Why Our Schools Must Keep Their Commitment to Te Tiriti o Waitangi

Image: Ōtaki College, used with permission

After more than 50 years in education, I’ve learned that the most powerful learning happens when children see themselves reflected in their classroom – when their language, culture, and identity are recognised and valued. This isn’t ideology; it’s reality, proven time and again in schools and communities across Aotearoa. It’s also why I’m deeply concerned about the government’s proposal to remove the requirement for school boards to give effect to Te Tiriti o Waitangi.

Last week I attended the FullScale Symposium in New Orleans with two New Zealand school leaders. One is the principal of a small, multi-cultural primary school in Auckland, and the other is the deputy principal of a very large multi-cultural primary school in Hamilton. We presented one of the first workshops at the event, and my colleagues presented on how honouring Te Tiriti o Waitangi shapes practice in their schools. Both colleagues shared how working with whānau to establish shared purpose has transformed engagement and achievement – living proof that giving effect to Te Tiriti isn’t an abstract policy idea but a practical pathway to success.

With this in mind I became motivated to write this post after I read this morning how the current government is proposing to remove the requirement for school boards to “give effect to” Te Tiriti o Waitangi, arguing that boards should focus on “practical things” like attendance and achievement. But here’s what concerns me: honouring Te Tiriti is one of the most practical things we can do to increase engagement and lift achievement, and more than that, to raise the aspirations of all for a future where all can thrive and experience success in life not just in learning.

Here’s what I believe “giving effect to Te Tiriti” should look like in our schools. It’s not complicated bureaucracy – it’s about ensuring every child succeeds. It means:

Making sure Māori students achieve at the same levels as their peers
Including local tikanga and mātauranga in what and how we teach
Offering opportunities to learn te reo Māori
Consulting with whānau and local iwi when making important decisions
Creating environments where all students feel they belong

These aren’t additional burdens on boards – they’re core responsibilities of good governance that benefit all students, not just Māori learners.

Here are four key arguments that occur to me as I reflect on this situation this morning…

1. This Is About Our Founding Agreement

Te Tiriti o Waitangi isn’t just another historical event to memorise alongside other historical events such as the Battle of Hastings. It’s our nation’s founding document. It’s a living agreement that continues to shape our laws, our society, and our relationships today. Unlike historical events that have concluded, Te Tiriti remains legally and morally binding.

When our forebears signed this agreement in 1840, the Crown made promises: to protect Māori rights and taonga (including language and knowledge systems), to enable Māori to make decisions about their affairs, and to ensure equal rights and privileges for all. For generations, we failed to honour these promises. The Education and Training Act 2020 was an attempt to finally make good on this commitment within our education system.

The government now argues that Te Tiriti obligations “rightfully sit with the Crown,” not with school boards. But school boards are Crown entities. They govern Crown institutions. If schools don’t honour this agreement, who will? And besides, surely creating the conditions where the Treaty is honoured by all citizens is a strategically sensible thing for the Crown to do in order to discharge its responsibilities in the first place?

The recently revised “knowledge rich” curriculum compounds this concern by positioning Te Tiriti alongside Greek civilisations, early explorers, and global migration stories – all examples of “cultural diversity” that students might explore. While students will learn about various cultures through activities reflecting “diverse cultural contexts,” this approach fundamentally misunderstands what Te Tiriti represents.

Te Tiriti is not simply another example of cultural diversity or multicultural awareness – it is the constitutional foundation of our nation. Treating it as just one cultural perspective among many, equivalent to learning about ancient Greece or Chinese dynasties, strips it of its unique legal standing and ongoing relevance.

This isn’t about celebrating cultural differences – important as that is. This is about honouring a solemn agreement that gives our government its legitimacy to govern. When we reduce Te Tiriti to a topic students might encounter while developing “key competencies” around cultural diversity, we’re abandoning our constitutional responsibility and telling Māori students and whānau that their place in our national story is optional, negotiable, disposable.

2. This is About Raising Achievement

Over decades of working alongside schools with significant Māori student populations, I’ve seen the generational impact of colonisation: the loss of language, identity, and culture. I’ve also seen what happens when we get it right.

When children see their culture reflected and valued in their learning environment, something remarkable happens. Their engagement increases. Their confidence grows. They participate more actively because the learning matters to them personally. Research consistently shows that students with strong cultural identity perform better academically, have better mental health, and develop greater resilience.

But the impact extends far beyond individual students. When schools genuinely affirm Māori language and culture, the benefits ripple through entire whānau and communities. I’ve witnessed parents and grandparents reconnect with te reo and tikanga they’d lost through their own schooling experiences. When children come home speaking te reo, sharing cultural knowledge, and feeling proud of their heritage, it creates healing across generations. Whānau who’ve carried the pain of having their language and culture dismissed or punished in schools begin to reclaim what was taken. This strengthening of cultural identity within families and communities has profound downstream effects on social cohesion, mental health, and community wellbeing.

This isn’t just about Māori students and whānau either. When schools embrace cultural diversity and create truly inclusive environments, all students benefit. They develop empathy, critical thinking, and the cultural competence needed to thrive in our diverse nation and interconnected world.

3. This is about our future – together

The government is claiming the 2020 Treaty clause “made no difference to raising the achievement of tamariki Māori.” I understand the desire for evidence of impact, but in my view four years is hardly sufficient time to evaluate systemic change in education, where transformation takes generations. More importantly, I challenge this assertion based on the context-specific evidence I’ve witnessed personally in schools that have genuinely embraced these principles.

We know what works! When Māori have genuine agency in educational decision-making, when their language and culture are reflected in their learning, when they’re free from discrimination, when whānau are actively involved – achievement improves. These conditions align precisely with what giving effect to Te Tiriti requires.

Our school boards don’t need less responsibility for Te Tiriti – they need better support to fulfil this vital obligation. The solution to implementation challenges isn’t to abandon our founding principles; it’s to provide clearer guidance, better resources, and stronger partnerships.

For the sake of all our children – Māori and non-Māori alike – we must maintain this commitment. Their success, and our nation’s future, depends on it.

4. This is About Personal Transformation

To conclude, I need to acknowledge something important here. As a Pākehā male, my five decades in education haven’t just been about witnessing change in others – the students and communities – they’ve been about profound change within myself. Working alongside some amazing Māori educators, whānau, and communities has fundamentally shifted my thinking, challenged my assumptions, deepened my understanding, and transformed how I work. Learning to truly honour Te Tiriti has made me a better educator, a better leader, and a better person. This journey of growth and understanding is available to all of us, but only if we’re willing to stay committed to the partnership Te Tiriti established.

Walking away from this obligation doesn’t just harm Māori communities – it impoverishes us all by denying us the opportunity to grow into the nation we promised to become together.

References

Populism and Education Reform

While I was travelling in the US this week I’ve had the opportunity to think more deeply about the current state of our education system -both in NZ and globally. I’ve been reflecting a lot on my experiences at the FullScale Symposium I attended, my visits to schools in San Francisco, and from reading about what was happening at the AEC “UpLiftEd” event in Wellington. In each of these I’ve seen evidence of these educational debates being increasingly polarised – evidence versus experience, experts versus “everyday wisdom,” and of what’s proven versus what’s popular.

An article I read during the week by Joseph Heath titled Populism, Fast and Slow offers an intriguing lens on this. Heath argues that populism draws on our intuitive, gut-level ways of thinking, while its critics rely on slower, analytical reasoning – and that the more experts criticise it, the stronger the populist views often become.

It’s a reminder that both intuition and analysis have blind spots. As educators and leaders, our challenge is to bridge that divide – to stay grounded in evidence, but also genuinely listen to the instincts and experiences that shape how people feel about change.

The Current Landscape: Rhetoric Without Reason

What troubles me most about the current reform discourse in New Zealand is not that change is being proposed, but rather the nature of how it’s being justified. Government communications increasingly appeal to populist sentiment, citing things like “common sense” solutions, appeals to parental frustration, promises to cut through bureaucracy and get “back to basics” for example. These messages resonate because they tap into genuine anxieties: concerns about literacy and numeracy outcomes, frustration with what feels like educational jargon, and a sense that schools have lost their way.

Yet when we look for the substantive case underpinning these reforms, we often find a vacuum. Where is the robustly argued evidence base that canvases all sides of the debate? Where are the longitudinal studies showing that the proposed changes will lead to better outcomes for our diverse student population? Instead, we get slogans and selective statistics that confirm predetermined conclusions.

The defence from those who oppose these reforms is equally problematic in my view. Too often, it amounts to a defence of the status quo rather than a compelling vision for a future focused solution. We hear that “evidence-based practice” supports current approaches, but this can sound like professional gatekeeping to parents and community members who see their children struggling. When educators respond to legitimate concerns with appeals to their own expertise, we risk widening the very divide we need to close.

Understanding the Populist Appeal

Heath’s framework helps explain why populist rhetoric about education proves so resilient. Intuitive thinking (what psychologists call System 1 thinking) is immediate, emotional, and based on readily available examples. When a parent sees their child unable to read fluently, when a community member recalls their own schooling as more rigorous, when a teacher feels overwhelmed by compliance demands, these experiences create powerful intuitive judgments.

Populist messaging works because it validates these intuitions. It says: “your concerns are legitimate, your common sense is right, and the experts who dismiss you are out of touch.” (A view expressed more than once by our own politicians or the ‘experts’ supporting them!) This is politically effective because it doesn’t require people to wade through complex research or understand the nuances of pedagogical theory.

The analytical response (System 2 thinking) requires effort. It asks people to consider complex evidence, to understand why simple solutions might have unintended consequences, to recognise that their personal experience might not generalise. This is a much harder sell, particularly when it seems to invalidate people’s lived reality.

The Expert’s Dilemma

As school leaders, we find ourselves in an uncomfortable position. We know that educational change is complex, that what works is often context-dependent, that there are rarely simple answers to systemic challenges. Too often we’ve seen initiatives fail because they ignored implementation realities or underestimated the importance of teacher expertise and professional judgment.

But when we articulate these complexities, we can sound defensive or evasive. When we point to research evidence, we can seem to be dismissing the legitimate concerns of parents and communities. The more we insist on the need for nuanced, evidence-informed approaches, the more we may inadvertently strengthen the populist narrative that “experts” are disconnected from reality.

This is Heath’s key insight: criticism from experts can actually reinforce populism rather than undermine it. When educational researchers and leaders critique simplistic solutions, it can be interpreted as professional self-interest – as defending a system that serves educators rather than students.

The Echo Chamber Problem

This dynamic became starkly visible to me recently at the two professional gatherings mentioned earlier. At the FullScale Symposium last week, I spent several days with education delegates hearing speakers and attending workshops that were largely focused on promoting evidence-informed practice in education. The quality of thinking was impressive, the research discussed was rigorous, and the commitment to student outcomes was genuine.

Yet as the days progressed, I became increasingly aware of what wasn’t being said. There was virtually no ‘counter view’ being expressed during the sessions – no voice representing the parent frustrated with progressive pedagogy, no perspective from the community member who thinks schools have lost their focus on fundamentals, no challenge to the prevailing orthodoxies of contemporary educational thought. Similarly, the AEC event (held in Wellington while I was away) featured a wide range of ‘experts’ whose views, however well-intentioned, could easily be construed by outsiders as professional self-interest.

The danger here is not that these gatherings happened – professional learning communities are valuable and necessary. The danger is that we immerse ourselves so completely in these self-reinforcing environments that we lose the ability to hear how our messages land with those outside our circles. We become fluent in speaking to each other while losing fluency in the language and concerns of the broader community.

When educational thought-leaders gather primarily to speak to each other, validating existing perspectives and approaches, we create the very conditions that make populist critiques more potent. We confirm the suspicion that ‘experts’ are disconnected from everyday concerns, that educational discourse is an insular conversation that excludes ordinary people, that professional recommendations serve professional interests rather than student needs.

This is not about abandoning professional spaces or dumbing down our discourse. It’s about recognising that if we only ever talk amongst ourselves, we shouldn’t be surprised when our carefully reasoned arguments fail to persuade – or worse, when they actively alienate the people we most need to engage.

Blind Spots on Both Sides

The challenge for school leaders is that both intuitive and analytical thinking have genuine blind spots when it comes to education reform.

Intuitive thinking can lead us astray because education is a complex system where cause and effect are not always obvious. What “feels right” (i.e. more discipline, more testing, more homework) may not actually produce better learning outcomes. Our memories of our own schooling are notoriously unreliable, often romanticising aspects that were actually quite problematic. And individual experiences, however powerful, don’t necessarily translate into effective policy.

But analytical thinking has its own limitations. Research evidence is always incomplete, often contradictory, and rarely provides clear prescriptions for specific contexts. The quest for rigorous evidence can lead to paralysis or to over-reliance on what can be measured rather than what matters most. Academic discourse can become self-referential, more concerned with methodological purity than practical impact.

Perhaps more troubling is how research evidence can be weaponised in service of predetermined agendas. In the current climate, we see rampant cherry-picking of research – selectively citing studies that support a particular position while ignoring contradictory findings or broader contextual factors. This is populism dressed in academic clothing: System 1 thinking that has learned to drape itself in the legitimacy of evidence.

When government or advocacy groups cite research to justify reforms, we need to ask: “Have they engaged with the full body of evidence, including studies that complicate or contradict their preferred narrative? Have they considered implementation contexts that differ from the research settings? Are they acknowledging the limitations and caveats that researchers themselves would insist upon?” Too often, the answer is no. Research becomes a tool for confirmation bias rather than genuine inquiry – we see this when the same pieces of evidence are repeatedly cited while contrary findings are systematically ignored, or when complex, nuanced research is reduced to sound bites that strip away all qualification and context.

This selective use of evidence is particularly dangerous because it undermines the very foundation of evidence-informed practice. When research is treated as a menu from which we can select only the items that suit our taste, we destroy its credibility and reinforce the populist suspicion that “experts” simply use data to justify what they already wanted to do.

Further to this, there’s a deeper problem. In education, values matter as much as evidence. Questions about what we want our education system to achieve (its purpose), what kind of citizens we’re hoping to develop, what knowledge and capabilities matter most – these are fundamentally normative questions that can’t be resolved by research alone. When we pretend that educational decisions are purely technical matters best left to experts, we deny the legitimate role of democratic participation in shaping our schools.

A Path Forward for School Leaders

So where does this leave us as educational leaders trying to navigate reform in a populist environment resulting in polarized views?

First, we need to acknowledge that populist concerns often point to real problems, even if the proposed solutions are simplistic. Declining literacy rates, teacher burnout, excessive compliance demands, disconnect between school and community – these are genuine issues that deserve serious attention. Our response should start with validation, not defensiveness.

Second, we must resist the temptation to hide behind expertise. Yes, educational research matters and professional judgment is important, but these should inform dialogue rather than foreclose it. (How often have I heard a quote from John Hattie’s research fired off as a response to criticism as if that alone will be a convincing argument for example). We need to make our reasoning transparent, explain why we think certain approaches work better than others, and be honest about uncertainty and complexity without using it as an excuse for inaction.

Third, we should recognise that emotional and intuitive responses to education aren’t just noise to be overcome – they often contain important insights. A parent’s gut feeling that their child isn’t being challenged, a teacher’s instinct that a new policy will create unintended problems, a community’s sense that schools no longer reflect their values – these deserve serious consideration, not dismissal.

Fourth, we need to build what might be called “translational capacity” – the ability to move between different ways of knowing and talking about education. This means being fluent in research evidence while also being able to speak in the language of everyday experience. It means honouring both the systematic knowledge that comes from formal study and the practical wisdom that comes from lived experience.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, we must create spaces for genuine deliberation about educational values and purposes. Instead of treating reform debates as technical questions with right answers, we should facilitate community conversations about what we collectively want from our schools. This means slowing down, creating opportunities for diverse voices to be heard, and building shared understanding before rushing to solutions.

The Leadership Challenge

This is not easy work. It requires us to sit with tension and ambiguity. It means sometimes advocating strongly for evidence-informed approaches while at other times stepping back to listen and learn. It requires humility about the limits of our expertise alongside confidence in the value of careful analysis and systematic inquiry.

In the face of reform rhetoric that appeals to simplistic thinking, our task is not simply to mount a defence of evidence-based practice. It’s to model a different kind of conversation – one that takes both evidence and experience seriously, that bridges intuitive and analytical thinking, that honours complexity without becoming paralysed by it.

This means being willing to say “I don’t know” when we don’t, to admit when current approaches aren’t working, to engage genuinely with concerns rather than explain them away. It means building trust through transparency and consistency, demonstrating through our actions that we’re committed to the success of all students, not to defending professional territory.

The reforms currently being proposed in New Zealand may or may not prove beneficial – the evidence base is thin, and much will depend on implementation. But regardless of what happens with specific policy initiatives, the deeper challenge remains: how do we have better conversations about education that neither defer entirely to expert judgment nor surrender to populist simplification?

As school leaders, we stand at a crucial intersection. We can either retreat into our professional enclaves, defending what we know against populist critique, or we can step into the messy, difficult work of bridging the divide between evidence and experience, between analytical and intuitive thinking. The future of our education system may well depend on which path we choose.

The question for all of us in educational leadership is whether we can create the conditions for wiser collective decisions about our schools – decisions that draw on both the rigour of systematic inquiry and the wisdom that comes from lived experience. In a time of polarisation, this may be the most important work we do.

[Disclosure: I had help from Claude.ai and ChatGPT in the process of formulating this post]

The Rise of Positionalism

A few months ago, I wrote about the importance of balance in education reform. Since then, I’ve become increasingly troubled by what I’m seeing across Aotearoa and in other parts of the world. Not only are we struggling to sustain balance, but our current way of talking about education almost guarantees we’ll lose it.

The pattern is familiar – we identify a problem, find an evidence-backed solution, implement it with zeal, then set the stage for the next pendulum swing. We’ve seen it with innovative learning environments, child-centred learning, and now with the renewed focus on structured literacy and knowledge-rich curricula.

What’s driving this isn’t just the pace of reform, but a deeper issue – binary thinking. This is when we view things as two opposite extremes, such as good or bad, right or wrong, ignoring the “shades of grey” that exist in between. We keep reducing complex ideas into simple opposites: phonics or whole language, knowledge-rich or child-centred, academic or vocational. These false choices make education sound like a zero-sum game rather than the deeply human, complex enterprise it really is.

Lately, this binary mindset has hardened into something even more troubling – what I’d call binary positionalism. In today’s policy environment, particularly in New Zealand, debate has become fiercely positional: for or against the government, with us or against us. The result is an increasingly combative tone that makes it difficult to argue for a balanced view.

Those who try to occupy the middle ground (e.g. those who dare to say “yes, but…” or “both, and…”) risk being dismissed as fence-sitters. Yet this is exactly where the important work of education should happen: in the nuanced space between extremes, where evidence and experience meet, and where different perspectives can inform each other.

Why Binary Thinking Fails

The key issue here is that education deals with complex, not complicated, problems. Complicated problems can be solved with rules and recipes. Complex ones can’t. They depend on relationships, context, and human judgment. Yet so often our reforms treat learning as if it were predictable and controllable: find the right method, train everyone to follow it, and measure consistency.

Consider the following chain of thinking for example:

Or this one…

Each of these steps sounds reasonable, but together they create rigidity where responsiveness is needed. The evidence on phonics, for instance, is strong – but when “maintaining fidelity” becomes more important than meeting the needs of actual children, we’ve lost the point.

As Yong Zhao reminds us, decades of standardised reforms have failed to lift student outcomes across the OECD. It’s not that evidence doesn’t matter – it’s that good teaching depends on knowing when, how, and for whom to apply it.

Moving Beyond Either/Or

Real balance means both/and thinking: structure and flexibility, phonics and meaning-making, knowledge and creativity, explicit teaching and inquiry. It’s about building teacher capability, not just enforcing compliance; designing policy with teachers, not for them; and trusting professionals to make sound judgments in context.

When we lose that balance, we see predictable consequences: pedagogy narrows, professionalism diminishes, the curriculum compresses, and wellbeing slips down the list of priorities. And it’s often the students least well served by previous approaches who are most affected by the new ones.

This isn’t about rejecting structured literacy or knowledge-rich curricula. It’s about rejecting the binary thinking that forces false choices and creates conditions for the next pendulum swing.

We need structure without rigidity. Evidence without dogma. Knowledge with experience. Accountability with trust. Academic content alongside creative expression, physical literacy, and polymathic thinking.

We need teaching that combines clarity with curiosity, research with reflection, explicit instruction with inquiry-based learning – all deployed strategically based on professional judgment about what students actually need.

Most fundamentally, we need policy designed with practitioners as partners, not for them as implementers. Built on both evidence and trust. Recognising that sustainable improvement comes not from implementing the right programme, but from building system-wide capacity for responsive, sophisticated practice.

The balance we need isn’t a compromise between extremes. It’s the recognition that education’s complexity demands both/and thinking. That knowledge AND experience matter. That structure AND flexibility are essential. That we can be rigorous about evidence without being rigid about implementation.

Our students deserve education that prepares them not just to pass tests, but to think across disciplines, solve novel problems, and thrive in uncertain futures. That requires moving beyond binary thinking to embrace the messy, complex, deeply human work that education actually is.

We have to get the balance right. Not by choosing between false alternatives, but by refusing to accept that choice as necessary in the first place.

For more read my previous posts:

Holding Fast to Our Why in a Time of Mandates

It’s difficult to ignore the increasing level of angst among many educators in New Zealand at present – some of which is about to spill over in forms of industrial action, such is the level of frustration being felt. Conversations in schools, staffrooms, and leadership circles are dominated by the latest set of mandates about curriculum, assessment, and teaching practice, adding to an ever-increasing sense of overwhelm and frustration.

The pressure is real. Each new directive seems to arrive pre-packaged, leaving little room for debate or adaptation. Teachers feel undervalued and under-appreciated, their experience and expertise ignored. It’s no wonder that so many feel like they are being swept along in a tide of top-down reform.

I get it. The issues that drive these mandates are not unimportant. Headlines about declining achievement in literacy or mathematics, or concerns about consistency in assessment, grab attention and provoke a strong sense of urgency. But here lies the danger: when we allow the tyranny of the urgent to dominate our focus, we risk sacrificing something much more important – our why.

In the leadership development programmes I run with my colleague Maurie Abraham, we always begin with a deep dive into our ‘why’ – our core beliefs and values. We explore this with participants by asking questions such as; “what do we believe about education? About pedagogy? About our learners as unique individuals with potential?” Without clarity on these things, our responses to change are inevitably reactive, shaped by whatever external demand shouts the loudest. With clarity, however, we are more likely to hold steady – engaging with change in ways that reflect our core beliefs and values, rather than abandoning them.

This tension isn’t new. It’s what keeps our minds sharp, our practice continuously evolving, and the experience of schooling remaining relevant and engaging for all who attend.

I’ve written before about the contrast between John Dewey’s vision of a learner-centred, constructivist education – where students actively construct knowledge through experience and interaction – and E.D. Hirsch’s focus on the transmission of a common body of knowledge. The latter appears to be strongly influencing the current direction of ministerially directed mandates, while the former reflects what we’ve experienced over the past 30 years during which our curriculum and teacher education programmes have leaned into a largely constructivist approach. The current push feels very different – pre-determined, top down, and driven by a particular set of beliefs about knowledge and compliance that run counter to what many teachers hold dear, even if they haven’t always put those beliefs into words.

I’ve also written about the inherent dangers of over-emphasising the sort of success that rewards the accumulation of knowledge and how pursuit of this can quickly tip to perfectionism, and a habit of needing to ‘be right’ instead of being prepared to learn from making mistakes.

None of these things are binary issues. There is no particular ‘right or wrong’ in these tensions, and great educators will regularly be weighing up the options as to which strategy to employ to meet the needs of a particular individual or cohort. Of course there are certain areas of knowledge that provide the foundation for further thought. And of course we’d love to see all of our learners motivate to achieve success in what they’re doing. Decisions about how to achieve these things, what approach(es) we need to take, however, are where our educational philosophies may vary.

The problem is that when we haven’t articulated our shared beliefs, resistance becomes fragmented. We end up attacking the symptoms – criticising a new assessment process here, or lamenting the latest curriculum approach change there – without addressing the deeper cause: a clash of beliefs about what education is for, and how learning happens best.

Take assessment as an example. A belief shaped by urgency might drive a school or system to introduce more tests in an effort to lift achievement data quickly. By contrast, a belief shaped by a future vision (e.g. where all learners thrive, and where equity and fairness matter) would ask different questions. How do we ensure our assessments are fair to all learners? How do they help us understand not just what students know, but how they are growing as thinkers, creators, and collaborators? These two approaches might both claim to address “achievement,” but the difference the experience of learning and in outcomes for learners is stark.

The same is true in classrooms every day:

If I believe that learners construct knowledge through experience, I will design opportunities for them to explore, question, and test their ideas, rather than simply listening to me explain.
If I believe every learner has unique potential, I will offer different ways for them to show their understanding, rather than forcing them into a single mould.
If I believe education is about human flourishing, not just compliance, I will invite my students to reflect not only on what they’ve learned, but on how they’ve grown.

None of these practices are about ignoring standards or neglecting accountability. They are about anchoring practice in beliefs – so that when the waves of mandates come (and they will keep coming), we are not tossed about without direction.

The urgent will always demand our attention. But the question we must keep asking ourselves is this: “are we simply reacting to the urgent, or are we acting from our core beliefs about the kind of future we want for our learners?”

This is why it’s not enough for each of us to privately hold our own convictions. We need to take the time, as schools and communities, to make our shared beliefs visible. That might mean gathering staff to co-create a statement of what we believe about learners and learning. It might mean testing each new mandate against that statement: “does this align with who we are and what we value?” It might simply mean pausing regularly to remind ourselves of the future we are working towards.

Because in the end, mandates will come and go. What endures – what truly matters – is whether we remain grounded in our why. If we can hold to that, then even in the midst of change, we can respond with integrity, creativity, and hope.

Something to think about.

Here are some questions that might be useful for you to ponder individually, or to use in a staff meeting as you work these ideas through…

What do I most deeply believe about how my learners grow and thrive?
Where in my current practice do those beliefs show up most clearly? Where do they feel compromised?
When faced with a new mandate or urgent demand, how can I pause to ask: Does this align with my core beliefs, or is it pulling me away from them?
As a team, school or community, how do we make our shared beliefs about learning visible, so that they guide our collective response to external pressures?
How might holding equity and fairness as core values change the way we approach issues like assessment, curriculum, or reporting?

And some questions specifically for principals or school leaders…

As a leader, how are you ensuring your school’s shared beliefs about learning guide decisions, rather than simply reacting to external pressures?
What concrete actions can you take to help your staff pause, reflect, and align new mandates with the school’s core values and vision for learners?
How can you, as a leader, stand in the gap between external mandates and your staff’s practice, ensuring responses reflect your school’s values rather than simply complying?

The Rising Tide of Perfectionism

Earlier this year I participated in a webinar with Rebecca Winthrop and Jenny Anderson who were launching their book reading The Disengaged Teen. What really stuck with me about the book is their description of four modes of student engagement: passenger, resister, achiever, and explorer – see image below:

Over the past few weeks, I’ve been re-reading this book more carefully, and I’ve found myself returning to this framework again and again in my thinking and conversations with schools – particularly at the moment where there is a high level of expectation being placed on teachers and schools around performance and achievement.

What struck me most is how the achiever mode can quickly tip into perfectionism. This is the mode we most often celebrate in schools. Some may argue that it is the mode for which our schools are most ideally suited in their design. Achievers are the students who tick all the boxes, collect the gold stars, and seem to thrive on success. Teachers love them, parents are proud of them – but beneath the surface, many of these learners are fragile. Driven not by curiosity but by a need to “get it right,” many achievers avoid risks, shy away from failure, and often experience the worst mental health outcomes of all the groups.

That reality was brought home to me again this week when a principal I’ve worked from John Tyson Elementary School in Northwest Arkansas sent me an EdWeek article highlighting what one of her staff members, Jennifer Boogaart, described as a “mini-pandemic” of perfectionism among elementary-aged children. Boogaart and her colleagues in other states have noticed a significant rise in students who are reluctant to take risks, unwilling to try something unless they know they’ll succeed. Social media hasn’t helped they say, with its tendency to curate only accomplishments and success, it creates an environment where mistakes and failures are hidden away.

Now, I acknowledge that it’s easy to ‘romanticise’ failure as a key part of the learning process. There can be dangers in cheerleading failure as if it’s automatically character-building. Repeated failure without reflection and review can lead to a loss of hope, for example. But there’s an even greater danger in shielding students from it altogether. If learners never experience setbacks, never push through uncertainty, never learn to recalibrate when things go wrong, how will they build the resilience and problem-solving skills that life demands?

This is where the balance lies. We need achievers – but more importantly, we need explorers. As Winthrop and Anderson describe it, explorer mode is the pinnacle of engagement: where curiosity meets drive, and where learners become invested in their own learning. That doesn’t come from chasing perfection. It comes from having the freedom to ask questions, to try, to stumble, and to try again.

Here in New Zealand, I worry about this in the context of our current curriculum review. Much of the focus we’re hearing seems to be on achievement and performance – on the measurable, testable outcomes. Of course, these things matter. But if we overemphasise them, we risk fuelling the very perfectionism that’s already taking hold. We risk pigeon-holing students into achiever mode, while neglecting the broader (explorer) capabilities – resilience, perseverance, creativity – that they will need to thrive in adulthood.

What can we do?

This challenge isn’t solved by a new policy or a single shift in practice. It’s a mindset issue that needs to be addressed in our classrooms, our homes, and our communities. As I’ve pondered this and discussed these concerns with some professional colleagues, I’ve come up with a few reflections for teachers and parents to consider:

Shift the focus from outcomes to effort. Students quickly learn what adults value. If the praise they hear is only about grades, awards, or “being the best,” they’ll attach their worth to outcomes. If, instead, we consistently notice and affirm effort, persistence, creativity, and courage, we communicate that those things matter just as much – if not more. The a caveat here, of course, is that our affirmation must be authentic – students soon see through if it’s not!
Normalise mistakes as part of learning. When a child fails a test, struggles with a problem, or makes an error in sport or music, our first instinct is often to soften it – “never mind, you’ll do better next time.” Instead, we can treat mistakes as data: “What did you notice? What might you try differently?” This shifts the focus from embarrassment to growth.
Model imperfection ourselves. Students pick up on how adults handle mistakes. Do we get flustered and defensive, or do we laugh, acknowledge the error, and carry on? When we share our own stories of failure – a time when something didn’t work, but we learned and grew from it – we give permission for them to do the same.
Watch for the quiet cost of achievement. The students who “get everything right” can easily fly under the radar, because they don’t cause disruption or demand extra support. Yet they may be carrying the heaviest burden of all: the need to be perfect. We need to check in with these learners, listen carefully, and gently challenge them to take safe risks and explore beyond the comfort zone of achievement.
Protect time for inquiry and play. In a world where curriculum and assessment pressures loom large, we must still carve out space for learners to follow their curiosity, to make things, test things, and sometimes watch them fall apart. That’s where resilience and creativity take root.

Some questions to guide conversation

These shifts aren’t easy – they involve us rethinking long-held habits as educators and parents. Sometimes the most powerful way to begin is by asking ourselves (and our learners) better questions. Here are a few that might open up that conversation…

How do the ways we give praise – in the classroom or at home – shape what learners believe is most valued?
In what ways do our current routines or assessment practices create space for mistakes, reflection, and growth?
How comfortable are we, as adults, with letting learners see our own struggles and mistakes? What message might that send them?
Which of our “gold star” students might be quietly carrying the burden of perfectionism? How could we check in with them more intentionally?
Where in our week do learners have opportunities to follow curiosity, experiment, or take risks without the pressure of grades or outcomes?
How often do we ask students what motivates them, what they fear, or what they most enjoy in their learning? What would we learn if we listened more closely to their answers?

A final thought

So perhaps the alert is this: in our quest for higher standards, let’s not lose sight of the deeper purpose of learning. Let’s create classrooms where effort and curiosity are valued as much as outcomes. Let’s make space for students to explore, to risk, and yes, at times, to fail. Because it’s in those moments of failure, reflection, and renewed effort that true learning takes root.

Why Dewey’s Vision Still Matters

A few weeks ago, my twin grandsons both gained their driver’s licenses – marking a milestone in their lives as they step towards adulthood. Watching them go through the process reminded me just how layered learning really is. The first step, of course, was a written test on the road code. They had to show that they knew the rules and could recall them when faced with multiple-choice questions. From there, they are now able to drive under supervision until they are confident enough to sit a practical test, where an instructor judged whether they could actually apply that knowledge safely on the road. There was also the option of a defensive driving course – another classroom-based way of acquiring essential knowledge about hazards and safe driving practices.

All of these steps are important. They provide the foundation: rules, facts, and technical skills. But here’s the thing – none of them guarantee that someone will become a good driver. A truly competent driver is not only someone who can recall the rules and operate a car, but someone who has developed judgment, confidence, and wisdom. A good driver knows when to slow down in the rain, how to anticipate another car’s sudden move, and how to make decisions that keep everyone safe.

A Knowledge Rich Curriculum

I find this distinction helpful when thinking about education. Over the past week or so I’ve noted a lot of discussion in some of the forums I belong to of educators expressing concern about the direction the Curriculum refresh is taking here in New Zealand, with Minister of Education, Erica Stanford, championing a shift towards a knowledge-rich curriculum, moving away from the child-centred approach that has dominated for the past few decades. I have to confess to finding the way in which this change is being introduced particularly challenging – but not surprising.

What we’re experiencing isn’t unique to New Zealand. England has notably adopted a knowledge-rich curriculum model heavily influenced by the ideas of E.D. Hirsch, a US educator and education theorist.

Since 2010, the UK government has implemented significant education reforms inspired by Hirsch’s theories. These reforms emphasise a structured, content-focused curriculum, aiming to provide all students with a shared body of knowledge to promote cultural literacy and social equity. The introduction of the English Baccalaureate (EBacc) and the Progress 8 performance measure reflects this shift, highlighting core subjects like English, mathematics, science, and history, while potentially sidelining the arts and other foundation subjects.

Former Education Secretary Michael Gove was a prominent advocate for these changes, drawing directly from Hirsch’s work. He argued that a knowledge-rich curriculum was essential for raising academic standards and ensuring that all children, regardless of background, had access to the cultural capital necessary for success .

This approach has sparked debate within the UK, with some educators and researchers questioning the balance between knowledge acquisition and the development of critical thinking and creativity. Critics argue that an overemphasis on content delivery may limit opportunities for inquiry-based learning and student agency .

E.D. Hirsch’s knowledge-rich curriculum has a similar logic to the road code: it emphasizes the importance of mastering core knowledge – the cultural “rules” – that provide a base for participation in society. And just as you cannot drive safely without first knowing the rules, Hirsch is right that knowledge matters.

But – as with driving – such knowledge on its own is necessary but not sufficient. Cultural literacy is not just about recalling historical facts or vocabulary; it’s about applying understanding in context, navigating complexity, and exercising judgment.

This is where John Dewey’s vision feels so much more compelling for me. He advocated for a learner-centred approach rooted in constructivism, believing that students construct knowledge actively through experience and interaction, rather than passively receiving information. He argued that education must move beyond the recall of facts to cultivate learners who can think critically, collaborate, and act wisely in a changing world.

Hirsch vs. Dewey: Competing Visions of Education

Education debates have long been shaped by a tension between these two very different views of what schools are for. On one side stands E.D. Hirsch, who has spent decades arguing for a knowledge-rich curriculum that privileges content and cultural literacy. On the other is John Dewey, whose constructivist, child-centred philosophy positions learning as an active, experiential process designed to prepare young people for the future.

Hirsch’s work has been influential because it responds to a real concern: that without a shared base of knowledge, children are excluded from full participation in society. His solution is to prioritise transmission of essential facts, concepts, and cultural references – to ensure all children know the same “stuff.” This approach, however, risks narrowing education to something largely retrospective, focused on preserving what has been valued in the past.

Dewey, by contrast, saw education as inherently future-facing. For him, knowledge is important – but only when it is experienced, tested, and reworked by learners in ways that cultivate curiosity, adaptability, and a sense of agency. He envisioned education not as preparation for the world of work or even for adult life, but as life itself: a lived process where students learn to think, to collaborate, and to imagine the society they want to help build.

Over the past few days I’ve been travelling a bit and had the opportunity to explore these ideas a little more, so have endeavoured to contrast these approaches in this simple table:

Dimension	E.D. Hirsch: Knowledge-Rich Curriculum	John Dewey: Constructivist Approach
Purpose of Education	Cultural literacy; preparation for civic life; social mobility	Growth of the whole child; preparation for democratic participation and future society
Role of Knowledge	Core body of facts and references all must acquire	Experiences that generate meaning; knowledge constructed through inquiry
View of the Learner	Passive recipient of knowledge	Active participant, problem-solver, co-creator of understanding
Teaching Method	Transmission, explicit instruction, standard content	Experiential learning, inquiry, collaboration, reflection
Orientation	Retrospective: preserving shared cultural heritage	Future-focused: equipping learners to shape the future
Measure of Success	Recall of knowledge; mastery of content	Capacity to think, adapt, collaborate, and contribute meaningfully

Short-term Gains vs. Long-term Impact

While New Zealand’s shift towards a knowledge-rich curriculum is still in its early stages, there are emerging signs that this approach is yielding short-term gains, particularly in foundational skills like literacy and numeracy. Early indicators suggest that this approach is beginning to have a positive impact. For instance, schools that have implemented structured literacy programmes report improvements in students’ reading and writing abilities, particularly among those who have historically been underserved. These outcomes matter, and Hirsch is right to insist that knowledge is an essential foundation.

But these metrics tell us only part of the story. The available data are largely structured around what can be quantified – test scores, curriculum-level mastery, or NCEA passes. They rarely capture the more complex, enduring capacities we hope education will cultivate: curiosity, adaptability, critical thinking, creativity, and the ability to navigate an uncertain future.

In other words, achievement data can be used to demonstrate success in the short term, but they cannot, on their own, prove that students are being prepared to thrive in the world they will inherit. This is precisely where Dewey’s emphasis on experience, agency, and future-oriented learning remains so relevant: education must do more than transmit knowledge – it must shape learners capable of contributing meaningfully to the evolving society around them.

Why Dewey Still Matters

Hirsch’s contribution should not be dismissed. Just as new drivers need the road code, learners need access to the cultural knowledge that enables them to participate fully in society. But if we stop there, we risk producing students who know the “rules” but lack the judgment to apply them in real life.

Dewey’s vision reminds us that the ultimate purpose of education is not simply to fit young people into the world as it is, but to empower them to imagine and shape the world as it could be. That is the kind of future-focused education our learners – and our societies – truly need.

It’s the same with my grandsons. Passing the written test and practical assessment showed they had the basic skills to drive, but what gives me confidence now is seeing them exercise judgment on the road – slowing down in bad weather, anticipating risks, and making decisions that keep everyone safe. That’s what makes them good drivers, not just licensed ones.

So here’s the challenge: as New Zealand leans into a knowledge-rich curriculum model, heavily influenced by Hirsch, will we be satisfied with simply producing students who can pass the equivalent of a written test? Or are we prepared to design an education system that also cultivates judgment, adaptability, and wisdom – the qualities that will truly prepare them for the uncertain roads ahead?

What can we do?

For all of us involved in education, this moment calls for careful thought. In many schools I visit I hear teachers speaking about feeling pressured to “let go” of constructivist approaches (e.g. project-based learning, personal inquiries, passion projects etc.) in favour of one-size-fits-all directives: an hour a day of reading, writing, and mathematics, tightly aligned to nationally mandated standards for assessment.

But Dewey’s reminder is clear: while these mandates may be necessary, they are not sufficient. The real question is how we, as educators, can meet the requirements of a knowledge-rich framework while still carving out the space for inquiry, creativity, and learner agency. How do we ensure our practice doesn’t become reduced to test-preparation, but instead nurtures the deeper capacities our young people need?

Here are some questions that may be useful as prompts for personal reflection or conversations with colleagues as you consider how to navigate this time of change:

How will I ensure my students think, create, and solve problems, not only follow the rules of a mandated curriculum?
Where can I embed inquiry, passion projects, and student-led learning into the day-to-day, without losing focus on essential knowledge?
How can I empower students to take ownership of their learning, even while meeting required standards?
What steps can I take to collaborate with colleagues and lead change that balances compliance with imagination and curiosity in our classrooms?

This is not about rejecting knowledge, but about reclaiming the bigger purpose of education. I’m not suggesting a binary argument here – it’s more of an ‘and-and’ approach that’s required. And that begins with teachers, in their classrooms, making deliberate choices to balance compliance with creativity, content with curiosity, and instruction with imagination.

More Than Subjects: Why Trust Matters in Curriculum Change

When curriculum is reduced to a subject list, we miss the bigger story about purpose, assessment, and trust.

Today I downloaded the Ministry of Education’s document outlining a new set of subjects for Years 11–13 which went live on their site this morning. On the surface there’s some encouraging stuff here. The list of subjects that are proposed for years 11 -13 includes some exciting areas – Electronics & Mechatronics, Media and Communication, Music Technology, Civics and Philosophy, Te Mātai i te Ao Māori, Pacific Studies, and new Pacific language options. It feels good to see subjects that recognise culture, creativity and emerging technologies.

But as I read further, I was left with some unease. Not so much about the individual subjects – many of them make a lot of sense – but about how this announcement has come about, and what it says about our approach to curriculum more generally.

Trust matters

Firstly, decisions like this shape the daily work of teachers, the opportunities available to students, and the experiences of families. That’s why the way these decisions are made is just as important as the outcomes themselves. A new curriculum shouldn’t simply be announced; it has to be built with those who will bring it to life. Granted, there’s been talk of a new curriculum for some months now – but little evidence of what I’d call authentic consultation or transparent communication designed to build trust. Teachers, school leaders, iwi, Pacific communities, students – all deserve to be trusted as partners in this work, not just as recipients of a policy package.

When subject lists appear without any real sign of consultation or co-design, it feeds a growing sense that the profession is being asked to “deliver” reforms rather than shape them. In times of significant changes in direction and strong political mandates, building trust and shared ownership is critical. Without this, the implicit messaging comes across as ‘we need to work this way because teachers can’t be trusted.’

A curriculum or a list of subjects?

The announcement begins with a note reminding readers about this government’s commitment to two priorities in education, the first being the establishment of a knowledge-rich curriculum grounded in the science of learning. But I have to say I’m yet to be convinced there is a shared understanding in the sector of what a knowledge-rich curriculum is – and this announcement doesn’t help (in my view) as what we are actually given is simply a list of subjects – some old and some new. Important as subjects are, they don’t on their own constitute a curriculum. Curriculum encompasses more than content; it involves purpose, coherence, progression, pedagogy, and assessment – how all these elements interconnect to support meaningful learning experiences. A subject list tells us little about those things.

There’s another question that comes to mind here – that is about what is valued. When “knowledge-rich” is equated with more academic subjects, where does that leave vocational pathways? There’s a risk of reinforcing a divide between “academic” and “vocational” learners, rather than designing a curriculum where every young person has access to deep, powerful knowledge and meaningful pathways. I’m not suggesting this is necessarily what is planned, but the fact I feel the need to ask the question suggests a lack of clarity – taking me back to the comments made above about the importance of building trust.

The “science of learning” – more complicated than it sounds

Throughout the document there are repeated references to the “science of learning” as if it is the newly discovered key to fixing everything. For parents and many educators, this can sound like a compelling argument. Who wouldn’t want a curriculum underpinned by science?

Despite the way in which it seems to be talked about, the concept of the science of learning has been around for some time – in fact, it’s embraced in a word we use frequently “Pedagogy”, which simply defined is the art, science or profession of teaching. Some years ago I had the privilege of contributing to a publication titled Aligning Education Policy with the Science of Learning and Development, from the Aurora Institute. They have also published a review of the literature on the science of learning and development which highlights again the fact that this is a very nuanced area, and there is not a single recipe to be applied to all. It is a broad field, with different perspectives, often debated. To present it as a settled doctrine risks closing down the rich conversations we need about how young people learn best – conversations that must also take account of culture, identity, relationships, and context.

This morning, for example, I participated in a 90 minute webinar hosted by the Brookings Institute, featuring two panels of educational leaders who described activity across a number of US states in the area of Active, Playful Learning – a new name it seems for play-based learning. I’m planning a separate post with my thoughts on that – but add it here simply because throughout the webinar different panelists referenced research on the science of learning that supports this pedagogical approach. Sadly, I wouldn’t see those perspectives aligned with the current, narrow definition we seem to be being fed here in NZ.

Curriculum and assessment – joined at the hip

One of the lines that really concerned me was tucked away on the final page: “We will be making sure that our national qualification aligns to the new subjects, so that students and teachers can be confident it accurately assesses what students have learnt.”

At first glance, that seems sensible – there’s no mention of assessment in this document, so it makes sense to add a comment that assures readers it is being addressed. But in curriculum design, assessment shouldn’t be bolted on afterwards. If curriculum is designed in one silo and assessment in another, assessment inevitably ends up driving the learning – usually in narrow, reductive ways. We’ve seen this before.

Recent research continues to affirm the importance of aligning intended learning outcomes, teaching and learning activities, and assessment tasks to ensure that students are engaged in a meaningful learning experience. For instance, a 2024 study highlights the significance of aligning these components to provide clarity and coherence, aiding students in understanding the connection between their learning activities and assessments with the overall course objectives. A curriculum designed without integrating these elements may risk becoming fragmented, potentially leading to a disjointed educational experience for students.

The truth is, curriculum and assessment shape each other. If assessment relies on end-of-year exams and one-off tests, then the curriculum is experienced as something to memorise and reproduce under timed conditions. But if assessment is conceived as ongoing progressions – where students present evidence of their learning over time, demonstrate capability in authentic contexts, and build portfolios of understanding – then the curriculum itself looks different. Teachers design for depth, for application, for growth. Learners experience more choice and agency.

This is why the work on new subjects can’t be separated from the work on how we assess them. The two must be developed together, or we risk building a curriculum that says one thing but functions as another in classrooms.

What’s with the “new” VLN?

Finally, I noticed reference to the development of a “new Virtual Learning Network” to offer specialist subjects online in te reo Māori. For those who know me and my involvement in this area within the NZ education system you’ll know this is a cause close to my heart. I was involved in the creation of the original VLN almost three decades ago and have maintained a strong interest in it since. While I’m pleased to see online networks back on the agenda, it is disappointing to see no acknowledgement of the history and the lessons learned. For 30 years, the VLN has existed without the policy settings or funding models needed to thrive. To present it as a “new” idea risks repeating old mistakes, rather than building on what we already know works.

Why this matters

As someone who has worked at times within the Ministry of Education I am well aware of the time-pressures placed on those working there to produce what’s required – particularly in response to demands from the politicians to whom they are answerable. It’s easy to become drawn into a narrow vortex of meeting deadlines and forget about what good change management research tells us about how to achieve effective and large scale change.

The concerns I’ve shared here aren’t intended to criticise the idea of new subjects or to diminish the genuine intent behind this announcement. I raise them because curriculum is too important to be treated as a list of options decided in Wellington. A curriculum should grow from dialogue, from trust, and from collective wisdom.

I’m sure an obvious answer from the MoE to such concerns will and politicians driving this change will be that this is purely a summary document and there’s more detail to follow. I get that. But I’d also say that very statement belies the lack of understanding about how an effective change strategy should work.

What our learners need is not just more choice of subjects, but a system that is coherent, responsive, and aligned. That requires our learners, their teachers, leaders, whānau and communities to be part of the journey – not spectators of it.

Success for Whom? And at What Cost?

It was Father’s Day here in New Zealand yesterday, and I had the privilege of enjoying a family lunch together with my children and grandchildren. It’s an exciting time in our family, with my eldest grandsons in their final year of high school and preparing to go to university, several of the grandkids celebrating successes in their respective sports teams as the seasons near an end, my youngest daughter contemplating a move to Australia to pursue career ambitions… the list could go on.

As a grandparent it gives me immense pleasure watching these young people growing up to become fine young citizens. They’ve all chosen to pursue very different pathways in life – none have really conformed to the ‘traditional’ pathway of success starting at high school (only one of my five children actually graduated with sufficient NCEA credits to go to university) followed by success at University (curiously, three of the five now have tertiary degrees – all with distinction), followed by success in a recognised career pathway (all, including my sons-in-law, are gainfully employed in occupations that wouldn’t have appeared in their careers counsellor handouts while at secondary school!)

I look then to my grandchildren and wonder what lies ahead for them, and what they are learning now that will prepare them for whatever that is? As a life-long educator this sort of question has fuelled my personal commitment to the work I do – and still does.

Narrowing the meaning of success

In a recent opinion piece, the Minister of Education began with a statement few would disagree with: “Every parent wants the same thing: for their child to leave school with the knowledge and skills they need to build the life they want.”

This resonates with me as both parent and grandparent. But as I read further, I found myself asking: what kind of life are we assuming they want?

In the Minister’s framing, success seems to be defined almost exclusively in economic terms – measured by employability, exam performance, and alignment with industry needs. Of course, the Minister is not alone in this view. It is an ideology that is expressed in a number of other countries – including by Nigel Farage in the UK who is arguing for teaching trades and services in schools as a part of his broader education reform agenda.

The second feature of this framing is that it is also framed as an individual pursuit: my child, my future, my opportunities. What’s missing is any recognition that education is also about preparing young people to contribute to society, to live well with others, and to flourish as whole people – culturally, socially, and personally – not just economically.

It’s this narrowing of perspective that troubles me most.

The limits of ‘fixing’ assessment

The Minister is emphatic that NCEA has failed and must be replaced. I don’t deny that some of the symptoms she identifies are real – the credit-chasing, the patchy coherence, the uneven outcomes. These issues are not unique to New Zealand; many education systems worldwide wrestle with them. But the assumption that simply replacing one assessment system with another will fix the problem is simplistic.

As Yong Zhao reminds us in What Works May Hurt, there is no such thing as a solution without side effects. Every policy comes with trade-offs. And averages can conceal serious harm to individuals. If we see “declining achievement” as a problem of assessment alone, we risk ignoring deeper causes, including curriculum design, teaching practice, equity of resources, and the complexity of learners’ lives for example.

Even the claim that students are “gaming” NCEA, while certainly true in some instances, doesn’t automatically indict the system itself. It points instead to choices about how it has been implemented and where weaknesses have been allowed to persist. To respond by discarding the whole framework is to miss the opportunity to learn from its strengths – particularly its emphasis on competencies, evidence of progress, and alternatives to blunt exam-driven models.

What does the data really reveal?

The Minister also leans heavily on ERO survey data showing that many teachers and principals are unhappy with NCEA. It is entirely possible for a qualification to be sound in design, yet poorly supported in practice. Without the professional capability to use it well, even the best systems will disappoint

On the surface, the figures look damning: 60% of teachers said the new Level 1 was not a reliable measure of students’ skills and knowledge; 75% of principals questioned the reliability of credit values; 70% of employers said it wasn’t a meaningful signal.

But here’s the question: what do these numbers really reveal?

Dissatisfaction doesn’t always mean the system itself is fatally flawed. It may just as easily reflect the mindset and capability of those working within it – and the level of support they’ve been given to use it well. NCEA was deliberately designed to be more future-focused than the traditional exam-based model, emphasising competencies alongside academic knowledge, valuing evidence of progress, and broadening definitions of success. If teachers and leaders are struggling to make that vision work, is that the fault of the system? Or does it highlight failures of implementation, resourcing, and professional learning over nearly three decades?

Data never speaks for itself. It always requires interpretation. The risk here is that the ERO findings are being used to prop up a predetermined conclusion – that NCEA is broken beyond repair. A more constructive reading would ask what the data tells us about culture, capability, and the conditions under which the qualification operates. Without that deeper interrogation, we risk fixing the wrong problem.

Personalisation, not standardisation

The Minister’s call for more exams and standardisation is one way to respond to NCEA’s challenges. But it isn’t the only way. On the day after her opinion piece appeared, Steve Maharey – himself a former Minister of Education – offered a very different view.

Maharey acknowledges the problems with NCEA, but argues that the answer is not to lurch backwards to uniformity and league tables. Instead, he insists the only credible path forward is personalisation.

He frames the central question well: “What kind of education is suited to the knowledge age we now live in?” If we take seriously the reality of AI, climate change, and rapid social transformation, then preparing students for lifelong learning, creativity, and problem-solving must be at least as important as certifying them for jobs. Finland’s system is his case in point. They achieve high standards, but through building trust, personalisation, formative assessment, and well-supported teachers — not through a one-size-fits-all model.

This directly challenges the Minister’s dismissal of “political agenda” claims. The real debate here is not whether we want high standards – everyone does – but whether high standards are best achieved through centralised standardisation or through personalised approaches that reflect the diversity of learners and contexts.

Where the Minister’s solution leans toward standardisation and uniformity, Maharey argues for personalisation and trust. Both want high standards – but the means could not be more different. The real debate here is not whether we want high standards – everyone does – but whether high standards are best achieved through centralised standardisation or through personalised approaches that reflect the diversity of learners and contexts.

I was doing some contract work for the Ministry of Education around the time that Steve Maharey was Minister of Education, and remember him championing the cause of personalised learning. I recall wondering at the time why it was necessary to introduce this an approach at all – surely education has always been about a focus on the learner? But as the responses to this initiative emerged, I came to realise that there wasn’t a commonly shared understanding of what personalised learning is or was. A common concern was that the shift to personalisation would simply mean having to plan 25 different lesson plans (i.e. one for each student) instead of one for the whole class – a view firmly established in the paradigm of ‘delivery’ of knowledge and not considering any sort of shift in the ownership of learning.

Beyond “Academic” vs “Vocational”

Before diving deeper into policy, it’s worth pausing to remember that education isn’t just about systems and structures – it’s about people, and the messy, surprising, multidimensional ways human potential shows up. Which brings me to the example of Brian May I used in a recent blog post. May was a man who can fill stadiums as Queen’s guitarist one night and analyse cosmic dust the next day. Which side of him is more “valuable”? Which represents his “real” intelligence?

The danger of the current reforms is that they reinscribe an old binary – “academic” subjects count, while disciplines like outdoor education, sport or the arts are sidelined. We risk returning to the kind of “drafting gates” that limited opportunities for my parents’ generation, where a single test determined whether you went to high school or left formal education altogether.

Human capability doesn’t divide neatly along those lines. Narrowing our curriculum to what is easily measured or economically valuable impoverishes not only students but society.

Asking the bigger questions

So as I spent time with my kids and grandkids yesterday, I pondered whether, at the heart of this debate is a bigger set of questions we urgently need to confront:

What do we want education to achieve – economic productivity alone, or also wellbeing, citizenship, creativity, cultural identity, and social cohesion?
How do we define success – as an exam pass rate, or as the flourishing of diverse human potential?
Who gets to decide what counts as success — a central authority, or communities and cultures who bring their own knowledge and values to the table?

Yes, qualifications matter. Parents deserve confidence that they mean something. But reducing the conversation to a swap of one system for another risks narrowing, not expanding, our vision of education.

If we take Zhao’s warnings seriously, the question is not only what works? but who does it work for, and who does it hurt? That’s the debate New Zealand needs – and the one our young people deserve.

That’s the debate New Zealand needs.

What Works May Hurt

Photo by Simone van der Koelen on Unsplash

Earlier this year I had the privilege of presenting at some conferences in Australia alongside Yong Zhao and have been thinking more recently about the warnings in his book titled: what works may hurt. His point in that book is simple but profound – there’s no such thing as a solution without side effects. Every intervention comes with trade-offs. And if we’re not careful, the very policies we celebrate as “what works” can end up causing long-term harm.

Zhao highlights three reminders that I find particularly relevant right now:

Everything has side effects.
Long-term outcomes matter as much as short-term gains.
Average effects can hide serious damage to individuals.

That last one really resonates. If we design a system around averages, we almost guarantee that some learners will be left behind – or worse, actively harmed.

The promise and the problem of “what works”

The push for “evidence-based” education has always made sense to me. Of course we want policy and practice guided by research, not just ideology or hunches. But the danger comes when “evidence-based” becomes shorthand for one-size-fits-all prescriptions.

Take the U.S. No Child Left Behind initiative in the US which Yong highlights in his book. On paper, it was framed as a grand experiment in “what works.” Yong points out that in reality, it quickly became a political project – cobbled together by advisers and consultants chasing funding, not educators designing for learners. The side effects were severe: narrowing of the curriculum, teaching to the test, and entire communities labelled as failing.

And here in New Zealand, I see worrying echoes of that pattern.

The New Zealand context

On taking up her role as Minister of Education Erica Stanford set out six priorities: clearer curriculum, evidence-based literacy and numeracy, smarter assessment, better teacher training, stronger learning support, and greater use of data. On the surface, it’s hard to argue with any of these. Who doesn’t want kids to succeed, teachers to be supported, and parents to have clarity?

But here’s where Zhao’s warning bites. What might the side effects be?

Employability over personhood: The reforms lean heavily on aligning education with industry. Are we preparing citizens, or just future workers?
Measurable at all costs: What counts is what can be measured – literacy, numeracy, qualifications. What gets pushed to the margins are things like curiosity, creativity, cultural identity, or civic agency.
Reduced flexibility: Standardisation narrows choice. Fewer pathways, less room for students to follow their passions.
Equity by tightening the screws: Instead of investing in support that meets diverse learners where they are, the bar is simply raised. Equity becomes about uniformity, not about fairness.
A narrow definition of success: Success is framed as a qualification, not as a flourishing life.

It’s telling that when introducing these reforms the Minister said: “The single most important thing we can do is ensure consistency… The key here is, this is a one-size-fits-all approach.”

That, to me, is the problem in a nutshell.

The deeper issue: power

One-size-fits-all isn’t just a technical misstep; it’s a political choice. It privileges one way of knowing, one cultural perspective, one vision of success – and asks everyone else to fit into it. For Māori, Pasifika, and many others, that means leaving parts of themselves at the school gate. That’s not equity. That’s assimilation.

This is something I highlighted in a previous blog post. True equity isn’t about redistributing content. It’s about redistributing power. Power to shape what counts as success. Power to bring your own identity, culture, and knowledge into the classroom. Power to question and remake the system itself.

Breaking the cycle

The paradox is that many families and educators still defend the traditional model – even though it never fully served them – because they fear anything else might disadvantage their kids. I get that fear. When the stakes feel so high, who wants to gamble on change? But unless we have the courage to break that cycle, we’ll keep producing the same inequities we say we want to fix.

So when I hear political promises about getting “back to basics” or delivering “world-leading education,” I can’t help but ask: world-leading for whom? And at what cost?

If we take Yong Zhao’s warning seriously, the question isn’t only about what works? but who does it work for, and who does it hurt?

That’s the conversation we need to be having.

If this post resonates with you and you’d like to be a part of conversations about the future of education why not join the EdRising community of practice? There are discussion threads there that follow the themes of the recent EdRising Convening in Auckland.

Why Narrowing New Zealand’s Curriculum Misses the Mark

Image Source: Comunità Queeniana on Flickr – CC BY-NC 2.0

As someone who enjoyed playing guitar in my earlier years I’ve always been fascinated with the work of world class guitarists – including Brian May. Not just because he’s the lead guitarist for Queen, but because he also holds a PhD in Astrophysics. Here’s a man who can make a stadium of 80,000 people sing in unison one night, then spend the next day analysing cosmic dust particles. Which side of him is more valuable? Which represents his “real” intelligence?

This question has taken on urgent relevance with the recent announcement that New Zealand’s NCEA will narrow its focus to ‘academic’ subjects, effectively dropping disciplines like outdoor education. It’s a troubling return to the kind of educational “drafting gates” that have haunted education systems for generations – including our own.

My parents lived through this. At the end of intermediate school, they faced a proficiency test that would determine their futures: pass, and you could attend high school; fail, and your formal education was limited. My father managed to squeak through into secondary education (he attended the ‘technical college’) while his sister, my aunt, failed and so remained in ‘form two’ until she reached school leaving age. This test was abolished in 1936 – too late for my aunt.

Germany still operates a version of this system today, sorting children as young as 10 into different secondary schools – one for vocational training (apprenticeships) another for technical or administrative careers and a third for the “academic” elite.

We thought we’d moved beyond this kind of systematic sorting. Apparently, we were wrong.

The False Binary That Diminishes Us All

The question in my mind is what exactly constitutes “academic” knowledge? The current definition seems rooted in subjects traditionally associated with leadership roles – those measured by exam scores and linked to university pathways. “Vocational” subjects, by contrast, are dismissed as mere workforce preparation, while “hobby” interests such as outdoor education are deemed unworthy of any formal recognition.

But this classification system crumbles the moment we look at real human beings. Under a drafting gate system, which side of the artificial divide would have claimed Brian May? Would some educational bureaucrat have forced him to choose between music and science, potentially robbing the world of either his groundbreaking guitar work or his contributions to our understanding of cosmic dust?

The very question reveals the absurdity of these divisions.

The greatest innovators throughout history have consistently defied narrow categorisation. Leonardo da Vinci seamlessly wove together art, science, anatomy, engineering, and invention. Ada Lovelace combined mathematical brilliance with early concepts for music machines, becoming the world’s first computer programmer. Even in contemporary times, neuroscientist Mayim Bialik has achieved acclaim both in scientific research and television acting (a favourite of mine in the Big Bang Theory!).

These examples aren’t anomalies – they represent the natural human tendency toward diverse interests and capabilities. As education researcher Waqas Ahmed argues, “every person possesses polymath potential, with multiple talents and curiosities waiting to be nurtured rather than suppressed.”

Why Specialisation Fails Our Students – and Society

The push toward early specialisation carries profound costs in my view. Here are some reasons I can think of…

First, it crushes natural curiosity. Children naturally explore connections between seemingly disparate fields. When we force them into narrow tracks, we suppress the very creativity and broad thinking our complex world desperately needs. I was very interested in science at school – but the curiosity I had for it was anchored in the everyday context of my life outside of school – often in the mountains where I spent lots of time tramping and climbing, and where the practical application of thermal insulation became important to understand – so when I was introduced to ‘hollowfil’ fibre as a padding in my coat instead of the traditional down feathers I was naturally curious to find out which was better and why.

Secondly, it often fails to address real-world challenges. Climate change, social inequality, technological disruption – these aren’t problems that can be solved within a single discipline. I recall a project in my own secondary experience where we were looking at environmental issues – looking at the cumulative impact of our waste disposal on the planet’s ecosystem. This drew down to considering the amount of rubbish being left in school grounds at break time. A series of conversations that involved venturing into understanding behavioural psychology resulted in groups of students (myself included) being given the opportunity to express ourselves artistically by painting the rubbish bins around the school so that they stood out as ‘statements’ rather than simply vessels for holding rubbish. It seems to have worked as the amount of rubbish left lying around diminished as the bins were introduced. This kind of interdisciplinary thinking requires exposure to broad educational experiences.

Third, it dehumanises learning. Specialisation treats students as future economic units rather than whole human beings. I think about a student I know who loves both coding and poetry – under this narrowed system, she’d likely be pushed toward computer science because “that’s where the jobs are.” But what if her future contribution to society comes from bridging technology and human expression? What if she becomes the person who helps us navigate AI’s impact on creativity, or develops more humane interfaces between humans and machines? By forcing her to choose at 15, we’re not just limiting her – we’re potentially limiting solutions to challenges we haven’t even identified yet. True education should be about “intellectual and social emancipation” – the freedom to develop one’s full range of capabilities, not just the ones that fit current economic projections.

Finally, it fragments knowledge. When subjects are taught in isolation, students miss the meaningful connections that spark innovation. The musician who understands mathematics, the athlete who grasps physics, the philosopher who appreciates science – these connections create the “aha” moments that drive progress. Consider a student engaged in phys-ed or sport – traditionally seen as non-academic. Yet these areas inherently involve physics principles, physiological understanding, strategic thinking, and often complex statistical analysis. The outdoor education student learns risk assessment, environmental science, leadership, and resilience. The musician develops pattern recognition, mathematical relationships, and emotional intelligence.

These aren’t separate domains – they’re interconnected aspects of human knowledge and experience. When we artificially divide them, we create an impoverished view of learning that serves neither students nor society.

The Economic Argument Doesn’t Hold Water

Much of this narrowing appears driven by a desire to funnel capable students toward high-earning STEM-related careers to boost economic performance. But this logic contains a fatal flaw. If we’re using job market demand to determine curriculum value, what about a subject such as philosophy? It has exams and university programmes, but where’s the robust job market for philosophers? Should we eliminate it too?

The truth is that economic value often emerges in unexpected ways. The arts contribute billions to New Zealand’s economy. Environmental education produces the sustainability experts our climate crisis demands. Outdoor education develops the leadership and resilience skills that benefit every profession – and contributes significantly to the occupations supporting our billion dollar adventure tourism industry!

The original university model provided broad learning before specialisation – and there’s wisdom in returning to this approach. Rather than forcing 15-year-olds to choose narrow paths, we should be expanding their horizons. In my view, a future-focused education system would celebrate connections between disciplines rather than artificial divisions and recognise that today’s complex challenges require polymathic thinking. Such a system would trust that breadth enhances rather than diminishes excellence and understand that human flourishing requires the freedom to develop multiple capacities. This sort of thinking should be shaping our view of curriculum development in my view.

The Stakes Couldn’t Be Higher

We stand at a crossroads that feels painfully familiar. My parents’ generation faced their proficiency tests with life-altering consequences. Today’s students face something more subtle but equally limiting: a curriculum that tells them some forms of human knowledge and expression simply don’t matter.

But here’s the uncomfortable truth: many of the people making these decisions are themselves products of the very specialisation they’re now imposing. When you’ve spent your career thinking within one discipline, every problem looks like something your discipline can solve. The economist sees curriculum reform through the lens of budget cuts and resource allocation. The business leader focuses on creating pathways to high-income jobs that boost GDP. The academic prioritises knowledge development within established fields. The former athlete champions pathways to professional sport.

None of these perspectives is wrong, but none is complete without considering a much broader range of issues and contexts. The narrowing of our curriculum isn’t just limiting our students – it’s perpetuating a cycle where our future leaders will be even less equipped to see beyond their own specialisations.

This isn’t just about educational policy – it’s about who we are as a society and who we want to become. We can continue down this path of treating students as products on an educational assembly line, sorting them into predetermined categories just as my parents were sorted, just as German children still are today. Or we can recognize that our rapidly changing world needs adaptable, creative, broadly educated citizens who can think across disciplines and connect disparate ideas – including the leaders who will make tomorrow’s decisions.

When I think about Brian May crafting both guitar solos and academic papers, I see a vision of human potential that our education system should be nurturing, not constraining. We need more people who can see problems from multiple angles, not fewer opportunities to develop that capacity.

New Zealand has always prided itself on innovation and creativity. Narrowing our educational offerings runs counter to these values. Instead of asking which subjects we can afford to cut, we should be asking how we can better integrate diverse forms of learning to prepare students for a future that will demand nothing less than their full human potential.

The choice is ours: do we want a generation of narrow specialists, or do we want to nurture the polymaths who will tackle tomorrow’s challenges? The future of our students and our society hangs in the balance.

1. This Is About Our Founding Agreement

2. This is About Raising Achievement

3. This is about our future – together

4. This is About Personal Transformation

References

Futuremakers Newsletter

The Current Landscape: Rhetoric Without Reason

Understanding the Populist Appeal

The Expert’s Dilemma

The Echo Chamber Problem

Blind Spots on Both Sides

A Path Forward for School Leaders

The Leadership Challenge

Futuremakers Newsletter

Why Binary Thinking Fails

Moving Beyond Either/Or

For more read my previous posts:

Futuremakers Newsletter

Futuremakers Newsletter

What can we do?

Some questions to guide conversation

A final thought

Further Reading:

Futuremakers Newsletter

A Knowledge Rich Curriculum

Hirsch vs. Dewey: Competing Visions of Education

Short-term Gains vs. Long-term Impact

Why Dewey Still Matters

What can we do?

Futuremakers Newsletter

Trust matters

A curriculum or a list of subjects?

The “science of learning” – more complicated than it sounds

Curriculum and assessment – joined at the hip

What’s with the “new” VLN?

Why this matters

Futuremakers Newsletter

Narrowing the meaning of success

The limits of ‘fixing’ assessment

What does the data really reveal?

Personalisation, not standardisation

Beyond “Academic” vs “Vocational”

Asking the bigger questions

Futuremakers Newsletter

The promise and the problem of “what works”

The New Zealand context

The deeper issue: power

Breaking the cycle

Futuremakers Newsletter

The False Binary That Diminishes Us All

Why Specialisation Fails Our Students – and Society

The Economic Argument Doesn’t Hold Water

The Stakes Couldn’t Be Higher

Futuremakers Newsletter

What others say

Resources

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