At my university, undergraduates do not take a course solely devoted to the history of education.  Instead, a portion of a required course, Education and American Culture (H340), is reserved for the history of education.  Though it can vary by instructor, usually about half the semester is devoted to examining how schools have historically developed, while the other half focuses on current issues in schools.  In a meeting before my first time teaching the course, my faculty supervisor suggested that this transition between history and current issues would be an excellent opportunity to solicit student feedback before the end of semester evaluations.  I liked the idea, and each of the five times I have taught the course, I devote a portion of the first class session on current events to students’ thoughts about the class so far.  Students have about ten minutes without me in the room to discuss what they like and dislike about the course and we then discuss the course as a group.  It was during this group discussion last spring a student – who, it must be said, was very polite about it – said, “The course is great, but it’s still history.” 

I have thought about that comment on and off since last spring.  In a way, the comment still puzzles me, simply because it is so foreign to me as a history of education student.  And though I can’t say that I have discovered a definitive solution (if one exists), my student’s remark has helped me appreciate teaching problems that are unique to historians of education.  I should probably mention at this point I am not offering any answers in this post.  To be honest, I don’t know that I have worked through all the implications of what my student said.  Instead, I want to codify some of the issues, the problems, which confront historians of education as teachers.  Two main points about my student’s comment stand out to me now: one about history, and the other about education. 

First, I have come to believe historians of education who teach in schools and departments of education are, in a very real way, handicapped before the course begins.  Skills that are valued in many teacher education programs are inconsistent with what is taught in history of education courses.  The majority of education students’ coursework focuses on the “how to” issues they will grapple with as teachers – how to write a lesson plan, how to deal with parents, how to teach in a pluralizing society.  Such courses all have a discernible sense of direction; they all point to a student’s future career as an educator.  Students can easily identify how such methods courses are meant to prepare them, since each provides skills they will need to realize as teachers.  In order to use technology effectively, they take a class on that topic.  In order to understand the needs of exceptional students, education students take a class focusing on that population. 

In this climate, history is at a distinct disadvantage.  History of education courses are not designed with the sense of direction, as our students understand it, that many other school of education courses are.  That is, we do not teach students how to do something, but how to know something.  We teach a skill set that is not applicable to their future careers in the way that the majority of their classes are.  As a result, our courses, like other foundations courses, are outliers in schools and departments of education.  History of education doesn’t point toward teachers’ future careers the way other classes can and do.  And, I’m afraid, it’s the (perhaps unintentional) emphasis on causality – “take this class to be able to do that in the classroom” – that has become increasingly entrenched each year.  My point here is that courses don’t really exist in isolation.  The fact that history of education courses are surrounded by “how to” courses in schools and departments of education will have some effect on students’ sense of importance of the class. 

Second, and certainly related, students seem to think of history as little more than a chronology of events.  This is their default understanding.  From time to time I’ve asked my students what they think history is, and, practically without fail, I hear that it is a collection of names and dates.  For whatever reason(s), many undergraduates see history as little more than a progression of events, organized within their respective eras.  The “Old Deluder Satan” law was written during the colonial period; Horace Mann worked during the common school period.  Fair enough, there is obviously a real truth here.  Students do need a background of various people, events, etc. to frame their understanding.  Still, I wonder how much we are being, well, dishonest with our students when we present the past as a finished product.  Such a view is certainly absent in our professional lives.  Through books, articles, and presentations, we are consistently revising and deepening our understanding of the past.  History is anything but settled.  And yet, from my conversations with undergraduates, that is the overwhelming understanding they share. 

My time teaching in graduate school is the first opportunity I’ve had to consider the challenges that come up when teaching history of education.  My sense, though, is that, as teachers, we face perhaps more challenges than ever before, internal and external, new and old.  What I’ve tried to do here is address the challenges, both from education and history, that face those of us that teacher history of education courses.  I’ve taken the high (or perhaps low) road and avoid any answers.  Obviously, solutions are important, and necessary.  Still, each generation of teachers conceives of problems facing them differently.  At this point in my career, I am trying to make sense of how our field fits in schools and departments of education.  I would certainly welcome issues others have encountered and any possible resolutions. 

My first course in graduate school was sort of a getting-to-know-you roundtable. Every week, students would read an article or chapter by a different professor in the department and then discuss it with him/her.  The most interesting presentation by far came from a sociologist who was near retirement.  He had us read one of his articles that had been rejected for publication, with the reviewers’ criticism attached.  I think we were supposed to learn a lesson about humility but also (given the tone of some of the comments) about the occasional pettiness of academic publishing.  For me, it was just great to see the process of article submission, which, like so many things in academia, can seem shrouded in mystery.  I hope the following post can offer the same sort of guidance to other graduate students out there.

Two years ago, in a burst of ambition, I resolved to get my first article published.  I was only a few years into graduate school but thought that I could produce a piece on par with some of those that I had read.  And whatever the outcome, it seemed, the submission process itself would be a learning experience.

At the outset, I decided to get some practice.  When a call went out on the H-Net listserv for book reviewers, I took it.  I also submitted an article to a state magazine of history and toyed with other writing outlets (review essays, op-eds, and serious blog posts) that could hone my prose and force me to stay current on historiographical and policy debates.

Next, I selected the piece that I wanted to submit, a seminar paper about social studies reform during the Cold War.  Most people, I suspect, would choose a portion of their master’s thesis or a chapter of their dissertation, but I thought that the piece in question was colorful and added something to current historical debates.  Moreover, if it got accepted it might leave me with a deeper reservoir of material for later submissions.

Where to submit?  Friends and professors suggested that I find a small, focused but reputable source, something that I myself read.  I thought History of Education Quarterly was the best fit for my material, but others might look at the Teachers College Record, Journal of Negro Education, Paedagogica Historica, etc.  An easy way to gauge whether a journal is a good fit is to look at its tables of contents over the past few years (almost always available online), or to look at the vitae of young scholars that you admire and see where they have published.

Some painfully obvious advice: before submitting, edit ruthlessly.  After spending several weeks reorganizing and embellishing sections of my paper, I began to pare down extraneous material.  It was shocking how much there was.  Going through a draft with fresh eyes, I had to reevaluate whether every quote was crucial to the argument, whether I could phrase my points more concisely, and if I really needed the padded footnotes that often buttress my writing.  (No.  Yes.  No.)  Also, I had to review my sources several times.  Editors are serious about fact-checking and, as Emily mentioned in an earlier post, it can be difficult to retrieve file and folder numbers long after conducting research. 

Even after all that, my first round of revisions included some forehead-slapping mistakes in fact and emphasis.  But overall the revision process was relatively painless.  The reviewers offered some comments that were quite helpful in clarifying my argument.  I ignored others that seemed too far afield.

Some less obvious advice: be cognizant of the time lag that “peer review” entails.  After receiving your draft, a journal needs to secure anonymous reviewers, send them copies, wait for their comments, return it to you for revisions, and then repeat the process several more times.  In my case, there was only one round of significant revisions, followed by an acceptance with more minor changes, and that took over six months.  Even now I am not sure exactly when the piece will go into print.  Most journals, I think, have a delay of at least a year or two and—as happened to me with a different, non-academic article—publication dates can get pushed back multiple times.  None of this bothers me at the moment, but I can imagine that pressing job interviews or tenure reviews could make the process a bit more hectic.  In short: plan ahead! 

Anyway, I hope this post is in some way helpful to aspiring scholars out there.  I would love to hear about others’ experiences (positive or negative) in the comments section.