knowledgeable in each of the groups to help them.” Overall, data played a central role in the deliberations. For example, on the second day of planning, participants received a worksheet entitled “District Indicators: What Does Our Data Tell Us?” In heterogeneous small groups, participants reviewed the material in the binder and filled in the

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blanks, such as “The average number of years teachers were in the district in 1997 was ____” or “The number of students expelled was ____ over the last three years.” After completing the worksheet, participants were asked to discuss in their groups: “What implications might the above information have for student achievement?” In the end, most of the final strategies directly emerged from an examination of data. For example, according to the district organizer, in looking at test scores of students in grades K–2, the group “felt they were not as high as they should be considering we’ve had a massive literacy training in our district for those teachers.” The group believed that one primary reason for this problem was the weak language skills of students entering the district. As a result, the group decided that preparation for kindergarten was one strategy to address this problem. The emphasis on data was obvious to all participants interviewed, who generally found the information useful. Language issues, however, constrained the district’s ability to fully ensure access to information. Despite organizers’ effort to overcome potential language barriers by hiring a translator for non-English speakers (clearly a positive indicator of expanding access), there were limits to what the translator could achieve. For example, given the fast pace of discussions, the translator was not able to translate all of the dialogue and the content of posters on the walls. Moreover, as Maria noted, all of the written materials were produced in English, including the notebook of data others found so useful. Accountability and Credibility The structure of strategic planning greatly enforced an understanding that participants were accountable to one another, to certain norms of behavior, and to the overall decisions. Facilitators introduced, and participants added to, a set of process norms. These previously discussed norms ensured not only accountability to democratic processes (e.g., reasoning, listening to others) but also accountability to individuals and groups outside of the room. For example, the expectation to cast aside personal agendas suggested that participants think about the impact of proposed strategies on everyone who might be affected by or asked to implement those ideas, including those not at the table (i.e., what Gutmann and Thompson call “accountability to moral constituents”). Most participants interviewed recalled these norms being introduced and reviewed at the beginning of each day and believed that they were more or less followed. In addition, facilitators worked hard to enforce these norms— conducting “process checks” and “time outs” if they or others observed norms being violated. Facilitators also encouraged participants to enforce the norms on their own, particularly in small groups. One explained that “as participants, they can say things like, ‘Gee, we haven’t heard from you. Do you have something you’d like to add?’”

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There also were many examples of what Wenger calls “reified aspects of accountability” or tangible points around which participants negotiated meaning and built a sense of shared responsibility. Throughout the process, facilitators and participants logged ideas generated on large posters and overhead slides to summarize themes emerging at the end of each day. These displays made it difficult to subsequently push aside any ideas. They also gave participants visible points to which they could refer in conversations and whips. Following the three-day planning session, the district published and disseminated a pamphlet with the four strategies agreed upon by the planning team. By codifying and publicizing the work, the district further ensured accountability to the strategies. The failure to publish the plan in Spanish, however, limits the scope of accountability, in essence, removing non-English-speaking parents from the community to which this work was accountable. Accountability to the strategic plan was further institutionalized and made credible by formal linkages to the policy system. First, the school board was required to vote to adopt the strategic plan and action plans, which occurred in June 1999. The district’s former director of planning noted that without this accountability and board involvement (recall, two members sat on the 1998 team) “you have a lot of futility.” Other formal mechanisms ensuring credibility were understandings that the final strategies guided the district budget and resource decisions and that the superintendent’s evaluation was tied to progress at meeting these strategic goals. Many participants and observers attested to the credibility of strategic planning in district policy making and practice. A sample of comments helps illustrate: [T]he strategic planning retreats were always the beginning, not the end. They weren’t simply a little process you went through and then you stuck a document on a shelf. They drove the superintendent’s evaluation . . . [and] process of evaluating principals; they drove principal work on the school improvement plans. (Facilitator) [S]omething that’s different about this district is that these [strategic plans] are really an action plan. It’s not just a piece of paper that sits up there that you bring out every five years and re-evaluate. (Parent/board member) Everything that we do starts through the strategic planning. (District administrator)

As these comments suggest, there was a widespread sense of accountability to the strategic plan—accountability enforced by not only the internal norms and process within planning, but also explicit connections to the formal policy system. Nevertheless, there were apparent weaknesses in the district’s accountability to the plan in later years. While district leaders paid a lot of attention

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to the new plan in the first year, monitoring of its implementation seemingly waned in subsequent years. The only formal review of progress occurred in August 2000, when the district organizer presented to the board an update on the status of implementation of the four strategies. By 2001, however, the plan appeard to have moved off the radar screen of several district leaders interviewed. Arguably, the departure of the superintendent and several top administrators at the end of the 1999–2000 academic year—a major change for any district of that size—may have diverted attention away from the district’s normal process of monitoring. Synopsis Overall, Highland’s strategic planning approximated many of the process principles of joint work and deliberative democracy. Moreover, organizers in Highland demonstrated a deliberateness in how they structured the process. These structural arrangements represented more than ten years of learning from and adjusting based on past experience. While not all of these structures and norms were successful (e.g., “catching people up” with one day of intensive examination of data was not enough time, and “leaving titles at the door” may not have been effective with wellknown leaders), they at least made public some of the potential barriers that could disrupt or inhibit the deliberative process (e.g., lack of knowledge, bias of status). Finally, the counterexamples in Highland’s strategic planning demonstrate that regardless of the structural arrangements, not every moment reflected or every participant embraced the democratic ideals. Subsequent chapters examine these struggles (e.g., with issues of status, institutional barriers) in more detail and explain why they did not entirely debilitate the process in the same ways as they did in Mid Valley. A Less Deliberative Process in Mid Valley Unlike Highland, Mid Valley achieved deliberative democratic joint work within the Advisory but failed to initiate joint work of any kind at the broader level. As noted, Mid Valley’s process occurred in two stages, with the community advisors meeting with a few district staffers for approximately one year and then involving board members and other district administrators in a series of study sessions to discuss the ideas and next steps. These two phases of CAP unfolded in very different ways, with the Advisory group coming much closer to achieving the principles of deliberative joint work than the overall CAP sessions. Coconstruction and Ownership of Mission Starting in October 1998, advisors met once or twice a month with district staff assigned to CAP to define their roles and mission. The CAP director

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worked hard to “make this a community deal” and ensure that “the community sees it as theirs.” For example, to convey the community-based nature of CAP and deemphasize the district’s role, he changed his title from assistant superintendent to CAP director. Moreover, the role of community members evolved over the course of the first year. At first, CAP staff set the agenda, disseminated materials, and attempted to impart information to advisors. After the first few months, however, the advisors began asking for their own information and steering the staff away from a single focus on accountability (a word that most advisors did not even like). They also became more active in setting the agendas and directing the meetings. For example, in a February 1999 meeting, in the midst of a conversation focused on the details of community accountability dialogues, one advisor suggested that the group host an education “summit” in the coming months. He envisioned the event as a good response to those who had been pressuring the director about what CAP was accomplishing. Excited by this idea, the advisors spent the remainder of the meeting discussing specific ideas on how to publicize and organize the day. By most accounts, the community members and district staff over time negotiated new roles for themselves: instead of advisors, they came to see themselves as advocates for and partners in district reform. According to the CAP director: [The Advisory] went from being very skeptical to taking total ownership and making it what they wanted it to be. . . . They went from “what is the district asking us to do?” to now where they’re trying to dictate what they think the district should do.

Similarly, one community member described the process as two-way communication, where CAP staff continually solicited input and advisors felt free to request new information and adjust meeting agenda. According to this advisor, a mutual commitment to “improving education” facilitated this process: “that common denominator was what allowed us to work together.” While the majority of community members concurred in their descriptions of coconstructing new roles and taking ownership of the CAP Advisory, there were two exceptions. One advisor, who eventually dropped out, became frustrated with the process and their inability to “accomplish anything.” A second advisor, who attended very few meetings and expressed doubts about the initiative from the beginning, described the meetings as “bitch sessions.” He expressed no sense of ownership of, let alone interest in, CAP. Starting in early 1999, the Advisory group shifted its efforts away from “catching up” or “learning” to developing concrete ideas for improving education districtwide and planning to present these ideas to the board. These meetings often focused on language: how to articulate the problem, their underlying assumptions, goals, and solutions. At one meeting in March, advi-

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sors met to flesh out these ideas and their responses to a draft document produced by the CAP director and alternatives presented by various community members. To structure the conversation and responses to these documents, the group placed posters on the wall with the various section headings: “the problem,” “the goal,” “principles,” “vision,” and “implications.” Advisors wrote their comments on these posters and then broke into small groups to discuss each section. At the end of the meeting, the CAP staff agreed to incorporate these comments into a revised document. Through meetings, emails, and faxes, the group revised multiple iterations of the document. By late April, the Advisory had developed what many members called their “declaration of independence,” an eleven-page document presenting “the collective thinking of [the Advisory]” about how the community can be involved in supporting the district’s efforts to ensure success for all students. In this document, they articulated the following vision: [I]magine a community in which citizens act upon a common commitment to improve the quality of life for all. Furthermore, imagine that the hope for this community rests on everyone working together to make sure that each and every child is treasured, cared for, and supported to reach his or her fullest potential. This imagining can become a reality when community is fully committed to educating every student.

They also agreed upon four key strategies they wanted to pursue: inventing new district and communitywide systems to support teachers (by all accounts, the most important), aligning district and community resources, engaging schools and community in a process of evaluating student performance, and building leadership capacity. When community advisors finally appeared before the school board at the first study session, they exuded a sense of satisfaction in and ownership of their work. Advisors personalized their introductions with statements of motivation and expectations. “I want to be proud that my daughters go to [Mid Valley] School District,” said one community member. Others noted how hard they had worked as a group to get to this point. One advisor commented, “This is the most challenging task I’ve ever been given. We’ve worked on this document for ten months.” Another confessed that “there were lots of times I wanted to quit, but by the urging of others I stayed and I’m glad I stuck it out.” Throughout the meeting, community advisors repeatedly spoke in the first person plural, signaling that ideas were jointly negotiated by the group. For example, they often started their comments with phrases such as, “I speak for the group when I say . . . ,” or “We had lots of discussions to arrive at this idea.” Almost immediately after introductions, however, confusion and tension supplanted the harmony developed within the Advisory. One community member selected to start off the meeting referred to the document (the

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“declaration”) sent to each board member prior to the meeting and explained that it represented a culmination of their thinking to date and was meant to be a starting point for dialogue. Soon after, one board member, George, pressed the advisors for more details. “Without sounding critical,” he said, “I’d like to get into more specifics. What are the steps to get to communication and collaboration, for example?” In response, community members stated their reasons for leaving out specific details. “That’s part of our challenge,” an advisor stated, “We did get specific, but we backed away from it because we wanted the opportunity to talk about general ideas with you.” Another advisor quickly followed up: “We also thought others needed to be in on this discussion to give details.” Moments later another advisor chimed in: “Yes, we want to do that [give details]. But we need this exchange first. We need to chunk down the problems into workable pieces. We all need to be in alignment first.” Despite the advisors’ attempt to engage the board in codeveloping the specific plans, several board members resisted the invitation and continued to press for more details. These board members appeared to arrive with very different expectations than those of the advisors. Despite the symbolic gesture of coming down from their daises to join advisors around the U-shaped table, the board as a whole did not convey a sense of working as partners. While the advisors saw the meeting as an opportunity to develop consensus around their broad ideas and jointly develop them into workable plans, two board members (George and Charles) in particular viewed it as a group presenting recommendations that the board would adopt or not adopt. In subsequent meetings, the tension persisted. Overall, there was no sense of shared mission, and district leaders demonstrated little ownership over what was happening. In fact, at times, the two skeptical board members appeared to tune out of the meetings altogether—doing outside work while participants spoke or tossing a pen in the air. In addition, the superintendent was not particularly active in these meetings. He was absent from one due to illness and remained in the background for much of the other two. District leaders’ delay in setting dates for follow-up meetings also conveyed, at least to advisors, little sense of ownership over the process. Although the final study session involved a greater sense of joint work— including the coconstruction of an agenda by two advisors and two board members, a more structured environment in which a facilitator encouraged discussion and all participants helped establish ideas and criteria for selecting priority goals—there was nonetheless little hope that anything would come of these efforts. Using Reasoned Arguments While reason-based decision making characterized most Advisory meetings, the evidence is more mixed for the broader interactions in the three study

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sessions. Facilitated in part by an extensive review of data (discussed in greater detail under “publicity” below), advisors spent much of the first year learning about and then discussing the performance of district students, how they were instructed and assessed, how teachers were supported, and how schools are funded. Over time, advisors began asking questions and requesting new data to inform the discussions. Ultimately, advisors used these data to articulate the perceived problems and potential solutions. For example, the group’s decision to focus on improving teacher quality stemmed from discussions about test scores. Most advisors credit the seeds of this idea to the research of Linda Darling-Hammond, an education professor who spoke at a meeting that most advisors attended. Her data linking teacher quality to student performance, along with discussions about teachers’ working conditions, convinced advisors that teachers were the linchpin for improvement. It was not the status of any one person that swayed advisors but instead the merits of this argument: improving the quality of teaching will improve the quality of learning. As one advisor explained: [We were] all very much individual thinkers, and we didn’t just say okay to everything that they were suggesting. We raised lots of questions. . . . And then we all began to understand the same issues and began to see what the issues were that were important to us. . . . And the teacher quality issue seemed critical to everything. . . . [T]o improve student learning and student achievement we need quality teachers. And how do we do that? We have to pay them more. We have to make sure they can get housing. And we need to provide mentoring for them. Whatever it takes.

This process of open dialogue and reason-based decision making broke down, however, when the meetings expanded to include district leaders. As noted, a debate over “specifics” dominated the first two study sessions. While advisors pushed to get buy-in for broad ideas and goals, George and Charles, the two vocal board members, maintained an unyielding focus on implementation details. At points, participants appeared to be speaking past each other instead of to each other, listening more to their own reasons than those presented by others. For example, when community members introduced ideas of how to support teachers, several board members and district administrators repeatedly appealed to implementation constraints: “We are prevented from letting go of bad teachers”; “All of us would like to do that, . . . but we have CDE [the state Department of Education] saying there are more than four standards. We are given a limited amount of money. . . . All our money is earmarked.” One advisor tried to reason with these individuals by offering a solution to the problem. “We know there are restrictions,” she stated, “but what if we tried to get a waiver? There are people in the community who want to support the board in taking those risky moves.” George, the board member who

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was most forcefully pushing the issue of constraints, however, did not respond, and the idea of waivers was never addressed. During the final study session months later, district leaders, for the first time, attended to issues of how to structure the meeting to promote deliberation. An outside facilitator started the meeting by reading a set of ground rules (e.g., “Listen to each other: avoid side conversations; look for common ground”) and articulated the purpose of the day, to agree on one high-leverage initiative and specific actions that would best help achieve the group’s common goals and could only come about through a collaboration among community and schools. Participants then broke into small and large groups throughout the day to brainstorm and argue for ideas about which they felt strongly, such as providing affordable housing for teachers, celebrating student success, and strengthening parent involvement. The facilitator, along with advisors, also established a list of “criteria” for deciding on top goals to pursue (e.g., help us achieve our common goals, is attainable, is sustainable). At the end of the day, the whole group reconvened, and three main activities were reported out. The facilitator then asked each person to advocate for one of these proposed activities and urged that statements be positive. One by one participants stated their reasons for wanting one or another activity (e.g., “given the community’s concern with the achievement gap, I think it’s really important that we retain quality teachers.”). The facilitator then called for a vote, and the group decided to pursue all three ideas articulated in the meeting. By this time, the advisors’ original four ideas were completely off the table. Despite the concrete decisions made and the much-improved process encountered, most participants felt that the final study session was a “nonmeeting,” “a sham,” or a “joke” that was unlikely to go anywhere. Following the meeting, most advisors and CAP staff agreed that the meeting was far from deliberative. “I never felt that there was real free-flowing conversation,” said one advisor. Others noted the lack of engagement by several board members, including Charles, who spent most of the meeting reading through a notebook of voting statistics. George and Charles, who appeared to be disengaged and resistant throughout the meetings, later admitted to not buying into the process or ideas generated. In an interview months later, Charles reported, “I can tell you that absolutely nothing will come out of that day. . . . I’ll say, what was agreed to that day was utter nonsense. It was ridiculous.” Reciprocity and Equal Voice Principles of reciprocity characterized interactions within the Advisory. For one, participants spent a lot of time in meetings anticipating the needs and interests of the community and board members. For example, advisors and

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CAP staff spent a good portion of a March meeting discussing what evidence the board and teachers would need in order to be convinced of the merits of their ideas. As one advisor articulated, “Our mission [for this meeting] should be to tighten the plan [that advisors drafted] and anticipate what they [the board] might disagree with.” Later in the meeting, several participants hypothesized that the board would want to see “details” and financial impact data. The group then debated the feasibility of “costing out” the four strategies. At another point in the meeting, advisors anticipated the reactions of teachers to the ideas being generated. The CAP director stated that many ideas—such as “individualized educational plans (IEPs)” for all students and parent involvement—might offend teachers. Advisors quickly concurred, noting that teachers would “go ballistic” when they heard the advisors’ ideas. While these interactions suggest reciprocity, they nonetheless fail to fully achieve the ideal because these discussions occurred in isolation of the other participants to whom reciprocity was directed. Once again, the bifurcation of the process—which kept board members out of the loop for one year—and the lack of teacher involvement constrained the deliberations from the outset. In addition to reciprocity, most advisors also adhered to the principle that “all voices are heard.” In observed meetings, advisors respectfully listened to their fellow advisors. For example, they were extremely patient with one advisor, Mike, who held views that others often viewed as “contrarian.” This self-described “1960s radical” frequently debated with CAP staff and even drafted his own “plan,” which he presented to the group. Coadvisors described him as “the staunchest and crankiest [of] critics” and somewhat outspoken. Over time, however, advisors grew to appreciate his questioning, persistence, and commitment to improving the district. The principles of reciprocity and equal voice eroded, however, when district leaders joined advisors at the table. Symbolically, the group appeared to adhere to the ideal that all voices are heard. And although district leaders sat interspersed alongside advisors in meetings, these actions appeared to be token. As the next chapter details further, the dominance of board members George and Charles conflicted with the physical image of partners working as equals. Hopes of achieving reciprocity and equality of voice returned in the final study session with the inclusion of a facilitator who stated that everyone would have an opportunity to advocate for one or more ideas. She failed, however, to enforce this rule, and many individuals at the table did not make a statement. Similarly, the facilitator urged everyone to participate, yet she made no effort during the day to encourage those who remained silent to express their ideas. In the end, most participants characterized these meetings as lacking reciprocity. One board member, who remained relatively quiet throughout the

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meetings, expressed disappointment in the behavior of other board members for failing to listen: “When you ask people to get together to do something, you’ve got to let them ride.” Similarly, a CAP staffer perceived resistance and lack of reciprocity on the part of several district leaders: “[Y]ou’ve got to be willing to accept what the community’s going to say to you if you engage them. You can’t just engage the community and then say, ‘I don’t like what you came up with, so be quiet.’” Publicity Tension over the issue of publicity persisted throughout the CAP initiative. Within the Advisory meetings, data were critical catalysts for deliberations. During the first six to eight months, CAP staff brought in speakers and information about education reform, district curriculum and assessment, and student achievement. One advisor reported that “we would just get lots of information, lots of articles, lots of different things. And it just became really obvious that to really make education work there really needed to be some real changes.” Although advisors understood the value of publicity and generally adhered to it within Advisory meetings, the overall structure of CAP nonetheless violated this principle. First, the two-stage process prevented the board, district leaders, and teachers from knowing what the advisors were doing and thinking in their private meetings. When board members and administrators finally convened with the Advisory, most had not been briefed on the extent and nature of advisors’ work. As a result, several district leaders questioned the legitimacy of the Advisory and the extent to which advisors understood the district and its policies. A telling example of the tensions surrounding publicity came in the final study session when one advisor, Mike, called for an Advisory-only caucus to discuss his concern that the meeting was going in the wrong direction. The suggestion to meet privately represented a potential breakdown of deliberative procedures—taking the discussion out of earshot of all participants. Other participants quickly recognized the dilemma. One advisor responded, “Can we do it publicly?” Mike explained that he did not believe the narrowing of topics up for consideration captured the direction and work of the Advisory. Others joined in, trying to identify the concern and resolve it publicly. One after the other, board members and advisors tried to articulate and clarify the concern at hand. In the end, Mike retracted his suggestion and agreed to “be patient and wait and see where [the meeting] leaves us.” While averted, this impulse to caucus demonstrated once again that those at the table had not developed relationships as partners in deliberative joint work. Instead, the Advisory perceived itself very much as outsiders advocating for change. The incident also illustrates the limitations of a bifur-

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cated process. A group that initially coconstructed ideas was now forced to let go of past work and take on new members as partners in a new round of deliberations, a task that made many advisors uncomfortable. Accountability and Credibility Within the Advisory, accountability was informally established among members. Over time advisors developed strong ties with and felt accountable to their fellow advisors. For example, Mike considered dropping out early on but ultimately stayed due to the urging of a colleague, Jose, who recounted the event: One day [Mike] just said, “This is all political game. I’m not into it. . . .” He had a more sort of revolutionist’s perspective. And he didn’t want to be anyone’s puppet, that type of thing. And I emailed him, . . . because when I would hear his views in the group, I realized that we think alike, only he has a much better way of expressing himself and more experience. And when he was resigning I felt like I’ll be the only one left thinking as far to the left as he was. . . . I pleaded with him to go back, and he did.

As this example illustrates, advisors with very different backgrounds and professions, many of whom did not know each other prior to joining CAP, developed bonds so strong that the idea of leaving the group was virtually unacceptable. The Advisory also devoted a lot of time in its meetings anticipating the needs and interests of others not at the table—particularly teachers and district leaders. As such, they developed a sense of accountability to those moral constituents who would be affected by and involved in implementing their ideas. Finally, the group created many reified aspects of accountability, including the “declaration” or plan stating their perceptions of the problem, stated goals, and proposed strategies for educational improvement. This sense of accountability, however, was missing from the larger CAP initiative. During the first two study sessions no norms were established up front to ensure accountability to a certain process or set of goals. And even though a facilitator introduced norms in the final study session, she failed to fully enforce them. What is more important, there were never any formal mechanisms put in place to ensure that action would be taken on the ideas generated by advisors or in the study sessions. The board was not required to vote on the Advisory’s plan or to revisit the decisions reached in the final study session. Finally, the continual delay on the part of district leaders in setting dates for future meetings signaled little sense of responsibility to the group. One advisor explained that “we felt like we were being shined on. . . . And by ‘shined on’ I mean . . . that it would be more convenient if everybody just

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kind of went away and just quietly disappeared off the face of the earth.” In the end, CAP never had a formal role in the policy process and had little impact on the system. Synopsis Although the interactions of participants within the Advisory characterized democratic deliberation and joint work, this was not the case for the broader interactions of district leaders and community advisors in CAP study sessions. Once the group expanded, there was persistent tension over how the initiative was supposed to unfold, with several board members pushing for more details and community members holding out for a more collaborative process. Another persistent tension throughout CAP was a high level of defensiveness on the part of district leaders. (Chapter 3 examines these institutional tensions in more detail.) Finally, unlike Highland, it was not until the final study session that Mid Valley attended to issues of process in the same way that Highland had done all along. WHAT WAS ACHIEVED

In the end, what Highland’s strategic planning process accomplished differed greatly from the results of Mid Valley’s CAP initiative. The next sections examine the extent to which each district achieved its stated goals and evidence of lasting effects. In the concluding chapter I return to the topic of outcomes for districts and participants, revisiting the theoretical claims outlined in the previous chapter. My intent is not to prove the merits of deliberative democratic models compared to others. I do not have the evidence to do so. Instead, I hope to describe the outcomes associated with deliberative decision making when implemented well and not well. This discussion, particularly in the concluding chapter, speaks in part to the theoretical literature on deliberative and participatory democracy. It also offers more practical information to policy makers and practitioners seeking to assess the value of investing in joint work. What Was Accomplished: Did Participants Do What They Set Out to Do? In Highland, there is ample evidence of the district implementing at least some of the ideas articulated in the final strategic plan. At the end of October 1998, the district organized an orientation for action team participants, a two-hour meeting providing an overview of strategic planning and the plan and an introduction to the action-planning process (including a review of norms, similar to those utilized in strategic planning). After many meetings over the next three to six months, teams developed detailed plans for each

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strategy: including an articulation of specific results, actions, individuals responsible, timelines, and expected costs. Ultimately, the implementation of these plans became the responsibility of district administrators. To summarize the status of the four strategies: • Strategy 1 “recognitions and interventions” is well established across district schools. By early in the 1999–2000 school year, the district had established an intricate promotion/retention policy that directed schools on how to identify students at risk of failure and how to support them through a menu of intervention options (e.g., after-school and before-school programs, special resource teachers to assist with reading and math).10 Teachers and administrators were trained on how to implement this system, and by late 1999–2000 all schools implemented it. In 2000–2001, the district focused on the recognitions portion of this strategy by convening a series of community celebrations of student achievement that included performances by choirs, displays of student work, and a review of SAT-9 scores. By early 2000–2001, the district had purchased, implemented, and trained teachers how to use a database intended to help implement and evaluate the effectiveness of interventions. • The district implemented strategy 2 “preparing children for kindergarten” by securing funding for several preschools on district property. Although lack of funding stalled these efforts in 1999, the availability of new funds reignited efforts in early 2001, when district administrators reconvened a task force to consider ways to expand access to preschool across the district. Over the next year the district secured more than $1 million in state, city, and private funds to open at least three new preschools and revamp several existing facilities. The district also implemented a new, four-week summer program in August 2001 for twenty-five Spanish-speaking children entering kindergarten. • The pursuit of strategy 3, a unified educational system, ended when the neighboring high school district failed to approve a ballot measure for unification (the election took place soon after the strategic planning sessions of 1998). The failed vote made it impossible for Highland to pursue a merger. However, the spirit of the strategy lived on as district leaders worked to improve articulation with the high schools. For example, the district collaborated with neighboring high schools to implement eighthgrade summer school cotaught by a high school teacher and an eighthgrade Highland teacher. This arrangement was intended to help eighth graders better transition into high school. • Finally, the district delegated implementation of strategy 4 “restructuring the school day and school year” to individual middle schools. The district action team compiled research on alternative configurations of time— including looping (students stay with the same teacher for multiple years),

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year-round calendars, block-scheduling, and flexible grouping—and made this information available to schools. Although some schools changed their schedules, teacher and parent resistance reportedly hindered most efforts to implement this strategy. In Mid Valley, nothing happened to the four initial ideas proposed by the Advisory or the list of action items agreed upon at the final study session. As one board member explained months after the final meeting, “I don’t remember any single recommendation that came out of that group that was concrete enough for us to be able to adopt. And so that’s why I say I think it was, in the final analysis, a waste of people’s time.” When it became clear to advisors and CAP staff that district leaders would not schedule a follow-up meeting or act on the ideas generated, they attempted to merge their efforts with the local Collaborative sponsored by city and county agencies to improve the health of the community. In a March 2000 joint meeting of the politicians and governing boards sponsoring the Collaborative, the Mid Valley School Board publicly opposed such a merger. Official minutes indicate that George and Charles (the two board members who strongly opposed CAP) were particularly resistant to the plan put forth by the Collaborative, a plan that included many ideas initially posited by CAP advisors. The following excerpt from the official minutes illustrates this point: [George] stated that he felt that it was not the responsibility of [the Collaborative] to direct how the [Mid Valley] School District should be run. [Councilwoman] stated that [the Collaborative] would hold open forums to solicit ideas on how to improve the District, which would be brought back to the School Board. [Charles] stated that was not how it was reported to the Board by the superintendent. [George] stated that the District holds forums for community involvement which provides suggestions on ways to improve the schools. He stated that he did not feel this was the Collaborative’s role.

As Charles later explained in a confidential interview, “a majority of the board made it very clear we were not going to support [CAP]. And this [trying to infuse CAP into the Collaborative’s mission] was an attempt to do an end run around it, and we stopped it.” Despite the failed attempt to formally merge CAP with the Collaborative, several CAP participants held out hope that the ideas they generated would live on with independent efforts. Mike, the self-acclaimed radical, attempted to organize this independent effort. Responding to an April 2000 email request for the status of the advisors’ efforts to revive CAP, he wrote: “Stalled, but not dead. I am trying to get the Web site . . . , reshape the group

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and expand it . . . and move the agenda forward.” Months later, however, the revival effort died, the Web site never materialized, and key advisors decided to end their efforts. Most community advisors left the CAP experience with a sense of disappointment and disillusionment. Long-term Effects: Was There Anything Lasting or Institutionalized? Interviews with Highland central office administrators several years after the 1998 session indicated that strategic planning was deeply embedded in the district. District administrators repeatedly attributed actions and policies currently in place to past strategic planning efforts and consistently noted that strategic planning guided how they made decisions and allocated resources. The superintendent was adamant that the district “tested” all major decisions against the strategic plan. A testament to the district’s history of and commitment to strategic planning were plans to continue these efforts in the face of top leadership turnover. When the district’s long-time superintendent retired toward the end of this study, administrators and board members directed the private search firm to find a replacement who believed in strategic planning (multiple individuals reported that it was an important criterion). After less than a year in office, the new superintendent and assistant superintendent began preparing for another round of strategic planning in the upcoming academic year. This decision provides more evidence that the democratic processes were not tied to one personality but instead institutionalized in the organization. Since that time, the district convened another round of planning, generating a new set of improvement strategies focused on improving middle school math. In contrast, a sense of finality dominates the Mid Valley story. The Collaborative continued to push for more community involvement, and the Collaborative is perhaps the only sign of lasting impact. From early on, it was clear to many participants and observers that CAP was not deeply embedded in the district. When the CAP director resigned in March 2000, a district administrator (a colleague and friend of the director) reported that his departure did not significantly affect the district because CAP was an isolated project. She noted, “He really didn’t have much to do with the operation of the district.” Finally, most agreed that in a few years no one was likely to remember CAP. When asked to articulate the legacy of [CAP], the director replied, I think in the long run it’s going to be that it was nothing. . . . The legacy for the teachers is going to be they didn’t engage, it didn’t mean anything, the district messed around with them for a little while, and my guess is that in five years from now you could maybe find a dozen teachers in the whole district who even knew what it ever was or will be.

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For the teachers’ union, however, CAP will be remembered. Its legacy is likely to be that despite the district’s pledge to procure funding from private sources, it spent more than $400,000 of its general fund on an initiative that did not involve them and produced no results. (As chapter 5 examines in more detail, the funding issues and the strain they created in district-union relations contributed greatly to CAP’s demise.) SUMMING UP THE CASES AND LOOKING AHEAD

Despite similar intentions on the part of district leaders, joint work in Highland and Mid Valley unfolded in distinct ways. Highland organized democratic joint work and implemented its principles in a very deliberate and structured manner; from the criteria developed for selecting participants to the rules of deliberation and their enforcement. Compared to the novice Mid Valley, Highland built on a long history of strategic planning—years of experience and learning that contributed to the district’s explicit attention to and interpretation of democratic principles. Returning to the schematic presented in the last chapter (see figure 1.4), leaders in Highland consistently expressed hopes that strategic planning between educators and noneducators would be deliberative and participatory (quadrant 2). Despite some struggles and problems, Highland achieved an attenuated form of this goal, involving a wide range of stakeholders in discussions and actions around long-term strategies for districtwide improvement. Highland’s endeavor ended up looking like something between a representative and a participatory deliberative forum (between quadrants 2 and 1). By involving more than just community leaders and including at least three diverse individuals from each school, Highland’s effort was far more participatory than Mid Valley’s but not as participatory as some had hoped. Unlike Highland, the ambiguities of the Mid Valley story make it more difficult to represent diagrammatically. For one, Mid Valley leaders conveyed mixed understandings of the CAP initiative and its purpose. The superintendent initially expressed the desire for deliberation and “mutual accountability” among community leaders and district educators but acted in ways that conflicted with these words and generated much suspicion about his true motives. In addition, the board member who coappointed participants never fully committed to CAP and questioned its legitimacy throughout. Thus, to some leaders, CAP was intended to be deliberative and representative (quadrant 1). To others, CAP was meant to be nothing more than consultation. In practice, Mid Valley’s CAP initiative failed to achieve much of anything. While representative in a more “elite” form than that adopted by Highland, CAP study sessions rarely took on a deliberative flavor and often embraced characteristics of interest-based decision making with district leaders vying for power and making decisions outside of the deliberative arena (poten-

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Deliberative

Highland SP

2

CAP Advisory

1

Participatory

Representative 3

4 CAP Initiative

Interest-Based

FIGURE 1.4 What Form Joint Work Took in Highland and Mid Valley

Note: In this figure, Highland’s strategic planning is represented by “Highland SP”; Mid Valley’s endeavor is represented by “CAP Initiative” and “CAP Advisory.”

tially placing the CAP initiative in quadrant 4). The belief on the part of some participants that CAP was to be consultation of citizens issuing recommendations to the board also suggests that the larger CAP initiative may not have attained any form of democratic joint work, placing it off the map entirely (the dotted lines in figure 1.4 are intended to represent this possibility). Combined with its shortcomings around process, the inability to generate action rendered the CAP initiative a case of deliberative democratic failure. The Mid Valley story is not complete, however, without an account of the Advisory—a subcase of joint work within the district. At the outset, advisors and CAP staff uniformly envisioned a process of coconstruction and deliberation and hoped to expand the group in the future to be more participatory (quadrant 2). Like Highland’s strategic planning team, the Advisory struggled with some initial obstacles, including the attrition of some members and confusion over how the meetings were to proceed. Over time, however, joint work within the Advisory evolved into a deliberative, albeit representative (i.e., the group never expanded), democratic process (quadrant 1). Looking Ahead So why was Highland and the CAP Advisory more successful than Mid Valley’s overall CAP initiative in engaging in deliberative decision making and

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action? Why were interactions between district leaders and community members so different in Mid Valley than in Highland? The answers to these questions become even more interesting in light of the striking similarities between the two districts. As noted in the outset, both districts dwell in the same region of California and appeared to experience similar external and internal pressures. The districts also oversaw similar numbers of schools and students and served a diverse set of subcommunities. In terms of resources, both districts operated under similar size budgets and spent approximately the same amount of money per pupil. Both districts also were big enough to have the resources to support a collaborative initiative (e.g., staff to organize it) but also small enough that it was feasible to assemble a workable size group with representatives from the community. Finally, neither district appeared to have vocal or politically active subgroups or communities and had experienced a history of relatively peaceful relations between the community and district. In sum, these similarities make it almost impossible to dismiss these two divergent stories on the grounds of one district being larger, poorer, more diverse, or less politically stable. So if basic descriptors offer little explanatory power, what does? An indepth comparison of the two cases uncovers a set of interrelated factors that appear to explain the divergent cases quite convincingly. These factors emerged as the most pervasive and salient issues related to deliberative success and failure across districts. While both districts struggled with similar tensions around collective deliberation, many of these struggles were more acute and ultimately debilitating in Mid Valley. The next four chapters disentangle the complex conditions that contributed to a more smooth deliberative process among Highland’s strategic planning team and Mid Valley’s Advisory group compared with the overall CAP initiative. Specifically, I examine four interrelated analytic factors: power; institutional beliefs, values, and norms; organizational context; and trust. While each may have independently affected the process of deliberation and action, it is the interactions and relationships among these four domains that appear to accurately account for the unfolding of collaborative endeavors in each district. Accordingly, one cannot fully understand power imbalances or tensions between norms of professionalism and democratic inclusion without an understanding of the organizational context or climate of trust in each district. Given the practical limitations inherent in writing about a complex and dynamic process, I examine each domain separately, with an explicit discussion of the relationships with other domains toward the end of each chapter.

TWO

Participation and Power

A primary virtue of a deliberative model of democracy . . . is that it promotes a conception of reason over power in politics. Policies ought to be adopted not because the most powerful interests win but because the citizens or their representatives together determine their rightness after hearing and criticizing reasons.1 The participants are substantively equal in that the existing distribution of power and resources does not shape their chances to contribute to deliberation, nor does the distribution play an authoritative role in their deliberation.2

AS THE ABOVE statements suggest, in an ideal, deliberative democracy,

participants have equal standing. That is, the status, resources, and cultural capital participants bring to the table—be it their gender, positional authority, access to information, or skills—should not affect their ability to participate in and influence the conversation and decisions. Although theoretically power should not play a significant role, the experiences in Highland and Mid Valley reveal the difficulty of keeping power out of the deliberative arena. An examination of who spoke and did not speak, how frequently they spoke, the quality and content of deliberation, and the perceptions of influence over decision making uncover common tensions around power dynamics—tensions that proved to be more debilitating in Mid Valley than in Highland. In this chapter I analyze these participation patterns and explain why the power imbalances were more acute in Mid Valley. This investigation also reveals insights into the concept of representation in a deliberative context—a topic revisited throughout the remaining chapters.

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POWER AND ITS MANY FACES

Conceptions of power in both political science and sociology are particularly useful to an examination of influence dynamics in deliberative decision making. Decades of work in political theory have yielded a much-debated, multifaceted understanding of power as having many dimensions or “faces”: • The first, often associated with Robert Dahl, refers to power as making decisions that affect another person: “A has power over B to the extent that he can get B to do something that B would not otherwise do.”3 • The second face of power, associated with Peter Bachrach and Morton Baratz, considers the mobilization of bias in the “non-decision making” realm. In other words, power manifests when issues are prevented from surfacing or being raised—for example, when a leader does not make a proposal or does not put an issue on the agenda because he/she anticipates that there would be opposition or sanctions resulting from such action. Thus, “A devotes his energies to creating or reinforcing social and political values and institutional practices that limit the scope of the political process to public consideration of only those issues which are comparatively innocuous to A.”4 • The third face of power—considered a radical conception of power and articulated by Steven Lukes—pertains to situations when an individual’s or group’s desires and needs are intentionally or unintentionally manipulated. In other words, “A exercises power over B when A affects B in a manner contrary to B’s interests.”5 In this third form, power may be exercised without the oppressed individual being conscious of what has occurred and can occur in the absence of an observable, actual conflict. As this chapter explores, the many faces of power asserted themselves at various times throughout the collaborative process—from agenda setting and date setting, to reason giving and discussion, to final decision making. While the first two faces of power were more obvious and measurable, the third face was nevertheless relevant and potentially evident in both cases.6 Organizational theory helps flesh out these notions of power and suggests possible indicators or types of evidence one might look for to measure its presence or absence. Such an understanding of power relies on relational attributes: one who possesses more cultural capital or resources relative to others at the table is considered powerful. Cultural capital or resources might include positional authority, expertise, access to information, and verbal skills. As one theorist notes, “Power in informal groups is based on the characteristics and relations of individuals—differences that can function as resources allowing some to reward and punish others.”7 In formal organizations, power is said to be determined at least in part by design (e.g., a hierarchy determines that

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one position controls another). Given the quasiformal status of joint work in district settings—it is often a new entity embedded in an existing formal organization—the definition of power might borrow from both organizational realms. Accordingly, a principal might have more power—or be perceived to have more power—than a teacher due to the hierarchical status as manager in the formal organization of the district. This same principal also might hold more informal power than a businessman due to the principal’s expert knowledge related to education. As I will illustrate, participation patterns and content analysis revealed that in both districts certain attributes gave some participants more power than others and manifest in both obvious and subtle forms and “faces.” Although both districts struggled to limit the influence of power, Highland was more successful in its efforts. PARTICIPATION PATTERNS AND BIASES

When I started to analyze these two endeavors, I expected to find differences in participation based at least in part on a traditional set of factors such as gender and race. Surprisingly these were not particularly salient factors in either district. However, two sources of power did intrude in the deliberations of both districts and were particularly acute in Mid Valley: language skills and styles and hierarchical position. Gender and Race/Ethnicity Seemingly Inconsequential to Participation Gender Research on governance suggests that power imbalances within deliberative fora may be gender based.8 For example, studies of jury deliberations show that one’s gender—among other traits such as race and financial privilege— increases one’s likelihood of behaving in ways that will lead to selection as jury foreperson (e.g., speaking first, sitting at the head of the table). As a result, most forepersons tend to be male (and also white, with a college degree). Gender also influences participation within jury deliberations. In general, men tend to talk more in juries, and those who speak most are likely to be viewed as most persuasive.9 Contrary to this research, gender did not assert itself as a salient factor in the joint work of either district. In Mid Valley, observations of meetings indicated that on some days women participated more frequently than men (relative to the number of men and women present) and on others men spoke more often.10 An analysis of what participants said also revealed few meaningful differences between men and women. Unlike findings from Mansbridge’s research on governance, women, on average, were slightly more

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likely than men to make statements of opinion and to issue reports or clarification. And men, on average, were slightly more likely to ask questions.11 While comparable participation data were not available in Highland, reports from strategic planning members indicated no significant gender differences. For example, when asked to identify any persons or groups who participated more or less frequently, gender never emerged as a category. Moreover, when individuals were singled out as having more influence in the process, they tended to be women. This may, however, be an artifact of the disproportionate number of women at the table (80 percent). In addition, all of the district administrators and board members present were women. Accordingly, women had already achieved a high degree of formal power in the educational system. Race/Ethnicity Contrary to past research on governance and site-based decision making,12 I also did not find consistent or meaningful differences in the quantity or quality of participation along the lines of individuals’ racial and ethnic backgrounds. Nevertheless, my analysis was complicated by a lack of data and very small numbers of nonwhite participants in both districts (19 percent of strategic planning members in Highland and 23 percent of all participants in Mid Valley). An analysis of the frequency of talk in Mid Valley indicated that average participation was relatively equal among whites and nonwhites in the first two study sessions. In the third study session, however, white participants, on average, spoke more than twice the number of times that nonwhites spoke.13 An analysis of the quality of comments indicated some minor yet inconsistent differences (e.g., in the first meeting, nonwhite participants were more likely to report and clarify, in the second meeting white participants dominated this category). Similarly, in Highland, participant reports did not uncover any differences related to ethnicity or race (the lack of observational data prevent a more detailed analysis). Correlated language issues were, however, observable and will be discussed next. Imbalances Based on Language, Speaking Skills, and Styles In both districts, individuals who spoke English and were articulate and skilled in logical and rational argumentation participated more frequently and were perceived to be more influential in the deliberative process.14 While Highland leaders tried to structure the meetings so that all team members were equal participants, the design occasionally faltered along issues of speech and language. For example, most participants interviewed reported that Maria, the non-English-speaking parent, rarely spoke in meetings. Even though the district provided a translator, he was unable to translate all of the dialogue, and most of the printed materials were in English. Participation was

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qualitatively limited to those topics made accessible to her. Maria’s misperceptions about the purpose of strategic planning (she believed it was an information-giving session on the part of the district) further suggest that this individual did not understand everything that transpired in the deliberations and therefore was not on equal footing with English-speaking participants who had greater access to the content of deliberations. The language issues in Highland expand beyond this more obvious case of a clear communication barrier. As noted earlier, one criterion for selection onto the strategic planning team was that individuals were “articulate.” At the beginning of each session, facilitators and the superintendent conveyed expectations about the kind of talk that was acceptable. As one teacher participant recalled, “it was made clear that . . . this was not to be combative. It was a time to present data and to look at it rationally and calmly.” It is therefore likely that individuals who were less articulate or skilled in rational analysis and argumentation may have been at a disadvantage in the planning sessions. For example, one parent, Lucy, admitted that she did not participate as frequently as others who were more persuasive speakers. “I’m a more soft-spoken person. . . . It’s harder for us to get our opinions across,” she reported. Lucy recalled one principal in particular who possessed those skills she lacked: “[S]he was a very forceful person and would speak with the utmost conviction. And so we ended up going her way.” Similarly, in recalling a board member who successfully argued for an idea, Lucy again identified language skills as the source of influence. She said that “obviously, because she is a trustee, she was well spoken. People don’t usually vote [for you] if you’re not well spoken.” Even those who were “well spoken” concurred that power resided in one’s ability to express himself or herself. One board member observed, “The ability to articulate something is important. And if you’re articulate in this process, you can make your point heard.” In Mid Valley, the speech preferences and biases were less explicit but equally present. Leaders did not publicize criteria for selection onto the advisory or any norms of deliberation at the outset. Yet, as the initiative evolved, implicit expectations about acceptable and unacceptable speech emerged. One incident at the second study session illustrates this point. At the very end of the meeting, Jose—a Latino advisor who was fluent in English but spoke infrequently in meetings—made an impassioned plea for board action. Recalling his daily visits as a doctor with low-income and limited-Englishproficient children from Mid Valley’s east side, Jose confessed to feeling helpless in regards to their educational health and to the risks they face at school. He urged the board to be accountable to these groups and to commit to improving teacher quality. Although several coadvisors nodded in support of Jose’s plea, it was not well received by several board members. One board member, Charles, quickly responded with hints of resistance: “We all want

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better teachers. The concern I have is a question of how to make tradeoffs?” He then defended the district’s student test scores: “The political concern of our district being below the 50th percentile is fair and also misplaced,” he argued, continuing with a detailed explanation of the district’s bimodal test score distribution. He reported that the district’s native English speakers outperform the state average for similar students, as do the English Language Learners when compared to similar students statewide. Following the meeting, several advisors and one CAP staffer commented on how moved they were by Jose’s speech. One staffer stated, “[W]hat he said, it was so wonderful at that meeting. I mean, I thought it was the very best piece that was said.” She also voiced frustration with Charles’ response: “He was essentially saying in response to what [Jose] said that if we compare our . . . district data to the state, we’re actually doing better. . . . [W]ell, it’s still inexcusable! Did you get that point from what [Jose] said? . . . I didn’t really get the sense of him understanding [that Jose was] talking about the success or failure of huge groups of people.” Similarly, another advisor noted that Jose “brought passion to what we were doing. . . . His concern for the kids in east [Mid Valley] was overwhelming.” She added, “[Jose] generally would sit quietly through a whole meeting and then generally said something. And whatever he spoke it was good. He did participate, but he was cautious about what he said. But then when he said it, it was usually better than what most everybody else had said.” When later interviewed, however, Jose expressed deep regret over how he presented his ideas in the meeting. He explained: I was just so passionate about what was happening that . . . I almost felt like this was our only chance with them [the board] anyway. . . . But while they [fellow advisors] were all proud about how I did that, I felt like it really didn’t get us anywhere . . . I almost let my emotions take me over as opposed to just maybe presenting it a little bit more professionally. . . . And I think maybe they [the board] might have been more impressed if I had reiterated a lot of the statistics that we had come across, some of the process that we had undergone to get us where were are. . . . I think I would have done it differently.

And while this impassioned form of speech resonated with several colleagues, interviews with several board members confirmed Jose’s perceptions of a preference for more rational, logical speaking styles in governance bodies. In discussing the proper role of community members in district practice overall, one of the two white, male board members (Charles) commented that people must “do their homework” before addressing the board. He expected individuals to define the problem, do their research, think clearly about what they were proposing and why, instead of just “mouthing off” or “whining.” In the end, participants such as Maria, Jose, and many parents lacked resources—the command of English, articulateness, rational speaking skills,

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and political style—valued in the deliberative arena. As a result, they either participated less or were perceived to be less influential in the process of joint work. The subtle impact of these biases is perhaps best illustrated by Jose, who no longer valued his personal style of impassioned speech and was willing to cast it aside for a more “professional” manner of presentation. The third face of power had manipulated Jose—like potential other individuals from marginalized groups—to adopt a new set of styles, and possibly interests, that diverged from those held previously. Imbalances Based on Hierarchical Power Although more traditional power struggles based on one’s position in the hierarchy of the educational system or society writ large occasionally emerged in Highland, they were more pervasive and debilitating in Mid Valley. Recall that Highland involved participants from all levels of the educational system—students, teachers, principals, and district leaders—not to mention broader clients or customers, such as parents and citizens. Conversely, Mid Valley purposefully involved leaders within and outside of the system, including a principal, elected officials, community leaders, and district administrators and board members. From the outset, the distribution of hierarchical power was a bit more skewed in Mid Valley, with virtually no lower level employees or clients directly involved. In Mid Valley, tensions emerged among those participants within the education system. For example, district administrators working for the superintendent spoke infrequently throughout the study sessions. Even though these administrators constituted more than 20 percent of the participants at the second study session, their comments accounted for 10 percent of all comments made. Similarly, only two of the three administrators present at the third study session spoke in the whole-group setting, again, accounting for 10 percent of all comments made. While one could argue they chose not to speak because they perceived the meetings to be geared more for community and board members, several advisors perceived their lack of participation as deference to authority. One advisor commented, “The district staff . . . don’t feel comfortable, I think, suggesting anything that might be contrary to what the board is thinking. There’s this feeling that they need to be loyal to the board. . . . I sense that the administration is very hesitant to say anything.” Similarly, Tony—the one principal on the Advisory—rarely spoke up in meetings, making only one comment in the first study session and two in the second. In an interview, Tony conveyed reluctance to participate, noting that he was appointed “not by choice.” He also acknowledged that teachers were very skeptical of the initiative and the money spent and that the board did not appear to be supportive. As a result, he explained, “I just more or less attend it because I was told to, and just listen more than talk.” While his lack

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of participation may not signal deference to authority or intimidation, Tony’s description of how he arrived on the Advisory clearly signals an assertion of power on the part of leaders and his unwillingness to challenge it. Even when leaders outside of the system joined with leaders inside the system, power imbalances emerged. Despite symbolic efforts to create more balance (e.g., when board members moved off their daises to sit with community advisors at the table), decisions made by district leaders outside of the shared space created obstacles for the deliberative process. Most notably, board members and the superintendent repeatedly stalled in setting dates for future meetings. Regardless of community advisors’ status as leaders in the community—many with clout as elected city and county officials—they were unable to secure commitments from the district on dates for meetings or agreements on future steps. One advisor recalled a series of delays: It seemed very difficult to set up that [first] meeting, . . . so there were some feelings well like “What’s going on? They asked us to do this and now they don’t want to hear from us, what’s this?” . . . [I]t seemed to take a very long time to set up that next meeting again and it was really at the insistence of the [Advisory] that said, “You know what? We want to meet with you! We’ve been meeting for two years, and you can just jolly well spend a Saturday with us and meet with us!” And there was some hostility on the part of some of the school board members; they were a little cranky about meeting with us.

Another advisor concurred, noting how powerless the advisors were to move forward without leadership commitment to set dates: We asked for a meeting. Well we didn’t get a joint meeting with the board ‘til this last February. It took that long! We sensed they didn’t want to hear what we had to say. . . . [W]e recognized that we couldn’t go any further unless we had their support, . . . but we didn’t seem to get that strong feeling from them. And we probably weren’t aggressive enough in pushing it with them. But it was really in their court, I think. Because they kept saying their calendars wouldn’t allow it, and they couldn’t fit it in.

In many ways the first face of power asserted itself strongly in Mid Valley: district leaders made decisions that worked against the desires of community advisors. Moreover, when advisors and district leaders met, they were not meeting on a level playing field. District leaders had complete authority over crucial decisions of when to meet and what to do next, thereby nullifying key terms of joint work and deliberative democracy. In contrast, within Mid Valley’s Advisory and in Highland overall, participants interacted more as equals, and the process tempered the authority of district leaders. Observations of Advisory meetings indicate that over time, the district administrators in charge of CAP gradually reduced the frequency

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of their talk and let community advisors direct the conversation. This shift is perhaps best illustrated in the February 1999 Advisory meeting in which the idea of hosting a community summit on education was raised. Not only did community advisors contribute the majority (more than 60 percent) of comments made, but they also directed the flow of conversation, suggesting next steps and requesting additional information from CAP staff. In Highland, hierarchical power asserted itself primarily before the strategic planning process started—in the narrowing of the scope of planning. In an assertion of the second face of power, the superintendent decided to leave the district’s goal of “100 percent of students meeting standards” off the table, preventing the issue of student outcome goals from surfacing during the deliberations. Several participants objected to this decision and would have preferred an opportunity to discuss and possibly alter the goal. For example, one teacher stated: The goal . . . [is] deemed impractical by any teacher in their right mind. . . . This was already set up by somebody prior to showing up. I thought, “What the hell? Is someone going to raise their hand and say, ‘One hundred percept of kids? Come on! Let’s get realistic here!’” . . . I wasn’t going to say, “That’s wrong.” I kind of huffed and grumbled, but that was preordained by I don’t know who.

District administrators, nevertheless, maintained that time constraints forced them to “cut to the chase.” The district organizer explained that “it’s hard sometimes when you don’t have the time and resources that you should. I mean, you could spend three days [discussing the goal], and you should go off into a nice place and spend a lot of time on this.” Once the deliberations started, however, hierarchical power was less significant. Almost all of the participants interviewed reported that they felt free to state their concerns and believed that participation was fairly evenly distributed. Most striking were reports that students played an important role in deliberations.15 Whereas a traditional analysis might predict that a student’s low position in the district hierarchy would confer a less significant role, the few students present appeared to participate with equal voice as adults. For example, one student, Roberto, argued that he was instrumental in developing the first strategy of providing recognition for students: I didn’t bring up the whole thing, but I kind of brought up that when I achieve something . . . [and] get recognized, I feel good about myself. And I think students, if they get recognized, . . . not only the students who are getting straight A’s . . . but also the people who go from maybe D’s to C’s to B’s. They’ve got to get recognized too, because they’re improving. And if they get recognized, they’re going to continue working hard. . . . [I]t in a way kind of boosts the students’ self-esteem, confidence, and kind of makes them want to learn instead of just having to learn.

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Other participants confirmed Roberto’s influential role and repeatedly noted that students’ ideas were given equal consideration and that their ideas resonated with the group. As one board member observed, “My perception of [strategic planning] was that there was really strong participation and participation from people I’ve never met before. Some really powerful new voices emerged, and . . . it was an environment where that was possible.” When asked for examples, she replied, “Some of the kids. The kids were fabulous and just bold and willing to speak their minds. And people listened.” Similarly, a parent explained that “we also had two students participate. And I remember being impressed that they actually got up and spoke a couple of times and generated their ideas too.” A principal concurred: They wanted to get multiple opinions so that everybody felt comfortable and heard. And that I really felt. And I think if you were to ask anybody about the day or the days, the student opinions were the most accepted. I would say that they are the ones who everybody kind of stopped, listened, heard what they had to say. . . . Those are the ones who were the most important to hear. . . . And that was very valuable. . . . That’s where you get the ideas, the Ah-has!

Several other examples illustrate ways in which Highland’s deliberative process trumped power, instances in which ideas with wide appeal rose above the positional power of participants. For example, one principal introduced a strategy that she knew district leaders did not support: providing reading resource teachers to all schools for the purpose of intervening and supporting struggling students. Given that several other parents present (not necessarily parents from her school) also supported this idea, it eventually made it onto the final list in the form of strategy 1, “interventions and recognitions” and was implemented in her school. She explained: The way that they planned the process . . . people broke into groups, and you had the right to determine which [were] the high priorities for you. And so, because of that, whether they [district leaders] wanted it there or not, [my idea] became one of the strategic plans. Because it was an interest to the majority of the people there.

While district leaders—particularly the administrator of federal categorical grants—may not have supported the idea of spreading these resources to all schools (including schools ineligible for federal funds), the force of the argument and its appeal to a majority of participants advanced the idea to the final list of strategies, where it ultimately received district funds and support. Similarly, the discussion around strategy 3, a “unified educational system,” provides fertile ground for an assessment of power versus reason. By all accounts, the unification idea originated with the school board, whose members forcefully advocated for the idea of merging Highland’s K–8 district with

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the neighboring high school district. In an interview, one board member, Emily, was candid about her personal feelings: “This is an issue around which I have a lot of passion, especially because I have had kids who’ve been really beat up by that transition [from middle school to high school].” She believed that easing that transition was virtually impossible to achieve in a nonunified system. Several participants—particularly those who expressed skepticism about the overall process—recalled that board members strongly advocated for this idea. One teacher, Brian, explained that some board members and parents “pushed this one through” and that unification was not a pressing issue to other participants. “It was lobbied upon,” he reported, “and lobbied and lobbied. . . . It seemed to require more of a politicking, more of a conversation about it.” A principal (one of the harshest critics of the district overall) echoed these observations: “[T]hat was a real political strategy. . . . [T]here was one board member there lobbying for [unification]. That one I always thought was ramrodded through, that that was the current interest of the superintendent so, by God, this will be on the list!” These appeals to interest-based language suggest that to these participants, power not reason was at play. In contrast, others voiced support for the idea of unification, including Maria, who believed in easing childrens’ transitions into high school. Many of these participants also recalled a process of adoption that relied more on reasons than the status of the initiator. For example, one district administrator admitted that the board played a significant role in advocating for unification. Yet she also acknowledged that it was the strong arguments—and the persuasive style of speech and convictions—not necessarily formal power that succeeded in placing the idea on the list of strategies. Similarly, a parent noted that the force of reason won her over: She [a board member] was very hot on number three [strategy on unification]. . . . [I]t was like a passion with her. And her passion just spoke through to her conviction and her conviction made so much sense. I mean, I never thought about unifying up through high school. And her argument just made so much sense.

Even Brian, the skeptical teacher cited above, acknowledged that it was the board members’ persuasive speaking skills and the wide appeal of her reasons that gained momentum for the unification idea—not her status as an elected official, her reputation, or her background. Brian explained, When she spoke, people listened. . . . And she and others presented enough reasons why this makes sense to get it through. And the reason was it will better educate our kids. . . . There was no title that . . . would indicate a Ph.D. in education. It was her manner of speaking, her reasoning. It wasn’t that the title pushed it through.

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Again, the source of power in this example may not have been the positional authority of the board member but her ability to construct and forcefully convey an argument that appealed to others. Despite the bias toward persuasive or articulate speech, this example nonetheless indicates that reason may have been the operative force. Ideas were introduced, discussed at great length, and decisions were made when people agreed with an idea and believed they could “live with it”—not because an expert or authority said so. As these examples illustrate, the deliberative process in Highland provided much leeway for individuals with less hierarchical power to assert and win approval for their ideas. When asked whether a principal would have had a better opportunity than a student to push an idea through, Roberto, the student, argued forcefully that position did not determine the outcome: “I don’t feel that anybody was dominant over me ’cause I’m a student. I feel that we were all on the same kind of level. . . . I think mostly everyone had to agree on something, on some idea, and from there, we probably brought it onto [the list of final strategies].” In summary, Mid Valley’s inability to overcome hierarchical power imbalances within the broader CAP initiative contrasted sharply with the experiences of Highland and the CAP Advisory. What allowed Highland and the Advisory to avoid some of these potential power imbalances and biases? I examine this and other related questions in the next section. EXPLANATIONS AND IMPLICATIONS FO R DEMO CRATIC PRACTICE

Why did power struggles prove most debilitating in Mid Valley? What factors enabled the Mid Valley Advisory and Highland to achieve more of an even playing field? First, as I discuss in great detail in chapter 4, the organizational structure and culture of the two districts contributed to the observed participation patterns and power struggles. For example, the rigidity of Mid Valley’s bureaucracy may have entrenched authority based on hierarchical position, making it more difficult for community advisors to achieve parity of voice with district leaders in the CAP endeavor. Conversely, Highland’s more flexible organizational structure and culture of learning may have weakened these traditional power dynamics, creating a climate more conducive to decision making based on reasoned arguments, not status. Second, as I revisit in chapter 5, significant interaction between trust and power emerged in both cases. The pervasive climate of mistrust in Mid Valley appeared to make district leaders more resistant and less willing to involve community advisors as equal partners. On the other hand, the higher degree of mutual trust in Highland created an environment seemingly more welcoming of voices outside the traditional power base. (Chapter 5 also

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examines the ways in which power may facilitate or inhibit the development of trust in joint work.) Finally, the structure of strategic planning in Highland helped mediate some of the potentially inhibiting influences of power and status. As discussed in the previous chapter, unlike Mid Valley, which paid little attention to process, Highland developed and adapted a set of strategies, norms, and structures over more than a decade with the specific goal of facilitating equal standing and participation. For example: • Small groups provided opportunities for individuals who were uneasy speaking in front of large groups—typically individuals with lower status positions and attributes—to contribute in a safe environment. The rotation of members in and out of these groups also familiarized participants with one another, further easing the nerves of participants who were initially intimidated to speak to a crowd of unfamiliar faces. As Roberto, the student, explained, these groups were “a good way for me to actually kind of get my shyness out. . . . [A]nd by the end of the day, I talked to everyone—or just about everyone—so when I talked in front of the one big group, then I didn’t feel as awkward.” A citizen participant concurred, noting that the group work “was very nonthreatening.” • Organizers also intentionally distributed knowledge across the groups, which included at least one individual from a higher ranking position in the district. This was intended to better inform participants who lacked this broad perspective or technical knowledge—further removing any disadvantages based on information or access to information. • The use of 30-second whips guaranteed each participant an opportunity to state his/her arguments for or against various strategies—potentially enabling voices of those with less power to emerge. • Requirements to write down all ideas generated in small- and large-group discussions and to post them on the wall ensured greater accountability to these ideas, making it even harder to silence lower status voices. • Facilitators also played an instrumental role in tempering potentially dominant individuals and groups, often cutting off talkative individuals and encouraging individuals who had not spoken to state their views. • Facilitators also introduced and enforced the norm of “leave your title at the door” to further level the playing field. For example, participant name tags included first names only. In addition, facilitators monitored and curbed talk if a participant asserted his or her status into the discussion. One facilitator explained: “[If] somebody says, ‘Well, Doctor So-and-So . . . ,’ we have to cut it. . . . Or if they say, ‘As a parent, I would like . . . ,’ we have to cut that. Because we have to have them see that . . . ‘it doesn’t matter what your title is or where you’re coming from because we’re looking at the greater good.’”16

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These structural features in Highland present an interesting interpretation of democratic principles pertaining to the content of deliberation and the concept of ‘representation.’ As the following sections illustrate, Highland’s experience suggests that to achieve consensus and offset power imbalances, democratic joint work may necessitate explicit constraints on the content of discussions and a specific—and potentially controversial—conception of representation. Content of Deliberation and Norms of Preclusion Taken as a whole, Highland enforced strong norms of preclusion. Participants were told by leaders and monitored by facilitators to keep their personal interests and affiliations outside of the deliberative arena. Unlike some models of deliberative democracy—such as the model articulated by Guttman and Thompson (1996), who argue that any moral argument belongs in the public arena as long as it does not violate principles of liberty and opportunity and that weak norms of preclusion enable individuals to comfortably deliberate and arrive at common ground—Highland’s strategic planning greatly constrained the content of talk. Highland’s experience suggests that rules about what can and cannot be said may be context dependent. Two dimensions of context appear to be relevant to decisions guiding the content of deliberations: the diversity and harmony of interests and the scope of conversation (see figure 2.1). Highland and Mid Valley are highly diverse districts, and the participants assembled at the table represented a wide range of subgroups and interests. The diverse communities existing within the district and the many discrepant interests represented at the table may lend more of a need for strict norms of preclusion—particularly if the variety of interests conflict greatly. In contrast, an environment with convergent interests—such as a high-wealth, all-white district, or on a smaller scale, a Catholic high school—may not require as onerous a set of norms guiding content because participants generally arrive at the table with a precommitment to a set of shared values. Conversely, a setting with highly conflicting interests—such as a heterogeneous environment with many factional groups or a somewhat homogeneous setting with two highly adversarial factions—cannot guarantee the same level of shared values at the outset. Accordingly, a weakening of the norms of preclusion in an environment with divergent and conflicting interests might devolve into chaos—an outcome suggested, at least in part, by the Mid Valley experience, where no rules existed to guide dialogue in a constructive manner. The scope of topics under consideration is another contextual domain that might influence the extent to which one should enforce norms of preclusion. A deliberative forum organized around a very specific topic—for

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Conflicting Interests Convergent Interests

Diversity and Harmony of Interests

Scope of Topics under Consideration Wide

Narrow

S

S-W

W-S

W

FIGURE 2.1 The Dependence of Norms of Preclusion on Contextual Features of Joint Work

Note: In this figure “S” signifies strong preclusion, “W” weak preclusion, “S-W” strong-weak preclusion, and “W-S” weak-strong preclusion.

example, school safety or math standards—might offset some of the potential conflicts emerging in an environment with widely diverse and competing interests. As such, it seems possible that norms of preclusion can remain relatively weaker in a setting with conflicting interests that from the outset has narrowed the range of topics under consideration. Conversely, when deliberations in a setting with widely conflicting interests are designed around a broad range of topics—like those in Highland, and even more so Mid Valley, focused on how to improve student achievement—the possibilities for conflicts increase and therefore might require stronger norms of preclusion to assist the group in achieving common ground. Similarly, in a community with convergent interests, the broadening of topics open for conversation might increase opportunities for disagreement and conflict, decreasing their chances of achieving common ground without somewhat stronger norms of preclusion than a setting that is narrowly tailored to focus on one or a few topics. Levels of trust and mistrust also might influence how participants receive and react to norms of preclusion. In general, participants are highly likely to

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regard norms of preclusion with skepticism. A history of strained relations and mistrust only adds to potential skepticism and opposition. In Mid Valley, a high level of mistrust suggests that participants might not have willingly accepted the enforcement of strong norms of preclusion. Community advisors appeared to not trust leaders enough to leave their interests at the door. Any move on the part of leaders to enforce rules about what could and could not be said may have been interpreted by community advisors as further evidence of the district trying to manipulate and control the process. In this case, it might have been useful for district leaders to have focused the deliberations around a narrow problem—a setting in which strong norms of preclusion are not as essential. Another potential contextual factor affecting the impact of norms of preclusion is the extent to which interests are organized and understood. Interests with mobilized groups and rich associational life—such as teachers represented by a union—may be better equipped to participate in deliberative fora under conditions of onerous norms of preclusion. A context that curtailed specific talk about individual interests may be less burdensome to individuals and groups with well-articulated interests. Conversely, for individuals who arrive at the table representing unorganized groups and whose common interests have not crystallized—such as parents of English Language Learners—strong norms of preclusion might be disabling. Without a history of and formal structure for developing a sophisticated understanding of what the “common good” would be for them, individuals from unorganized groups may be unduly burdened by a process precluding talk about individual interests. For example, Judy—the Highland parent of the gifted child and a member of an unorganized group—conveyed frustration with the strategic planning process and difficulty (if not unwillingness) to shed her “title” or individual interests. Less confident about what a process focused on the common good of the district would mean for her and her children, this parent appeared unable and unwilling to deliberate under conditions that did not allow space for a discussion of her particular concerns. As such, the burden of strong norms of preclusion is probably more equitable when all participants are from organized groups with sophisticated understandings of their interests or all are from unorganized groups. Conceptions of Representation Norms of preclusion and other structural features of Highland’s deliberations imply a very specific understanding of what it means to be a representative in a deliberative democratic process. These norms and structures intentionally disabled participants from acting as representatives of particular interest groups (e.g., students, unionized teachers, parents) and pushed participants to appeal to broader reasons and ideas that everyone in the dis-

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trict could share. These features also prevented specific group- or role-based positions from developing. While they may have facilitated a more egalitarian process, these features simultaneously preempted individuals from seeing themselves as traditional democratic representatives of particular constituencies. Participants’ struggles to leave their titles at the door—demonstrated by the tendency to start comments with “As a teacher . . .” or “As a parent . . .”—uncover classic tensions inherent in representative democracy and debates around the form it should take. Dating back to the earliest formation of democracy in England and the United States, individuals have wrestled with two tensions around the conception of representation: those between accountability and autonomy, and a focus on the common versus the particular. Highland’s experience suggests that to level the playing field, deliberative endeavors may necessitate a conception of representation that emphasizes the autonomous and common ends of the spectra. Accountability and Autonomy In her classic examination of this topic, Hanna Pitkin identifies a “fundamental dualism” built into the meaning of representation: should representatives use their own judgment to serve constituency interests, which may or may not converge with constituency preferences (autonomy), or should representatives directly advocate for and accurately reflect the wishes and opinions of those they represent (accountability)?17 Many theorists have argued that a deliberative model of democracy leans more to the autonomous side of the representation spectrum, enabling participants the freedom from strict accountability to reason openly and formulate new positions in the course of deliberations should others convince them to modify previously held positions.18 Highland’s experience provides more evidence that deliberative democracy—particularly at the level of a district and in a quasidemocratic form, where participants are not formally elected—might require a more autonomous conception of representatives not only to allow for open deliberations but also to address potential power imbalances participants bring to the table. The norm of “leave your title at the door” helped diminish the effect of status hierarchies and also precluded the possibility of any participant treating strategic planning as a process of bargaining over constituency preferences. Some might contend, however, that an autonomous conception of representation, such as the one embedded in Highland’s strategic planning, does not adequately protect the needs and interests of marginalized groups in a deliberative forum. Some argue that a better balance must be struck between accountability and relative autonomy and that in situations where representatives have more autonomy greater attention must be paid to equal or proportionate presence and to how much representatives share the experiences of those they represent.19

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The Common Versus the Particular A related tension within the conception of representation centers around the extent to which representatives should focus on what is best for the community or society as a whole versus what is best for particular constituent groups. Most theorists agree that deliberative democracy pushes representatives to focus on what is common. Highland’s structure and norms quite literally endorsed this perspective, asking participants to think about the district as a whole and what would improve education for all students. Accordingly, Highland participants were expected to be independent thinkers representing not the interests of a distinct constituency (as in the Burkean model) but the whole community. Most participants interviewed abided by and acknowledged the importance of these rules. As one principal explained, “I think that the final decisions that were made were made for all the students. They were not made to meet a particular population’s needs.” Accordingly, most participants described their roles not as advocates for a particular group but as members of a larger community asked to bring their various points of view and experiences to bear on transcendent questions of how to improve education for everyone in the district. The norm of no titles, combined with the use of heterogeneous and rotating small groups clearly inhibited individuals from forcefully defending the interests of particular groups or using group-based arguments as the basis for decisions. For example, without the opportunity to meet together in a group of all parents, it was difficult if not impossible for the common interests of parents to even crystallize. Throughout the process, however, there were a few participants who resisted this emphasis, often calling for greater attention to the needs of their particular students or families (e.g., Judy advocating for her gifted children). This particularist view maps onto a common critique of deliberative democracy. Most notably, feminist theorists argue that the emphasis on commonality is a form of coercive power—the third face of power—that perpetuates inequality and undermines the needs and interests of traditionally marginalized individuals.20 These theorists further argue that a more equitable conception of representation in a deliberative democracy embraces particularist perspectives and recognizes “difference” as a resource. From this perspective, formulating the best solution to problems requires learning from the views of individuals with different resources and positions of power. Allowing representatives to speak for particular groups and interests is said to further motivate participants to express their ideas as “appeals to justice” rather than self-interest; teaches others the partiality of their own perspectives; and adds to social knowledge of the group. SUMMING UP AND LOOKING AHEAD

Many faces of power emerged in both districts but were particularly visible in Mid Valley. Although gender and race/ethnicity biases were not evident,

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hierarchical position and language skills and style significantly influenced the quality and quantity of participation in both collaborative endeavors, especially in Mid Valley’s wider CAP study sessions. Strong norms of preclusion and a conception of representation emphasizing autonomous action and a focus on what is common enabled Highland to curb the potentially pernicious influence of power. Yet Highland’s actions are nevertheless subject to criticism. Although Highland may have achieved some parity of voice and attended to feminist calls for attention to issues of group dynamics (e.g., Sanders asks democrats to develop ways to undercut the dominance of higher status individuals and ensure everyone participates and is taken seriously), some might argue that the district nevertheless perpetuated the needs of higher status individuals by pushing the common and autonomous ends of the representative spectrum. The evidence in Highland presented in this chapter, however, indicates that some potentially marginalized groups and individuals—most notably, students—actually had a powerful voice within a structure that endorsed the common over the particular. The relative homogeneity of the planning team as whole, however, limits the strength of this conclusion. It is difficult to predict how the process may have operated had more low-income and nonwhite individuals participated. The limits of this case suggest a need for continued attention to feminist concerns about the needs and interests of marginalized individuals. This analysis also fails to fully account for the persistent and nagging biases of language embedded in the experiences of Mid Valley and Highland. The final two chapters return to these issues and examine implications of participants’ beliefs about representation as well as potential strategies to address power imbalances and language biases in future deliberative endeavors. In the next chapter, I examine the collaborative endeavors through another lens and investigate the ways in which participants’ prior beliefs, values, and norms helped shape decisions and actions.

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THREE

Institutional Discord and Harmony

When you try to do organizational change, you have to understand the culture. There’s a whole tradition and set of rituals to it. . . . Let’s understand that for the profession of teaching there are customs that are passed down from tribe to tribe, and it goes deep. And we are trying to change that DNA. (Mike, community advisor, Mid Valley)

MIKE’S OBSERVATIONS ABOUT institutionalized customs capture another important factor influencing deliberations in both districts. As citizens examining and suggesting changes to the Mid Valley School District’s programs, Mike and his colleagues on the CAP Advisory ran up against a set of deeply embedded beliefs, values, and norms within the district, many of which resisted the involvement of laypersons in professional decision making. In both districts, bringing together individuals from different social, professional, and cultural backgrounds invited multiple norms and modes of thinking into the collaborative arena, all of which influenced how participants thought about their roles and how they behaved in the deliberations.1 At times, these values and orientations overlapped, and at other times they conflicted with one another and with the dominant norms of the American education system. When conflicting, these tensions clearly complicated the intent of democratic joint work: for participants to negotiate new roles, skills, and routines and to work together as partners in decision making. When overlapping, these beliefs and values appeared to facilitate deliberative exchange. Throughout my interviews and observations in Mid Valley and Highland, discord and harmony emerged among three sets of values, norms, and beliefs: democracy (and norms of inclusion); education professionalism (and norms of autonomy); and market customs. While some participants came to

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the table with strong democratic values and beliefs, others approached the process from more of a professional or market orientation or some combination of the two or three. Although much has been written about the conflict between these various institutional realms in past research,2 the experiences in Mid Valley and Highland suggest a more nuanced understanding of how values interact in democratic and educational settings. In this chapter I first examine the relationship between norms of democratic inclusion and professional autonomy, including an analysis of participants’ perceptions of roles and case examples of how these views and values were enacted in the deliberative arena. The next section then explores more impressionistic data on the relationship between market and democratic orientations. As I will illustrate, while institutional discord gradually helped to undermine Mid Valley’s broader CAP effort, institutional tensions were less apparent and acute in Highland and, to some extent, in the Mid Valley Advisory. Further, the confluence of these three sets of values and beliefs proved to be complementary in some cases, providing opportunities for participants to learn and change behavior in ways that facilitated deliberation and action. DEMO CRATIC INCLUSION AND PROFESSIONAL AUTONOMY

In Mid Valley and Highland I found a pervasive and often tenuous relationship between norms of democratic inclusion and norms of professional autonomy in education. These tensions were evident not only in the views participants expressed but also in their behavior during deliberations. I examine these views and actions below. Participants’ Conceptions of Lay-Educator Roles Participants in Highland and Mid Valley frequently differed in how they viewed the proper role and behavior of educators and noneducators. As illustrated in figure 3.1, participants varied in where they drew the line between the authority and responsibility of professionals (teachers or administrators) and laypersons (parents or citizens). Some viewed community members as threats to the professional autonomy of educators, while others believed citizens deserved equal voice with educators. These views fell along a continuum that reflects varying definitions of whose knowledge is legitimate—ranging from views that professionally trained teachers and administrators possess specialized knowledge that should guide educational decisions versus views that noneducators with direct experience and knowledge of community and student needs should guide these decisions—and to whom educators should be held accountable—ranging from views that educators should be held accountable to professional peers and standards versus beliefs that educators should

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Highland

Defer to layperson

Limited input educators

Bounded authority educators

Equal Roles OR Coconstruction

Bounded authority laypersons

Limited input laypersons

Defer to educators

=educator

Mid Valley

=non-educator =board member

Defer to layperson

Limited input educators

Bounded authority educators

Equal Roles OR Coconstruction

Bounded authority laypersons

Limited input laypersons

Defer to educators

FIGURE 3.1 Conceptions of Educator-Layperson Roles in Educational Decision Making

Note: The data for this figure come from interviews and statements made during meetings. Each participant’s stated opinions were mapped onto one of seven categories (explained throughout this section). In some cases, participants’ views appeared to bridge several points of the continua. In these cases, participants’ views were placed in between categories. These data are not intended to give precise measures of opinion but more to suggest broader patterns in the conceptions and understandings of participants.

answer to the citizens and parents who are the constituents, clients, and customers of public education. At each end of the spectrum is an extreme position that asserts either a belief in sole deference to professional educators (and their exclusive expertise) or a belief in sole deference to laypersons (and their knowledge). At the

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midpoint, the belief is that decisions should be shared equally between educators and noneducators. This position recognizes the legitimacy and value of different forms of knowledge, including the professional knowledge of educators and also the professional, cultural, community, and student-centered knowledge of laypersons. In between the ends and midpoints are positions that blend both sets of norms, for example, those who value input from those outside the system but believe that professionals should have the final say. Although participants in both districts varied along the continuum, the distribution of these views differed slightly. Most notably, the majority of educators in Highland expressed views falling toward the center of the spectrum, closer to notions of democratic inclusion. In contrast, the viewpoints of educators in Mid Valley spread across the spectrum, with half leaning toward the “deference to educators” position, reflecting more traditional conceptions of professionalism. Finally, unlike Highland, many community members in Mid Valley challenged traditional professional norms, asserting in one case a view that educators should defer to citizens. Table 3.1 provides some illustrative examples of the views expressed in each category. These competing views and patterns do not offer simple explanations for how joint work played out in the two districts. Echoing alternative conceptions of professionalism found in the literature,3 Highland educators appeared to be more welcoming of outside knowledge and authority sharing than their counterparts in Mid Valley. As such, it is possible that the values of this “new professionalism” provided much overlap with the values of democratic inclusion embedded in strategic planning, reducing the potential conflicts that emerged in Mid Valley, where less overlap existed between educators’ notions of professionalism and the democratic aims of CAP and its community advisors. Three examples demonstrate the ways in which these professional and democratic views and values interacted in the deliberative arena: instances of defensiveness in dialogue (Mid Valley), lack of engagement due to conflicting cultural norms (Highland), and pedagogical clashes and transformation (Highland). These examples show that the two sets of values at times resulted in persistent conflict and at other times left room for learning and change. Mid Valley’s Second Study Session: Defensiveness and Conflict in Deliberations In Mid Valley’s second study session, one central office administrator, Carol, displayed obvious discomfort when CAP community advisors raised ideas that the district was already implementing. Following one advisor’s suggestion that the district introduce mentoring for teachers, Carol sharply told the group, “We would love your input on how to make our services better, but everything you mention is what we’ve worked on for the past seven years. We

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have spent years to get grants. . . . How does this differ from your vision, so we can get down to specifics.” She proceeded to list a number of programs and their budgets, including a new mentoring program for beginning teachers. Many CAP participants later commented on Carol’s defensive posturing during the meeting and believed this defensiveness stemmed from a feeling that community members were infringing on educators’ professional domain. As one advisor later reflected: People were bent out of shape because they thought we were attacking this or attacking that. It just went flat fast. . . . [I]t wasn’t really going anywhere. . . . And we’re not really educators. And so you’ve got educators that are in there as part of the meeting, and you’re kind of on their turf, so to speak.

When asked earlier in the year for her thoughts on CAP, Carol conveyed ambivalence about the proper role of community members: [O]n one level . . . if we want community buy-in, we’ve got to do a much better job, which when I listen to [the CAP director], makes all the sense in the world. But there’s another level of me that says, yes, we should have more involvement, but who are the professionals here? . . . Do we all need to get involved in how to run the school? . . . [D]o we all run the police?

In this interview, Carol advocated for greater deference to the expertise and authority of professional educators and administrators but also acknowledged that “the community has got to be involved in kids’ education [because] we can’t do it alone, because we’re asked to do everything right now.” Although wanting increased community support, she nonetheless believed professionals should make decisions. As this incident and discussion illustrate, the CAP initiative, which embraced democratic norms of involving citizens in deliberations, ran up against a set of deeply rooted professional norms that privileged the knowledge of educators. Mid Valley participants perceived a similar defensiveness on the part of some board members. As laypersons who develop educational expertise over time, board members present an interesting twist on the traditional professional-layperson tension. In essence, board members are “boundary spanners” who bridge the world of professional educators (administrators) and community members. Despite this hybrid role, many community advisors in Mid Valley readily grouped board members with the professionals, noting that board members maintained rigid views of their proper role and resistance to anyone infringing on their authority. For example, one advisor believed this defensiveness was “inherent in all boards.” He explained: They have a way that they’re doing things, and they’re trying as hard as they can to make changes, and then you come in, and they think you’re telling

Lucy (parent): I wasn’t trained in education, so I cannot tell you that I would do things differently. . . . I’m not looked on as an authoritarian because, again, I’m not a trained professional. I’m a parent. . . . We can’t set curriculum. . . . We can’t set district assessments. We have to defer to their expertise. Sally (board member) believed that citizens’ views were valid and might cause staff to “modify” their ideas “a bit” but that educators with expertise should retain ultimate authority.

The superintendent repeatedly identified the value of involving community members because “they look at schools and schooling with a different perspective.” Yet she placed parameters on this involvement:

Tony (principal on Advisory) envisioned little substantive role for citizens aside from the opportunity to serve on the school board or elect board members to represent their ideas.

Pat (teacher/union leader): I don’t want them [community members] in here telling me . . . basically what to teach and how to teach and that, per se. Great for them to give suggestions, . . . but . . . they’re not educators, and they don’t understand developmental levels of kids and curriculum needs. . . . But I want them in here talking about how can we make the schools better for our community and make them work better. Superintendent: The community should be able . . . to articulate expectations of . . . what they would like children to know and be able to do. Then they should work with school people to bring that about by providing

Deference to educators

Limited input of laypersons

Bounded authority of laypersons

(continued on next page)

Highland

Mid Valley

TABLE 3.1 A Sample of Views on the Proper Role of Educators versus Noneducators

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Highland “I think there are some things that . . . you don’t need to go back to the community for,” such as general management and facilities issues. Donna (principal): There’s a partnership . . . I think that [the education of students] is created together, . . . [parents, community members, and educators] really working together to best meet the needs of all the kids.

Mid Valley resources . . . [not] just money, [but] time, people volunteers. . . . But the school people should be the implementers. Joan (citizen on Advisory): [T]he professional community knows about education, but the community knows their kids, and they know what goes on outside and it’s not that you can’t get it done only depending on part of it. But you can get it done differently with the community there. . . . I just believe that what every person in every group brings is really essential, and what you get is infinitely better. Mike (citizen on Advisory): I don’t see what’s wrong with telling teachers how to teach. That’s my kid. I’m not saying I have the answer, but it’s the right of the community to do that. It’s our children and tax dollars.

Equal roles or coconstruction

Deference to laypersons

TABLE 3.1 (continued)

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them that they’re doing a bad job. And we never intended that, and we never said it directly. . . . [I]f we took these same people [board members] and observed other school districts across the nation they probably would be participating in this, [saying], “Yeah, this is bad; this is terrible.” But then you bring it home, and you have to protect your own territory and turf.

Similarly, another advisor commented that a board member appeared to be “protecting his role” throughout the meetings. As these examples illustrate, conflicting views about proper roles created suspicion and frustration among participants wanting to share in decision making and defensiveness among others who perceived these gestures as a violation of professional norms or rights. Lack of Engagement from a Highland Parent: Conflicting Cultural Norms In Highland, we return again to Maria, the Latina parent, who repeatedly commented that strategic planning meetings operated in ways that differed greatly from Mexican customs. She explained, “Everything was run differently than I was used to. . . . The director [school principal or superintendent in Mexico] is the one who says how everything is done, and he directs everything. They just tell us on what [the budget] is going to be spent.” Noting that “one cannot do much” to influence decisions, she conveyed a deferential conception of parents’ role in the American education system, which invites more parent participation than is the norm in Mexico. The incompatibility of these cultural understandings—in addition to language issues discussed in the last chapter—may help to explain Maria’s weak engagement in the strategic planning process and her misperceptions about the purpose of these meetings. Her preexisting notions of what it meant to be a parent and how schools operated worked against the aims of strategic planning, which asked her to be an equal partner with educators in determining district improvement strategies. And while Highland organizers may have missed some opportunities to better include her—by translating materials into Spanish, by ensuring that the translator adequately explained the purpose of the endeavor—this cultural “baggage” appeared to further inhibit her from finding a voice in the process. In Mid Valley, several participants made similar observations about the cultural-institutional forces that would have come into play had the district expanded the Advisory to include more diverse citizens. For example, a principal lamented many east-side parents’ lack of substantive involvement in their children’s education but nonetheless acknowledged that “where they come from, their role is to send the kids to school, and the school’s role is to educate them.” In several early meetings, community advisors identified similar cultural barriers and the difficulty of expanding deliberations to include

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east-side parents. Given the district’s decision not to expand the community group, however, these issues were never tested in practice. One value of deliberative democracy is that it creates space open to individuals from different cultures. However, as Highland’s Maria demonstrated most directly, the norms and beliefs embedded in these cultures—particularly cultures that value deference to professional authority—might inhibit engagement in this democratic process. Mid Valley’s Advisory: Pedagogical Clashes and Transformation In Mid Valley, significant conflict emerged over how to conduct Advisory meetings. As if by habit, district staff in charge of CAP launched into “transmission” mode, presenting community members with information and statistics, without asking them what they wanted to learn or engaging in two-way dialogue. CAP staff—all former teachers—adopted a familiar didactic orientation, one that recognizes teachers as information givers and students as recipients. In meeting after meeting, staffers distributed and explained figures, articles, and documents about district standards, assessments, curriculum, and education reform. Within the first couple of meetings many advisors expressed deep frustration, noting that they were not used to being talked at. As one CAP staffer recalled: We had such difficulty with them in the beginning when we were meeting and trying to control the meetings. And we would come with our presentations all ready to go and fill them with lots of information, and they’re like, “This is just like being in school.” And [one community advisor] would be like, “Be quiet!”

One advisor ultimately dropped out of the group because he could not tolerate the way these early meetings operated. He explained: I just got so frustrated with the way this was going, I started pounding on the table and telling him [CAP director] and everybody else that this was nonsensical, and why don’t we get where we’re going. They said that this was the way schools do it . . . I said if this is the way you run schools, no wonder there are such huge problems. I just became increasingly frustrated with him and was suspect of what we were doing. Because we never accomplished anything, and we sat there for months talking with all these nice people on this little committee and bringing in speakers and stuff.

When asked to clarify what he meant by “the way schools do it” this community advisor described a deep uneasiness with meetings that “drag on and on and on” and where people “talk around the subject rather than getting right to it.”

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Despite early attrition, a core group of community advisors helped district staffers transition into a more participatory mode of interaction—in essence, coconstructing new roles and routines for staff and advisors. Over time CAP staffers recognized the conflicting values and worked to change their pedagogy. Midway through the initiative, when asked whether he would do anything differently if he had an opportunity to go back in time, the CAP director responded: “We started by saying, ‘We want you to learn about standards and assessment,’ and teaching them. And I certainly would start earlier with, ‘Let’s just listen. What do you guys think?’ and go from there. [I would be] less directive, more open.” Similarly, a CAP staffer attributed the community advisors with the impetus for change. “They were able to help us learn how to just sit back and listen to what they needed and then respond to it,” she commented. She added that the CAP staff were “close to losing [the advisors] when we were following the district model,” a model she described as “an educator’s model”: It’s like, “Okay, well, I’m going to come and teach you something.” And that doesn’t work with community members. You just have to sit and talk together and get rid of all the “Ed speak,” just have a conversation and talk about what your common goals are. And from there, then you can start to develop something that everybody feels good about. But you also have to be willing to listen to their complaints, which we did, and have a lot of patience and then bring them any information that they want so that they see that you’re on a level playing field with them and that you’re going to be honest and forthright.

As this example illustrates, one aspect of an individual’s professional ideology is a pedagogical stance. Those adopting a position of deference to professionals and their expertise might believe that professionals should impart knowledge to nonprofessionals who passively receive it. Others’ conceptions of professionalism might embrace a more participatory or constructivist pedagogical stance. When brought into a deliberative arena, the former notions of didactic pedagogy might conflict greatly with a process that values participation and negotiation of ideas, whereas the latter notions might complement this process. Ironically, the CAP staffers in this example professed to these latter notions of professionalism, repeatedly stating in public that it was important for educators to share decision making with community (views located at the midpoint of the continuum in figure 3.1). Yet their actions reflected a contradictory professional stance that treated community as information recipients, not partners. This example demonstrates the force of institutional norms where ways of operating are so embedded in the system and in society that individuals are not consciously aware that they have adopted them.

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Final Thoughts on Democracy and Professionalism All of these examples illustrate that norms of professionalism interact in different ways with norms of democratic inclusion. On the one hand, the instances of defensiveness in Mid Valley and the Highland parents’ lack of engagement illustrate clear conflicts. On the other hand, the pedagogical transformation in Mid Valley’s Advisory indicates that contrary to past research,4 not all initial institutional clashes are insurmountable and that some initial conflicts can be opportunities for change and learning. Participation in a deliberative process might in fact alter one’s conceptions of what roles and behaviors are proper, right, or expected. MARKET PERSPECTIVES AND DEMO CRATIC INCLUSION

While not as pervasive as the education professionalism-democracy set of relationships, market-oriented and democratic perspectives also interacted in the deliberations of both districts. While at times these two institutional realms conflicted—particularly in Mid Valley—at other times they appeared to overlap—as witnessed more visibly in Highland. In Highland, the market perspectives of some participants appeared to complement the democratic processes of strategic planning. The model of strategic planning was a familiar one that resonated with many participants in and outside of the education system. Several participants reported exposure to or familiarity with this model and way of interacting, either in their own workplace or from experiences of others. Given its roots in the corporate world and management literature, the notions of brainstorming, scanning external and internal environments, setting goals, and developing long-term strategies were congruent with the ways of thinking brought to the table by laypersons from the business community. For example, when asked to describe the purposes of strategic planning, Lucy, a parent who worked in the financial sector, noted similarities with business practices: “I think it’s like a mission statement with a company. It defines where the district wants to go. . . . Everybody has to buy off on it . . . which was nice, because we all had to agree on these strategies.” She later added that the meetings were run much “like a business.” These meetings were not only similar to how she interacted with peers in her own practice but parallel with the experiences she had heard about from her husband. “He works for a large city,” she explained, “and . . . he would be right at home with this, because they have a lot of brainstorming where you take Post-It notes, and you write it on there, and you stick it up on the board. I felt that there was a lot of brainstorming, [which is] a lot of what corporations do when they’re trying to come up with either a theme song or a strategy or ideas.”

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While the business background of some participants in Highland proved to be congruent with the philosophy of strategic planning, the market orientation of board members in Mid Valley sparked persistent conflict among advisors and some educators who approached the world with more of a community-building orientation. As noted in the previous two chapters, two male board members—George and Charles—often set the tone for meetings. Both individuals worked in the Silicon Valley and frequently infused a set of values from the business world into the work of the board. Their demand for “specifics” and quantifiable results, their primary focus on the bottom line, their concern with issues of cost and feasibility, as well as their more directive style conflicted greatly with many educators’ and community members’ desire to discuss vision, jointly develop ideas, and work collaboratively. These conflicts were most evident in the first and second study sessions, where the two board members repeatedly asked for more details and questioned how the ideas would be funded and implemented. Recall the following exchange that ensued after the advisors introduced their “declaration of independence” in the first study session: [George] The question is, how do you accomplish that? It’s hard to be specific. Without sounding critical, I’d like to get into more specifics. What are the steps to get to communication and collaboration, for example? [Advisor 1:] That’s part of our challenge. We did get specific, but we backed away from it because we wanted the opportunity to talk about general ideas with you. . . . [Advisor 2:] We also thought others needed to be in on this discussion to give details. They have to be involved in making the decisions if they are going to do it. . . . [Advisor 3:] Yes, we want to do that [give details]. But we need this exchange first. We need to chunk down the problems into workable pieces. We all need to be in alignment first.

Throughout the first study session, George reiterated the need for “more specifics.” In the next study session these two men continued to press for details and financial implications. Early on, Charles commented, “I hear ideas about how to do new things all the time. It’s not like I’m afraid they will fail, or they aren’t good. My concern is that our plates are full. If you want me to add this thing, you need to tell me to cut this thing.” Moreover, both board members frequently cited statistics and figures to make their cases. In many ways, the board members’ market orientation colored their understandings of their roles and what it meant to be a representative. George was candid about the influence of his corporate experience and mindset on the way he thought about his position on the school board. “Using the analogy of the corporate board and the CEO I think works for me,” he explained, further noting that school board members, like corporate boards,

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“have an oversight function” and “provide advice and guidance and overall direction.” Both board members viewed their primary role as fiscal guardians and monitors. Although managing district finances is an explicit function of any school board, the corporate background of these two leaders may have placed an even greater emphasis on these facets of the representative role. In addition, as opposed to working with community and serving as their direct spokespersons—at the accountability end of the spectrum discussed in the previous chapter—they saw themselves more as “elite” and autonomous representatives elected to use their judgment of what was best for their constituents. George and Charles also felt that their constituents should communicate their ideas to the board in very specific ways: in reasoned, data-supported, rational statements. Ultimately, this orientation and values clashed with the way in which community advisors envisioned the education system and the roles of board member and constituent. One community advisor, Amy, who approached education with a more affective orientation and democratic goals, believed that the board should play a relationship-building role, interacting one-onone with teachers and parents to develop trust and consensus. She observed: I think [Charles] sees his role as raising money for the school district. . . . He’s another one who hasn’t built relationships in the parent community or with teaching staff. He doesn’t go to schools and visit classrooms and schmooze with teachers. . . . He doesn’t see that as his role. He’s a businessman. He’s bringing business expertise, and he knows how things should be done. He’s very autocratic in how he would do things. . . . I think his focus is school bond elections and school parcel tax elections. And that seems to be what he thinks he’s there to do. . . . And he sees himself as a liaison with the business community.

Although Amy considered his colleague George “more approachable,” she noted that he too had “more of a business background and thinks that the schools should be run like businesses.” From her perspective, George “doesn’t see the kids being different from a business product.” Similarly, another advisor noted how George’s fiscal orientation constrained conversations in study sessions: “[H]e sees the world as a financial model, and what you do to one side of the formula is going to affect the other. There were examples that I was prepared to talk about that . . . don’t necessarily cost money.” Other advisors observed the board’s discomfort with the free-flowing conversation that took place in study sessions and their need to “control” it. These advisors believed it was important for board members to let meetings get “out of control” in order to allow new ideas to emerge and consensus to develop. In addition to community members, many district educators expressed discomfort with the ways in which board members conceived of roles and

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appropriate behavior. For example, one district administrator who attended the CAP sessions observed: “I don’t know what happened to [CAP]. I don’t know if the board really got ticked off because of the manner in which it was going. There are some members on that board who don’t want any community input whatsoever. So they were elected, and so they are the elected body.” Several principals and teachers—who were not directly involved in CAP—echoed these observations about the board. They viewed board members as focused exclusively on results and expressed a similar frustration with the autocratic tone of board meetings. In several focus groups, teachers noted the board’s primary concern with funding and lack of attention to building relationships with schools. According to one teacher, “[O]ver the last . . . ten years, with the changeover of the board, the school board doesn’t come out, and they have a lot to say about things that happen at our school, but they don’t really know what’s going on. And the last two years, it’s seemed . . . everything’s now the bottom line—how much is it going to cost?” As these examples in Mid Valley suggest, some market-oriented values and modes of thinking—the push for quantifiable results, the “zero-sum” ways of thinking about gains and losses, and attention to the bottom line—appear to conflict with democratic values of collaboration, process, consensus, and relationship building. As seen in Highland, however, other market-oriented values and modes of thinking—setting priorities, examining data to determine problems and solutions, establishing a coherent vision—appear to complement those within a democratic process. CONDITIONS AFFECTING INSTITUTIONAL RELATIONSHIPS

Why did tension between norms of professional autonomy and democratic inclusion dominate the larger CAP initiative? What contextual factors may have helped the Advisory work through the initial pedagogical clashes? And what facilitated the blending of market, professional, and democratic norms within the Highland planning team? The following section examines several factors and conditions that may have affected these institutional dynamics— including the organizational context, trust, centrality of topics, and structure of the initiatives. Broader Organizational Context The history and culture of each district contributed to institutional discord and accord. For years, Highland had been pushing the boundaries of all institutional roles through various partnerships and programs. This history of counterinstitutional practice may have encouraged educators to adopt less

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traditional notions of professionalism and also created an environment that welcomed participation from individuals outside of the district. For example, at the time of the 1998 strategic planning session, Highland was concurrently implementing a collaborative with a local university and neighboring district. Intended to provide seamless support for teachers from preparation to induction to mastery, the collaborative redefined norms and roles within the district. Central office administrators and university faculty cotaught classes, and a small percentage of teachers worked in teams to receive masters’ degrees each year. Challenging traditional understandings of principal as sole school leader, the collaborative groomed teachers for leadership positions within schools. According to the superintendent, these programs have “been very helpful to us in broadening the perspective of . . . what leadership is, the shared work, the shared responsibility. It isn’t always your principal’s responsibility or principal’s fault. . . . [L]eadership resides with everyone.” The collaborative also encouraged district educators to interact with university faculty as partners instead of traditional “givers of information” and technical-assistance providers. One Highland central office administrator was proud of the collaborative because, for the first time, the district had “made inroads with a university . . . in ways where they’re not the experts telling us, but we’re really all in this together.” The university partnership also pushed central office staff to rethink their own roles. For example, several individuals noted that the collaborative had brought together the human resources side of the central office with curriculum and instruction staff—a union atypical in most districts. Over time, the personnel director became more involved in discussions and oversight of the internship program and how to prepare student teachers. These counterinstitutional practices and conceptions may have contributed to an overall climate more accepting of new roles for educators and citizens as partners in joint work. Thus, the strategic planning process unfolded in an environment with a long history of overlap between democratic and professional values. As the next chapter explores in depth, the organizational culture of Mid Valley contrasts sharply to Highland’s. The rigidity of Mid Valley’s bureaucracy, along with a resistance to criticism or learning from data, appeared to reinforce traditional roles, norms, and orientations (e.g., administrator as decision maker, teacher as information giver, parent as deferential to professional expertise). The repeated reports from community advisors who felt that they were “getting into the duties” of educators and infringing on professional autonomy suggest an unwavering conception of roles and rules that needed to be followed in Mid Valley. The compliance- and control-oriented organizational culture in Mid Valley also may have contributed to an environment that could not tolerate

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tensions that might arise when participants with different values and modes of thinking come together in deliberative fora. Ironically, several participants in Mid Valley noted that discomfort and tension are often opportunities for positive change. As one CAP staffer commented: [C]onflict is good. Conflict helps to push change, and sometimes you have to sit with that sort of uncomfortableness that arises because that is just sort of bringing up things. . . . Some people, maybe . . . were feeling more comfortable with the thought that “yeah, we do need to change,” and other people were just sort of hanging on to old ways, and they were fearful.

It is possible that the organizational culture in Mid Valley contributed to the district leadership’s inability to sit with value conflicts and to convert them into productive deliberations and ideas for change. In contrast, Highland’s organizational environment appeared to be more tolerant of and able to channel potential institutional tensions into deliberations and actions that achieved positive change in the district (e.g., new modes of interaction, new policies and programs). Climate of Trust As I explore in chapter 5, the level of trust between and among participants, and in the district overall, also appeared to affect the institutional dynamics in Mid Valley and Highland. In both districts I observed an inverse relationship between trust and institutional conflict. In Mid Valley, as trust gradually developed between community advisors and CAP district staffers—through continued conversations and time to get to know each other—staffers slowly shed their traditional roles as information givers. Additionally, by demonstrating an ability to respond to advisors’ wishes for a different mode of interaction, staffers further enhanced the trust community members had in the district staff. As one CAP staffer explained, “I think that when [community advisors] saw us back down and just listen to them and work together, the trust came. It would never have come if we had kept on throwing stuff at them.” Similarly, the CAP director identified trust as a major ingredient facilitating an openness to change within the Advisory meetings and mistrust as a factor contributing to the defensiveness and conflict witnessed within the broader effort: I just generally trust that people are mature enough to understand this is a group of community people who are very influential and who have their own points of view and are going to say what they want to say, and that’s okay. . . . I would have liked from the district staff, to just sit back and listen and say it doesn’t matter whether the [Advisory] members are well informed or not. That’s not the point.

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In contrast, the pervasive mistrust among community advisors, the Mid Valley superintendent, and several board members may have fueled the institutional clashes experienced in the board-community study sessions. Without the foundation of trust, district leaders continued to believe that advisors were infringing on their roles and duties, and advisors continued to believe that leaders were resistant to their participation. Conversely, Highland educators and noneducators—cushioned by an environment of trust—did not fixate on whether or the extent to which individuals were crossing lines or challenging customs. In summary, these experiences indicate that trust may provide an important background condition for institutional relationships and deliberation. And while the data suggest that trust and mistrust contribute to institutional accord and discord, they also suggest that institutional accord and discord can build trust and mistrust. I will return to these issues in chapter 5. Centrality of Topics Deliberated The difference in centrality of topics open for discussion in the two districts might also contribute to the varying degrees of value discord experienced.5 In Mid Valley, the CAP initiative targeted the core technology of the district (aside from the final meeting when the task was reframed more narrowly). For more than a year, community advisors tinkered with ideas of how to better support teachers and hold schools accountable—ideas that were potentially threatening to professional educators, their autonomy, and their customary ways of doing things. One community advisor, Joan, noted that perhaps it was the “invasiveness” of the ideas generated that sparked defensive posturing on the part of district leaders: There were some of the substantive issues, I would say, that the school board did not seem to be interested in, and I think some of those . . . may have been . . . considered more invasive in terms of whether it’s teacher quality and how they should go about doing that.

Another community member, Jose, also attributed the institutional tension and resistance they encountered to the centrality of the topics deliberated: I think if it [the Advisory] were a little bit more community-based and maybe [focused on] parental involvement [and] leadership development, that may have been different. But what we were doing was teacher quality, which was really attacking the system. . . . I think what we felt we were doing is just advising them [district leaders] on what we could do differently. But what they felt . . . was that they’re doing an inadequate job and we’d have to rearrange the budget to somehow allow for benefits and development of the teachers. . . . So it was almost as if now we’re getting into their duties.

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In contrast, the ideas considered by the Highland strategic planning team resided farther away from the core. By focusing on strategies such as expanding preschool opportunities or merging with the high school district, noneducators were less likely to threaten or infringe upon the immediate domain of educators. One skeptical teacher, Brian, attested to the lack of centrality and explained that he was less motivated to attend action team meetings because the ideas discussed were less likely to affect him personally: “This [plan] doesn’t have a direct impact on us [teachers]. It’s not like our salaries, it’s not like our prep time or teaching day, the books we use.” Had the ideas discussed in the action teams been more central, Brian insisted that he would have regularly attended meetings, which, in turn, could have resulted in heightened institutional tension. Yet past experiences in Highland complicate this explanation. While the 1998 session may not have focused on “core” issues, previous iterations focused on topics central to teaching and learning, including the development of standards and assessments and a focus on literacy instruction. Given the reported deliberative success of these past efforts (success being the achievement of consensus around and implementation of districtwide improvement strategies), the centrality argument weakens, suggesting that perhaps the broader issues of organizational context and trust were more significant factors affecting institutional dynamics and deliberations. Structure of Joint Work Initiatives Finally, another contributing factor may once again be the structure of the collaborative sessions. Highland’s norm of “leave your titles at the door”— intended to combat potential power imbalances—also may have pushed participants to stretch their conceptions of roles and how they thought about education. And while participants struggled to shed their titles (e.g., a union representative mentioned that the contract would not allow for this or that), facilitators continually pushed them to do so (e.g., reminding this person that she was there not as a union representative but to think more globally about what is possible beyond the contract and what is good for everyone in the district). This explicit attention to taken-for-granted beliefs may have helped participants think outside of their traditional roles and work through some of the tensions. Highland’s use of facilitators also may have helped create an environment that thwarted potential conflicts in conceptions of roles or pedagogical stances. From the outset, facilitators explicitly defined expectations and enforced structures that pushed a collaborative, nondidactic mode of interaction. District organizers also paid attention to pedagogy, making sure that participants remained active throughout the sessions, thus avoiding some of the pedagogical tensions experienced early on in Mid Valley’s Advisory.

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Conversely, the lack of attention to structure and expectations in Mid Valley’s broader CAP initiative did not challenge participants to reconceptualize their roles or modes of interaction and paved the way for repeated institutional clashes. Without a facilitator during the first two sessions or agreement on process norms, participants were free to operate according to their customary roles and means. In contrast, the Advisory meetings displayed a very different set of interactions than the broader initiative. While institutional tensions simmered for the first few months, they dissipated over time, in part, due to the structure of interactions. Staff scheduled regular meetings over a long period of time and built in formal and informal opportunities for interaction, including social gatherings and lectures. The CAP director also encouraged community advisors to meet with him one-on-one and continue discussions with the group by email. Staff also assured participants in the beginning of each meeting that this was their meeting. All of these actions helped participants get to know each other and district staff and built a sense of shared purpose and trust, which may have further encouraged staff and advisors to consider alternative conceptions and roles. The flexibility and openness of the meetings provided an arena in which community advisors could comfortably challenge district ways of operating and district staff could openly consider such challenges as nonthreatening. SUMMING UP AND LOOKING AHEAD

These cases illustrate that two different sets of professional values and perspectives—those of the education profession and those of market-oriented professions—are potential obstacles to democratic joint work. While at times overlapping with norms of democratic inclusion, education-professional and market-oriented values often clashed with endeavors calling for greater inclusion and collaboration, yet for different reasons. While the tension between democratic and professional values in education stemmed from a “specialist” argument (i.e., decisions about education should remain in the purview of trained education professionals), the tension between democratic and some professional values within market-oriented professions stemmed from an impatience with process and a priority on outcomes. What appeared to mediate some of these tensions in Highland was a superintendent and staff “trilingual” in all three sets of values and perspectives. With years of experience in education, familiarity with the corporate world, and a professional stance that embraced democratic values, the superintendent could speak to all three institutional realms and cultivated a culture allowing for overlap between these realms. In framing joint work, the superintendent and her staff borrowed from the corporate world to structure a formal planning process. In managing the district, leaders also embraced counterinstitutional norms of what it meant to be a professional: including an

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expectation that educators partner, work with, and learn from colleagues and from those outside of the traditional K–12 education system. The experiences of Highland, as well as the Mid Valley Advisory, suggest that institutional tensions—particularly between democratic and professional norms—are not insurmountable. Such tensions may weaken over time when educators and laypersons have the opportunities for sustained interaction; when educators embrace conceptions that approach the “new professionalism”; and when norms, structures, and organizational culture build trust and encourage openness to outside ideas. (Again, causation may flow in the other direction as well.) These findings, however, do not diminish the important role of expertise in democracy. Professional and democratic norms are too often conceptualized in monolithic and dichotomous terms. As these two cases illustrate, notions of professionalism can embrace the knowledge and involvement of nonprofessionals. Conversely, a deliberative democratic process does not necessitate the delegitimization of professional knowledge. Educators’ privileged information and knowledge were critical elements to deliberations in Highland and Mid Valley’s Advisory. For example, laypersons in Highland could not have arrived at the decision to expand preschool opportunities without the knowledge of the low reading and literacy achievement levels of early elementary school students, as well as information about what administrators and teachers had tried in the past to address this deficit. The action team in charge of this strategy could not have acquired outside grants without the knowledge of state funding opportunities, as well as guidelines for such programs. This knowledge, of course, came from educators within the district. Similarly, CAP advisors would not have focused on teacher support without exposure to the ideas and research of Linda Darling-Hammond and other experts who linked student achievement to teacher quality. The Highland and Mid Valley experiences suggest that a participatory and deliberative democratic process in district settings relies on the collective knowledge of participants, an important part of which is the exclusive and technical knowledge of educators. The key is thus making this knowledge available and balancing it with the knowledge brought to the table by noneducators. This professional knowledge is introduced but should not be deferred to outright because it comes from an “expert.” Instead, if the knowledge is presented in a manner that is compelling to those at the table, it should become the basis for decision making. As the example in Highland around unification illustrates, individuals decided to pursue unifying the district with a neighboring high school district not because the idea was introduced by an “expert” (a board member) but because the idea appealed to the group as a reasonable strategy for improving the quality of education in the district. Accordingly, laypersons must be given the tools and information to make reasoned judgments about educational

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topics and understand the knowledge presented by professionals. While Highland provided some of these tools, such as a reference notebook with background information and a day of explanations and exercises around understanding the information, they could have enhanced accessibility, for example, by making printed information available in Spanish. Although this chapter illustrates that institutional dynamics play a significant role in explaining the divergent stories in Mid Valley and Highland, the explanation is nonetheless incomplete without an in-depth understanding of the district environment. In the next two chapters I provide this context, analyzing both the organizational settings and climates of trust in both districts. As these chapters further demonstrate, the interactions of institutions, power, organizational setting, and trust provide a more accurate explanation of joint work and the varying degrees of democratic success.

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FOUR

The Democracy-Bureaucracy Face-off

When faced with changed environmental conditions, some organizations persist in traditional ways of behaving and others will adopt new ways of behaving. When criticized, some organizations hunker down and others conduct a searching self-examination.1 DIFFERENCES IN ORGANIZATIONAL structure, culture, and leadership in

Highland and Mid Valley created important contextual conditions for joint work. In my three years studying these districts—examining their policies and programs, getting to know central office leaders, and closely following the progress of a sample of schools—I found consistent differences in everyday district matters such as personnel procedures, division of labor, rules, attitudes toward data, and the extent of delegation. These reinforcing features had a surprisingly strong influence on democratic efforts: at times directly affecting the process and at other times affecting the power imbalances and institutional clashes previously discussed. Accordingly, one cannot fully understand the dynamics of power or institutional understandings without a clear picture of the organizational setting in which collaboration unfolded. Until now, the book has focused primarily on the collaborative endeavors and participants. In this chapter I step back to examine the broader anatomy of each district, exposing a sharp contrast between a bureaucratically entrenched organization and a more entrepreneurial, learning-centered organization. I illustrate the ways in which bureaucratic features conflicted with democratic intent and conclude by examining what enabled one district to behave less bureaucratically than the other. O RGANIZATIONAL FO RMS AND DEMO CRACY

In broad definitional terms, both districts were bureaucracies—well known as hierarchical systems with fixed divisions of labor, levels of graded authority 101

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(lower offices are supervised by higher ones), management that presupposes expert training, and sets of rules that govern official decisions.2 In bureaucracies, jurisdictional areas are clearly specified (activities are fixed as “official duties”), and rules governing decisions and actions are said to be stable, exhaustive, and easily able to be learned.3 Thought to be technically superior to church and state, bureaucracies were designed to increase the predictability and fairness of government action by “applying general rules to specific cases.”4 By having specialized jobs with rules for behavior, managers or heads of bureaucracies could be more confident that front-line employees would act in particular cases in ways that the manager would have acted had she been in the employees’ positions. The regularity of rules and exercise of authority also was intended to promote greater equality and justice. While bureaucracies were initially developed to promote democracy and equity, this very organizational model appears to be a potential obstacle to democratic practice. Recall that deliberative democratic ideals call for decision making based on reason not power, a sense of reciprocity and equal voice, publicity of reasons, and accountability to all who are bound by the decisions at hand. As the Mid Valley case illustrates, the features of a bureaucratically entrenched organization—rigid adherence to rules and hierarchy, enforcement of order and uniformity over learning, and centralization of control at the top—appear to conflict with these democratic ideals and might hinder efforts to promote widespread involvement in an egalitarian process of deliberation. Conversely, the Highland case suggests that a more entrepreneurial organization5 that interprets rules with flexibility, organizes work based on talent and skill, promotes learning over control, and distributes leadership complements the democratic aims of joint work and might facilitate its enactment. The remainder of this chapter examines this “democracy-bureaucracy” face-off, demonstrating the divergent influences of Mid Valley and Highland’s organizational structure, culture, and leadership on deliberations and actions. As these sections illustrate, everyday district matters had enormous effects on the democratic endeavors. O RGANIZATIONAL STRUCTURE: RIGID VERSUS FLEXIBLE

The formal organization, rules, and procedures of the two districts differed in subtle and not-so-subtle ways, rendering Mid Valley a more rigid bureaucracy and Highland more flexible and entrepreneurial. Great contrasts emerged in personnel procedures, division of labor, resource acquisition/allocation, and general rules of the two districts. In the aggregate, they produced an environment conducive to joint work in Highland yet hostile to similar efforts in Mid Valley.

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Personnel Procedures While both districts worked with their local bargaining units to determine personnel policies, the nature of these policies varied significantly. First, Highland and Mid Valley differed in the ways they promoted staff. In Mid Valley, all central office administrators followed a similar trajectory: having worked for years as teachers, then principals in district schools, before being promoted to central office staff. All three assistant superintendents working with instruction and personnel followed this path. In Highland, however, promotion was not always earned by serving time in lower ranking positions. Instead, district administrators prided themselves in identifying talent and filling positions with those who best fit district needs, regardless of whether the individual had climbed the ranks in a particular order. For example, one of the top administrators was a part-time aide prior to receiving her first central office position. Recalling the first time she saw this individual in her school, the superintendent explained: I was looking at the things that young woman was doing with teachers, and I was so impressed. . . . [S]he was a three-hour instructional aide. The next month she was a certificated person working . . . full-time, putting together what she was doing at that school for the district. . . . And now, she’s an assistant superintendent.

In several other interviews, Highland individuals repeated this story, which achieved the air of district lore, signaling a sense of pride in the district’s antibureaucratic procedures and the hope that anyone with talent could achieve high status in the district. Second, each district differed in its approach to teacher evaluation. In Mid Valley, the system of evaluation was hierarchical. Principals observed and rated teachers according to a uniform procedure developed by the district and teachers’ union. While the procedures changed slightly during the course of the study, the overall system remained one of principal rating teachers on various aspects of their practice (“satisfied,” “not satisfied,” or “needs to improve”). Like Mid Valley, Highland offered teachers the traditional evaluation option of principal observation and rating. However, Highland also offered tenured teachers an alternative evaluation option: an action-research project conducted with peers. Teachers could work with their principal to formulate a research question and plan out the strategies to answer the question. At the end of the project, they presented a portfolio to the principal and district that included the data and analysis, along with reflective comments on what they had learned from the process. Many principals also asked these teachers to present their findings to school staff. Although Highland central office administrators could not offer data on the number or percentage of teachers opting for the research project each

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year (according to most principals, it was a small percentage), the majority of teachers and principals interviewed were highly enthusiastic about this evaluation option. While some teachers complained about the large amount of time the process required, most educators appreciated this option because it gave teachers opportunities to work with colleagues on topics of personal interest and importance. Thus, unlike Mid Valley, Highland did not use evaluation solely as a required element of a contract and a top-down means of monitoring quality. Instead, administrators incorporated into the evaluation process organizational values of teachers reflecting on their own practice, working with peers, and learning from data. Finally, the configuration of staff benefits offers another point of contrast. In Highland, district staff worked with several other districts in a collaborative trust that oversaw the health benefits for all staff (district office, teachers, classified staff). The trust stipulated that every employee in the district receive the same benefits plan—from the grounds keepers to the superintendent. The human resources assistant superintendent described it as “a very collaborative group” that “comes together to have a larger group for buying power, and it is labor and management sitting together as equals to manage the task of seeking benefits for us that are the best possible.” The president of the teachers’ union confirmed that the trust was a very egalitarian organization: “We control our benefits, and as an employee, this was a power I’d never had [in other districts].” She also believed that the trust “spoke volumes about the district” and its willingness to involve employees in these decisions. Mid Valley, on the other hand, did not participate in such a collaborative trust. Central office administrators generally made benefits decisions based on consultation with union leadership. As these examples illustrate, Mid Valley’s personnel system appeared to be more hierarchical and rule driven than that of Highland. In contrast, Highland made personnel decisions and policies that advanced the district’s mission. The desire for a skilled, reflective, and data-driven teaching force led Highland administrators to adopt many innovative procedures for the promotion and evaluation of staff. Further, the commitment to egalitarian values and cost-savings led to similar innovations and collaboration around staff benefits. Impact on Joint Work Highland’s personnel procedures and resulting climate—rewarding talent over status or rigidly defined roles—may have facilitated a process of reasonbased decision making in strategic planning. The norm of “leave your title at the door” had a better chance of thriving in an organization with daily practices that valued egalitarianism and good ideas. Conversely, it is difficult to imagine such norms thriving in Mid Valley, where titles and official position in the hierarchy meant everything to daily staff procedures.

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Central Office Division of Labor On a broad level, both districts were hierarchical: a superintendent hired by elected board members oversaw the work of lower level administrators, who oversaw staff and school-level employees. However, several subtle differences in the central office division of labor distinguish the two organizations. In Mid Valley, top administrators repeatedly referred to the district organizational chart that depicted a clear hierarchy of more than six levels.6 The superintendent oversaw five assistant superintendents, who each oversaw a staff of managers and underlings. For example, the assistant superintendent of administration managed several “directors,” such as the special education director, who managed other specialists, who then oversaw teams of psychologists, language specialists, and other specialists. The chart also clearly illustrated departments organized around areas of specialization, such as bilingual education, special education, student services, accounting, child nutrition, staff development, personnel services, and payroll. In describing the organization of the district, top administrators often referred to the chart, noting their responsibilities for overseeing the various departments and specialized staff. While some administrators reported that at times they worked collaboratively, there was a clear division between the instructional departments and the business side of the district office. The assistant superintendent of business services or chief business officer (CBO) appeared to be very isolated from colleagues overseeing curriculum and instruction. When interviewed, this individual was extremely reluctant to talk about any nonfinancial issues, often replying to questions with, “You’ll have to talk to [the assistant superintendent (AS) of curriculum and instruction].” Admittedly, some of the questions were about specific instructional programs, but others were more general. For someone who served on the cabinet, regularly attending meetings with all assistant superintendents, and had worked in the district office for more than twenty years, it was surprising that she had no answer for how the district defined quality. She replied, “I think you have to ask [AS of curriculum and instruction]. I wouldn’t know that.” Conversely, when asked about general budget or fiscal matters, instructional administrators frequently could not answer questions and suggested contacting the CBO for answers. In contrast, Highland central office administrators could not locate an organizational chart. District staff in Highland felt strongly that a chart could not accurately depict the division of labor and responsibilities of staff. The human resources assistant superintendent explained: [W]e got so frustrated trying to put a chart on paper because we see ourselves crossing roles so often that it wasn’t an organization that was compartmentalized. . . . It was almost like we were somehow three dimensional rather than flat on paper, and we couldn’t seem to pull it off.

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While the central office maintained specialized departments in areas similar to those in Mid Valley—staff development, assessment, bilingual education, and personnel—the boundaries between departments appeared to be less defined and more permeable. Administrators conveyed a common understanding of job descriptions and functions as “fuzzy” and “overlapping.” As the superintendent explained, “It really doesn’t matter what their job description is, it ought to matter . . . who has the particular skills that are needed to pull this thing off. And so, the lines between jobs get very fuzzy.” Central office administrators echoed the superintendent’s views of administrators’ roles as overlapping and their responsibilities organized by individual skill or talent. As one commented, “We decided that basically the way we work is when you’ve got a project or a goal or something in your strategic plan, you bring the people to bear on that project who have the expertise to fill the objective, no matter what position they’re in.” For example, the human resources assistant superintendent was intimately involved in teacher training and preparation programs—tasks normally overseen exclusively by instructional staff. Conversely, the instructional staff was involved in matters of hiring and staffing. The human resources assistant superintendent noted that the success of the district’s collaborative with a local university and neighboring district (described in the previous chapter) was due in part to the overlapping departments: “[The Collaborative] would never, ever work if you have a district where your instruction and your personnel were totally isolated units.” Similarly, the chief business administrator appeared to be more able than his counterpart in Mid Valley to answer questions about the instructional program, how the district defined quality, and how teachers were supported. Conversely, instructional staff were able to describe the budget process and fiscal matters. In many respects, Mid Valley’s central office resembled the prototypical bureaucracy in which “[t]hinking is separated from doing. Doing is compartmentalized by function. Functions are separated into units. Units are broken down into jobs. Jobs are reduced to specific tasks and codified in rigid classifications and descriptions. The tasks are performed by specialists. The specialists occupy cubicles and offices that wall them off from one another.”7 In contrast, “doing” was less compartmentalized in Highland, and the hierarchy appeared to be less specified. Impact on Joint Work Highland’s division of labor approximated the model of decision making called upon by strategic planning and deliberative democracy more broadly, that is, collaborative work among equals and decisions that seek to promote the common good. The norms of reciprocity and equal voice were consonant with an organization structured as a team of individuals with overlapping

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jurisdictions. In an environment such as Mid Valley’s, in which individuals operated in more isolated, specialized departments, administrators may have been less accustomed to democratic norms, such as interacting with others in and outside of the district as equals or considering how decisions affect individuals outside of one’s department. Resource Acquisition and Allocation The approaches to resources offer another point of comparison between the two organizations. In terms of acquiring resources, Highland demonstrated a more enterprising spirit. For one, Highland leased a large piece of district property to a private retail store, bringing in more than $1 million each year, which the district spent primarily on technology and building up a reserve. Continually looking for ways to earn money, the district also decided to increase rent on some of the district-owned facilities leased to child-care and preschool providers. Led by a business-savvy superintendent (and in later years a new business director, who developed the plan to increase rents to market value), the district worked hard not only to increase funds—through innovative means and bond initiatives—but also to build up reserves for potentially difficult times in the future. In addition, district staff continually reexamined programs and made cuts during the “good times.” The superintendent explained: “It’s sort of like your own budget at home. Be sure to put money away for a rainy day. You can only do that when you have the money to put away.” Organizational goals also drove most resource decisions. The Highland superintendent repeatedly noted the importance of not “chasing everything that comes down the pike” but instead applying for grants that fit with district goals and that showed results. As a testament to this commitment, the district was willing to turn down funds that did not advance its objectives or priorities (e.g., not renewing a federal grant, applying to use private grants in ways not specified by the funding agency). Referring to one grant the district was willing to forgo, an administrator noted, “We didn’t want to do something that was an add-on.” Highland leaders described the budget process as goal driven and based on a constant process of evaluating programs. Instead of carrying programs forward year after year, the superintendent explained that staff used “diagnostic information to determine on an annual basis how that money will be spent for programs for that year.” Even the new superintendent, who arrived in Highland near the end of this study, noted this deeply embedded approach to resources: [T]here is sort of a mantra or dogma that programs we might bring in must be aligned to student growth, student achievement, that they must be reevaluated. . . . That’s just part of the way business is done here. . . . I’ve

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had so many conversations in other districts about, well, we have to keep this program because we have this person we like, . . . [and] the decision is made in the best interest of the adults.

In contrast, Mid Valley demonstrated a more traditional, programmatic approach to resource allocation and a more aggressive strategy for acquiring resources. Throughout the period of the study, district administrators and board members appeared to be in a constant “crisis mode,” seemingly gathering resources for the sake of procurement rather than for the sake of bolstering a particular mission or philosophy of teaching and learning. District administrators were continually raising as much money as possible, with little common understanding of how such funds would be used or sustained when grants ran out or how such programs contributed to the district’s overall mission or goals. As a result, the district had a history of adopting programs as new grant opportunities arose and ending them when the grants expired, a pattern that greatly upset educators. For example, a popular grant that helped teachers evaluate student work expired within three years. District administrators acknowledged that a decision not to continue this program may have been a mistake. “If you’re going to begin a process like that, you ought to stick with it and continuously work on it,” said a top-level central office administrator. One teacher noted that the district was often the “first to jump on the bandwagon” to get money for schools and programs but frequently switched to a new program before giving the existing ones enough time to mature. Similarly, another teacher reported, “They’re running around grabbing money and trying new things. And then another one and another one and another one [with] no consistency.” Central office administrators seemed equally aware of this pattern. As one administrator explained, “funding’s been such an allimportant, all-encompassing issue for us, . . . almost anything that has money attached to it, we grabbed onto it. And sometimes I think we grabbed onto it more for the money than . . . for the program.” In terms of Mid Valley’s budget process, there appeared to be much less of a focus on reevaluating programs each year. “Most of the programs we carry forward,” reported the CBO. “There’s a little bit of tweaking here and there.” While the district hired outside contractors to evaluate some major programs, there was not a formal process of reviewing the outcomes of each program or of assessing progress toward goals. Unlike Highland, Mid Valley did not start with overall district goals and priorities to build the budget. In summary, Highland’s approach to resources was more anticipatory and mission driven than that of Mid Valley. Highland’s use of strategic planning to guide the budget process, its commitment to acquire only grants that matched district goals, and its efforts to create contingency reserves distinguished it from the more reactive, short-term lens Mid Valley administrators

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applied to budgeting. Additionally, Highland’s enterprising approach to leasing district property—to generate profits that are reinvested into the system—set it apart from the more traditional bureaucratic model adopted by Mid Valley. Impact on Joint Work Like the other structural characteristics, Highland’s financial strategies echoed the values of openness and discovery embedded in the deliberative model of strategic planning. Accustomed to using goals to guide financial decisions, thinking futuristically, and considering what is best for the district’s long-term health, district educators may have been more comfortable with the deliberative process and its ideals. Conversely, the short-term, programmatic procedures in Mid Valley may have conflicted with the spirit and intent of CAP: to think creatively, holistically, and long term about a better future for the district. General Rules and Procedures: “Oh My God, Another Binder” To a certain extent, both districts bureaucratically managed work through rules and specific procedures. Teachers, in particular, along with some principals, were apt to complain about district-mandated procedures that often defied their ideas of what was reasonable or efficient. For example, the Mid Valley superintendent mandated a policy that all teachers not working full time in classrooms spend at least 25 percent of their time directly with students. While some teachers quietly obliged with the new policy, other resource teachers felt that this new policy unfairly increased their workload, because other responsibilities remained intact. Similarly, principals frequently complained about the district’s requirement that schools acquire matching funds to obtain their share of certain state grants. Advanced in the name of equity, the district believed that all schools, regardless of student population and potential for raising funds, should follow the same rules. As a result, schools with lower income students and fewer local private-funding options were less able than other schools to raise these matching funds or had to work harder to do so. As one principal explained: I feel there’s inequity . . . on this [state program] match. . . . And some schools can raise money more easily than other schools. The west-side schools traditionally . . . can raise their . . . money easily through their parent groups. East-side schools traditionally have a harder time. . . . I don’t feel like that’s right.

The use of centralized rules and authority increased over time in Mid Valley, illustrating a pervasive organizational value of uniformity. Most

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notably, the superintendent established districtwide curriculum expectations and conducted random audits of classrooms to determine whether instruction and curriculum aligned with district standards. These actions sparked sharp resistance from teachers. A union leader reported hearing “a lot of flack” from her peers about these curriculum procedures. Veteran teachers, in particular, were reportedly “disheartened” and “want to get out of education . . . because it’s not the creative, wonderful profession it once was.” Like Mid Valley, Highland administrators frequently mandated various rules and procedures. For example, teachers voiced frustration with having to fill out specific “alternative ranking” forms for the state’s new student promotion policy—forms requiring specific details on each student in a teacher’s class. The district exacerbated frustration by frequently changing the format of these forms and the due dates for submission. According to one principal, her staff felt that the district was “just cranking out more work for teachers to do that is maybe not well thought out.” She added, “If you talk to them, they might also talk about the fact that ‘Oh my god, another binder. What’s in this, and what more do we have to do?’” Yet this principal, like many others, noted that almost simultaneous with the complaints teachers expressed praise or a sense of pride in the district. Principals also reported positive views of the district and its policies. For example, 61 percent of principals surveyed strongly agreed with the statement, “The district supports my school’s efforts to improve,” and 69 percent disagreed that “The district creates mandates without providing adequate support.”8 This optimistic note contains the seeds of difference between the two districts’ use and understanding of rules and procedures. While Highland educators often disagreed with district-imposed rules and procedures, they just as frequently cited instances of the district bending those rules and procedures to adapt to individual needs or advance goals. For example, in one focus group, teachers praised the district for its willingness to alter the standard procedures for purchasing library books, allowing them to bypass the usual purchase order paperwork. In Highland, the superintendent modeled for others an understanding that goals not rules should guide district action. She explained: I think any system has to have some rational pieces to it that are structured. They have to have rules and order in any organization. But when that interferes with what makes sense, then you’ve got a real problem, and that’s when you have organizations where you feel that guys downtown don’t care about them, and they don’t understand. . . . And so, I always try to temper the need for . . . structure and order with basic human and organizational needs. And I think we’ve reached a good balance. But I never made decisions just because it was the rules. I had to listen to what the issues were.

Highland’s policy regarding teachers’ workday hours provides another counterbureaucratic example. Working with the union, district administra-

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tors changed the teacher contract so that it no longer required teachers to be on campus until a set hour of the day to fulfil a required average number of minutes per day. Instead, the contract established a “professional day,” allowing teachers the flexibility to work from home when students leave campus and to generally take responsibility for their work on their own schedule instead of a uniform schedule mandated by the district. Contrary to more typical bureaucratic practice, the adoption of more ambiguous contract language made it even more difficult for administrators to monitor the work of teachers (many bureaucratic organizations tend to focus on the most easily measured aspects of work such as hours of work). The tradeoff was the creation of stronger professional norms and accountability not to rules but to professional standards of practice. Highland also frequently applied this same approach and level of flexibility in responding to state policies. Individuals repeatedly noted that state policy held the district to a minimum level of quality and that the district could be proactive in setting higher expectations and adapting the rules. “We do what we have to do to be in compliance,” said the superintendent, “and then we do what we need to do for high quality.” For example, Highland applied for and received a waiver from the required procedures for evaluating the state’s beginning teacher support program. District administrators perceived the procedures as paper laden and contrary to the long-established, district-developed program to support new teachers. In contrast, although Mid Valley administrators also noted frustration with the state’s new teacher evaluation process and its overly prescriptive and paper-laden nature, they nonetheless proceeded to implement the state procedures. Accordingly, in Mid Valley, state policies and rules appeared to take precedence over local ones. Seemingly overwhelmed by this influx of policies, administrators rarely conveyed a sense of agency in their approach to these regulations. Using a driving metaphor to describe the district’s relationship with the state, one administrator expressed a sense of powerlessness: I feel like because the state is changing, and everything’s changing so rapidly . . . that we’re actually on a downhill phase, . . . and I’m not sure where we’re going exactly half the time. And sometimes I’m driving. Sometimes [the superintendent is] giving me a map, and sometimes I’m getting a new map every day from the state. So I’m having to turn all the time.

As opposed to the confidence of Highland administrators to anticipate, ignore, or adapt state policies to fit local needs, Mid Valley respondents conveyed a belief that they were compelled to implement state-imposed regulations. For example, faced with a new, mandatory state test (SAT-9), district leaders decided to scale back and eventually terminate the administration of locally developed, performance-based assessments (PBAs), highly popular for being aligned to local standards and not multiple-choice. Despite the

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widespread belief that the PBAs were of higher quality than the state test, the district nonetheless gave in to state pressure and concerns about too much testing. Highland faced similar pressures of overtesting when the state mandated its new assessment policy. Yet, unlike Mid Valley, it chose to maintain its local performance-based testing, which educators and leaders felt provided important alternative measures and opportunities for students to demonstrate their knowledge and skills. Like typical bureaucracies, both districts frequently developed and enforced specific rules and procedures to guide the work of teachers and principals. Yet in Highland, rules and procedures were often relaxed to fit particular needs or goals. Mid Valley, however, placed a premium on regularity and uniformity of procedures. Further, in Highland rules were often seen as minor obstacles to steer around, whereas in Mid Valley, rules were viewed as major barriers and parameters that defined what one could and could not do. Impact on Joint Work The pattern of flexibility in Highland once again aligns with the spirit of strategic planning, which encouraged team members to “think outside the box” and set aside potential constraints when deliberating about improvement strategies. Further, Highland board members, administrators, and other school-level participants appeared to be more comfortable agreeing to strategies that were not fully specified. Additionally, administrators and teachers believed that the complexity of many ideas coming from different arenas opened people’s eyes to new solutions and strategies that may not have otherwise emerged in a more controlled setting. Conversely, the rigidity of rule following in Mid Valley may have further constrained the thinking and deliberations in CAP study sessions, where board members repeatedly shrugged off ideas that were not fully specified or required the bending of some rules, such as the occasions when advisors suggested the district seek a waiver from state policy or consider becoming a charter district. Summary The differences in personnel and financial procedures, division of labor, and general rules paint two very different organizational pictures. In Mid Valley, a rigid hierarchical system expected individuals to follow a formal chain of command and uniform procedures. In contrast, the hierarchy and set of rules and procedures were more flexible in Highland. District goals and mission drove the organization of individuals, often necessitating a relaxation of rules and procedures in order to advance the larger vision. These structures provided very different background settings in which joint work unfolded.

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O RGANIZATIONAL CULTURE: CONTROLLING VERSUS LEARNING

There appear to be not only structural differences between the two organizations but also closely related differences in the culture or a “set of taken-forgranted assumptions, shared beliefs, meanings, and values that form a kind of backdrop for action.”9 The organizational culture gave each district a distinctive style or set of values. In repeated interviews and observations, educators’ beliefs and attitudes about roles and data emerged as qualitatively different across the two districts, portraying a culture in Mid Valley that valued compliance and order and one in Highland that valued proactive, goal-oriented action and learning. These two backdrops clearly shaped the nature of deliberations in the two districts. Conceptions of Roles and “Who-ness” The way teachers, principals, district administrators, and board members talked about their roles and jobs suggests a sharp contrast between an organization in Highland that rewarded flexibility, skill, and autonomous thought and action aligned with common goals versus an organization in Mid Valley that found order and control primary virtues. As noted, in Highland, when asked about a district organizational chart, central office administrators consistently noted that overlapping responsibilities made such a chart irrelevant and inaccurate. Instead, they repeatedly explained that the district drew on people’s particular talents not their formal titles or job descriptions to accomplish tasks. Embedded in these descriptions of roles also was a strong belief that in Highland every employee was treated as a peer. Frequently referred to as “who-ness,” educators believed that regardless of position, everyone deserved respect. As one union leader explained: I don’t know if you’ve heard of who-ness. . . . [I]t’s something they told us the first year I was here in my new-teacher trainings. . . . [Y]ou’re expected in Highland to treat everybody in the district, no matter what their job is, as being your peer. In other words, you don’t call up some secretary at the district office and yell at her about, “Why don’t I have a globe? And why don’t I have this or the other thing?” Everybody is going to treat everybody else as a professional.

This teacher had directly experienced this feeling of who-ness when she served on the trust overseeing employee benefits. She believed that Highland administrators “valued my opinion. They didn’t look down on me because I was a teacher.” Similarly, the human resources assistant superintendent described the hiring process as one of determining whether or not prospective teachers “fit” the district’s culture. “I believe very strongly that every place has a different

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culture,” she explained, “and we look at what we call ‘who-ness.’ And I truly think there’s something to it as not just instructional strategy, [but] their whole being, their willingness to learn, to interact with one another positively.” A board member described a similar “basic context or culture” that asserted “that the people in this enterprise are professionals, they’re adults. They should be treated as such.” The value of individuals and personal relations in Highland was clearly felt and appreciated at the school level. For example, one teacher boasted about the district’s “personal touch,” such as central office administrators knowing her name or accommodating her need to leave the district briefly for personal reasons. “That personal touch just makes you want to stay,” she exclaimed, “to stick around. [You] feel wanted.” These efforts signaled that teachers were valued as individuals and as professionals, not simply cogs in the system. Mid Valley leaders and educators conveyed a very different set of values and understanding of roles. Respondents consistently reported that individuals functioned in accordance to the impersonal, hierarchical organizational chart. Individuals in Mid Valley were expected to follow their job descriptions and the chain of command, with a complete understanding that the “buck stops with the superintendent.” Top-level administrators painted a consistent picture of top-down decision making and the lack of autonomy afforded to lower level administrators. As one administrator reported, “[The superintendent] okays everything. We can recommend, we discuss, but it’s his decision. I don’t think many of us make the decisions without him.” Referring to the district’s organizational chart, another administrator identified a similar lack of personal agency: I’m not sure I should say this, but I don’t think that [the superintendent] always uses the expertise and ability or talents of his cabinet as much as he should or as much as he could. . . . I’m sure he wants to be the one to make those decisions, and he wants things to go the way he wants things to go. He’s not overbearing in that, but it’s pretty consistent.

This administrator also noted that the superintendent was very “hands-on” and maintained a line relationship directly to principals. In contrast to Highland’s sense of who-ness, the climate in Mid Valley was more impersonal. During several interviews, teachers could not recall the name of district administrators, let alone district administrators being able to recall names of teachers (although one assistant superintendent claimed to know the names of most teachers). Unlike Highland, where school-level educators described district administrators as supporting teachers in a very personal or tailored fashion, school-level educators in Mid Valley did not describe a service orientation on the part of district administrators. One principal noted that central office staff rarely visited schools because “they’re putting out fires right and left.”

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The one exception to this pattern of impersonality, however, was the district’s treatment of principals. Driven in large part by the efforts of the CAP director, Mid Valley principals received specialized training and discretion over these professional development opportunities. While Highland later adopted similar policies, Mid Valley was several years ahead of Highland in developing this professional culture around the principalship. The district organized monthly institutes in which principals invited speakers, organized school visits, and read research together. As one principal explained, “the principals’ forum has been nice in that it’s given us a place where we get together, we share professionally. I think we become better colleagues, build up more of a collegial atmosphere in the district because of it.” Impact on Joint Work In summary, the way in which respondents talked about roles differed greatly in the two districts, signaling distinctive organizational values and beliefs. While Highland educators and administrators conveyed an appreciation for flexibility, autonomous action, and personal relations, Mid Valley respondents portrayed an organization that valued control and clear lines of authority. In Highland, the culture of who-ness appeared to foster the involvement of noneducators as peers with educators in strategic planning. Highland leaders appeared to be more cognizant of interpersonal issues in setting up the meetings, establishing ice-breaker activities, and rotating small groups to allow participants to get to know each other. In contrast, the highly impersonal culture in Mid Valley may have inhibited the substantive involvement of noneducators in decision making. Mid Valley leaders did not attend to the personal dynamics and conflicts that emerged throughout CAP. Attitudes and Beliefs about Data While administrators in both districts claimed to be “data-driven,” the attitudes and use of data differed greatly. Overall, Highland appeared to be more open to information and using it to improve practice. In contrast, Mid Valley demonstrated a more defensive stance toward data. This difference is perhaps best illustrated by the districts’ responses to the data I collected for this book. I presented both districts with a memorandum summarizing the views expressed by teachers and principals in interviews and focus groups, and in the case of Highland, teacher surveys. For both districts, these memoranda contained a mix of positive and negative information. In Highland, top-level administrators disseminated the memorandum to central office staff and requested that I present the data at the district’s cabinet meeting. The district also requested that principals receive copies of the survey results for their schools. While discouraged by some of the negative information, they nonetheless appreciated the opportunity to learn what school-level

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educators felt and to discuss potential strategies to resolve educators’ concerns. Asked to explain her enthusiasm for seeing this information even though some of it was negative, one top-level administrator replied, “[W]e expect teachers to look at data and make decisions based on that, [so] why shouldn’t we?” The memorandum received a very different reception in Mid Valley. Once sent to the superintendent, the memo was never distributed to other district or school administrators. The superintendent never mentioned it and never requested any type of follow-up or discussion. Similar to these snapshots, evidence in both districts suggests a consistent pattern of openness and responsiveness to data in Highland and more resistance to data in Mid Valley. In Highland, educators at all levels of the system routinely collected performance data and based decisions on progress or lack of progress implicated by such data. For example, the superintendent was evaluated and given bonuses based on districtwide student performance. The district also employed a full-time administrator to generate and assist teachers and administrators in using data to guide practice. They also purchased a complex database allowing teachers Web-based access to student data and contracted with a private organization to help teachers and administrators make sense of student achievement data and use them to guide instruction. Several examples illustrate this principle of data driving practice. First, Highland administrators used standardized test results to identify schools that were at risk of becoming state-sanctioned “low-performing” schools and sought preventative measures to support those schools before they fell within the purview of the state’s accountability program (e.g., assigning these schools “coaches” and convening monthly administrator meetings). Second, administrators used state and local test results to identify professional development needs of teachers. For example, when test data indicated that students districtwide were struggling with vocabulary and comprehension, the district trained and assigned site-based coaches to develop instructional techniques and curricula tailored to these areas of literacy. Moreover, Highland administrators repeatedly conveyed a customer orientation and routinely administered surveys and convened meetings to solicit input and opinions of teachers, parents, and students about district and school programs and policies. Through a partnership with a private organization, the district administered surveys asking school stakeholders their views on school climate, curriculum, instruction, assessment, the principal, and school planning. At the district level, administrators supported research conducted by local universities. Like the research conducted for this study, the district welcomed the administration of teacher surveys as long as outside researchers subsequently shared the results with the district. In addition to being receptive to data, Highland was equally responsive to those data. For example, when focus groups revealed principals’ desire for opportunities to interact with peers, the district initiated a year-long series of

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seminars for principals. Similarly, teachers reported that the district developed and frequently altered its collaborative internship program based on student teachers’ concerns. One teacher proudly reported that she helped develop the program: “They really want to know what we think—the professors, the superintendent, and other people that were real high up. . . . That’s really neat. They value our opinion.” Overall, Highland cultivated an environment open to data and committed to learning. In this setting, individuals felt relatively safe to make mistakes and air negative information and concerns.10 One board member explained, “The goal [in Highland] is that when people make mistakes, that’s a learning experience, not a ‘gotcha,’ and . . . we use those mistakes and we use that experience to improve what we’re doing.” In contrast, the organizational culture in Mid Valley embraced data in a much less enthusiastic manner. Like most districts in the state, Mid Valley developed greater sophistication in the collection and use of student achievement data over time. District and school administrators regularly examined formative assessment results to make student promotion and retention decisions. They also used test scores to evaluate growth over time within each school. Like Highland, Mid Valley purchased a database to assist schools in disaggregating student data. This system, however, was controlled by central office administrators and was not readily accessible to teachers. Nonetheless, many principals and some teachers interviewed were pleased with the districts’ efforts to make student data available. However, several instances emerged in which Mid Valley district leaders suppressed or knowingly ignored data due to its critical nature or simply failed to share information with schools. For example, the district reportedly withheld important information from schools about how funding formulas were calculated. One school felt that it had not received its fair allocation of discretionary funds from the district. Instead of sharing the rationale and data behind this funding policy, the district simply replied that the school was incorrect, sparking a bitter and public debate. Others cited examples of the district withholding information and data supporting controversial decisions around school calendars and principal appointments. Overall, many individuals perceived Mid Valley to be defensive in its position toward data and information. Finally, Mid Valley lacked the same sense of safety to make mistakes and air concerns that characterized Highland. On numerous occasions, school and district educators recalled instances of being afraid to state their views or being chastised for sharing negative information. One individual reported that in the past the superintendent has “reamed people in public” when they have disagreed with him or spoken up. A former board member placed the onus on board members who created a climate in which district staff did not feel comfortable saying anything that “might be contrary to what the board is thinking.” She added:

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That’s an atmosphere that used to be in the district, that folks were encouraged to be open about how they felt about what the district was doing. . . . And I don’t get that feeling now. I sense that the administration is very hesitant to say anything.

In summary, Mid Valley embraced data with a lot more restraint than did Highland. Like more traditional bureaucratic cultures, in Mid Valley individuals often lived in fear of making mistakes rather than trying to innovate and warded off information from inside and outside of the organization instead of learning from it. This cautious stance toward data distinguished it from Highland’s more receptive approach. The culture of learning in Highland demonstrated a pervasive organizational norm that data—both negative and positive—guided improvement. Impact on Joint Work These contrasting attitudes toward data became direct obstacles for democratic exchange in Mid Valley and facilitators in Highland. For example, in an effort to understand community concerns, CAP staff conducted focus groups with parents throughout Mid Valley. The report of these findings, however, was never disseminated to board members or administrators. One CAP staffer believed that the superintendent did not share the report because it revealed many negative feelings about and much distrust of the superintendent and district. As one CAP staffer commented, the district was “nervous when the skeletons are shown.” In fact, several advisors noted that they themselves felt repelled by the district, which was not open to hearing pleas for change. One advisor likened the Advisory to an “antibody” working for change within the system and the district as the “body” that “just sort of restructures itself to eject it.” In contrast, the data-friendly culture in Highland permeated the design and execution of strategic planning. Organizers devoted the first day of planning to a careful examination of a wide range of district data. Facilitators then encouraged participants to identify problem areas and develop potential solutions. Critical data and “skeletons” were deliberately exposed, examined, and used as the basis for discussion and action. Finally, by definition, a deliberative democratic process calls upon participants to learn and modify their preferences when they cannot defend them in a reasonable discussion—an understanding that clearly resonated more with the organizational culture in Highland than in Mid Valley. Summary Overall, the attitudes and beliefs about roles and data suggest that Highland cultivated a climate valuing talent, flexibility, professionalism, personal rela-

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tions, and learning, values that complemented the democratic aims of strategic planning. Mid Valley’s culture, in contrast, primarily valued control and uniformity, which frequently conflicted with the deliberative, democratic intentions of CAP staff and advisors. LEADERSHIP: TOP-DOWN VERSUS DISTRIBUTED

Given the similar filtering and socialization affecting the career path of all superintendents, some research indicates that executives at this level are “almost indistinguishable” in their behaviors, abilities, and values.11 As this past research predicts, the districts’ two superintendents were similar in many ways. They were teachers who eventually became school and then district administrators and ultimately superintendents. Each was consistently described as a strong leader, a visionary, and not a people person. Some feared them for pushing high expectations and demanding results. Finally, they both had experience working in other districts and had worked in their current districts for more than a decade. Despite these similarities, these two individuals were different. Their leadership styles and relationships with their boards represent another point of contrast for the two districts, once again coloring the overall organizational environment in which joint work unfolded. As the following discussion demonstrates, it is often difficult to disentangle structure and agency. Does one attribute Mid Valley’s top-down, hierarchical culture to the set of formal rules and regulations institutionalized in the organization over the past decade or to the control-oriented personality of the superintendent? My research suggests that the two are inextricably linked. In both districts, the superintendent and school board often set the direction and tone for the organization, influencing both the structure and the culture of the organization. But to attribute the culture of learning solely to the personality of Highland’s superintendent or the control culture solely to the leadership in Mid Valley would be overstating the case. The interaction of these personalities and leadership styles with the many individuals, structures, and values in the organization gave each district its distinctive character. Two aspects of leadership—the delegation of authority and board relations—echo much of what already has been discussed above. In Highland, individuals took joint ownership of work, flexibility reigned over control, and personal relationships were valued. In Mid Valley, authority rested in a rigid hierarchy of jobs, and control was valued above all else. Extent of Delegation Although individuals inside and outside of the organizations described both superintendents as strong leaders, the way they managed and delegated differed

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greatly. In Mid Valley, respondents consistently noted that the superintendent preferred to keep most of the authority and vision in his own hands. The words top-down and mandate dominated the descriptions of the superintendent and district. Even his top administrators believed that he rarely delegated decisions or allowed for discretion among managers. One administrator explained, “[The superintendent] really keeps most everything in his hands in a lot of ways.” Moreover, the superintendent—not his staff—generated and understood the goals for the district. “[The superintendent] developed the goals,” said this same administrator, “but they’re not goals that are transparent to everybody.” This perception of centralized control is confirmed by the way in which Mid Valley respondents answered key questions about the district. For example, when asked to identify district goals or how the district defined “quality,” almost every central office and school educator interviewed responded by explaining what the superintendent viewed as quality or goals. When asked what measures of quality the district utilized, one central office administrator stated, “The test scores. . . . The superintendent is absolutely adamant that those test scores have to rise.” Similarly, another administrator responded, “I’m not sure the district has had that discussion. I think the superintendent defines quality at this moment in relation to the API [state’s academic performance index].” Even school principals referred to the superintendent in answering the question of quality. “Right now everything is based on API,” said one principal, “Our goals are to go 5 percent up on our API, across the board, every school. And every grade level needs to add value. That’s the way [the superintendent] describes it.” In contrast, Highland respondents rarely referred to the superintendent in explaining the district’s goals or how the district defined quality. Instead, individuals consistently took ownership for the answers, responding with, “Our goals are . . . ,” or “We define quality as. . . .” This sense of shared mission and ownership suggests that decisions around goals and measures of progress were made collectively, not by the superintendent alone. The superintendent’s description of how she balanced discretion with district control echoed this observation: I just really believe you control so much more when you allow people to just have their heads so to speak. As long as you do it within a framework of super-ordinate goals and everybody knows the mission, and everybody gets the vision, it’s shared, really is shared, you can get out of the way. Your job is a whole lot easier. . . . You get so much more back.

Further, she described herself as “not very hands-on in a lot of things. I really do delegate . . . but I keep on top of everything.” Most top-level administrators and board members described a decision-making process in which the superintendent often raised an idea as a way to spark conversation and collective negotiation of the final decision.

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Consistent with her belief in the importance of “surround[ing] yourself with very good people,” the superintendent also promoted a notion of distributed leadership districtwide. The district’s partnership with a local university and its masters’ program encouraged teachers to work in teams and take on leadership roles within their schools. Also, the district placed full-time sitebased professional developers in all schools. As opposed to staff housed in the central office, the superintendent and her staff believed that local leaders situated in schools could develop a better rapport with teachers and more easily tailor support to local needs and culture. Highland’s superintendent also consciously paired herself with an associate superintendent who complemented her set of skills. This individual was described by all as “a people person” whom many school-level educators respected and adored. To some, she also served an important buffering role between schools and the district or superintendent. Given the busy schedule of the superintendent, the associate superintendent was viewed as a more accessible and receptive audience to whom principals and teachers could air their concerns. Afforded a high degree of authority, the associate superintendent could also make many decisions and take immediate action to resolve conflicts or concerns. The Mid Valley superintendent, on the other hand, did not have a counterpart in the central office. The district was described as a one-man show. Teachers in one school confirmed this impression. One teacher said, “[The superintendent] is not a people person as far as employees. I’ve heard some real horror stories about how he deals with his administrators. . . . So you think that if you really knew your stuff, you would want to have around you on your team people who could complement what you’re missing.” Her colleague added, “There is not anyone down there who is a people person. . . . It’s not a team. It’s like he is the one, and everybody else is just doing what he says to keep their jobs.” Impact on Joint Work Although both leaders were to some degree controlling, Highland’s superintendent consciously delegated and attempted (to various degrees of success) to utilize the talents of others, and the Mid Valley superintendent did not. These different leadership styles affected collaboration in both districts. When the Mid Valley superintendent was forced to miss one CAP study session due to illness, the meeting was said to have “fallen apart” because he was not there to lead it. His absence also removed the one critical line of communication to the board. With no one available to step in, the CAP staff, advisors, and board members had to fend for themselves among a sea of misunderstandings around the purposes of the CAP initiative. One administrator who attended the sessions explained that “if [the superintendent] is not

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functional, then if you keep everything kind of separate, and you’re the main communicator . . . which he does especially between the board, [CAP], [and] the general administration, . . . then when he went out of the picture, things kind of fell apart for a while.” In contrast, the Highland superintendent also missed a day of strategic planning due to illness, yet the process was reported to continue smoothly under the guidance of other leaders who held a shared sense of mission with the superintendent and had the authority to make decisions in her absence. Board Relations The two superintendents also cultivated different relationships with their school boards. Observing individuals on various district and school committees, the Highland superintendent reported looking for “good people,” encouraging them to run for the board, and mentoring them to become district leaders. One board member noted that “she was good at seeing leadership on the horizon, or potential leadership, and, I think, groomed it.” The Highland superintendent also reported working hard to build “a board culture” and a team that worked together and respected each other. Like her approach to the distribution of authority within the district, the superintendent tried to involve board members as partners. She explained, “I’m not one about setting the boundaries that definitively . . . between governance and the leadership management of the district, because I think those lines are fuzzy and blurred from time to time, so you can get a good collaborative going.” While she did not want board members telling her who to hire and fire, she did however want them to be substantively involved in decision making. She described her relationship with her board as the number one factor contributing to the district’s success over the years: I would never have been able to move in the directions that I’ve moved if I didn’t have these people along with me. . . . I’ve worked hard at not just educating the board on a variety of issues, but I worked very hard on who was on my board. And I’m not interested in a rubber-stamp board, because I’ve always needed the intellectual stimulation.

Board members confirmed that they were not simply rubber stamping. One attested to the fact that they all worked as a team, saying that “most of the time it just felt like there were six of us in charge [five board members and one superintendent].” Another board member expressed deep satisfaction working collaboratively: “[I]t makes it fun as a board member and a staff of people to work together, you know, when you’re on the same page together and very much feel like a team, . . . not just with the superintendent, but with the high-level district staff.” By all accounts, the interactions of the board were respectful and their meetings anything but divisive.

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In Mid Valley I found less evidence of coherence among the board or a sense of partnership between the board and the superintendent. Unlike Highland, most board members became involved in the board not through a recruitment process but by their own volition. For example, the two business-oriented board members (George and Charles) had worked together previously in another organization, and when one became interested in running for the school board he recruited his friend to run with him. Thus, in Mid Valley there was a less deliberate approach to cultivating board members and a board culture. One former board member noted that unlike his predecessor, whose strength was developing partnerships with the board and building shared values, the current superintendent was not a strong leader in this respect. Reports from board members confirmed a lack of unity or camaraderie and even some friction. “We don’t click together as a board,” commented one member. “We all come from different walks of life. We’re all doing different things. I don’t even pass board members in the street—not very often— which is kind of funny since we’re all in the same community.” This individual also believed some of the other board members were not “sensitive” to kids’ needs. There also appeared to be noticeable discord between this member and another, whom he perceived to be “very politically oriented.” Board members’ relationships with the superintendent also appeared to be strained. One board member described the relationship as “fairly cordial” and explained that members tended to become active in areas for which they had expertise or interest. Another member identified a “creative tension” existing between the board and the superintendent, hinting at different styles of operating. Although there seemed to be mutual respect, communication appeared to be weak between the superintendent and board. A former board member reported: [The superintendent is] not as good a communicator, so what happens . . . is he ends up being two or three steps ahead of everybody else and where he’s headed and has great difficulty in rallying the troops around whatever direction. . . . [I]t’s not [that] the direction that he’s going in is the wrong direction, it’s just, he hasn’t been able to translate the need for going in the direction to others and have them adopt it.

Others described the Mid Valley superintendent as “impulsive” and unwilling to invest in the process of bringing others into the decision-making or visionsetting process. Impact on Joint Work The Mid Valley superintendent’s approach to communication and his “cool” relations with the board greatly affected the CAP initiative. For one thing,

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the superintendent did not keep the board informed about the work of the CAP Advisory. Despite months of meeting and planning, many board members were unaware of the Advisory’s efforts. Board members were equally confused about the purpose of the effort. One administrator observed that there were “separate streams of things going on”—one stream of CAP staff meeting with advisors, and one stream of the CAP director talking with the superintendent. According to the administrator, problems arose when the superintendent failed to inform the board of either stream. When board members were eventually brought into the process, and when tensions mounted, several participants believed the superintendent failed to step in to quell the unrest and build consensus. The CAP director reported, “I think [the superintendent’s] way of dealing with it [the growing unrest and conflict between what community advisors wanted and what some of the board wanted] has been [that] he’s just going to avoid that conversation with the board and allow it to go on, which wasn’t in our best interest.” In contrast, a strong board culture in Highland and strong communication among the superintendent, staff, and board supported an equally open and collaborative process with the wider strategic planning team. Not only did two board members directly participate in the sessions, but district leaders deliberately involved one board member who had participated in past sessions to bring in institutional knowledge and facilitate continuity. Summary Like structure and culture, leadership issues were equally relevant to the collaborative endeavors. The Mid Valley superintendent’s reluctance to delegate and poor communication skills appeared to hinder the CAP initiative, which could not sustain a process of deliberation in his absence or without his ongoing communication with board members. Conversely, the distributed leadership in Highland and strong, collaborative board culture enabled strategic planning to continue (and thrive) with or without the presence of the superintendent. HOW RESOURCES AFFECTED O RGANIZATIONAL CLIMATE

What enabled Highland to be less rigid in its conception of roles and rules and more open to learning? Under what circumstances do districts behave less bureaucratically? After exploring several alternatives, the experiences in Mid Valley and Highland led me to one plausible hypothesis: the more resources a district has—or the more resources leaders perceive the district has—the more willing it is to experiment, deviate from normal rules and procedures, and seek out information from which to learn.12 In other words,

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when a district has greater resources or perceived resources, it has less to lose should negative information come to light in a deliberative process or should the effort fail. In contrast, a district that is resource constrained is more vulnerable to criticism and subsequent threats of losing money or employees or of citizens not voting for future bond initiatives—all of which could result if one experiments or veers from the traditional path. In terms of actual budgets and resources, the two districts appeared to be very similar. Per pupil expenditures differed by fewer than $100 and per pupil revenues by approximately $300—with Mid Valley receiving more funds than Highland. They also received approximately the same proportion of funds from local, state, and federal sources. In terms of human resources, each district employed a similar number of teachers relative to students—with Mid Valley showing a smaller ratio of students to each teacher (a difference of 1.5 students per full-time equivalent teacher). In addition, both districts struggled to staff schools with fully credentialed teachers. The percentage of teachers with emergency permits (i.e., not fully credentialed) was slightly higher in Mid Valley but differed by only three percentage points. Both districts also employed a somewhat similar ratio of specialized staff to students— with Mid Valley employing a proportionately greater number of psychologists, a similar ratio of speech/language specialists, and proportionately smaller number of school counselors. Despite a similar level of resources, leaders in Mid Valley operated under a more resource-constrained mindset than did leaders in Highland. Why did the two districts experience comparable resource bases so differently? One possible explanation lies in the demographic texture and distribution of needs. Although both districts received similar revenues, there were some differences in the student populations and concentrations of various subgroups within schools. Even though the districts served similar proportions of special education and lower income students (arguably students requiring greater resources), Mid Valley nonetheless served more than twice the proportion of English Language Learners (ELLs) than did Highland. Moreover, the aggregate statistics mask very different school-level patterns within each district. While the lower income and ELL students appeared to be more evenly distributed across schools in Highland, they were more concentrated into certain schools and areas in Mid Valley. As table 4.1 illustrates, approximately half of all Mid Valley schools served populations in which the majority of students came from low-income and/or non-English-speaking backgrounds. These schools were generally located in neighborhoods with little civic capacity13 or resources to support such students in the nonschool hours (e.g., one such area was plagued with gang activity and had few youth-serving organizations). Thus, one can understand why Mid Valley educators might feel that revenues and human resources comparable to those in Highland were disproportionate to the

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TABLE 4.1 Student Demographic Variation within Districts

Students Qualifying for Free and Reduced-Price Lunch

Highland Mid Valley

English Language Learners

Overall percentage

Number of schools with more than 50%

Overall percentage

Number of schools with more than 50%

35 40

3 of 13 schools 7 of 16 schools

25 50

2 of 13 schools 9 of 16 schools

Note: While the numbers have been slightly altered to maintain anonymity, the basic proportions remain true.

actual needs and costs of serving its more difficult-to-educate student population, particularly in schools with high concentrations of such students. Another possible explanation for the perceived lack of resources in Mid Valley was a reported budget deficit. While the resource pictures looked similar on paper, it is possible that Mid Valley experienced greater needs due to past overspending. While no concrete evidence emerged to confirm this claim, several Mid Valley respondents reported that at the time of the study the district was struggling to raise the funds necessary to complete facilities improvements that had been promised to schools and to the public. Mid Valley educators and citizens also were highly conscious of their surrounding high-income districts, which not only received more local tax funds but also offered considerably higher salaries for teachers (up to $10,000 more per year) to attract an arguably better-prepared cadre of educators. Given the steady exodus of their teachers into these higher paying districts, Mid Valley educators were prone to comparing resources with its neighbors. Based on this perceived lack of resources, many Mid Valley individuals described the district as caught up in meeting basic needs and raising money. As a result, the district may have been less willing to experiment and take risks. For example, the CAP director believed the superintendent and board were so “mired” in basic survival and financial issues—or what he called “Maslow stuff”—that they don’t ever step back and see the big picture and get excited about really doing and even being brave enough to say, “We’re not going to do these other things that policy says we’re supposed to do because we don’t believe in it.” . . . Instead, everything they do is, “Well, the law says we have do this so we’re going to do that.”

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Given the district’s concern about its finances and about the public’s perceptions of how the schools looked and the extent to which the district followed through with improvements voted upon by citizens, leaders were perhaps understandably more leery of critical data and much more committed to a conservative approach to rules and regulations. In a state of financial crisis (real or perceived), leaders may have felt the organization could not risk any actions—be it the examination of data or the decision to bend rules—that could negatively impact the district’s reputation. Such an environment clearly encouraged the maintenance of order and uniformity. In contrast, Highland appeared to be less mired in financial matters. While at times district leaders complained about a lack of resources, they did not convey the same perceptions of constrained resources. As such, the environment may have been more safe for learning from data—even data that suggested some problems within the district. More confident of its financial standing and public support, the district also could safely ignore and adapt rules and regulations without the fear of public backlash. Finally, Highland also may have benefited from another type of resource: the professional legitimacy that came from higher student academic performance. As illustrated in chapter 1, students in Highland scored higher on state standardized tests than their counterparts in Mid Valley, achieving above the 50th percentile in most grades and subjects (see tables 1.2 and 1.3).14 This climate of academic “success” may have supported the entrepreneurial organization of Highland, once again allowing district leaders the leeway to take risks and innovate because the community trusted its ability to generate positive outcomes for students. SUMMING UP AND LOOKING AHEAD

As illustrated, distinctive organizational climates shaped the joint work and attempts to initiate joint work in the two districts, revealing pervasive tensions between bureaucracy and the democratic aims of these collaboratives. The more rigid and control-oriented bureaucratic context in Mid Valley proved to be a much greater inhibitor to democratic deliberations than the more entrepreneurial, flexible, and learning-centered environment in Highland. These cases also revealed important relationships between organizational environments and the power imbalances and value discord experienced in both districts (discussed in chapters 2 and 3). These experiences suggest that one cannot fully understand power or institutional dynamics within joint work without an understanding of the broader organizational context. Interactions with Power Mid Valley’s rigid conception of and adherence to rules and a formal chain of command allocated certain relational advantages to those who held higher

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offices, further entrenching power based on hierarchical position. As described in chapter 2, board members and top-level administrators approached CAP deliberations with a strong sense that they were in charge. This stance conflicted with the norms of inclusion, equal voice, and reason-based decision making. District leaders’ decision to delay meetings, for example, conveyed an understanding that advisors were clients not partners. In contrast, the more flexible organizational structure and notions of distributed leadership in Highland served to weaken traditional power relationships, creating a climate more conducive to decision making based on reason not status. In an organization that promoted individuals based on skill and talent and that valued autonomous action and professional judgment, a higher position within the hierarchy did not guarantee unrestricted influence within the organization or the deliberative process. Interactions with Institutional Values and Ways of Thinking The more rigid bureaucratic structure and culture in Mid Valley also appeared to solidify more traditional, taken-for-granted understandings of what it meant to be a district administrator, a board member, and a citizen. In Mid Valley, everyone understood the parameters of his or her job based on his or her location in the hierarchical organizational chart. These institutional, bureaucratic understandings may have made it difficult for participants to envision substantive partner roles for individuals outside of the organization or on the lower rungs of the ladder.15 Further, the defensive attitude toward data and intolerance for ambiguity created an environment in which Mid Valley leaders may have been less comfortable with the often contradictory values and modes of thought brought to the table by joint work participants. Highland’s more entrepreneurial organizational structure, however, appeared to support an understanding of community members as coconstructors of district policy. The notion of “fuzzy” boundaries between jobs may have opened individuals’ minds to alternative understandings of what it meant to be a professional and a layperson. Further, Highland’s history of counterinstitutional practices—such as collaborating with a local university to jointly prepare teachers and deciding employee benefits through an egalitarian partnership between labor and management—further cultivated a climate disposed to deliberative exchange between individuals at different levels of the system and from outside the system. Through these nontraditional partnerships and antibureaucratic organizational practices, Highland stakeholders may have embraced alternative understandings of whose knowledge was legitimate and who should be involved in decision making. Further, Highland’s culture of learning and tolerance for ambiguity enabled some of the more contradictory values brought to the table to be opportunities for change and learning instead of conflict.

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Looking Ahead Can an entrepreneurial organizational context alone ensure successful democratic exchange? And is there any hope for deliberative success in an organization bound by more traditional bureaucratic structures, values, and leadership? The next chapter attempts to answer these questions, demonstrating that another foundational ingredient for successful deliberative practice is interpersonal trust—between district leaders and joint work participants, among participants, and between the district and community as a whole. Based on the experiences of the Advisory and some missed opportunities, the concluding chapter also identifies potential strategies for fostering trust and deliberative exchange even within a more rigid bureaucratic setting. In essence, trust may be the most critical element contributing to democratic joint work, providing opportunities for organizations less disposed to this type of work to build conditions that promote meaningful deliberation and action.

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FIVE

Climates of Trust and Mistrust

I think you have to build coalitions for a long time before people will trust you enough to come in and be involved in something like this [strategic planning]. . . . [M]ost districts do a reasonably decent job, I think, involving community people, but you have to involve them at a substantive level, not at a charade level. (Highland superintendent) That whole thing [controversy] with the teachers . . . was indicative of the . . . distrust that’s out there about the district. . . . [I]f a community group were doing this work with the teachers, there would have been a lot more trust. Or if there were a good, strong, trusting relationship of the district to the union, it would have been a good, collaborative effort. But the conditions didn’t exist for that here. (CAP director)

AS THESE COMMENTS SUGGEST, levels of trust (or mistrust) within a district

and among participants contribute greatly to deliberative democratic practice. The Mid Valley and Highland stories indicate that one’s attitudes about and behavior in the deliberative process are closely linked to one’s relationships with and perceptions of its convener(s) and codeliberators. Thus, the process is very personal and cannot be fully explained by the organizational context, institutional values, and power dynamics in each district. Further, this climate of trust (or mistrust) colored much of what occurred in these other arenas, often mediating conflicting norms or power imbalances. Accordingly, trust appears to be an important precondition necessary for substantive collaboration between educators and laypersons. Without the foundation of trusting relationships, participants were not likely to consider coparticipants or district leaders partners in negotiating policy for the common good of the district. 131

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In this chapter, I examine the levels of trust between individuals and the district as a whole (institutional trust) and levels of trust between various groups of individuals (interpersonal trust). I also explore the foundations of trust and mistrust and in the process revisit the theme of representation. I conclude with thoughts about factors contributing to the divergent patterns observed across districts. WHAT IS TRUST?

Building on political philosophy and theory, trust is defined as “accepted vulnerability to another’s possible but not expected ill will (or lack of good will) toward one.”1 As such, trusting involves taking a risk: the truster is unable to know for certain that the trusted person or institution will act in a way that the truster expects. More specifically, trust is domain-specific and a “threeplace predicate (A trusts B with valued thing C)”2 Accordingly, one might trust a person with one matter and not with another. For example, one might trust an accountant to prepare her tax returns but not to care for her children. As opposed to a more affective orientation—in which trust primarily originates in love, friendship, or a relationship between a parent and a child3—the conception of trust relied on in this study is primarily cognitive. Trust thus depends on the beliefs, knowledge, and judgments one person makes to accept vulnerability to another person. As such, trust begins with a basic conception of the other and a cognitive discernment about the other person’s intentions.4 The narrative in this chapter builds on several other bodies of theoretical and empirical literature examining trust5 and forges new ground by demonstrating that interpersonal trust between participants at the district level greatly influences democratic success and failure. INSTITUTIONAL TRUST

Across districts, it appeared that teachers mistrusted the district as a whole, either referring to the central office in general or grouping district leaders together in a collective.6 An “us versus them” mentality permeated the climate in both districts, in which teachers frequently noted—and administrators were quite aware of—feelings that the district was not responsive to teachers’ needs and did not include them in important decisions. The mistrust, however, was qualitatively different in each district. In Highland, this “us-them” divide coexisted with a culture of “who-ness,” a belief that regardless of position, all district employees deserved respect and professional treatment. As a result, Highland teachers repeatedly noted that they were proud to work in the district. Even the most negative individuals interviewed stated that they would not work anywhere but Highland. In contrast, Mid Valley

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educators expressed this “us-them” mentality with a lot more intensity and angst, often noting that they would consider working for another district. As the following sections suggest, the institutional mistrust in Highland may be more typical of general tensions that arise in any workplace between employees and employer, particularly under conditions of stress and strained resources; whereas the mistrust in Mid Valley took on a more personal character tied to the specific individuals working in the district. For example, in Highland, a group of top-level administrators noted that teachers tended to distance themselves from the central office. As one said, “It’s sort of like there’s the district and then there’s them [teachers].” Another replied, “But we have to remember that we are never going to be seen as them [teachers] . . . because when things do go bad and don’t look perfect, it’s always a little bit more comfortable to look at the them and the us.” Confirming these impressions, several Highland teachers reported that their colleagues were reluctant to volunteer for district committees because they believed that such meetings “wouldn’t go anywhere” or they doubted teachers would be heard or that it would be worth their time. Similarly, other teachers noted that district leaders were simply out of touch with teachers’ needs. According to one teacher, “There’s a real mistrust that money’s being spent where it should be spent, staffing’s being conducted as it should be staffed. There’s a real mistrust in the policies being made.” General feelings of mistrust among Highland teachers were particularly strong during a contract dispute in the years following strategic planning.7 As one teacher noted in the 2000 survey: “Many great teachers are discouraged and want early retirement. There is no trust between teachers and admin [sic], since they broke our contract. We get no support or help that we want or need. The district departments do what they think we need.” Similarly, a teacher from another school reported: “The prevalent feeling is ‘it’s them against us.’ We need sincere appreciation, recognition, trust (above all!), and we need to know that they are on our side trying to give us as much compensation, benefits, perks, etc. as possible.”8 Yet, among these reports of mistrust, Highland teachers simultaneously conveyed a sense of professionalism, pride, and support for their district. As table 5.1 illustrates, more than 70 percent of teachers responding to surveys were proud to tell others they worked in Highland. Similarly, about half of teachers reported that the district inspires the best in job performance of teachers. In a later survey, teachers conveyed a similar sense of pride and also trust (items not included in previous years): about two thirds of teachers agreed that district administrators look out for the personal welfare of school staff and that they put the needs of children ahead of their personal and political interests. A qualitatively different us-them divide emerged in Mid Valley. As one teacher explained, “the feeling of the teachers in this school, in particular,

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TABLE 5.1 Teachers’ Attitudes about the District and Its Leaders: Percentage of Surveyed Teachers Agreeing or Strongly Agreeing

Mid Valley (2002)

Highland (2000/2001)

I am proud to tell others that I work for this district

28

72/79

The district inspires the best job performance of its teachers

23

48/52

The district administrators place the needs of children ahead of their personal and political interests

46

/66

The district administrators look out for the personal welfare of school-level staff

44

/65

I trust the superintendent at his or her word

39

/74a

Note: In Highland, the first two items come from surveys administered to teachers in 2000 and 2001. The last three items appeared only in the 2001 survey. Although Mid Valley surveys were administered several years after CAP, the superintendent remained the same, and one would not expect attitudes to change dramatically in such a short period of time. a. Given the date of survey administration, teachers are referring to a different superintendent than the one who is the focus of this study and who oversaw the 1998 strategic planning.

when something comes from the district, . . . [is that] they say one thing and then everybody’s looking behind to see what their hidden agenda is.” Teachers in other Mid Valley schools echoed this suspicion of ulterior motives on the part of district leaders. One teacher questioned the district’s perceived overinvestment in facilities relative to supporting teachers—signaling a general skepticism about district priorities. Others complained about the district being “out of touch.” Still others did not trust what the district told teachers. For example, one teacher commented on the district’s track record on bilingual education: “The district just says ‘Yes, we’re in favor of this,’ but the actions don’t follow what they say, and it’s really disheartening.” Like Highland, district leaders also sensed teachers’ mistrust. The CAP director noted that in the midst of contract negotiations he felt as if he were battling an “us-them, we-they” divide between the union and the district. He wished he could “get the teacher union and the teachers at large interested in and trusting that the district really wants to work on elevating the profession.” CAP staffers similarly identified the pervasive mistrust among teachers, noting that they themselves felt caught in the middle: “They [teachers] trust us [the CAP

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staff], and they believe in what we’re capable of doing, . . . but they also know that we’re working with the district, which has frustrated them considerably.” Unlike Highland, however, Mid Valley teachers appeared to be much less trusting of the district, revealing little pride or sense of professionalism. As table 5.1 illustrates, unlike the overwhelming majority of Highland teachers expressing pride in their district, slightly more than one-fourth of Mid Valley teachers responding to surveys felt proud to tell others that they worked for Mid Valley. Highland teachers also were approximately twice as likely as Mid Valley teachers to report that the district inspires the best job performance of its teachers—fewer than one-fourth of Mid Valley teachers expressed this belief. In terms of more direct measures of trust, fewer than half of Mid Valley teachers surveyed agreed that district administrators placed the needs of children ahead of their personal and political interests (compared to two-thirds of Highland teachers). Most notably, slightly more than one-third of Mid Valley teachers reported trusting the superintendent at his word. In fact, 28 percent of teachers strongly disagreed with the statement, indicating very little trust for the superintendent. How Institutional Mistrust Affected Collaboration in Mid Valley Teachers’ mistrust for the district greatly contributed to the overall demise of the CAP initiative. Although the Mid Valley superintendent promised to find private funding for CAP, ultimately he could not raise outside grants and used general funds to support the effort. While the superintendent’s failure to find external funds may have been an example of misplaced hope—an honest forecast that did not pay off—many interpreted it as the exact opposite— dishonest and willful deceit. This move exacerbated already low levels of trust for the district among teachers. Teachers in one focus group conveyed the intensity of these feelings: [Teacher 1:] So last year none of that $600,000 [perceived CAP budget] was covered by a grant. It came all out of general fund money. . . . [The superintendent] said, “No, this is not going to encroach on the general budget at all.” . . . You can’t operate like that. . . . And then . . . there’s no money for raises for teachers; there’s no money for training days. [Teacher 2:] That’s worth going on strike for. It’s appalling, isn’t it?

A teacher in another school noted that this was not the first time that a “chunk of money” intended for one stated purpose was used for another. As the CAP director explained, the CAP funding issue was “another example of the district being dishonest and distrustful.” Sparked by this funding incident and the perceived lack of teacher representation on the CAP advisory (discussed later), intense mistrust among teachers ultimately ensured the end of

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CAP. Union leaders used the issue in contract negotiations and assured district leaders they would not tolerate continued funding for an initiative that did not involve them. INTERPERSONAL TRUST

Despite some similarities at the institutional level, sharper differences emerged across districts with regard to feelings and attitudes about particular individuals involved in the collaborative efforts. Table 5.2 provides an overview of the different patterns of vertical (between district leaders and joint work participants) and horizontal (among joint work participants and among district leaders) interpersonal trust9 in Mid Valley and Highland. Next, I examine these patterns and how they affected joint work. Vertical Trust In both districts, conversations about the collaborative effort repeatedly focused on participants’ perceptions of district leaders who convened the TABLE 5.2 Patterns of Interpersonal Trust

Mid Valley

Highland

VERTICAL Participant-Superintendent Participant-Board Members Participant-Other Leaders

– – +

+ (not enough data) +

HORIZONTAL Participant-Participant District Leader-District Leader

+ –

+/– +

Note: A “+” indicates signs of trust between these individuals (e.g., Highland’s “participant-superintendent” received a “+” because the majority of participants interviewed reported trusting the superintendent in three out of four areas, see table 5.3). A “–” indicates lack of trust between these individuals (e.g., Mid Valley’s “participantsuperintendent” received a “–” because a majority of participants interviewed reported not trusting the superintendent in four areas). A “+/–” indicates mixed evidence of trust and mistrust (e.g., Highland’s “participant-participant” trust received this rank because while many participants conveyed respect and trust for fellow participants, some of the more interest-based participants conveyed suspicion for participants not willing to address these particular interests). The larger, bold symbols indicate areas of trust and mistrust in which the data are particularly strong and convincing (e.g., when both parties indicated trust—suggesting mutual trust in both directions—or when repeated interviews uncovered the same attitudes and beliefs).

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group, as well as district leaders’ perceptions of participants. Without solicitation, discussions with observers and participants about what worked and what did not work, or how one felt about the initiative, turned to the topic of trust. In Mid Valley, these discussions uncovered pervasive mistrust of the superintendent and the board member who had invited community members to participate in CAP, along with some degree of mistrust among several board members for CAP advisors. In Highland, discussions with administrators, teachers, students, parents, and citizens revealed significantly higher levels of trust for the superintendent and district administrators and similarly high levels of trust in the other direction (leaders trust in strategic planning members). The contrasting levels of interpersonal trust in the two districts were most striking with regard to the superintendent. In Mid Valley, community members and administrators who participated in CAP consistently aired suspicions about the superintendent’s ulterior motives. As opposed to the superintendent’s publicly articulated vision of CAP as an opportunity for educators and noneducators to coconstruct new strategies for districtwide improvement, most individuals suspected a hidden agenda to use this community effort to build momentum for another bond measure. The following statements reveal the pervasiveness of these suspicions: My impression is that we were called together for one reason, but there were really other purposes at work. And some of those might have been political, some of them might have been to try to get more money through taxes or other reasons. I always felt there was some sort of other agenda [on the part of the superintendent] working in all of it. . . . When you invite a group of citizens in, you don’t have some secret agenda going on. (Community advisor) At one time it started out as a money maker [to] bring more resources into the district. I still think that’s what it is. (District administrator) I sort of suspected there was something other than what they said was going on here. . . . His ulterior motive was to get a group of people together to lay the groundwork for another bond issue, which I am very opposed to . . . [because the sponsors/organizers of the last bond] told people [they] weren’t going to have another one right away. And [the superintendent] wears blinders sometimes and forges ahead. (Community advisor)

This pervasive mistrust led one community member to drop out of the Advisory. In the final months of the initiative, even the CAP director hinted at mistrust for the superintendent, explaining that maybe the reason for CAP’s demise was “an ulterior motive” on the part of the superintendent to “get more money for the district.” When asked a series of questions about trusting the superintendent in a range of areas10—serving the needs of all students, managing district finances,

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involving community members in a meaningful way, and following through with promises—CAP participants consistently conveyed a lack of trust for the superintendent, particularly in the latter two domains. As table 5.3 illustrates, in each area, at least half of Mid Valley participants asked these questions in interviews did not fully trust the superintendent. Most notably, none of the participants reported trusting the superintendent to follow through with his promises, and only one out of four reported trusting the superintendent to involve the community in a meaningful way. In contrast, strategic planning participants in Highland conveyed a more positive relationship with the superintendent. While there appeared to be more ambivalence around serving the needs of all students, the vast majority of participants asked these questions trusted the superintendent to follow through with promises, manage district finances, and involve the community in a meaningful way (see table 5.3). Unlike Mid Valley, participants in Highland generally conveyed trusting relationships with the superintendent. Even the teachers who expressed more general mistrust for the district as a whole reported trusting the superintendent on some matters or in some qualified way. In Highland, the issue of trust did not emerge in conversations in the same way as it did so freely and with such intensity in Mid Valley. Only one

TABLE 5.3 Reported Level of Trust for Superintendent: Number of Participants Interviewed Responding “Yes”

Mid Valley

Highland

Serve the needs of all kids?

2 out of 5

4 out of 9

Manage district finances?

2 out of 4

6 out of 7

Involve the community in a meaningful way?

1 out of 4

7 out of 10

Follow through with his/her promises?

0 out of 4

5 out of 5

Do you trust the Superintendent to …

Note: These data come from interviews with five joint work participants in Mid Valley (four community advisors and one CAP staffer) and ten participants in Highland (a mixture of teachers, principals, parents, and citizens). Given that some individuals responded to some questions but not others, the sample sizes for specific questions varied. I classified statements as “yes” if they signaled an unambiguous yes, “no” if they signaled an unambiguous no, and “mixed” for qualified yes or no statements or when comments conveyed attitudes somewhere between yes and no (e.g., one person responded to the question of trusting the superintendent to serve the needs of all students with “well, socially”). This table reports only the unambiguous “yes” responses.

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participant—Judy, the “interest-based” parent who acknowledged a primary desire to protect the needs of her gifted children—raised the topic of trust and the superintendent without solicitation. She expressed a sense of disillusionment with the strategic planning process because the superintendent appeared to have her “own agenda.” Noting the superintendent’s sole interest in test scores and technology, Judy conveyed a lack of trust in the superintendent and her willingness to listen to others’ views. Aside from Judy, other participants only addressed this topic when asked the series of trust questions directly. Although the relationship with the superintendent appears to be most salient in both districts, the issue of vertical trust also extended to other district leaders and in both directions. In Mid Valley, many community members conveyed mistrust for board members, particularly George and Charles, the two business-oriented board members. When asked the same set of trust questions mentioned above with regard to George, the board member who had invited them to participate in CAP, advisors and CAP staffers conveyed mixed levels of trust. While all four of the participants asked these questions reported trusting the board member to manage the district’s finances, none reported trusting him to involve the community in a meaningful way. This lack of trust around community involvement pertained to both George and Charles, who had spearheaded the district’s previous bond initiative. Several community advisors suspected this duo of using the community for a repeat performance. While most pinned this “hidden agenda” on the superintendent, others also came to believe that George and Charles were coconspirators in this quest for money. As one community advisor explained, “an ulterior motive of all of this, I’m sure, was that the district [she later qualified that this was the board] wanted to float another school bond, and this was a way to get some parents at every school site intimately involved in what’s going on so that if they floated another bond, that’s your campaign group right there.” CAP staff was equally suspicious of the board. One staffer expressed frustration with the board for “showing support but not really saying what they really thought.” How Mistrust Affected CAP Study Sessions This mistrust played out most visibly in CAP study sessions, where community members appeared to be “on guard” and visibly shuttered when the topic of a bond initiative arose. For example, toward the end of the final study session, the group attempted to prioritize the ideas generated during the meeting and to outline next steps. In this discussion, George suggested, “If you combine them, you have a chronology that naturally develops. We can get a group behind the bond initiative . . . that’s something we’ll do in the next few months.” A community advisor quickly interjected, “I’d like to keep the bond

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issue separate from this group. Period.” Other advisors nodded in agreement. Throughout the exchange George’s colleague Charles said nothing. Disengaged from the discussions, he continued reading a notebook of personnel material in his lap. Reflecting on this study session months later, another community advisor noted that “some trust issues” had not been resolved. These issues came to a head, in her opinion, when George mentioned the bond initiative: [W]e had been told “No . . . this isn’t about more money.” And we were pretty clear in the beginning. We said, “Look, if this is about money, just tell us it’s about money, [and] . . . if it’s about community involvement, volunteers, mentoring, anything else, just tell us.” Because some people would have said, “We want more money? I’m out of here. I’m not doing that.” . . . Then things surface later on, [and] people say, “See? I knew it!”

Echoing this observation, the CAP director noted that it was not only George’s comments about the bond that sparked tension and heightened mistrust but also Charles’ withdrawal from the deliberations. According to the director, Charles was reading data on past voting records of Mid Valley citizens, marking which individuals to contact based on their history of support for past bond initiatives. The director explained: [It] was ironic because the one thing the [Advisory] members have been saying for the last year and a half is, “We don’t want to be involved in your schemes to just raise money for the district, that’s not our reason for being involved.” And so it only exacerbated that distrust for them to have him not only not paying attention—clearly he was being rude to the group—and then in particular putting his head in that notebook the whole time, he was thumbing his nose at the community group.

The disengagement and perceived rudeness of board members not only generated friction but also signaled a denial of social equality in the deliberative endeavor. By reading while others discussed issues, Charles also denied respect to community advisors, an element critical to deliberation in general (recall the principles of mutual accountability and equal voice) and to the discernment of intentions and the formation of trust. As Tony Bryk and Barbara Schneider note, the development of trust relies on trusters feeling that their opinions have been recognized and trustees demonstrating a genuine sense of listening,11 conditions violated by Charles’ actions. The incidents in the study sessions also demonstrated that mistrust extended in both directions. In fact, many CAP advisors and staff members sensed that board members were not entirely confident of the skills and vision of advisors. “I don’t think they [the board] trusted us,” admitted one advisor, “and we weren’t sure they knew where we were coming from.” Similarly, the CAP director noted that “if there had been more of a trusting kind

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of nondefensive atmosphere,” the meetings would not have devolved as they did. Had board members (and district administrators) trusted the community advisors to look out for the best interest of the district and to work in partnership with leaders, he believed board members would not have felt “attacked” and would not have perceived the advisors’ comments as “bashing” the board and district. Confirming these suspicions, Charles hinted at a lack of trust for the Advisory, particularly the CAP staffers guiding their work. He believed staff members should have “done their homework” and better prepared advisors with information about district programs. He believed the staff “didn’t know how to do the functions” of building consensus, gathering data, and preparing advisors to present ideas before the board. As a result, he appeared not to trust the advisors to generate ideas that were well grounded and worthy of consideration. His colleague George appeared to be equally suspicious of the Advisory, but for a mixture of reasons. First, he agreed that the staff may not have been qualified to work with noneducators (e.g., he noted that the director was too much of a “theorist”). He appeared not to trust that advisors were adequately prepared or informed to make districtwide decisions. As discussed in more detail later, George also did not trust the advisors to adequately represent the range of interests in the community. He believed the group was too small and disproportionately weighted toward liberal views. How Trust Evolved in the CAP Advisory The Advisory, however, presents a contrasting subcase within the broader Mid Valley story. It appears that over time, the levels of trust between community advisors and district staff in charge of CAP changed dramatically. According to CAP staff, community advisors initially approached their work on the Advisory with a tremendous amount of suspicion. As the CAP director explained: [Advisors] were leery of this [CAP] because it started with [the superintendent], and their feeling is that he basically just wants more money for the system, that he’s not necessarily interested in the reform work. So we spent the several first months just dealing with their distrust for me as the ambassador.

After the first three months of Advisory meetings, however, CAP staff noticed a change among the community members from “distrust to hopefulness.” All of the community advisors interviewed agreed that they started with suspicions and gradually developed trust for CAP staffers (yet most also noted that their sense of hopefulness waned in the final months). When asked to explain this transformation, the CAP director noted that the staff’s willingness to listen and act on what they said built trust by demonstrating that “we were really giving them the power to create something” and that

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“we’re very serious about district reform.” Confirming this impression, one community advisor explained that through these repeated meetings advisors learned that the CAP director was a man of integrity and worthy of trust: “Although we were put there as part of someone else’s strategic plan, really [the CAP director] was there because he believed in this, and he was able to communicate that to us and gain our confidence and really believed in the ideas we had.” Thus, within a broader district context of mistrust (for the superintendent and board), the advisors and district staff established trusting relationships, which facilitated open and honest exchange of ideas. How Trust Affected Highland’s Strategic Planning Like the Advisory, in Highland I found strong signs of trust between strategic planning members and other district leaders, such as the administrator who spearheaded the process. While some teachers questioned her competence as an overseer of instructional issues, they nonetheless trusted the administrator to facilitate the deliberations and ensure equal participation. Many praised her for creating a structure that enabled participants to voice their ideas comfortably. Conversely, this administrator expressed confidence and trust in the educators and noneducators involved in strategic planning. In particular, she trusted them to put aside their biases and determine what was best for the district as a whole. The development of trusting relationships at the beginning of the process appeared to be a crucial first step in deliberations. Once participants realized that leaders were not “telling [them] what to do” and that co-participants shared similar desires to improve education for all students, they were more able to take the next steps of examining data and brainstorming. As opposed to constantly questioning and discerning the intentions of codeliberators, trust enabled participants to channel their cognitive energy into developing and agreeing upon improvement strategies. Horizontal Trust In both districts, conversations also revealed varying degrees of interpersonal trust among individuals within similar groups—trust among Mid Valley community advisors or Highland strategic planning participants, as well as trust among district leaders. While the evidence is not as plentiful, it nonetheless suggests high levels of horizontal trust in Highland and mixed levels of trust in Mid Valley. In Highland, strategic planning participants rarely called into question the integrity, competence, or skill of fellow participants. Most reported addressing their codeliberators as individuals worthy of trust. Participants appreciated the opportunities to work in small groups, hear others’ views, and prioritize strategies for the district. Although those approaching the process with a more interest-based perspective (e.g., Judy, the parent of gifted chil-

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dren) implied some degree of suspicion for those not willing to address these particular interests, the majority of participants interviewed expressed a sense of respect and trust for their fellow teachers, parents, and students. Participants were particularly respectful and trusting of the student participants, noting that their contributions were valuable and worthy of consideration. Overall, participants appeared to trust their coparticipants to abide by the rules of deliberation, such as leaving their title at the door and allowing everyone equal opportunity to speak. Similarly, district leaders in Highland conveyed high levels of trust for their colleagues. One board member extended this sense of trust to top administrators, fellow board members, and the superintendent: “[T]here was a mutual trust. Both in the commitment and the competence of the administration and the board’s respect for the administration’s ability to do its work.” She explained that such trust manifested in a lack of “gotchas.” In other words, the board did not publicly try to humiliate or contradict the superintendent or staff, and conversely, the staff and superintendent rarely did the same to board members. Another board member, Rita (a parent at the time of strategic planning), noted that the relationship of trust between the board and the superintendent was due in large part to the superintendent’s honesty and commitment to improving student learning. “I think [the superintendent] was honest,” she said, “even when it’s hard. Even when you’re telling people what they don’t really want to hear.” Rita and other board members identified strong, trusting relationships with fellow board members. Noting congruence in the goals and commitments of board members, she explained that “one thing that I’m really proud of this board about is that there are no sort of hidden agendas. No one’s got an issue they’re really trying to push. I think we’re all very open to evaluating data, and we’re all very concerned about kids and staff and balancing the two.” In Mid Valley, however, there did not appear to be high levels of trust among leaders. Most top-level administrators questioned the priorities and leadership of the superintendent, frequently airing concerns about his inability to delegate, communicate, and involve others in decision making. In interviews, administrators appeared to be very sympathetic with citizens and teachers who had conveyed mistrust toward the superintendent. Others in the district described top administrators as living in an atmosphere of fear, such as the fear of being publicly reprimanded by the superintendent. While most administrators did not directly address this topic, the data suggest potentially unstable relationships at the top echelons of the central office. How Mistrust Played Out in Mid Valley Study Sessions A lack of trust appeared to fester among top-level administrators themselves— in particular, between the CAP director and other assistant superintendents—

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and greatly affected CAP study sessions. I return to an incident examined in chapter 3. Prior to the study sessions, the CAP director told his colleagues that he thought they would really like the ideas advisors developed because they focused on supporting teachers, a goal shared by all administrators. In one meeting, a community advisor suggested initiating a mentoring program that was already being implemented. In response, administrators became very defensive and adversarial. Instead of trusting that the CAP director had adequately prepared the advisors and interpreting the incident as a mistake of one community member to fully grasp the information, the administration began to question the Advisory and the CAP director himself. From the CAP director’s perspective, the administrators’ and boards’ point of view was, “‘What the heck has [the CAP director] been doing? He hasn’t even told them what the district is doing!’ Instead of realizing we never had that conversation before, that a member happened to bring it up here?” He added: If there had been more of a trusting kind of nondefensive atmosphere, that wouldn’t have been where we went, and [the assistant superintendent] could have even said, “Is this something you guys have talked about?” And I could have said, “It’s not.” . . . But they [administrators and board members] just got so wrapped up in . . . what was somehow a defensive thing that they felt attacked.

This incident suggested that district administrators did not trust the CAP director to lead the Advisory in a way that advanced the needs of the district. How Trust Evolved within the CAP Advisory The interactions within the Advisory, however, revealed high levels of trust among community advisors. While not all of the advisors knew each other prior to CAP, they became very close over the course of the initiative. Advisors noted that early suspicions about particular advisors at the beginning faded away after realizing their common interests and commitments. One advisor described the transformation that took place with respect to Mike, another advisor whom many perceived to be quite radical and seemingly untrustworthy at first: [H]e’s off the wall. And we’d spend a while talking about something and then he’d out of the blue say, “Well that is a bunch of a crap!” or some similar words, and then he’d explain why he felt that way. But the key, I think, was that everybody kept coming back. And we began to recognize that he really was keenly interested in education and improving the quality of it in [Mid Valley] and very committed to improving the community. . . . And so we respect him for that.

Others similarly noted that they gained considerable respect and trust for their coadvisors over time. “I enjoyed working with everyone [on the Advi-

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sory],” said one community member, “and I definitely trust everyone. Obviously they care or they wouldn’t have been there.” In observed meetings, advisors respectfully listened to their colleagues, even when radical ideas emerged or when views conflicted. While there may have been opportunities for sustained conflict, advisors appeared to treat their colleagues’ views as statements of opinion that merited attention and discussion. Unlike the larger study sessions, the atmosphere of trust among advisors and CAP staff seemed to foster discussions and negotiations and did not allow differences of opinion to devolve into disputes or adversarial interactions. These bonds of trust also helped advisors achieve consensus and present their ideas in a unified voice. Summary of How These Patterns of Trust Influenced Joint Work Patterns of trust and mistrust colored the interactions within CAP and strategic planning. Directly, mistrust lessened participants’ motivation to participate and their willingness to invest in the process. While most visible in Mid Valley (e.g., teachers’ threat of strike, board members disengaged from meeting discussions), the connection also was apparent among a few participants in Highland (e.g., a teacher who questioned the legitimacy of the team). Conversely, trusting relationships—those more prevalent in Highland and within the Mid Valley Advisory—appeared to build a sense of shared purpose and helped participants find common ground. Indirectly, trust and mistrust may have mediated some other potential problems related to power imbalances, conflicting institutional values, and organizational context. Power and Trust As discussed in chapter 2, levels of trust and mistrust might influence how participants negotiate issues of power. It is likely that the climate of trust in Highland helped district leaders introduce and enforce strict rules about participation. With a background of trusting relationships, participants were less likely to suspect such constraints as signs of leaders usurping power or trying to shun various interests. In contrast, a climate of mistrust in Mid Valley suggests that participants might not have willingly accepted the enforcement of similar norms of preclusion. Community advisors did not appear to trust leaders enough to leave their interests at the door. Any move on the part of leaders to enforce rules about what could and could not be said may have been interpreted by community advisors as further evidence of the district trying to manipulate and control the process. These cases also suggest that power dynamics influence trust and mistrust. On one level, one can imagine that having more resources (e.g., wealth,

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status, knowledge) makes it less risky to trust others, whereas having fewer actual or perceived resources raises the stakes of the trusting relationship.12 As Mark Warren notes, “those whose lives are more insecure can less afford to trust, since for them betrayed trust is relatively more consequential.”13 Such interactions between trust and resources quite possibly played out in Highland and Mid Valley among, for example, community members from lower socioeconomic backgrounds or teachers who possessed or perceived to have lower levels of resources. As such, it may not be surprising that Jose, the Latino CAP advisor, was highly suspicious of the district. Further, the lower status of teachers may have contributed to their general mistrust in both districts. Employees feeling undervalued by the salary they received may have been less likely to trust their employers, particularly administrators responsible for making budget and salary decisions. On another level, individuals in positions of power appeared to be instrumental in influencing levels of trust in a district. The actions of the superintendent, in particular, signaled whether he or she, and the district by association, was trustworthy. In both districts, discussions of trust related to specific observations of the superintendent—most notably, the extent to which the superintendent’s words matched his or her actions. It is quite possible that the actions taken by individuals in positions of power serve to build trust (or mistrust) by decreasing (or increasing) the vulnerability of individuals and groups with less power.14 When there is an underlying imbalance of power, as there is in any hierarchical organization, everyone is vulnerable in some sense to others. In such a setting, the superior has the capacity to reduce the vulnerability of subordinates and in so doing increase levels of trust. For example, the Mid Valley board and superintendent may have increased the vulnerability of community members by continually stalling in setting dates for future meetings. Advisors were thus captive to the will of district leaders, unable to continue deliberations without a formal date on the district’s calendar. These actions, in turn, may have exacerbated mistrust. Conversely, the CAP director’s deliberate effort to socialize with community members (e.g., hosting a barbeque at his home) may have decreased the vulnerability of community members and built trust between the district leader and advisors. Institutional Values and Trust As touched on in chapter 3, there appears to be an inverse relationship between trust and institutional conflict: the stronger the climate of trust, the less likely conflicts will emerge among institutional understandings, values, and norms; the weaker the climate of trust, the more likely (and intense) the institutional discord. In addition, one’s ability to reconceptualize institutional roles and understandings appears to build trust.

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The best example of this trust-values relationship comes from Mid Valley’s Advisory group. After months of building relationships and trust, district staff slowly shed their roles as professional experts and information givers, adopting a more participatory mode of interaction. Even the CAP director identified trust as a major ingredient facilitating his openness to change. Additionally, by demonstrating a willingness and ability to respond to advisors’ preference for a less didactic mode of interaction, staffers may have enhanced advisors’ trust in district staff. Conversely, the pervasive mistrust between Mid Valley community advisors and district leaders appeared to fuel the institutional clashes experienced in the study sessions. Without the foundation of trust, district leaders continued to believe that advisors were infringing on their roles and duties, and advisors continued to believe that leaders were resistant to lay participation. Organizational Context and Trust The experiences in both districts, along with theoretical literature on trust, suggest a potential link between levels of trust and organizational structure, culture, and leadership. As a district leader—such as Highland’s superintendent or board members—being trusted may open up greater possibilities to innovate and experiment with untraditional, nonbureaucratic strategies. The trust confirmed to such a leader may allow him or her to make mistakes without fear of sparking discontent or retribution.15 When trusting relationships exist, those within the organization may be more likely to give leaders the benefit of the doubt when mistakes or problems arise. Conversely, a leader lacking trust— such as the Mid Valley superintendent—may feel less able to make mistakes for fear that he or she would further exacerbate mistrust. This leader would be more likely to conform to rules and traditional organizational practices. While the relationship so far has been construed as one of trust supporting organizational innovation, the reverse is equally possible. Experimentation and innovation could just as easily build trust, particularly when it yields perceived positive results. For example, one can imagine that the Highland superintendent’s ability to generate new district funds through nontraditional practices enhanced staff trust in her ability to lead the district and manage its finances. Similarly, the Mid Valley superintendent’s persistence in issuing mandates and enforcing uniform compliance with rules may have reinforced teachers’ mistrust in his willingness to support them as professionals. Thus, it also is possible that trust and organizational innovation are reciprocal, creating a reinforcing cycle in which trust supports innovation, which builds more trust. FOUNDATIONS OF TRUST AND ISSUES OF REPRESENTATION

If trust is so important, then what are its foundations, and how might it be cultivated? In their comments about joint work and relationships with others,

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participants referred to a variety of sources in developing trust or mistrust. The process of discerning whether an individual or institution merited trust hinged on a range of factors, most notably, perceptions of intent and ability and perceptions of representation.16 As the next sections discuss, the importance of perceived representation to trust presents a critical precondition for deliberative success, a condition that also raises a potential dilemma for joint work. Personal Intent and Ability Across both districts, trust or mistrust most often stemmed from one’s perceptions of an individual’s or group’s motivations and/or relevant skills and knowledge. Based on personal interactions and history of past words and actions, participants often judged the intent and ability of potential trusted parties to determine whether they were credible and therefore worthy of trust. In both districts, participants often distinguished between these two domains, indicating trust for an individual’s intent to do something but not his/her capacity to do it, or visa versa. These experiences suggest that perhaps one cannot fully trust an individual without trusting both his or her intent and ability.17 In Mid Valley, participants consistently separated out these two issues. Many respondents questioned the superintendent’s competence, while maintaining some level of trust in his motives. For example, one CAP staffer believed that the superintendent had good intentions, genuinely cared about children, and wanted them to succeed but simply did not know how to achieve that goal. Doubting his ability, the staffer explained that the superintendent was not a “process person,” had a hard time listening, often acted impulsively, and failed to understand the repercussions of his actions. Similarly, when asked whether she trusted the superintendent to serve the needs of all students, one community advisor responded, “I think he certainly tries.” When asked if she trusted the superintendent to involve the community in a meaningful way, the advisor explained, “I’m not sure he knows how to do that or what that would look like.” In contrast, other individuals doubted the Mid Valley superintendent’s intent, questioning whether his aims were rooted in the best interest of children or simply self-aggrandizing and whether he had the will to share power and work collaboratively. The majority of community members and district leaders interviewed raised questions about ulterior motives on the part of the superintendent and his overwhelming concern about raising funds. The ability-intent discussion also emerged in discussions about other individuals. For example, several individuals appeared to attribute their mistrust of the CAP director to his lack of skills. Two board members (George and Charles) were highly suspicious of the CAP director and questioned his ability to communicate with noneducators and to adequately prepare citizens

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for joint work. Conversely, some advisors noted that board members may have had good intentions but, like the superintendent, lacked the “people” skills necessary to build trusting relationships. Although some Highland participants shared similar views to those in Mid Valley, questions of trust focused primarily on ability, in particular, teachers doubting whether district leaders had the requisite knowledge to make educational decisions in the best interest of students and teachers. “That’s the biggest thing that teachers have about people in administration,” said one teacher. “If they have never walked in our shoes and seen what a day is like and seen what a weekend and a month [are like] and the problems that come in, how can you tell us what to do?” Another teacher echoed these concerns about district administrators’ competence: “We don’t believe that the DO [district office] knows what the hell they’re talking about half the time. They’re not in the classroom. . . . They’re not in the trenches.” Unlike those in Mid Valley, Highland participants rarely questioned leaders’ intent or goals. In regard to the superintendent, most participants noted a deep respect for her vision and faith in her commitment to children but some difficulty or questions about her leadership style. A board member believed the superintendent’s biggest strength was her consistent vision to act in the best interest of students. Similarly, a principal proclaimed, “I have a lot of respect for her vision, for what she saw as what kids needed.” While at times this principal may have disagreed with the superintendent’s leadership style (e.g., not taking the time to contact teachers), she nonetheless trusted the superintendent because “she knows what the kids need” and was committed to this vision. More importantly for democratic joint work, most participants appeared to trust the Highland superintendent’s intent to involve community in a meaningful way and to share power—perceptions not widely held about the Mid Valley superintendent. Bases for Judgments about Intent and Ability In both districts, perceptions about the competence and motivation of individuals often stemmed from either personal experiences or second-hand knowledge about past words and actions. These experiences and information helped trusters anticipate the likely behavior of the trusted party in future situations or new domains. Experience with the trusted. One’s mistrust often stemmed from a negative experience that called into question her intent and/or competence. For example, a Highland principal’s mistrust of the superintendent—an outlier among educators interviewed—appeared to originate, or at least intensify, with a meeting between his schools’ teachers and superintendent. According to the principal, the superintendent ignored parents’ pleas without due consideration. This experience solidified the principal’s perception that the

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superintendent lacked the will (and skills) to build relationships with parents and adequately consider stakeholders’ concerns. Conversely, several individuals across both districts maintained trust in their respective superintendent because of a history or ongoing relationship with him or her that confirmed positive intent and ability. For example, a Highland citizen participant developed a trusting relationship with the superintendent during a past effort to build a new school. Asked by the district to help plan this new school, the citizen recalled that district leaders listened to and acted on his ideas. This experience, he said, built “credibility” in the district and a sense of trust in its leadership: [I]f the planning for that particular elementary school had been different, I might have said no when asked to come and participate for a number of months on something like this [strategic planning]. . . . So when [the superintendent] called and said, . . . “We’re doing this thing. Do you want to come?” you had some sense it wasn’t a waste of time.

The past experience confirmed that the leadership had good intentions and knew how to involve noneducators in joint decision making. Additionally, the district’s history of contacting him not only when “they wanted money” further attested to the district’s commitment to collaboration. Similarly, in Mid Valley, one community advisor maintained a much higher regard for the superintendent than other advisors due to her past experience working with him. This history demonstrated to her that the superintendent had good intentions and skills. She admitted, “If this [CAP] were my only experience with him, I might be a little less confident of his ability.” Track record. At times it appeared that an individual or institution became trustworthy in the eyes of the truster when there was a demonstrable history of actions matching words—regardless of whether the truster was personally involved or affected by these actions.18 In both districts, individuals were highly influenced by past efforts of the district and superintendent. The negative track record in Mid Valley appeared to be a significant source of mistrust, whereas a fairly positive history in Highland served to build trust. In Highland, the district’s history of implementing ideas generated by past strategic planning teams appeared to build trust among current participants. One skeptical teacher admitted that knowing this track record was a critical factor motivating him to trust the district enough to participate in strategic planning: “It’s important for me to see, ‘Aha, in ‘94 it was A, B, C, D [strategies], and they’re all [implemented] here [in the district] now. This is going to work.’” Seemingly cognizant of the trust-building capacity of these past results, district leaders deliberately invoked this history at the beginning of the strategic planning session. “I always like to share some of the outcomes from previous strategic planning—like our assessments and our technology—

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to show them there’s a reason for them being there,” said one administrator, “that the effort we put in actually does create new and different programs that have been very valuable and helpful to our teaching and learning.” Nevertheless, a minority of participants interviewed were less trusting of the district due to knowledge of the district’s past efforts to involve teachers in committee work that did not “go anywhere.” In Mid Valley, participants repeatedly cited as the basis for mistrust examples of the superintendent’s words conflicting with his deeds. These incidents appeared to erode trust over time, creating a “legacy of mistrust.”19 As noted in table 5.3, Mid Valley participants interviewed almost unanimously agreed that they did not trust the superintendent to follow through with what he promised, whereas most participants asked these questions in Highland believed the superintendent did follow through. Mid Valley teachers also consistently pointed to a history of dishonesty on the part of district leaders. “The district just says ‘Yes, we’re in favor of this,’ but the actions don’t follow what they say,” said one teacher. Similarly, a teacher in another school observed that there were a lot of “grand pronouncements, but no follow through.” As an example, he described the superintendent’s “edict” that all nonclassroom teachers spend at least 25 percent of their time working directly with students. The teacher later discovered, however, that only one such teacher followed the new policy, illustrating once again the district failing to enforce its policies. The superintendent’s promise to find private funding for CAP proved to be another incident in this perceived chain of dishonesty. As these cases illustrate, honesty and candor are necessary, although not sufficient, conditions for building trust between prudent people (reckless people may continue to trust even in the face of deception). Conversely, deception is corrosive to trust and can easily destroy it or reinforce mistrust. In forming a trusting relationship, the truster often has to interpret the trustee’s ambiguous behavior to determine whether he is likely to act in the best interests of the truster. How the truster interprets this behavior depends on a history with the trustee or a sense of the trustee’s track record. Representation Issues of representation provided another significant basis on which trusting or mistrusting relationships developed in both districts. In Mid Valley, questions about a lack of representation plagued the CAP initiative and further exacerbated the general climate of mistrust. While such questions arose in Highland, most participants had greater confidence in the inclusiveness of the strategic planning team and thus more trust in the process and its leaders. As table 5.4 illustrates, the majority of participants interviewed in Mid Valley did not believe that the CAP Advisory was representative of the

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TABLE 5.4 Perceptions of Representation: Number of Responses from Participants Interviewed

Mid Valley

Highland

1 out of 8 2 out of 8 5 out of 8

6 out of 14 6 out of 14 2 out of 14

Do you think the [joint work group] was representative of the community? Yes Mixed No

Note: These data come from interviews with fourteen Highland strategic planning team members (parents, principals, teachers, a student, a facilitator, board members, and a district administrator) and eight Mid Valley CAP participants (board members and community advisors) and were classified “yes” for an unqualified response of yes, “no” for an unqualified no, and “mixed” for a qualified yes or no or statements conveying attitudes somewhere in between (e.g., if someone said “somewhat” or “yes, but it was not representative of the demographics of the district”). How participants defined “representative” also varied. Some defined inclusive representation as including a range of participants who matched the ethnicity, gender, and socioeconomic status of school district stakeholders, while others relied more on a notion of including a mixture of roles (e.g., professions, teachers, parents). It is less important that participants’ definitions or conceptions of community representation varied and more important that their perceptions were ones of inclusive representation or uninclusive representation. The key idea is that how participants felt about representation colored their beliefs in the legitimacy of and trust in the process, the institution, and its leaders.

community. Most noted that the group lacked adequate involvement from site administrators and teachers and was too small to represent the range of stakeholder groups and interests. In contrast, only a small number of Highland participants (two out of fourteen) felt the strategic planning team was not representative of the community. The majority felt that the group either involved a sufficient range of participants or was somewhat representative but failed to get enough broader citizens involved. Comments made about representation in both districts suggest that ensuring inclusive representation is important to democratic joint work not only for substantive reasons—bringing a diversity of perspectives into the dialogue and ensuring that a full range of knowledge and interests are at the table for decision making—but also for more cognitive and affective reasons. Regardless of whether or not those at the table contributed substantively to the discussions, people were more likely to trust the process and those convening the process if they knew that their perspectives were represented, even if it was only in a symbolic way.

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Mirror or Proportionate Representation To many individuals, sufficient representation entailed seeing individuals like themselves participating in the decision-making process (“mirror representation”). If they did not see similarly situated individuals involved, they were less likely to trust the process and consider it legitimate. Others took this one step further, arguing that sufficient representation must be proportionate to the physical makeup of the community at large. In other words, if half of the community is male and half female, then a representative body should consist of equal numbers of men and women. Thus, if an individual’s voice in a deliberative forum is weaker numerically than what would be warranted by the proportion of his/her constituency in the community, this might further erode his/her trust in the process. Individuals in both districts conveyed these perspectives, maintaining that a similarity of condition (be it role, ethnicity, or gender) ensured fair and sufficient representation.20 For example, in Highland, one teacher’s questions about representation colored his views about of the district, its leaders, and the strategic planning process. Brian was highly suspicious of strategic planning and voiced frustration with the disproportionate representation of principals relative to teachers, noting that while there were many more teachers in the district than principals, the strategic planning team included equal numbers of teachers and principals (one from each school). Unlike some other participants, he appeared to believe in the substantive importance of proportionate representation. That is, given that only those with lived experience could adequately speak for a constituency, Brian believed more teachers were needed to interject their own perspectives into the deliberations. As a sixth-grade social studies teacher, he felt unable to speak on behalf of teachers of other disciplines or grade levels at his school or even social studies teachers at other schools.21 Conversely, a Highland parent’s trust in district leaders and the strategic planning process correlated with her positive perceptions of representation. Unlike Brian, Lucy identified the symbolic importance of having parents on the strategic planning team. “I don’t think my ideas made a difference,” she admitted. “I just think me as a parent participant made a difference. That a parent came from our school, that was important. And that our school was represented. I didn’t want us not to have a parent.” While Lucy may not have contributed substantively, she believed that her presence indicated that leaders cared about having parents participate. Her physical presence also signaled to other parents that their interests would be represented. In the event that a matter arose that was relevant to parents of her school, other parents could trust the process because she would be there to speak on their behalf. In Mid Valley, several contrasting examples also emerged, illustrating a connection between perceptions of inclusive representation and trust and

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perceptions of inadequate representation and mistrust. While CAP staff initially intended to expand the Advisory to include more citizens and teachers, they never achieved this goal. Accordingly, most participants did not believe the community group was sufficiently inclusive. For example, Jose believed that it was important for him to participate on the Advisory because “a lot of what we think about improving the [Mid Valley] School District . . . [has to do with] the Latino component that’s bringing the scores down.” When the other two Latino advisors dropped out due to time conflicts, he became even more committed to staying on the Advisory to maintain a Latino presence. “Even though I believed in it,” he said, “I also felt like I needed to be there ’cause there was no more Latino representation, and after all, this is really what [CAP] was there for. And so . . . I stuck it through. . . . And especially when they left, there was no question I had to stay on for that sake alone.” And while later he reported being unhappy with the way he presented his ideas before the school board, he nonetheless maintained that his presence on the Advisory was critical if not substantively, symbolically. Implicit in his comments was an understanding that it was important for the Latino community to see a Latino on the Advisory. Without such representation, one might expect the Latino community to question the legitimacy of a so-called community group working to improve the education of all students and to develop mistrust for the district, its leaders, and the CAP initiative overall. The attrition of Latino members and the perceived disproportionate representation of ethnic minority groups on the Advisory also appeared to contribute to his attitudes. For example, he reported not trusting the superintendent to involve community members in a meaningful way and repeatedly aired suspicions of ulterior motives on the part of district leaders. Similarly, George, a Mid Valley board member, believed that attrition within the Advisory rendered the group no longer representative of the community writ large. “Five people doesn’t make a community group,” he stated, “I’m sorry, it just doesn’t. And it doesn’t make a community group when they come from basically the same end of the political spectrum and basically come from one of the usual factions in town.” George later added that in “having any kind of community organization in [Mid Valley], it is absolutely critical that it appear totally nonpartisan; not just in the usual political sense, but that it’s inclusive, that there is a variety of people [on it].” Noting that the older, conservative community members had dropped out of the Advisory, he strongly believed that the group only represented liberal partisan interests. As such, George questioned the legitimacy of the Advisory as a body representing all of Mid Valley and believed it should have been disbanded long before the second and third study sessions. His disengagement from the deliberations in these final study sessions reflected his lack of trust in this group and in the CAP initiative overall.

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Most significantly, the perceived lack of teacher representation proved to be one of the biggest obstacles to the CAP initiative, exacerbating already high levels of mistrust among teachers who felt that district leaders lacked the relevant knowledge to protect and advance their interests. District leaders had initially tried to secure union participation but encountered difficulty when they specifically asked for union leaders to serve on the Advisory. Although CAP staff tried to keep the union informed about the initiative, the Advisory proceeded to meet without involvement of the union or any teacher representatives. Many teachers were outraged that district leaders appropriated more than $400,000 (some perceived it to be more) of the general fund to an initiative that did not directly involve them. “I think we all [teachers] support community involvement,” explained one teacher, “but it needs to be an involvement with us too. Not just them talking to them.” As a result, union leaders used the CAP initiative as a negotiating tool in salary talks and managed to secure the demise of CAP. Once it became clear that private funding would not materialize and that teachers were visibly agitated over the funding issue, district leaders could no longer justify supporting the continuation of CAP, particularly while simultaneously asserting the need for budget and salary cuts. Ironically, the Advisory ultimately developed strategies intended to help teachers. Their priority goal was to “invent new district-and-community-wide systems to support teachers.” Moreover, several advisors and the entire CAP staff were former teachers. Nevertheless, it was not sufficient that Advisory members took into account teachers’ interests or preferences (in the “politics of ideas” sense of representation). Nor was it enough that former teachers participated on the Advisory. Teachers wanted visible evidence of current teachers like themselves at the table in the deliberative process (in the “politics of presence” sense of representation). Due to the pervasive perception that teachers were excluded from the process, CAP was not deemed legitimate by teachers, further exacerbating their generalized mistrust of the district overall. In summary, Highland was very deliberate in involving a wide range of individuals who mirrored the characteristics of broader community stakeholders, including gender, ethnicity, school, roles, and academic discipline, although not in a proportionate manner desired by at least one participant. District leaders also consciously involved individuals and groups potentially affected by and responsible for implementing the outcomes of joint work. As such, the majority of participants attested to the inclusiveness of the strategic planning team. These perceptions of representation, in turn, appeared to build a sense of legitimacy and trust among deliberators and potentially among those not directly involved who gained trust in those serving as their ambassadors. In contrast, Mid Valley ended up excluding many groups—most important, teachers—who were the direct target of many ideas generated by CAP. Accordingly, the perceived lack of representation further heightened the climate of mistrust within the district and among CAP participants.

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The Paradox of Representation The importance of mirror or proportionate representation as a precondition for securing trust conflicts with another potential condition for deliberative democratic joint work. As discussed in chapter 2, much of Highland’s success in balancing power and achieving agreement in strategic planning came from a set of norms and structures (e.g., leave your title at the door, name tags with first names only, rotating small groups) that disabled participants from serving as spokespeople for particular interests and forced them to act on their best judgment in pursuit of the public good. These experiences suggest that for a deliberative democratic process to reach consensus and overcome potential barriers based on power imbalances, participants must act in pursuit of the common good and not behave as representatives of constituency interests. The information in this chapter, however, presents a somewhat contradictory finding. Participants and observers will not trust the institution to do what is best unless they perceive their interests to be represented by those making the decisions. To many, this means seeing people like themselves involved in the decision-making process. Thus, inclusive representation is necessary for building a sense of legitimacy about and trust in the process, the institution, and its leaders. Accordingly, these cases suggest an interesting paradox: for deliberative democracy to succeed in practice it must ensure inclusive representation, but representatives must move beyond the very ties to groups and interests that brought them to the table in the first place. As witnessed in Highland, individuals are invited because they represent a specific constituency or interest group but are then urged to deemphasize those factional interests in pursuit of broader common interests. The next chapter revisits this paradox and potential resolutions of it. SUMMING UP AND LOOKING AHEAD

As illustrated, a pervasive climate of mistrust festered in Mid Valley, and a set of more trusting relationships existed in Highland. These cases demonstrate that mistrust may lessen participants’ motivation to participate, while trust appears to build a sense of shared purpose and help participants find common ground. Conversations with participants also reveal that climates of trust and mistrust often depend on perceptions of representation and a sense that the group assembled is sufficiently inclusive of community groups and interests. This condition of inclusivness presents a paradox for the model of democratic joint work, one that raises fundamental questions about the impact of this type of decision making on individuals from traditionally marginalized groups. The next chapter explores potential resolutions of this paradox and broader implications of this research for educational and democratic reform. It also revisits the practical question of how districts should go about building trust and repairing mistrust and what strategies they should pursue to ensure democratic success.

SIX

Implications for Policy and Practice in an Era of Accountability

It was messy, but that’s the way democracy is. (CAP staff member, Mid Valley)

THE EXPERIENCES OF Mid Valley and Highland expose the “messiness” of democratic joint work. While leaders in both districts started with similar goals, they achieved very different results. Highland’s strategic planning process involved a wide range of stakeholders in a reason-based decisionmaking process that yielded several ideas for districtwide improvement— ideas subsequently implemented throughout the district. In contrast, the collaboration of district staff and community members within the Advisory provided the only beacon of democratic light in Mid Valley, whose overall CAP initiative devolved into potentially avoidable deliberative failure. Despite the different outcomes, both districts’ attempts to initiate and sustain joint work encountered common struggles along the way. Sitting in a political environment ripe with power imbalances and competing values and modes of thinking, community-educator collaboration faced a range of obstacles and opportunities. The wider context of organizational culture and social trust further shaped the delicate work of deliberation, providing yet another set of possible constraints and facilitators. What do these cases teach us as policy makers, educators, researchers, and citizens? We can seek answers by first revisiting some of the key tensions and dilemmas uncovered by this research. Next, I reflect on the implications of democratic joint work for education accountability policy and recap the outcomes resulting from these two efforts—illustrating the potential role collaboration plays in improving public education and democratic institutions.

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The chapter then identifies for practitioners and citizens practical lessons and strategies for achieving key principles of deliberative democracy and joint work. Finally, I conclude by exploring unresolved issues and questions. Like any study with a sample size of two, the findings presented in this book cannot be generalized to all districts. The insights, however, can contribute to theory and research on democratic processes, as well as the policy conversation on education and democratic reform. Many districts, schools, and community organizations across the country are attempting to engage the public in improvement efforts. Thus, findings on what the collaborative endeavors in Mid Valley and Highland accomplished and what influenced these efforts offer valuable lessons to policy makers, educators, and citizens with similar goals and contexts, as well as researchers seeking to better understand and improve similar efforts. KEY TENSIONS AND DILEMMAS REVISITED

This research uncovers a set of pervasive tensions and dilemmas—some more easily resolved than others—in the model of deliberative, democratic joint work and its enactment in educational settings. One major challenge facing conveners of joint work is how to involve laypersons and professional educators as equals in decision making knowing that certain attributes and resources (e.g., positional authority, verbal skills) give some participants more influence than others. While norms of preclusion and other structures may assist in leveling the playing field, certain power imbalances are likely to persist. Most notably, the speech biases and emphasis on commonality inherent in the model of deliberative democracy—which potentially undercut the needs and interests of traditionally marginalized individuals—create dilemmas that were not adequately resolved in either district and that I examine further at the end of the chapter. Another pervasive tension in joint work pertains to the inevitable conflicts that arise when individuals with different world views and values come together. More specifically, the clash between democratic and professional values raises important questions about whose knowledge is legitimate and to whom professionals should be held accountable. Although these tensions may exist, the Highland and the Mid Valley experiences suggest that they are not insurmountable and that a participatory and deliberative democratic process in a district setting relies on the collective knowledge of participants, a vital aspect of which is the technical expertise of professional educators. The challenge facing conveners of joint work is making this knowledge accessible and balancing it with the knowledge brought to the table by laypersons. School districts by design are bureaucracies that often embody structures and cultures incompatible with the norms of collaboration and deliberative

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democracy. An organization that rigidly adheres to rules, values control and uniformity, positions staff into specialized and often isolated roles and departments, and cautiously approaches data is a potentially hostile host for an endeavor that calls for inclusive participation, open dialogue among equals, decisions based on reason over power, attention to personal relationships, and a climate allowing individuals to learn and modify their preferences. Yet it would be naïve to suggest that districts can easily de-bureaucratize and adopt alternative organizational practices. Thus, how can a typical district manage a complex system of schools while leaving room for public engagement of this kind? This too is an enduring challenge for administrators and reformers alike. Nevertheless, the experiences of Highland with a more learning-centered, entrepreneurial organization may be instructive, demonstrating that it is possible to manage a set of schools in ways that are more consonant with the principles of democratic joint work. Face-to-face deliberations appear to thrive on relationships of trust. Trust in representation and among representatives (more prevalent in Highland and within the Mid Valley Advisory) appears to build a sense of shared purpose, enable open exchange, and help participants find common ground. Conversely, a lack of trust (most visible in Mid Valley overall) lessens participants’ motivation to participate and their willingness to invest in the process. Moreover, trust appears to mitigate other potential obstacles to joint work—for example, supporting organizational innovation and shaping how participants negotiate issues of power. Unfortunately, one cannot always control the broader environment in which deliberations occur. Thus, how can a deliberative process take hold in an environment lacking trust, and how can one disrupt a negative cycle of distrust? I return to this topic later in the chapter. Finally, the role of representation poses another significant dilemma to substantive collaboration between citizens and professionals. In any democracy, conceptions of representation may teeter between binding representatives to the will of their constituents (accountability) and allowing freedom to act on their best judgment (autonomy). These conceptions also weigh the importance of representatives focusing on what is best for the community as a whole (the common) versus what is best for a constituent group (the particular). Highland’s experience suggests that deliberative models of democracy—particularly in quasidemocratic fora, where participants are not formally elected—may necessitate greater emphasis on the autonomous and common ends of these spectra. Yet this requirement appears to conflict with another precondition critical to the development of trust: inclusive representation. That is, participants and observers are not likely to view a deliberative effort as legitimate and its leaders worthy of trust if they do not perceive the deliberative body as representative of the community. Which brings us back to the following paradox which I revisit later in this chapter: For deliberative democracy to succeed in practice it must ensure inclusive representation, but

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representatives must move beyond the very ties to groups and interests that brought them to the table in the first place. In the end, resolving some of these tensions and dilemmas requires careful consideration of tradeoffs. For example, for public education to thrive and achieve high standards of learning it needs highly skilled professionals to manage schools and instruct students. Yet public education also requires the support of its citizens to remain legitimate and financially solvent. Thus, professionalism and democratic involvement are both important public goods worthy of support. Similarly, to manage public schools, some bureaucratic structures may be more efficient and potentially more cost-effective than alternative models. Yet, once again, without the engagement of citizens and parents, public schools may cease to exist. In practice, an administrator or citizen seeking to initiate a deliberative endeavor must determine whether it is worth investing the time and resources to create the conditions necessary for its success. A superintendent must consider whether it is worth shedding one’s formal authority during deliberations, exposing the district to scrutiny and allowing for critical examination of district data, easing up on bureaucratic controls, or investing time into building relationships of trust to facilitate this process. And citizens must ask themselves if they can embrace the knowledge and expertise of professionals, be open to reconsidering some of their previously held beliefs, and consider the views of others—especially those not present or less articulate— when making decisions for the common good. The following discussion of policy implications and outcomes may help individuals assess the value of investing in joint work. Subsequent sections also offer practical strategies that address some of these tensions. POLICY IMPLICATIONS: ACCOUNTABILITY AS COMMUNITY RESPONSIBILITY

Education policy in the wake of the federal No Child Left Behind (NCLB) legislation has focused on holding schools, districts, and states accountable for student achievement as measured by test scores. Inherent in policies such as NCLB are several conceptions of accountability. First, these policies embody a model of standards- or test-based accountability, in which state standards and tests set expectations for learning; information on school, district, and state progress at meeting those targets is shared publicly; and consequences resulting from performance create incentives for improvement. The current model of accountability also blends in market-oriented approaches in which educational institutions are expected to produce “products” for its customers (e.g., parents), and competition and choice—under NCLB, providing families in “failing schools” the option of transferring to another school—creates additional incentives for improvement. Finally,

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NCLB also borrows slightly from professional accountability models by relying on standards and norms of professional practice, such as the requirements that all teachers are highly qualified and schools failing to make progress rely on programs grounded in scientifically based research.1 In contrast, the model of deliberative decision making to which I refer throughout the book assumes a different notion of accountability as community responsibility. This model calls on citizens to be more active in shaping education in their communities and to take on what Amy Guttman calls “conscious social reproduction.”2 Just as children should be empowered by schools to actively mold their society—to gain exposure to a wide range of values, norms, and ideas that society values and consciously decide whether to challenge them or carry them forward—so too should citizens participate in decisions and actions aimed at improving public schools. A conception of accountability that connects schools and communities broadens the base of stakeholders who then feel responsible for improving public education and builds added public pressure for these improvements.3 Instead of relying solely on teachers and administrators to make changes within schools, accountability as community responsibility calls on parents as well as citizens without school-age children to invest and take action in their local schools. The potential set of new resources from the community—including intellectual, social, human, and political capital—can further support school improvement efforts. Recent studies of education accountability show that often educators resent the current assumptions embedded in high-stakes systems and feel unfairly blamed for not achieving results that are influenced, at least in part, by factors outside of their control (e.g., poverty, weak parent involvement, lack of afterschool programs). In interviews with teachers around the country I frequently hear complaints that “parents need to take responsibility” and that the community can help expand learning opportunities for children. Institutionalizing formal processes for community engagement and action would certainly address some of these concerns. The two cases presented herein illustrate the ways in which communities can play a role in helping districts be accountable and how districts can help communities be accountable themselves. For example, in Highland, data played a key role in facilitating this two-way accountability. Highland district leaders treated data from the community as important sources of evidence for decision making. The district regularly administered surveys to school stakeholders—including parents—asking for their views on school climate, curriculum, instruction, assessment, leadership, and planning, and regularly used this information to make decisions. Highland leaders further engaged parents and citizens along with education professionals in strategic planning to systematically examine student achievement data and identify problems and potential solutions based on this analysis. The four final strategies in the 1998

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plan emerged directly from these data-based deliberations. The results of strategic planning further demonstrate the potential benefits of engaging the public as partners in school improvement. Strategic planning appeared to cultivate the deliberative skills of participants (e.g., how to weigh evidence and arrive at decisions aimed at the common good) and expand their understanding of the education system and the district. It also may have enhanced citizens’ commitment to support the district and reform in the future (see further discussion of outcomes below). In sum, current policy conversations about accountability tend to focus on technical matters such as assessment, performance targets, student subgroups, and criteria for judging proficiency and progress. Missing from these discussions are wider considerations of community context and roles for individuals outside of the formal education system. Perhaps the experiences of Highland and other districts engaged in substantive collaboration with citizens can help broaden the policy dialogue. DEMO CRATIC AND EDUCATIONAL OUTCOMES

In this era of high-stakes accountability, the most valued educational outcome is improved student achievement. In response, schools and school systems across the country are channeling virtually all of their resources into achieving this goal. The model of community collaboration examined in this book may not provide that quick fix education leaders so desperately seek, but it holds promise for creating some of the conditions necessary for sustained reform and a set of intermediate outcomes that may facilitate improved student achievement. I offer the following discussion of outcomes as a way for policy makers, practitioners, and citizens to assess the value of investing in joint work (and the potential costs of not investing). In the end, many readers will be inclined to judge these two efforts on their ability to improve student achievement. Moreover, although I examine some student test score data, my intent here is to expand the thinking around educational outcomes and demonstrate that collaborative endeavors can produce a range of positive results that influence student learning. In particular, the experiences of the Mid Valley Advisory and Highland’s strategic planning process demonstrate that meaningful collaboration between educators and laypersons can yield important decision, educative, and affective outcomes— many of which were predicted by deliberative and participatory democratic theory (see the introduction for this discussion).4 Of course, before judging the success or failure of a collaborative against any set of outcomes, one must be sure that true collaboration occurred. As noted at the outset, far too often reformers and policy makers claim to engage in collaboration or public engagement without evidence to back this up. The indicators of democratic joint work outlined in the first two chap-

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ters provide a framework for judging the quality of implementation. As discussed throughout the book, Highland achieved many of these indicators, while Mid Valley’s overall CAP initiative experienced glaring process and implementation problems. Although Mid Valley district leaders assembled a group of citizens who coordinated schedules and met regularly (signs of successful collaboration under some conceptualizations in the literature), they did not equally distribute power or ensure a process based on reason, reciprocity, open access to information, mutual accountability, and the promotion of the public good. Unlike those in Highland, participants never agreed on norms of participation, and many appeared unwilling to engage in deliberative exchange. Given that Mid Valley never fully initiated democratic joint work, one would not expect to see positive outcomes of any kind. In fact, the CAP Initiative offers important insights into the potential negative consequences of inviting individuals to participate in a collaborative endeavor and then failing to uphold its principles. Decision Outcomes As democratic theory predicts, the Highland case demonstrates that the district and local democracy as a whole may have benefited from decisions made and implemented by the collaborative group. First, deliberations in Highland yielded decisions that offered new solutions to old problems. For example, while deliberators in a prior round of strategic planning (1996) targeted factors within the district to improve students’ low literacy (e.g., through investments in teacher professional development), deliberators in the subsequent 1998 planning sessions noticed that literacy scores remained low despite these within-system investments. The persistence of this problem led deliberators to consider factors outside of the traditional scope of the district: the children’s preparation and skills prior to enrolling in kindergarten. New investments in preschool education promised improvements that prior democratic actions did not yield. And although it is too early to assess literacy improvements,5 this example nonetheless illustrates the way in which a new set of deliberators and repeated deliberations over time surfaced new solutions and a self-correcting mechanism that offered hope for improving the district and its policies in the future. Learning over time also may have improved the democratic processes themselves. For example, in Highland, participants’ feedback and leaders’ observations of past strategic planning sessions indicated that too few noneducators were invited, that student voices were missing, and that deliberations should be concentrated into a more intensive, shorter period—changes made in subsequent sessions and said to enhance the participatory and deliberative nature of the process. Second, Highland’s experience demonstrates that collaborators can make important decisions that expand opportunities for student learning.

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Recall that strategic planning not only helped expand preschool programs throughout the district (strategy 2), but also institutionalized a set of interventions and recognition for low-achieving students (strategy 1). By the end of 1999–2000, all teachers were trained on how to systematically identify students at risk of failure and how to support them with a menu of intervention options such as tutoring or assigning resource teachers to assist them with math and reading. Early the following school year, all teachers received training on how to monitor the effectiveness of these interventions using a new districtwide data system. In later years, the district also convened a series of community celebrations to formally recognize the achievement of students in core academics (e.g., reviewing test scores and displaying student work) and the arts (e.g., performances by choirs). State test score trends from 1999 to 2002 suggest that reading, language, and math scores generally improved during this period of time.6 Of course, given all of the other potential intervening variables, I cannot attribute these gains solely to the interventions and recognitions (and by association the collaborative process). Yet I can make a theoretical argument or prima facie case that the collaborative effort and its decision to implement a comprehensive intervention strategy contributed to these positive trends. Finally, joint work in Highland may have also resulted in decisions that were more legitimate and effective than decisions made under other circumstances. As the theoretical literature claims, involving individuals responsible for implementation in the decision-making process may have helped district administrators anticipate potential barriers and gain school-level buy-in. Highland leaders consciously involved individuals with leadership positions from every school, in the hopes that they could more effectively communicate the results of the planning session, assist in the plan’s enactment, and gain support from colleagues who would see the plan as reflecting their particular school needs and interests. Further participation in action teams allowed for detailed implementation plans that took into account schoollevel needs. This same level of legitimacy would have been impossible for any decisions emanating from Mid Valley’s CAP initiative because teachers were excluded from this process. Educative Outcomes Participation in democratic joint work appeared to generate many of the predicted “educative” effects, particularly in Highland and to a lesser extent within the CAP Advisory. The experience appeared to broaden many individuals’ perspectives, teaching them how to think “civicly” instead of in self-interested terms. Most participants in Highland reported learning about the intricacies of the district as a whole (e.g., how the district works, how to understand student test scores) and how it compared to other districts. For example, Maria (the

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Spanish-speaking parent) reported learning not only about the district but also the American education system in general. Many also noted that the information presented and discussed taught them to ask different questions and think more holistically about all students in the district. For example, another parent, Lucy, reported that the experience taught her many new concepts, how to examine data, and how to understand district policy: I look for different things now—Why did we score what we did [on the SAT-9]? What’s the population of our school? I look more at the intricacies than I would ever have looked at before. . . . I’m not as superficial as I used to be because when you’re uninformed, you are very superficial, . . . you don’t think about other things. . . . I think I understand more how the district operates: why we have these tests, what the goals are.

Even the skeptics professed to learning from the experience. The interestbased parent, Judy, reported the value of learning how educators look at test scores and how they “take that information and put it back into the curriculum and what they teach and why they teach what they teach.”7 The experience in Highland also appeared to open individuals’ eyes to new perspectives. For example, a teacher (Tom) attested to the value of seeing data on family conditions: “[It was] wonderful seeing actual hard data about school figures and population, demographics. That’s really good to see because we [teachers] don’t know that. . . . I was never exposed to poverty.” Despite much anger and disappointment about the lack of demonstrable results, some community advisors in Mid Valley also recounted specific learning. For example, Jose reported: “Even if we didn’t achieve the final goal, I felt like I was learning a lot from these people who had more experience in education, or in community politics and local politics.” Specifically, he learned how to better communicate, work in a group, and “confront the powers that be.” Another advisor reflected on the knowledge she gained from the failed effort: I’m learning when it doesn’t sit well in your gut that [you] do something, and I’m also learning don’t do it alone. Get a couple of people who all agree on what it is and then go from there and say ‘well this is not what we understood,’ and go from there and do it promptly.

A CAP staffer also noted learning about board-superintendent relationships and the importance of communication, lessons he planned to apply in the future when he anticipated becoming a superintendent. Affective Outcomes These two cases also show signs of influence on participants’ attitudes, feelings, and values. First, many participants—particularly in Highland—conveyed an

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enhanced sense of political efficacy. These indicators of political efficacy are particularly important at a district level where bureaucracy often makes individuals feel lost and inefficacious. When asked if they felt like they made a difference in this process, most Highland participants replied in the affirmative. For example, the middle-school student, Roberto, proudly stated, I think I made a difference . . . by contributing to the different discussions that we had, maybe bringing up the ideas. . . . So I think they actually listened and that kind of shows ’cause one of my ideas [recognizing student progress] actually became one of the four [final strategies].

The CAP experience also left several participants feeling empowered with the knowledge, confidence, and motivation to continue pushing for educational improvement. As one advisor put it, “all of us are now charged with a higher consciousness of the quality of our public education.” Similarly, another community member commented, “I’ve learned a lot about how the schools are funded . . . how things work. . . . It has created strong beliefs, and I don’t want to have it sound arrogant, but I think I have some answers. . . . Being an outsider and looking in sometimes makes it a lot easier to see organizational dysfunctionality.” Despite these few positive comments, however, most Mid Valley participants left feeling less optimistic about their ability to influence the district and quite disillusioned. I will return to these results in a minute. Individuals in both districts also conveyed increased feelings of belonging to a community. For example, many CAP advisors reported returning meeting after meeting out of a sense of loyalty to the “community” of advisors. Similarly, one advisor (Mike) reconsidered his initial desire to leave the group out of respect for the community of colleagues that had developed. In Highland, some of the principal and teacher survey results reported in chapter 5 suggest a sense of pride in belonging to the Highland community that extended even beyond the strategic planning team. The contrasting low level of pride expressed by Mid Valley teachers perhaps illustrates how the lack of participation among teachers and the exclusive deliberation among a small group of community and district leaders failed to achieve on a large scale the outcomes predicted by the literature. Despite some reservations, all of the Highland participants interviewed—including the skeptics—expressed a willingness to participate again and/or a belief that strategic planning was worth repeating. For example, a principal—one of the strongest critics of the district, who believed the process could be improved by enhancing diversity of participants—admitted, “I do think it’s an effective process. . . . I think it needs to be done more frequently. And I do think people were able to have their voices heard.” Many others were even more effusive in their endorsement of strategic planning. This willingness to participate again in future strategic planning also suggests

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that participation in deliberative decision making can foster a civic spirit and commitment to democracy that transcends the one-time event. Such commitment could prove to be critical for any district or community seeking to build capacity for change. Citizens who participate in small-scale collaborative endeavors such as these may be more willing to vote, volunteer their time and money, and take on leadership roles in the community and other public institutions. Future research might examine the long-term impact on civic participation. This sense of pride, belonging, and commitment to the Highland School District and the community represents the seeds of another important outcome of joint work: enhanced political will and support for district reform. Highland’s superintendent and other administrators reported that the district’s ability to make bold decisions and introduce change could only occur in an environment in which citizens and board members truly supported the district’s overall vision, goals, and strategies. As one associate superintendent noted, “the board is always very conscious about parent input and the base of decision making,” and strategic planning helped maintain strong board support for reform over the years by building a broad base of community support and buy-in for the district’s efforts. Similarly, as witnessed at the end of this study, despite experiencing several changes in top leadership positions, Highland’s reform efforts stayed on course. The new superintendent continued to implement key instructional improvement strategies (e.g., performancebased assessments and data-driven decision making, the use of on-site coaches) and maintained a commitment to community involvement, convening a new round of strategic planning several years later. In other districts with less community and board support and political capital, changes in leadership often lead to significant policy churn. Finally, these cases illustrate outcomes not generally highlighted in the theoretical literature: the extent to which democratic joint work builds trust and enhances the perceived legitimacy of the district. A demonstrated effort to involve stakeholders in important deliberations that will affect the district may serve to break down the “us-them” divide between teachers and central office administrators or the community’s mistrust of district leaders. Giving participants opportunities to explain themselves and identify common interests and motivations can only help build trust. Conversely, the airing of participants’ views may expose conflicts of interest and also identify some personal interests that had been falsely couched as common, thus correcting for unwarranted trust.8 The trust-building power of collaboration is perhaps best captured by the comments of Brian, one of the most skeptical teacher participants in Highland. He explained that one of the benefits of the strategic planning process was “the fact that you’re both [teachers and administrators] there on the same side for a second or for the day. . . . It’s good to see people trying, at least being willing to try to help.” Similarly, one of the Highland

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facilitators reported that throughout her years of experience, she repeatedly witnessed participants who approached the process with much doubt, and the “process would prove them otherwise.” She added: [T]he content and the process help build the trust, even if people don’t know each other. . . . Part of it is the conversations people have along the way. They build on each other. They come in contact with different people saying, “Here’s a common ground we can stand on and work together with.” And they start hearing from people, and the thoughts are similar, so that really builds the trust. So when they go to another group, they’re more trusting already.

In the end, trust may be both a precondition and outcome of joint work, creating the potential for cycles of trust (trust facilitates joint work, which, in turn, builds more trust) and cycles of mistrust (mistrust constrains joint work, which, in turn, exacerbates mistrust).9 In contrast to Highland’s positive scenario, Mid Valley demonstrates how failed attempts to engage in meaningful collaboration can generate and deepen mistrust. Accordingly, it illustrates the repercussions of not following through with deliberative, participatory democratic intent. Although most school-level educators expressed deep anger about the lack of demonstrable results, community members focused their anger on district leaders’ perceived unresponsiveness and unwillingness to engage in joint work. To most advisors, the experience confirmed their suspicions of ulterior motives and deepened their mistrust of Mid Valley leadership. For example, one advisor reported, “I’m sad that the board didn’t take us more seriously.” A lack of closure left many advisors reeling months later. One advisor stated, “We’ve got all of these feelings that we can do something, but like how do we make that happen now? And so I think on the part of some of us, there’s still that frustration in terms of where do we go with that? . . . I feel real unsettled.” “[I]t ended up, to me, in frustration,” said another advisor, “and the bottom line is, I have kids at home, and I could spend time with them instead. And that would be much more profitable, because we really didn’t accomplish anything.” Board members were equally disappointed with the CAP experience. Most, including the two resistors, expressed particular remorse for having involved community leaders in a process that yielded no results. For many community participants and the CAP staffers—those most intimately involved in the endeavor and those initially holding the strongest convictions toward deliberative democracy and joint work—this experience and the board’s unwillingness to play by deliberative democratic rules pushed them to advocate for alternative forms of democracy, such as adversarial and interestbased models. Reflecting on the initiative after the second study session, one CAP staffer concluded that “we should have just separated ourselves from the district as soon as we could” by forming a nonprofit organization. Throughout

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the final months this staffer reiterated this idea, noting that their only chance for success was to push from outside the system. Following the third study session, the CAP director also recognized a need to move away from a deliberative model of working within the district for change. The idea to merge CAP’s efforts with the Collaborative represented one such attempt—to work with an outside group that maintained some ties to the district (the school board sits on the advisory of the Collaborative). To gain support for this “inside-out” model from Mid Valley board members, the CAP director adopted a self-described strategy of “public embarrassment.” Convinced that reasoning would no longer work, he believed holding a public meeting with other pro-CAP and procollaboration politicians would force district leaders to acquiesce. Several CAP advisors believed that a broader social movement was the only hope for change. One advisor adopted an even more adversarial position, hoping to campaign against the perceived foes currently in office: “[I]n this school board election . . . I would have worked day and night to defeat those incumbents. I would have stopped at nothing. I would have used every political skill that has come to me to defeat those incumbents. . . . And I voted for those people when they first ran.” This transformation from deliberative to interest-based motives among CAP participants is not surprising. Without district leaders’ agreement to participate in a deliberative manner, one would expect community advisors to start thinking in adversarial terms. While Mid Valley leaders may have hoped for CAP to build a better base of public support for schools, in the end it may have yielded the opposite effect: eroded public support and decreased civic capacity. Thus, just as successful deliberation can lead to educative, civic, affective, and trust-building outcomes, engagement that leads to inaction can yield equally damaging outcomes of disillusionment, disaffection, and entrenched distrust. PRACTICAL LESSONS

While some have claimed that deliberative democracy is “utopian” and incompatible with the cultural, economic, and social complexity of modern societies,10 this study suggests that this model of democracy is not only relevant but implementable in contested terrain. Adding to a small body of literature examining deliberative democracy in practice,11 this study demonstrates that the concept of deliberation holds much promise for coordinating the joint work of educators and noneducators in districts and schools—as well as professionals and laypersons in other organizational settings. The research also generates practical insights that may be useful to individuals and organizations seeking to initiate similar efforts. The next section examines these lessons and implications in more detail. The weight of evidence presented in chapters 4 and 5 may lead some readers to conclude that democratic collaboration can only flourish in a less

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rigid bureaucratic organization ripe with trusting relations. However, a distillation of this sort oversimplifies the potential learning from Mid Valley and Highland. It is unfair to conclude that Mid Valley’s CAP initiative failed solely because of its organizational and social context. Nor is it entirely accurate to assert that deliberative, democratic joint work will never work in a rigid bureaucracy or in an environment currently plagued by a climate of mistrust. In fact, there appeared to be multiple “missed opportunities” on which Mid Valley leaders could have capitalized to repair mistrust, build trust, and jump-start the deliberative process (which I will address later in this chapter). One also cannot forget the evolution of trusting relationships and authentic deliberation within the Mid Valley Advisory or the fact that Highland developed and refined the strategic planning process over the course of a decade. Accordingly, the failed attempt at initiating joint work broadly in Mid Valley provides as many lessons as the more successful deliberations in Highland and the Advisory. While it is not entirely clear that importing the strategies utilized in Highland into Mid Valley would have led to successful deliberation between educators and noneducators, these cases nonetheless provide many important insights for superintendents, board members, and other top-level administrators and citizens in districts with a range of organizational climates and histories. Returning to the dimensions articulated in the first two chapters, these lessons target the what, who, and how of democratic joint work. Experiences in both districts suggest that in designing the purposes and structure of a collaborative endeavor, as well as who will be involved, district leaders consider the important roles of trust, power, institutional understandings, and organizational context. For example, being aware of potential speech biases or competing norms of professional autonomy and democratic inclusion, practitioners might be more deliberate in designing the endeavor in ways that address these potential obstacles. Similarly, cognizant of the importance of trust, practitioners might seek out strategies to nurture and build it among participants. Based on the lessons from Mid Valley and Highland, table 6.1 outlines some design elements and strategies for achieving a deliberative democratic process. I will also articulate a set of ideas for two important stakeholder groups: district leaders (e.g., superintendents, board members) and citizens. Establishing the Purpose and Content (what) The two cases illustrate the importance of communicating expectations for democratic joint work. As Mid Valley demonstrated, without early conversations to ensure that everyone understood and supported CAPs purpose and scope, lingering confusion and misperceptions plagued the endeavor throughout its life-span. Conversely, Highland’s use of facilitators and explicit articulation of goals and purpose at the beginning of the process helped ensure a shared sense of purpose.

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TABLE 6.1 Lessons for Achieving Deliberative Democratic Joint Work in Practice

Principles of Joint Work & Deliberative Democracy

Design Elements and Strategies for Achieving Principles in Practice

Negotiation & ownership of mission

  

Stakeholders involved in planning Explicit expectations & norms Opportunities for participation: in creating the agenda, norms, and topics; in leading discussions

Conversations & decisions aimed at the common good

  

Clear goals, expectations up front Explicit discussion of rules and roles Where relevant, norms of preclusion (context-dependent) Facilitator(s)

 Decisions based on reasoned arguments (not status)

    

Information available (data) Small groups & distributed knowledge “Whips” to make reasons explicit Decision rules: “Can you live with this?” Trust-building strategies to decrease vulnerability of less powerful

Reasoning must be reciprocal

 

Trust-building strategies Rotating small groups to ensure exposure to all

Reasons given are open & public, information is available

  

Use of data, attention to pedagogy Documenting ideas for everyone to see Information translated in all relevant languages Making process & ideas transparent to all involved (i.e., avoid bifurcated process)

 All voices are heard

    

Pre-data collection of those not present Explicit norms, enforced by facilitators “Whips” to ensure all speak Rotation within small groups Translators

Participants are accountable to all who are bound by decisions, and action follows

  

Explicit norms, enforced by facilitator(s) Documenting ideas for everyone to see Codifying & publicizing the decisions/work Formal links to policy system Benchmarks & monitoring of implementation

 

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Another lesson from these districts is for organizers to think about the centrality of what is on the table. If the endeavor is likely to focus on topics that might be threatening to professional norms (e.g., asking teachers to change their instructional methods), then organizers should heed Mid Valley’s cautionary tale: tensions are bound to arise. More important, organizers should consider aligning who is involved with what is on the table. If the topics under consideration or the scope of deliberations might impact or threaten a particular group, organizers might consider directly involving representatives of this group in the deliberations. Convening the Group (who) Organizers seeking to engender confidence and trust in a collaborative endeavor and among participants and observers should pay careful attention to who they involve and how they define the community to be represented. Organizers might consider not only the various stakeholder groups in the community but also those who might be expected to implement the ideas generated by the group: if they are involved they may be more motivated to carry out its resulting ideas. The aforementioned difficulties of engaging individuals from non-English-speaking backgrounds and/or born in other countries make it even more imperative for leaders to not only invite a diverse group of representatives but also to take actions that enhance their ability to attend (e.g., providing transportation, child care) and to participate as equals (e.g., translator, translated materials, possible training and meetings in advance). Highland’s experience also illustrates the importance of ensuring inclusiveness at all stages of the process, for example, involving some participants in planning the meetings. Prior to deliberations, organizers can solicit a wide range of views through surveys, focus groups, and meetings (as both districts did) and share these data with participants directly involved in deliberations (as only Highland did). Structuring and Monitoring the Process (how) Future attempts at engaging community in district decision making should structure the process to achieve deliberative means and ends. First, guarantee up front that all participants understand and agree to the roles they are expected to play. Second, make explicit the rules of engagement—who will facilitate, how communication will occur between the various stakeholders, and deliberative norms—to create an environment conducive to honest and open exchange of ideas. Practices that were especially effective in Highland included the decision rule of, Can you live with it? to help achieve consensus and a focus on the common good and the use of a 30-second whip to publicize everyone’s position on a topic (positions they discussed in more depth in small- and large-group conversations throughout the day).12

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These two cases also suggest that leaders consider somewhat constraining the content of deliberation with context-dependent norms of preclusion (chapter 2). For example, if one’s district is fairly heterogeneous with disparate interests and the scope of topics open for consideration are broad, Highland’s experience suggests that strong norms of preclusion might assist in achieving consensus. As such, individuals are explicitly told to keep their personal agendas off the table, and facilitators encourage individuals not to appeal to their formal title or status in arguing their position. Mid Valley and Highland’s experiences also highlight the importance of pedagogy and grouping strategies. Although CAP staff learned this lesson later, Highland leaders paid great attention upfront to providing participatory modes of interaction and a mixture of activities so that participants remained engaged and aligned with deliberative norms. In particular, the rotation in and out of small groups appeared to give everyone an opportunity to state his or her opinion and to facilitate decisions based on reasoned argument and reciprocity. Conversely, Mid Valley’s decision to group the community members in exclusive deliberations for more than a year constrained the larger deliberations among district leaders who were not privy to the Advisory-only discussions, ideas, or relationships built over time. Accordingly, practitioners interested in deliberative success may want to avoid bifurcation and instead balance the need for small-group discussions with the need for all participants to reason together in a large group. These cases also identify the importance of data as catalyst for deliberative exchange. Like Highland and the Mid Valley Advisory, districts should strategically use data (e.g., test scores, demographic information, research) to ensure participants have the relevant information to make reason-based decisions—in particular, to help noneducators judge the arguments given by educators. Both cases illustrate the energy and enthusiasm that the presence of data brought to the table, where Highland participants and Advisory members consistently reported learning a lot from the information and generating ideas from data analyses. Finally, potential conveners of joint work should consider the duration of the endeavor. Highland leaders believed a shorter, more intensive three-day period would be more convenient for participants. In contrast, Mid Valley decided community leaders would gain more from regular meetings over a long period (initially designed as one-year effort that lasted almost two years). And while the extended period built trust among advisors, it may have exacerbated advisors’ disappointment and disillusionment when nothing came of their enormous investment of time. Accordingly, future joint work should balance the need to be respectful of participants’ time with the cognitive and affective demands of deliberation, which calls for in-depth learning and reasoning and is enhanced by strong relationships of trust, all of which require time.

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Implications for Leadership These cases generate important lessons for leaders interested in engaging in deliberative democratic exchange. Joint work implies a rethinking of roles, which may be difficult given deeply embedded understandings of what it means to be a superintendent, a teacher, or a parent. The principles of deliberative democracy impose even greater demands on leaders to not only rethink their roles but to also share power with codeliberators. Accordingly, if the principles of accountability and equal voice are to be realized, leadership in a deliberative setting requires a willingness to cede one’s formal authority and participate on equal terms with individuals with less formal or informal power. Leadership in a deliberative setting also implies important trust-building roles and responsibilities. As both cases illustrate, the climate of trust—a vital precondition for democratic joint work—often hinges on participants’ perceptions of the intent and ability of leaders convening the process (see chapter 5). While the Highland case provides the most direct evidence on the importance of trust and leaders building this trust, the experiences of the CAP Advisory are especially instructive, proving that even within a broader climate of mistrust, seeds of trust can be cultivated. Accordingly, a leader’s candor and ability to follow through with promises are important foundations for trust. A leader also can facilitate trust by involving a wide range of representatives who might be affected by the decisions made by this group and keeping them informed and acknowledged for their contributions. A leader also can undertake several other trust-building strategies described below. Encouraging Small Wins In democratic joint work there is a tension between allowing enough time for deliberations to evolve and ideas to crystallize before acting and not losing the attention and trust of participants and observers by waiting too long to act. One potential strategy for mediating this tension and building confidence and trust during the process is to accomplish incremental, tangible results or what Karl Weick calls “small wins”—“concrete, complete, implemented outcome[s] of moderate importance.”13 Given the massive scale on which social problems are often framed, individuals often believe they are unable to take any action that would adequately solve these problems. By reformulating large problems into smaller ones, people can more easily “identify a series of controllable opportunities of modest size that produce visible results and that can be gathered into synoptic solutions.”14 These small wins then build confidence in people and make the original problem seem less overwhelming and the modes for improvement more obvious. While literature tends to link small wins with gains in confidence (i.e., we have the ability to accomplish something), this study suggests that experiences with small

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wins also might enhance participants’ trust in the competence of coparticipants and possibly enhance the trust of observers who may be viewing the joint work endeavor skeptically. The increased confidence and trust could further generate a feedback effect on individuals’ motivation to continue involvement in deliberative decision making. Although this study did not uncover positive examples of this scenario,15 the Mid Valley case demonstrated that a lack of small wins generated and reinforced doubt and mistrust, which in turn helped to undermine joint work. Early on in the CAP initiative, a “critical friend” of the district introduced the idea of small wins to the CAP director and recommended that the group take on some form of action in the short term so that they received credit for doing something. Most advisors and CAP staffers agreed that carrying out a visible activity could alleviate some of the pressure they felt from others who continually asked them what they had accomplished. They also believed that taking on a “good-faith measure” was needed to show the community that the district really wanted to make changes. They developed the idea of conducting a community education summit. Observations of these meetings indicated that community advisors gained significant enthusiasm and confidence as they began to plan this summit. After a few weeks, however, the topic fell off the radar screen, and the summit never occurred. It is not entirely clear why the summit never materialized, but part of the explanation may be that the CAP staff became too embroiled in planning for the upcoming boardAdvisory study session and did not have the time or energy to accomplish both. It also is possible that other district leaders were not supportive of the summit idea. In the end, the inability of CAP to produce demonstrable action may have confirmed participants’ suspicions about district leaders’ ulterior motives and intent to use citizens instead of work with them as partners. The lack of tangible outcomes also may have confirmed teachers’ suspicions that CAP was a waste of district funds and would not benefit them. Most participants regretted not having accomplished something visible early on in the process, including the superintendent who commented that “we needed to have some success, people seeing some success in that process, and we did not.” One can only imagine the fate of CAP had advisors succeeded in hosting a community summit. The experience of coordinating such an event, working together, and gaining credit for this accomplishment could have strengthened the trusting relationships among advisors and possibly built up some semblance of trust between teachers and the district as a whole.16 Making Gestures of Trust While small wins may address trusters’ perceptions of trustees’ competence, as well as related feelings of confidence, gestures of trust may be another strategy

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that influences trusters’ perceptions of trustees’ intent and good will, particularly among strangers. Such gestures may be simple acts on the part of trusters to demonstrate faith in the trustee, being charitable in the interpretation of trustees’ ambiguous behavior. For example, in Mid Valley’s study sessions, there were several missed opportunities for gestures of trust that could have allowed CAP to move forward. When advisors introduced ideas for programs that the district already implemented, district administrators and board members faced two possible interpretations of conduct: CAP staff had properly briefed them with information about district programs and advisors simply forgot; or CAP staff were remiss in communicating to advisors. Most district leaders chose the latter interpretation—the least charitable option and a gesture of distrust. By continually seizing on the more malicious interpretation, leaders stifled opportunities for trust to develop and may have contributed to the spiral of mistrust and mutual alienation. Had leaders made gestures of trust in these situations, CAP staff and advisors might have recognized some seeds of hope—that leaders had faith in their good will and that perhaps they could relax and focus energies on deliberations. Interacting Informally with Participants Social interaction between educators and noneducators appears to be another relatively easy strategy for building relationships that then extend into the more formal joint work settings. The trust-building capacity of such informal events is even greater when individuals in positions of power participate, further reducing the vulnerability of individuals and groups with less power. The CAP director’s invitations to community advisors to attend social outings throughout the year may have helped move the advisors from “distrust to hopefulness.” Attending to Structure of Meetings The structure of joint work meetings also holds potential for building trust. As witnessed in Highland, the use of facilitators, rotating groups, and shared expectations up front helped create an environment where people felt comfortable stating their views and trusting that others would respectfully listen. These features also enabled participants to learn about the motivations of coparticipants, which further built a sense of trust around common goals and vision. In addition, enforcing the rules and following the agenda appeared to build trust. As the third study session in Mid Valley demonstrated, by setting out explicit norms but never enforcing them, the facilitator called into question the legitimacy of the process. The facilitator’s inability to follow through with what was promised gave participants reasons to believe the district and CAP leaders were not trustworthy. In contrast, by strictly following the agenda and process norms, Highland facilitators gave participants little reason to doubt the process or the intent of leaders.

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In the end, these strategies provide the best hope for breaking a negative cycle of mistrust, like the one witnessed in Mid Valley. As CAP staffers demonstrated, informal opportunities for interaction, honest communication, and regular meetings can potentially interrupt a cycle of mistrust and plant the seeds of trust. One can only imagine the potential for spreading the trust developed within the Advisory and repairing mistrust within the wider community had other Mid Valley leaders not missed key trust-building opportunities, such as establishing a more inclusive Advisory group from the outset; taking actions to decrease the vulnerability of citizens (e.g., participating in social interaction, not stalling on date-setting); facilitating greater communication between the board, Advisory, and school-level staff; making gestures of trust; or, encouraging the early enactment of the “small win” of a community summit. Finally, the Mid Valley and Highland cases offer specific insights into school board leadership. While several Mid Valley board members understood their primary role as fiscal guardian and monitor of district policies, deliberative democratic joint work appears to demand a broader understanding of board roles. Accordingly, school board members can be important catalysts for public engagement. If willing to empower the community that elected them, school board members can help initiate and facilitate substantive collaboration around a host of potential issues such as standards, safety, long-term goals, and afterschool opportunities. Moreover, like the superintendent or assistant superintendents, board members can play important trust-building roles. In addition to the previously mentioned trust-building strategies, this research also indicates that educators greatly valued the opportunity to meet with board members in their schools and classrooms. Often perceived as removed from and uninformed of the daily challenges of education, board members can greatly enhance relationships with school educators by frequently visiting and getting to know them (obviously an easier task in smaller districts). Board members also can enhance wider climates of trust by building relationships with community stakeholders. Instead of relying solely on board meetings, which generally attract small audiences, board members might consider organizing smaller scale opportunities to listen to neighborhood, parent, and business interests and concerns. All of these efforts can help build a climate of trust necessary to lubricate the deliberative process. Lessons for Community The lessons for citizens and community groups interested in engaging in joint work with educators are similar to many ideas already discussed. For example, many of the trust-building strategies noted above apply to citizens, who can advocate for small wins or make gestures of trust, to name a few. Also, regardless of who initiates the endeavor, citizens should push to ensure that the

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group represents individuals along a spectrum of political leanings, backgrounds, and roles. And if certain voices are not represented by participants in the official group, community members should consider conducting focus groups, surveys, and meetings to solicit input from the excluded parties and provide this information to participants. Second, citizens should strive to become well informed about district policies and programs. As observed in the Mid Valley study sessions, the community’s lack of familiarity with existing programs weakened the credibility of the Advisory in the eyes of district staff and several board members. Although CAP staff attempted to inform the advisors of district policies by providing extensive data, perhaps the advisors could have taken more initiative to meet with district staff and review information that provided them with an accurate “lay of the land.” Third, community members can play a role in facilitating communication with district leadership, whether that takes the form of meetings early on in the process to develop goals and a shared understanding of purpose or ongoing correspondence via email, letters, and newsletters. Finally, and perhaps most important, citizens can assist in building the deliberative capacity of the community as a whole. As discussed in the next section, efforts are needed to ensure better familiarity and practice with political processes, democratic norms, and deliberative skills, such as how to articulate an argument, how to weigh the merits of one claim against another, and how to evaluate evidence.17 Community members and organizations are ideal sponsors of such efforts (e.g., community dialogues and classes), which are particularly necessary for improving the participation of traditionally disenfranchised individuals. I return to this topic in the next section. UNRESOLVED DILEMMAS AND UNANSWERED QUESTIONS

While the Mid Valley and Highland cases provide many lessons for policy and practice, they are nonetheless fraught with several unresolved issues and unanswered questions worthy of pursuit in future research and practice. The Paradox Revisited Let us return to the paradox of representation: For deliberative democracy to succeed in practice it must ensure inclusive representation, but representatives must move beyond the very ties to groups and interests that brought them to the table in the first place. This paradox might be resolved if one considers each part as accomplishing complementary tasks. The task of constituting a representative body in many ways creates the external legitimacy of the endeavor, convincing the community not directly involved that their interests are safe and

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will not be ignored. It also enables those directly involved to put some trust in the process because they feel that their constituency group has been acknowledged. The task of creating ground rules for deliberators that disable representation of particular interests serves a different purpose that has nothing to do with external legitimacy. This task pertains to the internal goaldirectedness of the process and ensuring that participants arrive at workable agreements. Yet a resolution of the paradox is not this simple. The task of creating a representative body not only pertains to building legitimacy and trust but also with meeting a normative requirement of deliberative democracy that all viewpoints and interests are represented. In other words, a sufficiently inclusive group is necessary to ensure impartiality and a process by which no interest or set of interests is silenced. Given this normative requirement of inclusion, strong constraints on the content of deliberations create potentially severe and unresolvable problems, particularly for marginalized groups. As feminist theorists argue,18 by preventing any contributions to the conversation that are framed by participants representing their identity and interests, one may be unfairly biasing the process against individuals or groups whose partial interests cannot be adequately expressed in the current language of deliberation. Iris Marion Young asserts, “Under circumstances of social and economic inequality among groups, the definition of the common good often devalues or excludes some of the legitimate frameworks of thinking, interests, and priorities in the polity.”19 In essence, the process may favor the status quo and systematically work against individuals from traditionally marginalized groups who are not politically organized, who lack an associational life, and whose interests are not yet crystallized. This potential problem is perhaps best illustrated by Maria, the Latina parent in Highland who was selected to represent non-English-speaking parents but was never adequately empowered to do so. Even if she had better understood the process and its purpose, the rules would have silenced her had she introduced constituency-related concerns (e.g., had she commented that a district policy unfairly impacted parents like herself). She also may have been coerced into thinking that what was decided in the “common good” embraced her own needs and interests, when it did not. Accordingly, inviting her to attend and providing a translator may not have sufficiently secured her democratic voice in the process. In deliberative democratic joint work, the common good that emerges is only genuine when it is not systematically biased against any group. If a group is not represented at the table, or if an individual assumed to represent that group is at the table, but there is no process whereby that group’s viewpoints can be brought to the table, then a truly inclusive conception of the common good has not been attained. As such, the paradox of representation raises important dilemmas for democratic joint work in diverse settings and once again illustrates the

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challenge of translating theory into practice. The next section suggests some possible means to address this and other related issues pertaining to traditionally marginalized groups. The Disenfranchised Problem Perhaps the largest unresolved issues emanating from these cases are the potential speech biases inherent in the deliberative model and the difficulty of ensuring that all voices within the community are truly embraced in joint work. Despite Highland’s relative success in balancing differences in power, both districts failed to fully level the playing field between individuals who were more articulate and skilled in English and individuals with weaker language and speaking skills. Moreover, both districts failed to fully involve members from traditionally underrepresented communities, such as ethnic minorities, lower income citizens, and immigrants—groups known to participate less in wider political activities.20 The paradox of representation raises further questions about the extent to which subcommunities without organized and articulated interests receive a fair shake in a process that pushes the common end of the representative spectrum and prohibits all talk pertaining to particular interests. What could be done to better involve underrepresented or marginalized groups and ensure their effective participation once they are at the table? This is particularly relevant to districts serving large immigrant populations who are often unfamiliar with the American educational and political systems. Although efforts to provide transportation, child care, and translators are important strategies for removing obstacles to participation for lower income and non-English-speaking individuals, the problem calls for even broader social policy and civic engagement efforts—strategies similar to those designed to address problems of low parent involvement or voter turnout. Perhaps one approach to this problem is to concurrently establish greater representation of and role models for marginalized groups in wider civic activities and politics. For example, the Mid Valley district, in collaboration with other organizations, was working to elevate the status of the community’s underrepresented groups through several civic engagement efforts. One program aimed to familiarize young adults of color with the political process and ways to participate effectively by providing leadership development training and pairing them with mentors in leadership positions within the city. In addition, a community-based organization (the Collaborative, discussed throughout previous chapters) facilitated “community conversations” around issues such as housing and education. These conversations were designed to enhance community members’ civic interest, skills, and participation. Another important approach to this problem is to cultivate deliberative democratic skills of children in schools. As John Dewey and others have

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argued, making schools and classrooms more participatory, democratic, and inquiry-focused helps teach civic skills and moral reasoning—building the deliberative capacity of future adults, voters, and communities.21 For example, schools can teach children the principles of deliberative democracy and allow them to practice and understand how to reason with others who embrace different viewpoints, how to articulate an argument, or what it means to pursue the common good. Amy Guttman stated that “the cultivation of participatory virtues should become more prominent among the purposes of primary schooling, especially as children mature intellectually and emotionally, and become more capable of engaging in free and equal discussion with teachers and their peers.”22 Thus, schools not only should teach democratic skills but also consciously model what it means to be a democratic institution, for example involving students and teachers in decision making. Intermediary and community organizations are other potential “schools” of democracy that can educate children and adults about the American political system and teach them deliberative democratic skills. Such organizations can help disenfranchised individuals better articulate their interests and assert their voice in the educational and political systems. The work of faithbased organizations mobilizing parents of color to push for reform in Texas and California are good examples of such efforts.23 These organizations also can help foster an “other looking” outlook among citizens who may approach politics with more interest-based perspectives. Finally, these organizations can allow individuals to practice and exercise their democratic skills, which are prone to atrophy when left unused.24 Social policies are another important avenue to consider. Some argue that broader structural, economic, and systemic reforms are needed to guarantee every citizen the resources of time, education, and money necessary for deliberation.25 Thus, policies that expand and provide free childcare, employment training, and enhanced education may need to precede deliberation. Finally, another less systemic approach to this problem is to make available smaller scale democratic experiences for individuals,26 ones that are school and neighborhood based. Several participants in both districts believed that engaging adults in school-level deliberations would attract a more diverse group and make them more comfortable with the process because they are more likely to know their coparticipants, be familiar with the environment, and be drawn to topics that are aligned with their daily experiences. Some theorists also believe that these smaller scale endeavors help individuals discover their true interests,27 which in turn make them better participants in a broader deliberative forum. One Highland principal agreed, arguing that the process should “start at the school and go to the district.” As such, staff and parents could better articulate what they and their schools need and then arrive at the district-level deliberations with experience discussing and reasoning toward a common good. And while there are

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challenges to starting at a school-level vision and bridging to a districtwide vision of the common good, this process nonetheless potentially enables unorganized individuals to find greater voice in the process, as well as greater practice with democratic decision making. Neighborhood-level deliberative fora that are group specific also might provide important avenues for traditionally marginalized groups to better articulate their interests, providing them better footing when entering a broader deliberative forum in which strong norms of preclusion are in effect. In summary, practitioners should pursue these strategies, and research should continue to monitor these efforts in the hopes of enhancing participation among members of traditionally disenfranchised groups, without whom the ideals of democratic joint work will remain just that, ideals in theory not practice. Lingering Questions My research in Mid Valley and Highland raises a host of questions that merit future research. Although the study offers some preliminary evidence on important relationships and interactions that shape democratic processes, I cannot confirm causality or the direction of these relationships. For example, does trust foster organizational innovation? Or does organizational innovation foster trust? Or are both causal relationships true and reciprocal? Although my data suggest that the latter is true, more research is needed to confirm this finding. In addition, this research only begins to suggest which domains have more or less influence, relative to the other domains, over democratic success. Future research also might explore the relative weight, for example, of organizational climate versus power or trust versus power. Also, throughout the course of this study, issues of trust surfaced as fundamental to the deliberative process. Yet further research is needed to answer the following questions: Does one kind of trust nurture another (e.g., horizontal, vertical, institutional)? Is there a minimum level of resources necessary to allow an organization to think about and begin developing trusting relationships? Future studies also might better distinguish between strategies that build trust and strategies that repair mistrust. Finally, more research and experimentation is needed to identify methods for breaking vicious cycles of distrust. Another set of lingering questions emanating from this study pertain to underrepresented groups. Future experimentation with and research on deliberations among more diverse deliberative bodies are needed to advance the field. In a more diverse group, would issues of equity, access, race, or social justice surface or become buried? Further, how does the paradox of representation affect individuals from traditionally disenfranchised groups? Future research could examine the subtle effects of norms of preclusion on individuals whose

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interests are not well articulated and the way in which rules keeping particular interests off the table are perceived and felt by these individuals. Future research might also compare deliberative models of decision making with nondeliberative models to assess whether deliberation truly achieves “better” outcomes, as the theoretical literature predicts. For example, would a more interest-based and less participatory system arrive at a similar set of decisions? Would it achieve better, same, or worse educative, decision, and affective outcomes? This study also raises broader questions about educational governance. Given that so few citizens vote in local elections (not to mention the many parents who are not eligible to vote) or have confidence in the abilities of representatives, is the traditional system of elected school boards sufficient to represent community interests and promote the common good? Are there ways to institutionalize democratic joint work in school systems? How can school boards further support and initiate deliberative fora? Are there lessons from joint work that might inform and improve upon school boards, rather than simply supplement their work? Or, if these one-time events are just tinkering with the system, should we consider more fundamental changes to our democratic processes? Pursuit of these questions offers hope for continued improvements in democracy and education. Like Mid Valley and Highland, district and community leaders, as well as researchers, should continue experimenting with deliberative and participatory democratic joint work and how to translate these ideals into practice.

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APPENDIX A

Methodology

The origins of this book date back to early 1999. In the process of conducting research for the Center for the Study of Teaching and Policy (CTP)—a national research center sponsored by the U.S. Department of Education—I had the opportunity to examine in depth the Mid Valley School District. During this research, I discovered the district’s work on improving systemwide education through enhanced community involvement. As I observed the unfolding of the district’s CAP initiative I became increasingly absorbed by questions of district-community collaboration and what factors accounted for its demise. This pilot work framed much of my thinking about democratic joint work, informing the overall research design of the study from which this book draws. The following sections describe this design, as well as data collection and analysis methods. RESEARCH DESIGN

The preliminary research in Mid Valley raised many unanswered questions. Determined to understand why joint work never materialized in Mid Valley and why it appears to thrive in other districts, I sought a second case to which I could compare the Mid Valley experience. This comparative case study design allowed me to examine the ways in which joint work and efforts to initiate joint work played out in multiple settings. Qualitative case study methods were particularly appropriate for this analysis because they could produce “thick descriptions” and an in-depth understanding of a phenomenon embedded in its context.1 Sample Selection District Sample I selected a purposive sample of two school districts of comparable size and grade configurations in the same geographic region of California. (See table 1.1 in 185

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chapter 1 for a summary of key characteristics.) I chose these districts because each viewed collaboration of community and educators as a valuable part of its work as a district and employed different organizational forms of this joint work. My intent was not to identify districts that were representative of all California districts but instead to select “strategic research sites” that would maximize opportunities to examine and develop theory around joint work.2 By selecting districts of comparable size, grade configurations, student demographics, and regional and state context, I hoped to better isolate the phenomenon of educator-layperson collaboration and the factors that shaped it (i.e., issues of size and grade levels cannot explain differences I observed in joint work in these two districts). Identifying the second district was not easy. Given that the first case represented a failed attempt to initiate joint work, my intent was to locate a second district that succeeded in bringing together educators and citizens in a joint endeavor and achieving action. As my research with the CTP had uncovered, many districts claim to involve community in reciprocal partnerships but in reality offer parent education classes or an isolated parent involvement event that is not geared at districtwide improvement or two-way interchange. One administrator who worked with districts participating in a regional reform initiative, the Bay Area School Reform Collaborative (BASRC), told me, “All the districts I have worked with lately would say that they are doing something in this regard [involving community in joint work], but I don’t know that they would match what you are seeking. What they say is very different from what they do, I find.” Through my work with the CTP, I identified Highland, a district in the same geographic region as Mid Valley that had a long-standing commitment to and reputation for involving community members in establishing longrange goals for the district. The district also was recommended as a place worth studying by several local reform experts, including a strategic planning consultant, the director of the Association of California School Administrators’ Planing Center, and BASRC staff. I realized that while Highland had a reputation for being community friendly, collaborative, and successful in its efforts to convene strategic planning, it was possible that through my research I would discover that the actual practices did not match this perception. Throughout data collection I was receptive to hearing and observing evidence that might have contradicted this reputation. Thus, the design did not assume a comparison of two dichotomous cases, but in fact a comparison of two cases of joint work that were likely to vary along a continuum on a number of dimensions (e.g., extent of community participation). School Sample To ensure that I captured a full range of school-level voices in my research, I selected a sample of three schools from each district that represented the dis-

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187

trict schools’ spectrum of grade configurations, student demographics, and reform orientations (see table A.1 below). In Mid Valley, the three schools included two elementary and one middle; one school with primarily lowincome and English Language Learner (ELL) students, one school with fairly high-income students, and one with a more mixed population. One of these schools participated in BASRC and the Bay Area Coalition of Essential Schools. Similarly, in Highland, the three schools included two elementary and one middle: one school with significant low-income and ELL populations, one with higher income students, and one with a mixed population. One of these schools was a charter school. I interviewed principals and conducted focus groups with teachers in each school. Individual Sample I employed several techniques to select individuals interviewed or invited to focus groups. In all cases, the intent was to ensure a diversity of opinions and broad representation of all stakeholders, including individuals who directly participated in the collaborative endeavors (e.g., community advisors in CAP), others who were potentially impacted by joint work decisions (e.g., teachers in Mid Valley), observers of the endeavors or district more broadly (e.g., former board member in Mid Valley), and key partners with the district in other areas (e.g., university partners, union leaders). In Mid Valley, I made an effort to interview as many CAP participants as possible, including community advisors, board members, district administrators, and the superintendent, along with observers and other district stakeholders. (See table A.2 for totals.) TABLE A.1 Description of School Samples in Mid Valley and Highland

Percent free or reduced Enrollment lunch

Percent ELL

Percent White

Percent Hispanic

Mid Valley School 1 (elementary) School 2 (elementary) School 3 (middle)

600 500 1,000

80 20 20

90 20 40

5 60 40

90 30 60

Highland School 2 (elementary) School 3 (elementary) School 1 (middle)

600 400 800

20 70 40

10 50 30

70 20 50

20 60 30

Note: While the numbers have been slightly altered to maintain anonymity, the basic proportions remain true.

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Given the larger number of individuals (sixty-two) involved in Highland’s strategic planning process, I sampled representatives from a range of schools, roles, and backgrounds. At first, the district organizer recommended individuals based on a set of criteria I developed asking for diversity and individuals she perceived to be active and not active participants. Starting with these recommended individuals, I then used a snowball technique to broaden the sample. At the end of each interview I asked the respondent if he or she knew of other individuals with whom I should speak, particularly ones who would add diversity and a range of opinions to my research. In the end, I interviewed a wide range of individuals (see table A.2). DATA COLLECTION

I began collecting data in January 1999 and continued through January 2002, with some follow-up in subsequent years. During this time, I used several strategies to systematically elicit multiple perspectives on the collaborative endeavors. This was critical to generating findings and building theory that included lay conceptions without getting “captured” by them.3 Related to the use of multiple perspectives, another guiding principle for data collection was that of “triangulation” or the use of multiple sources of evidence to corroborate findings, develop converging lines of inquiry, and increase the reliability of each case study.4 Data Sources As the following section outlines, I interviewed individuals, systematically observed meetings, scanned documents related to the joint work efforts, and drew from surveys. Interviews and Focus Groups I conducted multiple, semistructured interviews with collaborative participants, district and school educators, and outside observers, often speaking multiple times with each individual. Interviews with participants provided information about the nature of joint work, while other educators and outsiders served as informants of broader contextual issues and perceptions of the process and results of these efforts. As table A.2 illustrates, I conducted more than 100 interviews and focus groups, speaking with a total of forty-four individuals in Mid Valley and fiftyseven in Highland (some multiple times). Given limited resources, I maximized the number of teacher respondents by interviewing most teachers in focus groups (in addition to one-on-one interviews with teachers who directly participated in Highland’s strategic planning). I used an iterative interviewing process in both districts. Initial interviews probed general issues of the district and the early history of the collab-

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189

TABLE A.2 Interview and Focus Group Totals for Mid Valley and Highland

Mid Valley

Highland

No. of Individuals Interviewed

No. of Interviews & Focus Groups

No. of Individuals Interviewed

No. of Interviews & Focus Groups

District Office Administrators School Board Members School Principal/Vice Principal School Teachers Parents and Citizens Union Collaborative Organization Students Partner University Professors Partner District Administrators Facilitators

10 3 4 17 7 2 1 – – – –

23 3 7 3 7 2 1 – – – –

10 4 4 24 5 1 – 1 3 3 2

25 3 6 6 5 2 – 1 3 3 1

TOTALS

44

46

57

55

orative endeavor, while later interviews targeted the dynamics of and reactions to this endeavor. These later interviews also allowed me to check out assumptions and early findings by explaining to respondents what I thought I was finding and asking them whether my interpretation matched their experiences—an analytic technique that helped me maintain objectivity.5 Open-ended interview and focus-group protocols probed topics guided by the study’s research questions and conceptual framework. At the beginning of each interview, I explained that all respondents and the district would remain anonymous. I also obtained permission to record the session and to use their words in future publications, as long as they remained anonymous. Each interview and focus group ranged from sixty to ninety minutes and was recorded on audiocassette and then transcribed. Limitations. The retrospective nature of most interviews in Highland and some in Mid Valley raise potential validity questions. It is well documented that individuals often have difficulty recalling past events and have a tendency to revise recollections of events of the past.6 While some are likely to romanticize past events, others are inclined to filter memory through a less positive lens. I utilized several strategies to address these potential problems. First, in each Highland interview I showed respondents documents from the actual

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strategic planning sessions (given to me by facilitators) to jog their memories. For example, when asking about the events of each day, I first presented the agenda for that day and reminded participants of where the event occurred and what was planned. When asking about perceptions of representation, I showed respondents a list of all participants and their affiliations. These methods appeared to assist respondents. Many commented at the end of the interview that they were surprised at how the visual images sparked their memory. Second, I solicited multiple perspectives on the events—speaking to twenty-one Highland participants from eight different schools; representing a range of ages, gender, and ethnicity, and including a mix of parents, students, teachers, and district leaders—and included only those facts that two or more individuals corroborated. I also utilized documents to confirm or disconfirm interview reports. Despite these efforts, it is possible that some retrospective revisionism occurred in interviews. In both districts, teachers’ current experiences, frustrations, and pressures may have colored their views about past joint work (e.g., a union-district dispute in Highland occurring at the time of interviews may have affected the way they described past strategic planning). Finally, the interview with the Spanish-speaking Highland parent also raised some potential methodological problems. Unlike the other interviews, I brought along a colleague to assist with the translation. Although I speak Spanish, I believed this native speaker would ensure that the questions were asked correctly. Her presence, however, may have affected the rapport normally gained in a one-on-one interview situation. It was clear that this individual had never been formally interviewed, and at first, the presence of two interviewers appeared to intimidate her. Over the course of the hour, however, she appeared to grow more comfortable and talkative. Observations Observations provided me with important opportunities to view the interactions of educators and laypersons. In Mid Valley, I conducted observations of the majority of instances in which community members and district leaders worked together, including formal and informal gatherings. I observed all three study sessions involving district administrators, board members, and community advisors and one meeting of “critical friends.” Each meeting lasted from one to three hours. During observations I wrote almost verbatim transcripts of dialogue on a laptop computer (in one Advisory meeting this did not seem appropriate, and notes were hand-written). My intent was to transcribe as much of the dialogue as it happened, with little summary or commentary. These notes enabled me to later analyze content, frequency of participation, and nature of interaction. In Highland, observations of strategic planning were not possible (because it had occurred in 1998), although I did attend one action plan meeting on preschool education.

APPENDIX A

191

Document Collection and Review In both districts, I collected and examined documents and archival records. In some cases, these documents were generated by joint work participants or about the process itself (e.g., meeting agendas, draft vision statements). These documents were particularly important sources of triangulation to confirm or disconfirm testimony from interviews or observations of meetings. Documents also complemented the data collected in interviews and observations about the process of joint work. Documents were particularly important in Highland, where observations were not possible. Facilitators’ scripts, session agendas, worksheets given to participants, and evaluations provided critical information about the process of strategic planning and helped me confirm and disconfirm interview accounts. Other documents (e.g., district policies, newspaper articles) reviewed contained contextual information about each district and community, providing important evidence needed to sort out questions of representation, district structure and organizational culture, and contextual barriers or supports for collaboration. Surveys My analysis also drew on data from several surveys of teachers and principals administered by the CTP. I, along with CTP colleagues, designed survey items to measure teacher and principal views of their school and district, their practices, and their attitudes and beliefs. Items drew from prior research and survey design work of Stanford University’s Center for Research on the Context of Teaching. We administered the first survey to all teachers in Highland in spring 2000. A total of 229 teachers from all district schools responded, for an average response rate of approximately 50 percent. We administered an expanded version of this survey to Highland teachers again in spring 2001. A total of 181 teachers from all district schools responded, for an average response rate of approximately 40 percent. At this same time all Highland principals responded to a similar survey (100 percent response rate). In Mid Valley, we administered surveys for the first time in January 2002 (the district resisted efforts to administer them in years past) to a sample of district schools (approximately 60 percent of schools). A total of 142 teachers responded, for an average response rate of approximately 45 percent. All of these surveys were administered after the period in which joint work occurred. While these data do not reflect the attitudes and beliefs of teachers at the exact time of CAP or strategic planning, they do suggest patterns that are likely to reflect broader differences across districts. One would not expect responses to change dramatically over a period of a few years (as witnessed in the 2000 and 2001 teacher surveys in Highland, where changes on most items were small). Thus, while the data are limited by their time of origin, they are still enormously useful in uncovering general attitudes of educators across districts.

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Data Analysis In the spirit of grounded theory, data collection and analysis were continuous and iterative throughout the course of the study.7 For example, after conducting pilot research in 1999, I analyzed interview transcripts and observation notes to identify emerging themes and unanswered questions worth pursuing in the next round of data collection in both districts. I subsequently adapted interview protocols to include these new issues. I used NUD*IST software to manage and help analyze my data. Based on the study’s conceptual framework and the emerging themes, I developed three broad categories of codes: (1) descriptive dimensions of democratic joint work; (2) analytic factors shaping democratic joint work; and (3) context. Using NUD*IST software, I then generated detailed individual case and cross-site reports on various categories of codes. From these reports I developed conceptual memoranda (e.g., around issues of representation) that helped track emerging themes and the evidence to support them. Data displays, many refined for inclusion in the book, also helped me visualize relationships between the various categories of data. To enhance the internal validity and accuracy of my data, I triangulated data from multiple sources. I accepted interview data as valid reports of actual events only when corroborated by at least two other participants, direct observation, or document review. To ensure external validity I strove to provide detailed descriptions of the cases and a detailed account of data collection and analysis strategies,8 being explicit in my analysis and writing about how I know what I know.

APPENDIX B

Mid Valley CAP Participants

COMMUNITY MEMBERS Participant

Background

Principal* (white male)

Long-time principal of school in district

Citizen Activist (white male)

Former elected official; long-time community activist; member of Chamber of Commerce

City Councilman* (white male)

Elected official; works in the financial sector; parent of children in district; long-time resident

Community Worker/Activist* (white female)

Staff member from local nonprofit; former school board member; long-time resident

Doctor* (Latino male)

Pediatrician/medical director; product of Mid Valley schools

Volunteer, City Councilwoman* (white female)

President of local education foundation; elected to local office in 1999; long-time school volunteer

Parent Leader (white female)

Parent volunteer with children in district school; active in the PTA; elected to local office in 1999

County Elected Official* (white male)

Long-time elected official: self-described “1960s radical”; parent of children in district

County Sheriff (white male)

Elected official; parent of children in district

*Indicates individuals interviewed 193

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DEMOCRATIC DILEMMAS

COMMUNITY MEMBERS (continued) Participant

Background

Technical Assistance Provider (white female)

Employed by education research institution; specialist in assessment

Former Elected Official* (white male)

Long-time “politico”; active in religious community; dropped out in first half of year

Higher Ed. Leader (Latina female)

Vice president of local community college: dropped out early on

High School Principal (Latina female)

Worked in neighboring district: dropped out early on

DISTRICT PARTICIPANTS Superintendent* (white male)

Superintendent in district for more than 10 years; history as teacher, principal, assistant superintendent

Board Member* (white male)

Board member since 1995, parent, works in investments, chaired district bond campaign

Board Member* (white male)

Board member since 1995, parent of children in district; works in business/technology sector

Board Member* (African American male)

Board member since 1987; small business owner; volunteer coach in district

Board Member (white female)

Business owner, parent of child in district

Board Member (Latina female)

Born and raised in the city; attorney; ended term midway through CAP in 1999

Board Member (Latina female)

Elected in 1999; bilingual professor from local college

CAP Director* (white male)

Assistant superintendent in district; former principal of school in district that was active in regional reform effort

CAP Staffer* (white female)

Teacher on leave from CAP director’s old school

*Indicates individuals interviewed

APPENDIX B

195

DISTRICT PARTICIPANTS (continued) Participant

Background

CAP Staffer* (Latina female)

Teacher on leave from CAP director’s old school, bilingual; leaves this position mid-1999

CAP Staffer (Latina female)

Former community liaison from district school; takes on half-time position mid-1999

Asst. Superintendent* (white female)

In charge of curriculum and instruction; former principal in district; long-time administrator

Asst. Superintendent* (white male)

In charge of personnel; in district for more than 30 years; retired at end of 2001

Asst. Superintendent* (white male)

In charge of special programs; long-time district employee

ELD Director (white female)

In charge of bilingual programs

Facilitator (white female)

Educator from county office of education, history of work with the district

Note: Italicized participants left midway through CAP and are not counted in totals or descriptions. In essence they are half of a participant, while their replacements serve as the other half. Counting them along with their replacements would be “double counting” because they were never active concurrently with the individuals who replaced them. *Indicates individuals interviewed

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APPENDIX C

Highland Strategic Planning Team

*Indicates individuals interviewed

Principal Teacher, Kinder., new Parent, SSC Vice Principal* Teacher, 8th grade Principal* Parent, attorney, PTA, SSC Student, 7th grade* Principal Teacher, 2nd grade, new* Parent, PTA Principal Vice Principal Teacher, 1st grade* Parent* Secretary Principal* Teacher, Kinder. Parent, PTA Principal

Stakeholder F F F F F M F M M F F M F F F F F F M F

Gender White White White White White Latino Asian/White Latino White White White White White White White White White Asian White White

Ethnicity Teacher, 3rd grade Parent Principal Teacher, 2nd/3rd grade, bilingual Parent/Ed associate, PTA Principal Teacher, RSP Parent/High School Board member* Principal Vice Principal Teacher, 6th grade* Parent, library technician Student Teacher, union rep. Principal Teacher Teacher Parent Vice Principal Advisement Teacher

Stakeholder

White White White White Af. Am. White White White Af. Am. White White White Latino White White White White White White White

Ethnicity

(continued on next page)

F F F F F F F F F M M F F F F M F F M F

Gender

198 DEMOCRATIC DILEMMAS

*Indicates individuals interviewed

Principal Parent Student, 7th grade Principal* Teacher, literacy Parent* Teacher/Principal Parent Superintendent* Associate Super.* District Coordinator, Curriculum/PD*

Stakeholder F F F F F F F F F F F

Gender

Asian White White Latino White White White White White

White

Ethnicity Director Assessment* Sp. Ed. Coordinator Coordinator, Technology Maintenance Worker Board member* Board member* City employee* DARE police officer Facilitator* Facilitator* Organizer/district staff*

Stakeholder

F F M M F F M M F F F

Gender

White White White White White White Latino Latino White White White

Ethnicity

APPENDIX C 199

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Notes

INTRODUCTION 1. Honig, Kahne, & McLaughlin, 2001; Florian, Hange, & Copeland, 2000; Stone, Henig, Jones, & Pierannunzi, 2001. 2. To ensure anonymity, pseudonyms are used for the names of all organizations, initiatives, and individuals in this book. In addition, statistics cited about organizations and communities are approximations, not exact figures. 3. Cibulka 1996; Crowson & Boyd 1993; Honig et al., 2001; Kritek 1996; Tyack 1992. 4. For example, according to a 2000 survey of adults, 38 percent of Americans agree to some extent that “voting in elections has little to do with the way that decisions are made in my community”—with even larger percentages among lowest income groups and for Hispanic adults (Pew Partnership, 2001, table 40). From 1973 to 1993, the proportion of adults expressing confidence in educational institutions decreased from 37 to 20 percent (Mathews, 1996). The proportion of Americans indicating “a great deal” or “quite a lot” of confidence in public schools dropped from 58 percent in 1973 to 49 percent in 1988 to 36 percent in 1999 (Perlstein, 2001). According to a 1994 poll, almost six in ten parents with children in public schools would send them to private schools if they had the financial means to do so (Bradley, 1995). 5. Putnam, 1995; Putnam, Leonardi, & Nanetti, 1993; Stone, 2001. 6. Epstein & Sanders, 2000; Hoachlander, Alt, & Beltranena, 2001; HooverDempsey & Sandler, 1995. 7. Conrad & Hedin, 1982; McLaughlin, 2000; McLaughlin, Irby, & Langman, 1994; Melchior, 1997; Pittman & Cahill, 1992. 8. Carnegie Council on Adolescent Development, 1994. 9. Melaville & Blank, 1993. 10. For a review of this literature, see Honig et al. 2001.

201

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11. David, 1990; Firestone & Fairman, 1998; Kirp & Driver, 1995; Murphy & Hallinger, 1986, 1988; Rosenholtz, 1989; Spillane, 1998; also see Marsh, 2002, for a review of this literature. 12. Crowson & Boyd, 1993; Honig et al., 2001; Langman & McLaughlin, 1993. 13. Wenger, 1998, p. 4. 14. In an example of insurance claims processors, Wenger explains that the joint enterprise is not just the processing of claims but instead “all the energy they spend . . . not only in making claims processing possible in practice, but in making the place habitable for themselves” (p. 78). Thus, joint work is their collectively negotiated response to their conditions and what they understand to be their situation. The joint enterprise also includes everything they do to make claims processing “real and livable” (p. 79). Even though their practice may be constrained by external conditions, it also responds to these conditions with inventiveness (e.g., processors develop ways to escape the company’s controls by creating opportunities to have fun or to share their boredom). Claims processors also learn that accountability includes not only doing the work but also not making others’ lives difficult (e.g., taking short cuts that create more work for others). 15. I would like to thank Eamonn Callan who developed this schematic. 16. Gutmann, 1993; Pateman, 1970. 17. Mansbridge, 1983. 18. Dewey, 1927; Westbrook, 1991. 19. Mansbridge, 1983; Pateman, 1970. 20. Pateman, 1970, p. 42. 21. Pateman, 1970; Schumpeter, 1942. 22. Bohman & Rehg, 1997. 23. Schumpeter, 1942, p. 262. 24. Ibid, p. 261. 25. Phillips, 1995, p. 149; also, Bohman & Rheg, 1997. 26. Strike, 1993. 27. Pateman, 1970; Schumpter, 1942. 28. Mansbridge, 1983, p. 17. 29. These principles come from various authors, including, Benhabib, 1996; Bessette, 1994; Cohen, 1989; Elster, 1997; Fung & Wright, 2001; Gutmann & Thompson, 1996. 30. Reciprocity requires individuals to justify their position in terms that everyone can accept, not just individuals who are like-minded. Reasons requiring a fellow citizen or official to adopt a sectarian or religious way of life as a condition for understanding or accepting a particular reason given violates the principle of reciprocity. 31. Bessette, 1994; Elster, 1998.

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32. Bessette, 1994; Gutmann, 2000; Gutmann & Thompson, 1996. 33. Westbrook, 1991, p. 170; also Hardin, 1999. 34. Dewey, 1927. 35. Strike, 1993; Young, 1997a. 36. Gutmann and Thompson (1996) in particular lament that modern liberal society relegates the task of moral deliberation solely to the Supreme Court and argue that the best way to resolve moral disagreement is to involve citizens in the collective resolution of those disagreements. 37. Barber, 1984; Gutmann & Thompson, 1996; Macedo, 1999. 38. Barber, 1984, p. 151. 39. These arguments draw from Elster, 1998; Fung & Wright, 2001; Gambetta, 1998; Guttman & Thompson, 1996; McDonnell & Weatherford, 2000a & 2000b. 40. McDonnell & Weatherford, 2000b, p. 10. 41. Cohen, 1997; Fung & Wright, 2001; Sanders, 1997. 42. Sanders, 1997, p. 6. 43. Gutmann & Thompson, 1996; Macedo, 1999; McDonnell & Weatherford, 2000a. Guttman and Thompson illustrate this final point in a case from the state of Oregon in which legislators, health administrators, and citizens worked together to consider changes in Medicaid expenditures. This year-long process forced legislators to confront a basic injustice of the then-current policy—that some poor citizens sacrificed health care that they needed so that other poor citizens could receive care they needed even more urgently, while more advantaged citizens could get whatever treatment they needed. As a result of criticism aired in public meetings and surveys, legislators found additional funding to increase the health care budget for the poor. The authors conclude that this process helped all participants “arrive at an improved understanding of their own values—those they shared and those they did not” (p. 144). Other researchers have attempted to measure the effects of deliberative practice. For a review of this literature see Ryfe, 2005. 44. Miles & Huberman, 1994; Strauss & Corbin, 1998. 45. Mansbridge, 1983, p. xiii. 46. Bryk, 1998; Fung, 2001; Fung & Wright, 2001; Mansbridge, 1983; McDonnell & Weatherford, 2000b. 47. Ryfe, 2005. 48. For example, Brown & Duguid, 1991; Wenger, 1998. CHAPTER ONE. SETTING THE STAGE 1. With the closure of many Internet companies, increasing number of job cuts, and declining corporate profits, by 2001 the Silicon Valley had lost much of its luster. In mid-2001 a front-page article of the region’s most popular newspaper declared:

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“The stock market is unraveling, dot-coms are dying, tech giants are laying off thousands as the bursting of the Internet bubble washes through the national economy” (O’Brien, 2001). 2. Throughout the book, all data and numbers have been slightly altered to maintain district anonymity, but basic proportions and scale remain true. Also throughout the book, data come from Ed-Data, Dataquest (both accessed through the California Department of Education, www.cde.ca.gov), and records from district personnel offices. 3. The relationship was strained somewhat in the 1999–2000 school year with a contract dispute. Nevertheless, those interviewed during and after the dispute continued to characterize the district-union relationship as positive. Most note that there are rarely grievances filed and that most negotiations are noncontentious. 4. The economic status of participants is not something I could reliably measure. Observations and estimates suggest that there was not significant variation in socioeconomic status of participants in either district—with individuals of lower socio-economic status under-represented, particularly in Mid Valley (where all participants were either professionals or elected officials). Also, I included facilitators in these counts because they are considered participants in the joint work process—while they take on a slightly different role, they nonetheless comprise a part of the community of deliberation. 5. These counts include all members invited to participate and who showed up for at least one Advisory meeting. Within the first year, four of the community members included in these counts dropped out of the Advisory—two of whom were Latina, further reducing the diversity of the Advisory. Thus, at the time of the first study session held with board members, 86 percent of the Advisory members were white and 14 percent, or one person, were Latino. 6. These counts include all potential participants—some who attended only early Advisory meetings (three advisors), some who attended only one study session, and some who attended all meetings. The demographics of participants in attendance at any one meeting mirror these general patterns—with perhaps a slightly larger percentage of white participants due to the attrition of Latino advisory members. 7. In 1998–99, almost 90 percent of Highland teachers and administrators were white. Similarly, almost 90 percent of all Highland teachers and 75 percent of administrators were female. 8. It may not be feasible for a district to hold formal elections each time deliberations are required. Moreover, it is highly likely that turnout for such an election would be too low to be legitimate. 9. McDonnell and Weatherford (2000b) deem “inclusivenss” a characteristic of deliberative democracy in practice. They define inclusiveness as follows: access is open and relatively costless; differences between groups in material resources are not a barrier to obtaining relevant info or articulating claims/concerns. Inclusiveness may require seeking out representatives to speak for those otherwise excluded or efforts to invite and even recruit people who might otherwise not feel welcome to participate but who are concerned about issues that are not represented among “mainstream activists.”

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10. State policy banning social promotion passed in the 1997–98 legislative session required all districts in the state to establish such a system of interventions in 1999–2000. Thus, the district’s move to implement strategy 1 is partly attributable to state policy and incentives. However, it is clear that the district was moving in this direction prior to the state’s actions. The state policy did, nevertheless, influence the district’s program. One administrator noted that “we probably would not have put as much emphasis on the SAT-9 [as the measure determining promotion and retention], particularly in schools where most of the kids don’t speak English.” CHAPTER TWO. PARTICIPATION AND POWER 1. Young, 1997a, p. 60. 2. Cohen, 1989, p. 23. 3. Dahl, 1957, pp. 202–03. 4. Bachrach & Baratz, 1962, p. 948. 5. Lukes, 1974, p. 34; see also Digeser, 1992. 6. The subtle and often unconscious nature of this third face of power might explain why many respondents often qualified their comments about who participated and had more influence with statements about personal attributes. Many participants were quick to attribute lack of participation to personal traits such as being shy, reserved, insecure, or uncomfortable speaking in front of groups. Radical or feminist theorists might conclude that such participants were unaware of the exercise of power at play. 7. Scott, 1998, p. 303. 8. See Mansbridge, 1983; Sanders, 1997; Weiss & Cambone, 1994. 9. See Sanders, 1997, for a review of some of this literature. 10. For example, differences in the number of times men and women spoke were not statistically significant in any of the three study sessions involving community advisors and board members, [t=2.4 (p>.7) for first session; t=2.1 (p>.7) for second session; t=2.2 (p>.7) for third session]. What is more important, the size of these differences (e.g., differences of .5, .4, and 1 in average time spoken respectively) is not meaningful in the context of a meeting and does not suggest a substantial difference in quantity. Notes taken at meetings were used to count frequency of talk by all participants, including advisors, board members, administrators, and CAP staff. Number of times spoken includes any time an individual made a statement, asked a question, or contributed any verbal comment. The duration and content of these comments varied widely: some were a few seconds and words, others were several minute long. 11. I adapted these categories from Mansbridge (1983). “Statements of opinion” included comments for or against a proposal, as well as the statement of personal concerns or ideas (e.g., a board member stating that he feared certain ideas were infeasible). “Reports and clarifications” included statements of fact, sharing of ideas from other places, and comments made to clarify previous statements made by the speaker

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or others (e.g., a district administrator stating, “What I’m hearing is . . .”). “Questions” were simply solicitations of information (e.g., a board member asking whether a program exists districtwide). Mansbridge also measured the number of times participants initiated “controversial exchanges.” This last category was not particularly relevant to CAP meetings and was therefore dropped from the analysis. Interestingly, Mansbridge found that women were more likely to ask questions and less likely to contribute opinions. 12. Anderson, 1998; Fine, 1993; Malen & Ogawa, 1988; Mann, 1974; Mansbridge, 1983. 13. The difference in average participation between whites and nonwhites in the third session is statistically significant at the .02 level (t=2.2). The number of times spoken is not statistically different, on average, in the first two sessions [t=2.8 (p>.7) for first session; t=3.2 (p>.7) for second session]. 14. These characteristics are likely to correlate with socioeconomic and educational background. Young (1997a) notes that “speech privilege”—more assertive, confrontational, formal, dispassionate speaking style—correlate with other differences of social privilege (e.g., white, middle-class men tend to have this speech style). 15. Only one participant disagreed: “I don’t think they [students] got a fair shake at it at all.” 16. Most participants were highly aware and supportive of this norm but also acknowledged the challenge of keeping one’s title at the door. One citizen cited an example in which a teacher who was the union representative struggled with this norm: “[She was] raising her hand saying ‘Can’t do that. The contract doesn’t allow it.’ . . . [And facilitators said,] ‘Yeah, we’ll get there.’ . . . So, you know, no matter how hard you try, leaving titles at the door doesn’t work 100 percent.” 17. Pitkin, 1967, p. 9; see also Pitkin, 1969. Over time, theorists and politicians have adopted a range of positions along a continuum of whether representatives should be more independent and autonomous (e.g., Edmund Burke, who believed that representatives should use their own judgment instead of blindly following the will of constituents who were not equipped to deal with state affairs) or more strictly accountable to the mandate of their constituents (e.g., Thomas Jefferson who stressed the importance of representatives serving the needs and interests of the electorate). Modern democracy continues to demonstrate conceptions of representation that fall along various points of the continuum. For example, the American Electoral College embraces an extreme accountability position, requiring members to act in strict accordance to those who sent them. In contrast, elected representatives to federal, state, and local legislative bodies are presumed to represent the interest of constituents but also are given latitude to act independently, where elections and the threat of not being reelected enforces accountability. 18. McDonnell & Weatherford, 2000a; Phillips, 1995. 19. See, for example, Phillips, 1995. 20. Young (1997b) speaks directly to the disabling rules in Highland and questions the objectivity and equity of a process that asks participants to focus primarily

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on the common good: “[A] conception of deliberative politics that insists that equal respect in public discussion requires putting aside or transcending partial and particularist differences forgets or denies the lesson that the politics of difference claims to teach. Where there are real group-based positional differences that give to some people greater power, material and cultural resources, and authoritative voice, social norms that appear impartial are often biased. Under circumstances of social and economic inequality among groups, the definition of the common good often devalues or excludes some of the legitimate frameworks of thinking, interests, and priorities in the polity” (p. 399). Also see Sanders, 1997. CHAPTER THREE. INSTITUTIONAL DISCO RD AND HARMONY 1. Institutional theory and specifically neoinstitutional theory help frame much of the analysis in this chapter (DiMaggio & Powell, 1983; Friedland & Alford, 1991; Meyer, 1977; Meyer & Rowan, 1977; Scott, 1995). According to this body of literature, wider societal rules, norms, and belief systems guide action and help explain why organizations and individuals within the same field or sector often look and act alike (DiMaggio & Powell, 1983; Meyer & Rowan, 1977; Scott, 1995; Scott & Meyer, 1983). Accordingly, individuals within organizations often follow similar “scripts,” rules, routines, and conceptions of roles—not because they necessarily lead to more efficient work but because they are perceived to be expected, required, or morally right. The way individuals think about their roles or how to behave might embrace regulative aspects (e.g., what they are required by law to do), as well as facets that are normative (e.g., what they feel they should do on moral grounds) and cognitive (e.g., what they believe anyone in this type of position normally does). 2. The conflict between norms of democratic inclusion and notions of professionalism has defined much of the education debates from the nineteenth century to the present and has been well documented within the field of education, such as studies of site-based decision making and school-community collaboration (Crowson, 1992; Driscoll, 1998; Gutmann, 1999; Malen & Ogawa, 1988; Mawhinney, 1998; McDonnell, 2000; Tyack, 1974, 2002). National polls also confirm a pervasive mismatch between expectations of educators and noneducators with regard to decisionmaking roles and the extent to which parents and citizens should influence educationrelated decisions (Mathews, 1996; Public Agenda, 1999). Existing literature also documents tensions between market-oriented and democratic values (Lindblom, 1988; Sipple, 1999). 3. For example, “new professionalism” (Hargreaves, 1994) and “democratic” or “activist” professionalism (Sachs, 2000) value the knowledge and involvement of individuals outside the profession. These notions of professionalism call for new forms of relationships and partnerships between teachers and individuals inside and outside of schools. 4. See for example Crowson, 1992; Malen & Ogawa, 1988. 5. In their study of site-based governance councils in Salt Lake City schools, Malen & Ogawa (1988) define centrality as the proximity of the topic at hand to the

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organization’s core technology. Many studies have found that school-level governance bodies generally deliberate matters that are not central to schools’ core technology and rarely cover issues of budget, personnel, and instruction (David, 1994; Murphy & Beck, 1995; Rollow & Bennett, 1996). CHAPTER FOUR. THE DEMO CRACY-BUREAUCRACY FACE-OFF 1. Wilson, 1989, p. 93. 2. Weber, 1947. 3. Scott, 1998. 4. Wilson, 1989, p. 334; also Weber, 1947. 5. Although clearly bound by many bureaucratic features, other organizational arrangements, practices, and values in Highland resemble those of an “entrepreneurial system”—an antibureaucratic organizational form defined in the 1990s by scholars, activists, and politicians to alter the purpose, incentives, accountability, power structure, and culture of government agencies. Some features of an entrepreneurial organization include the following: measuring performance on outcomes not inputs; promoting competition between service providers; defining clients as customers; being driven by mission instead of rules; decentralizing authority; focusing on preventing problems instead of providing services afterward (Osborne & Gaebler, 1992). 6. Although most organizations are unlikely to adhere strictly to an organizational chart in practice, the presence of such a chart signals important values and intent of an organization. Mid Valley administrators’ acceptance of the chart, repeated references to it, and belief in its accuracy suggest that the organization valued clear definitions of roles and lines of authority. As discussed later, Highland’s inability to locate an organizational chart and staff’s skepticism about such a chart sent a very different message to employees about roles and lines of authority. 7. Osborne & Plastrik, 1997, p. 258. 8. Although the survey was administered in Spring 2001, several years after strategic planning, one would not expect principals’ views to change considerably in such a short period of time. 9. Smircich, 1985, p. 58; cited in Scott, 1998, p. 312. 10. Of course, many teachers were extremely concerned with anonymity in responding to surveys or participating in focus groups. Thus, it would be unrealistic to say that teachers felt absolutely safe to voice their opinions. Like any organization, employees were cautious in sharing their views, but the history of responsiveness reported by many teachers suggests an environment that was respectful of constructive feedback. 11. March and March (1977) argue that “[t]he superintendency is a relatively late stage in a series of fairly similar jobs. Superintendents reach the job after a social, educational, and hierarchical filtering that notably reduces the variation in personal attributes. They are socialized through a system of formal education and professional

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ties that is shared by many of them within a given state. The role demands of the job are standardized by tradition, law, and imitation” (p. 381). 12. I examined several alternative explanations, but they were not supported by my research. For example, one hypothesis was that the more administrative intensity (number of administrators per pupil) that exists at the district office, the more protective it would be. Conversely, the leaner the district office, the more willing it would be to seek out information and innovate. A comparison of district office staff ratios, however, revealed no meaningful differences between Mid Valley and Highland. Another hypothesis was that the context of an election year would inhibit board members from taking risks and innovating (or approving of staff doing so) and encourage compliance and maintenance of order. While some data in Mid Valley supported it, Highland evidence contradicted this political explanation. 13. “Civic capacity” refers to the mobilization of various segments of the community “to become engaged in considering and acting upon a problem in a way that is out of the ordinary” (Stone et al., 2001, p. 27). 14. Of course, the differences in test scores are not that large, thus weakening this argument slightly. 15. The governance literature also confirms a link between institutional understandings and organizational structure. In their study of Santa Fe, New Mexico’s decentralization effort, Carnoy and MacDonell (1989) found that the district’s hierarchical structure constrained teachers who were at the bottom of the hierarchy and “have learned to play their role in that position” (p. 60). They conclude that it is difficult for teachers and principals to take on new roles, “especially when the hierarchy as a whole has not changed.” CHAPTER FIVE. CLIMATES OF TRUST AND MISTRUST 1. Baier, 1994, p. 99. ‘Social capital’ is a related concept and thought to reside within relationships among individuals that result from norms that encourage trust, collaboration, and a sense of obligation (Coleman, 1990; Spillane & Thompson, 1997). The literature on social capital identifies the importance of trust in building social networks and encouraging civic engagement (Coleman, 1990; Putnam, Leonardi, & Nanetti, 1993). 2. Ibid., p. 101. 3. Warren, 1999b. 4. Bryk & Schneider, 2002, posit that individuals discern intentions by analyzing the behavior of others through four lenses: respect, competence, personal regard for others, and integrity. 5. For example, Bodilly, 1998; Bryk & Schneider, 2002; Coleman, 1990; Fukuyama, 1995; Putnam, 1995; Putnam, Leonardi, & Nanetti, 1993; Warren, 1999a. 6. According to Offe, trusting institutions means “knowing and recognizing as valid the values and form of life incorporated in an institution and deriving from this

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recognition the assumption that this idea makes sufficient sense to a sufficient number of people to motivate their ongoing active support for the institutions and the compliance with its rules” (1999, p. 70). While institutions may be interpreted more broadly in a sociological sense, as it is construed in chapter 3, in this case the term institution refers to the system or school district. Some might also call this category of trust “generalizable trust” (related to people you do not know) or “universalized trust” (trust where conditions of particularized trust in an individual, such as long-term interaction, are not present). 7. The contract dispute was clearly in the minds of teachers as they filled out the first survey cited herein. Survey data from the following year indicate that teachers may have regained trust in the district following a contract resolution (and a change in many of the top administrators). See table 5.1. 8. One counterexample emerged in a focus group with teachers at one school. Comparing Highland to another district in which she had worked, a teacher commented: “Our goal [at this school] is the same as theirs [in the district office] in that we want the best for the kids. If we come up [with] a little bit different way they let us go ahead and do it differently. I don’t know that they would have done that in [the other district]. They wouldn’t have trusted that we would have done it better than perhaps what they were ending up trying to do.” 9. Cohen (1999) defines interpersonal trust as “specific and contextual: One trusts particular people because of repeated interactions with them in specific contexts in which reciprocity is directly experienced” (p. 221). Bryk and Schneider (2002) refer to interpersonal trust as “relational trust.” 10. To allow for the topic of trust/mistrust to emerge naturally in the course of conversation, I only asked these questions at the end of interviews, and given limited time per interview and the fact that I conducted some interviews early in the study before developing these items, I did not ask all participants these questions (see table 5.3). 11. Bryk & Schneider, 2002. 12. See Inglehart, 1999; Offe, 1999; Patterson, 1999; Uslaner, 1999. 13. Warren, 1999a, p. 12. 14. Bryk & Schneider, 2002. 15. Others claim that trust enhances social support for innovation (Bryk & Schneider, 2002) and relieves a leader’s anxiety of having to follow rules and conform to traditional organizational expectations and norms (Offe, 1999). 16. Another potential source of trust may be the relational attributes of participants. In other words, Person A might trust Person B because they share similar professions or socioeconomic status. Person A might also trust Person B because they sit together on a nonprofit board or attend the same church. While these are clearly relevant, they did not appear to be as salient as the other sources of trust discussed in the following sections. 17. The theoretical literature on trust appears to confirm the importance of both ability and intent. Hardin’s (1999) conception of trust includes both: “If A is to trust

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B, B must have the motivation to do x but also the competence” (p. 28). Similarly, Bryk and Schneider (2002) include competence as a dimension of discernment on which trust is based. Given that people often cannot observe enough to know if another person is competent, this becomes one of several areas that individuals must discern about others, including respect, personal regard, and integrity (which is similar to notions of intent). 18. Higher levels of academic performance may also contribute to a positive track record and the foundations of trust. Although participants did not mention this, it is possible that Highland’s higher test scores provided evidence that district staff understood how to teach students and therefore were worthy of trust. In contrast, Mid Valley students’ lower academic performance may have raised questions about the professional legitimacy and trustworthiness of district staff and the district as a whole. 19. Mathews, 1996, p. 29. 20. This understanding of representation contrasts with notions that any person, regardless of physical attributes, can fairly and adequately represent our interests if he/she shares our opinions or beliefs or what Phillips (1995) calls “the politics of ideas.” 21. This teacher’s arguments echoed many of the tenets of what Phillips (1995) labels the “politics of presence,” which argues that because one person cannot necessarily stand in for another, representatives should mirror the characteristics (e.g., gender, race, and/or ethnicity) of those they represent. The politics of presence assumes that representatives in a more traditional sense generally represent constituents on issues that were explicitly debated during their campaign, and when new issues arise they fall back on personal judgment and possible prejudice. It is thus argued that proportionate representation and shared experience are important for guaranteeing fairness in deliberative settings, in which matters not previously debated are likely to arise. CHAPTER SIX. IMPLICATIONS FO R POLICY AND PRACTICE IN AN ERA OF ACCOUNTABILITY 1. For further discussion of accountability models and assumptions implicit in NCLB see Adams & Kirst (1999); O’Day (2002); Stecher, Hamilton & Gonzalez (2003). 2. Gutmann, 1999. 3. For similar arguments see Gold & Simon, 2003. 4. I do not have the evidence or the intent to prove the superiority of deliberative or participatory models. Meeting this burden of proof would require more extensive research comparing these experiments to alternative models of decision making. The discussion presented herein suggests the types of outcomes that may arise under well-implemented deliberative processes compared to those that are not well-implemented. 5. Funding for the new preschool programs became available in 2002–03. One would not expect to see improvements in student achievement for at least three years

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and test scores for the first cohort of preschoolers were not available at the time of publication. Once available, it would perhaps be realistic to see overall improvements in the percentage of second graders (the first level in which state tests are administered) achieving proficiency on English Language Arts state tests or perhaps fewer students in the bottom quartile. 6. The percentage of students scoring at or above the 50th percentile on the state test increased from 1999 to 2002 in all grades (2–8) and in all three areas of math, language, and reading—with noticeably greater gains in certain grades and subjects (e.g., fifth-grade language and math, second-grade reading). An analysis of test scores by student cohort reveals a similar pattern of improvement: the percentage of students scoring at or above the 50th percentile on the state test increased from 1999 to 2002 in nearly all four cohorts examined and nearly all three areas of math, language, and reading. The one exception to this pattern is the performance of cohort 3 students (students in the third grade in 1999) in the area of math, where there was a four percentage point decrease during this time period. This analysis only examined scores up to 2002 because in 2003 California changed its state test from the Stanford Achievement Test (SAT-9) to the California Standards Tests. Analyses of data available for 2003–05 indicate that with a few exceptions, most grades continued to achieve gains on the new state test. 7. Consistent with her interest-based perspective, she also noted that much of this learning helped advance her personal interests: “I know what I need to do to help my kids and where to go within the district, so I can push for my personal goals for my children.” 8. Warren, 1999b. 9. Warren (1999b) notes a similar duality: trust complements and supports deliberative resolutions of political conflict, and deliberative approaches to political conflict have the potential to generate trust. 10. Benhabib, 1996. 11. Bryk, 1998; Fung, 2001; McDonnell & Weatherford, 2000b: also see the deliberative polling by James Fishkin. 12. Of course, 30–second whips should not replace longer periods of time available for in-depth conversation and exchange of ideas required in a truly deliberative process. 13. Weick, 1984, p. 43. 14. Ibid., p. 40. 15. Other empirical work, however, does support this hypothesis. A three-year study of a shared decision-making (SDM) project in a large, public high school found that the group’s early victory in crafting and winning approval from the district for a new attendance plan greatly enhanced faculty attitudes toward SDM (and possibly district leaders) (Johnson & Pajares, 1996). One member observed, “People who were not interested are now interested. People are saying . . . maybe we do have some say, and downtown won’t stop us” (p. 612). Dispelling suspicions that SDM would result in only talk, this early, concrete accomplishment was crucial in widening support for

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and involvement in SDM. Similarly, Uslaner (1999) cites research on social experiments in which groups of “warring” campers faced with “superordinate tasks”—such as fixing a broken-down truck to get themselves back to camp—experience a sense of control and enhanced trust as a result of their successful joint efforts. 16. Other research supports the link between mistrust and a lack of small wins. For example, Weiss and Cambone (1994) partly attribute the lack of success and teacher commitment to the process of site decision making in several high schools to an absence of small wins. They note that “the fruits of their participation were not very visible” and teachers “believed that an elephantine amount of talk sometimes brought forth a small ‘mouse’ of results” (p. 291). Without this sense of accomplishment, teachers continued to harbor suspicions that administrators were manipulating them. 17. For further discussion of deliberative skills, see Pamental, 1998. 18. Young, 1997a, 1997b; Sanders, 1997. 19. Young, 1997b, p. 399. 20. Fung, 2001. 21. Westbrook, 1991. 22. Guttman, 1999, pp. 92–93. 23. See Gold, Simon, & Brown, 2002; Shirley, 1997. 24. Fung & Wright, 2001. 25. Sanders, 1997. 26. Cohen, 1997. 27. Mansbridge, 1983. APPENDIX A. METHODOLOGY 1. Miles & Huberman, 1994; Yin, 1994. 2. Merton, 1987. 3. Strauss & Corbin, 1994. 4. Creswell, 1994; Yin, 1994. 5. Strauss & Corbin, 1998. 6. Fowler, 1993; Light, Singer, & Willett, 1990. 7. Miles & Huberman, 1994; Strauss & Corbin, 1998. 8. Creswell, 1994; Merriam, 1988.

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Index

accountability, and autonomy in representation, 75, 91, 159, 206n17 as community responsibility, 161–162 and education, 14, 17–18, 24–25, 160–161 in joint work, 6, 10, 12, 41–43, 51–52, 102, 140, 174, 202n14 Amy (Mid Valley Advisor), 91 Aristotle, 10 Bachrach, Peter, 60 Baratz, Peter, 60 Barber, Benjamin, 8, 11 Benhabib, Seyla, 11 Berelson, Bernard, 9 Brian (Highland teacher), 69, 96, 153, 167 Bryk, Tony, 140, 209n4, 210n9, 210n15, 211n17 bureaucracy, definition and theory of, 101–102 See also hierarchy “can you live with it” rule, 33f, 38, 70, 171t, 172 Carol (Mid Valley district administrator), 82–83 Charles (Mid Valley board member), 46–49, 54, 63–64, 90–91, 123, 139–141, 148

civic capacity, 209n13 coconstruction and ownership of mission, 35–37, 43–46, 57, 85t, 170 Cohen, Joshua, 11, 210n9 collaboration, 3–5 Collaborative, the, 25–26, 54–55, 169, 180 community of practice, 6, 14 Dahl, Robert, 60 Darling-Hammond, Linda, 47, 98 data use, 40–41, 47, 50, 103–104, 115–118, 127–128, 161–162, 165, 171t, 173 deliberative democracy. See under democratic governance models democratic governance models, 7–12, 56–57 deliberative, 10–12, 14, 30–31, 59, 98, 102, 169, 202n30, 203n36, 203n43, 204n9 affective outcomes, 165–169 decision outcomes, 163–164, 211n5, 212n6 educative outcomes, 164–165 interest-based, 9–10, 12 participatory, 7–8, 12, 27, 98 representative, 8–9, 12 democratic inclusion. See under institutional values and discord democratic joint work. See under joint work

225

226

INDEX

Dewey, John, 8, 10, 181 disenfranchised groups, 2, 154, 180–182. See also feminist theory; speech biases Donna (Highland principal), 85 elitist theory of democracy, 8–9 Elster, John, 11 Emily (Highland board member), 69 entrepreneurial organization, 102, 208n5 equal voice. See reciprocity feminist theory, 76–77, 179, 205n6, 206n20 George (Mid Valley board member), 46–49, 54, 90–91, 123, 139–141, 149, 154 Guttman, Amy, 72, 161, 181, 203n36, 203n43 Habermas, Jurgen, 11 hierarchy, in district organization, 105–107, 112, 114, 119, 128, 208n6 and power, 65–70, 146, 206n15 Highland School District local context, 19, 21–23, 93, 125–126, 204n3 organizational culture, 92–93, 113–119, 208n10 organizational structure, 102–112 regional context, 18, 203n1 state context, 17–18 strategic planning, 2, 56, 82, 86, 89, 93, 96, 104, 106, 109, 112, 115, 118–119, 124, 139, 142, 150–153, 155, 156, 157, 161–164, 166–167, 170 history, 26–27 process, 35–43, 71, 72, 74, 75 outcomes, 52–54, 55, 163–169, 205n10 participation, 61–63, 67–70 purpose, 31–33

representation, 27–30, 198–199, 204n7 structure, 33 superintendent, 119–124, 138–139, 149–150 Hobbes, Thomas, 9 inclusiveness, 16, 29, 151–156, 159, 172, 177–179, 204n9 institutional theory, 207n1 institutional values and discord centrality of discussion and, 95–96, 172, 207n5 democratic inclusion vs. market perspectives, 89–92, 97–99 democratic inclusion vs. professional autonomy, 80–89, 97–99, 158, 207n2 organizational context and, 92–94, 128, 209n15 structure of joint work and, 96–97 trust and, 94–95, 146–147 interest-based democracy. See under democratic governance models Jefferson, Thomas, 10, 206n17 Joan (Mid Valley Advisor), 85, 95 joint work, definition of, 6, 12, 202n14 Jose (Mid Valley Advisor), 51, 63–65, 95, 146, 154, 165 Judy (Highland parent), 32, 37, 39, 74, 76, 139, 142, 165 leadership delegation of authority, 119–122, 174 relations with school board, 122–124 trust and, 137–139, 174 “leave your title at the door,” 71, 75, 96, 104, 156 Locke, John, 9 Lucy (Highland parent), 38, 39, 63, 84, 90, 153, 165 Lukes, Steven, 60 Madison, James, 10 Mansbridge, Jane, 9, 11, 14, 61, 205n11

INDEX

Maria (Highland parent), 32, 37, 41, 62–64, 69, 86–87, 164, 179 methodology, analysis, 13–14, 192 data collection, 12, 188–191 sample selection, 12–13, 185–188 Mid Valley School District bond issue, 34, 91, 137, 139–140 CAP initiative, 1–2 Advisory, 1, 27, 28, 34–35, 43–52, 57–58, 66–67, 70, 79, 80, 86–89, 94, 97, 98, 118, 140–142, 144–145, 147, 151, 154–155, 157, 159, 162, 163, 170, 173, 174, 177, 178, 204n5, 204n6 director, 25, 31, 35, 43–45, 49, 55, 88, 94, 97, 124, 126, 131, 134, 135, 137, 140–143, 144, 147, 148–149, 169, 176 history, 24–26 outcomes, 54–55, 163–169 participation, 61–67 process, 43–46 purpose, 31, 32 representation, 27–29, 194–195, 204n5, 204n6 study sessions, 2, 34–35, 45–52, 54, 56, 62–63, 65, 77, 82–83, 86, 90–91, 95, 112, 121, 139–141, 143–144, 147, 154, 176, 178 local context, 19–21, 125–126 organizational culture, 93–94, 113–119 organizational structure, 102–112 regional context, 18, 203n1 state context, 17–18 superintendent, 31, 119–124, 137–138, 148, 150–151 Mike (Mid Valley Advisor), 49–51, 54, 79, 85, 144, 166 moral disagreement, 203n36 new professionalism, 207n3 No Child Left Behind Act (NCLB), 14, 18, 160–161, 212n1

227

norms of preclusion, 72–74, 77, 145, 158, 171, 173, 182 participation facilitation strategies, 71–72, 172–173, 206n16 by gender, 61–62, 205n10, 205n11 by hierarchical position, 65–70, 206n15 by linguistic skill and style, 62–65, 206n14 by race/ethnicity, 62, 206n13 participatory democracy. See under democratic governance models Pat (Mid Valley teacher/union leader), 84 Pateman, Carole, 8 personnel procedures, 103–104 Pitkin, Hanna, 75 politics of ideas, 211n20 politics of presence, 211n21 power, 59–61. See also participation; representation faces of, 60, 66, 76, 205n6 organizational context and, 70, 127–128 trust and, 70, 145–146 professionalism. See under institutional values and discord publicity, 40–41, 50–51 reason-based decision making, 37–38, 39f, 46–48, 69–70 reciprocity, 10, 38–40, 48–50, 102, 106, 163, 173, 202n30, 210n9 representation, 74–77, 172, 206n17, 206n20, 211n20, 211n21 paradox of, 156, 159–160, 178–180, 182 trust and, 151–155 representative democracy. See under democratic governance models resources, acquisition and allocation, 107–109 organizational climate and, 124–127 Rita (Highland board member), 143

228

INDEX

Roberto (Highland student), 67–68, 70–71, 166 Rousseau, Jean Jacques, 8 Sally (Highland board member), 84 Sanders, Lynn, 77 Sartori, Giovanni, 9 Schneider, Barbara, 141, 209n4, 210n9, 210n15, 211n17 Schumpeter, Joseph, 8–9 small wins, 174–175, 177, 212n15, 213n16 social capital, 209n1 speech biases, 41, 42, 62–65, 158, 180, 206n14 teachers’ union, 21, 23, 56, 74, 133, 135–136, 155, 204n3, 210n7 30-second whips, 71, 172, 212n12 Thompson, Dennis, 11, 41, 72, 203n36, 203n43 Tom (Highland teacher), 38, 165, Tony (Mid Valley principal), 65–66, 84

trust, 131–132, 159, 174–177, 209n1, 209n4 as outcome of joint work, 167–169 gestures of, 175–176 institutional, 132–136, 209n6 institutional values and, 94–95, 146–147 interpersonal, 210n9 vertical, 136–142 horizontal, 142–145 organizational context and, 147, 210n15 perceived intent and ability and, 148–151, 210n17 power and, 145–146 representation and, 151–156 Warren, Mark, 146, 212n9 Weick, Karl, 174 Wenger, Etiene, 6, 42, 202n14 “who-ness,” 113–115, 132 Young, Iris Marion, 11, 179, 206n14, 206n20

EDUCATION

Democratic Dilemmas Joint Work, Education Politics, and Community

Julie A. Marsh Drawing on three years of field research and extensive theoretical and empirical literature, Democratic Dilemmas chronicles the day-to-day efforts of educators and laypersons working together to advance student learning in two California school districts. Julie A. Marsh reveals how power, values, organizational climates, and trust played key roles in these two districts achieving vastly different results. In one district, parents, citizens, teachers, and administrators effectively developed and implemented districtwide improvement strategies; in the other, community and district leaders unsuccessfully attempted to improve systemwide accountability through dialogue. The book highlights the inherent tensions of deliberative democracy, competing notions of representation, limitations of current conceptions of educational accountability, and the foundational importance of trust to democracy and education reform. It further provides a framework for improving community-educator collaboration and lessons for policy and practice. “The comparative case studies allow the author to probe the emergent themes and patterns and to deal with alternative interpretations with a degree of sophistication not often found in the literature on efforts to engage elements of the school community in school district policymaking.” — Betty Malen, coeditor of Balancing Local Control and State Responsibility for K–12 Education “Findings from this book will inform practice in the field of school governance and leadership.” — Kenneth Wong, author of City Choices: Education and Housing Julie A. Marsh is Policy Researcher at the RAND Corporation. She is the coauthor (with Kerri A. Kerr, Gina S. Ikemoto, Hilary Darilek, Marika Suttorp, Ron W. Zimmer, and Heather Barney) of The Role of Districts in Fostering Instructional Improvement: Lessons from Three Urban Districts Partnered with the Institute for Learning and the coeditor (with Amy M. Hightower, Michael S. Knapp, and Milbrey W. McLaughlin) of School Districts and Instructional Renewal. A volume in the SUNY series, School Districts: Research, Policy, and Reform Meredith I. Honig and Julie A. Marsh, editors STATE UNIVERSITY OF NEW YORK PRESS www.sunypress.edu ISBN: 978-0-7914-7127-2 EAN

9 780791 471272

90000 >