What Do Our 17-Year-Olds Know

Diane Ravitch

• Publisher: HarperCollins e-books
• Year: 2010
• ISBN:
  9780062036735
• Topic: Education
• Subtopic: Education General

What Do Our 17-Year-Olds Know? Gives the results of the first nationwide test of American high school students' knowledge of history and literature, as well as fascinating insight into what teenagers are reading, how much television they watch, what influence their home environment has on their academic achievement, and what historical topics and literary works are included in (or have been dropped from) the school curriculum.

1
Origins of This Assessment

This book contains the results of the first national assessment of 17-year-old students’ knowledge of history and literature. On the history portion of the assessment, the national average is 54.5 percent correct; on the literature portion, the national average is 51.8 percent correct. Observers looking for the bright side might suggest that the proverbial glass is half full, rather than half empty. Another way to characterize these results, however, is in the terms traditionally used by teachers: a score of less than 60 percent is failing. If there were such a thing as a national report card for those studying American history and literature, then we would have to say that this nationally representative sample of eleventh grade students earns failing marks in both subjects. A few do exceptionally well; the great majority do not. So long as our schools are expected to educate all of our youngsters, not just the best and brightest, then the results of this assessment are cause for serious concern.

ANTECEDENTS

This assessment is the outgrowth of a study we initiated called the Foundations of Literacy. At the time, we were co-directors of the Educational Excellence Network, which we created in 1981 to bring together educators and scholars committed to school improvement. Among its other activities, the Network sponsored a series of conferences in 1983 and 1984 for high school teachers of the humanities. The purposes of these conferences were to exchange ideas among teachers and scholars of history, literature, and foreign languages, and to develop recommendations for improving the teaching of these subjects. Drawing on material presented at these conferences, we published two volumes of essays, Against Mediocrity: The Humanities in America’s High Schools and Challenges to the Humanities,* which addressed not only problems of classroom technique but also the aimlessness and intellectual torpor that seemed to handicap these fields. Based on what we learned at these conferences and through discussions with the hundreds of participants, we became deeply disturbed about the condition of history and literature in the schools. We learned of schools where history was taught topically, without regard to chronology, and others where history had been replaced by unrelated courses in the social sciences; where literature had given way to coaching for basic skills proficiency tests; where the time for these subjects had been continually whittled away by electives, vocational courses, computer study, and other such subjects. Teachers complained about students who couldn’t read, about others who came to high school without knowledge of the most fundamental history or literature, and about time pressures that forced them to “cover” more material than students could absorb within a single year.

As we reflected on these conversations, we began to discuss the value of and need for a reliable nationwide appraisal of students’ knowledge of history and literature. Despite the American mania for tests of all kinds, there was no precedent for this one. We knew of occasional polls that showed striking ignorance of particular elements of American history, such as the meaning of the Bill of Rights, but there had never been a systematic effort to assess basic historical knowledge on a national scale; nor had anyone ever tried to find out what adults or schoolchildren actually know about major authors and works of literature. It would be useful, we concluded, to go beyond polling and speculation and to determine what young people in fact do know.

Realizing that we needed to engage an experienced organization to develop and administer the test, we initiated discussions with the staff of the National Assessment of Educational Progress (NAEP). NAEP is a federally funded project that has been testing American students regularly since 1969 in such fields as reading, literacy, mathematics, science, and citizenship. NAEP’s regular biennial testing cycle normally includes 9-year-olds, 13-year-olds, and 17-year-olds. Although we would have liked to include all three levels, the cost of such an assessment was prohibitive. We chose, therefore, to test only the oldest of the three groups, students enrolled in eleventh grade, reasoning that it would be most informative to test those nearest the completion of their schooling.

NAEP consented to participate, and our proposal for a national assessment of history and literature was funded by the National Endowment for the Humanities. The questions were devised in early 1985, tried out on a pilot basis a few months later, and then administered to a full national sample early in 1986. Nearly 8,000 students were included in the sample, which was divided up by region (i.e., northeast, central, west, and southeast) and by size and type of community. The results of the assessment are representative of students within a large number of subgroups of the population, including gender, race, and number attending public and nonpublic schools. The sampling, the test administration, and the wording and selection of individual questions were all ultimately the responsibility of NAEP.

All of the students answered common background questions about themselves, their families, their schooling, their patterns of doing homework and watching television, their part-time jobs, their reading habits, their perceptions of their history and literature classes, and their attitudes toward these subjects. Though all answered the same background questions, no student was asked to answer every knowledge question on the assessment. The 141 questions in history and 121 in literature were divided up among four “books,” each of which was given to an independent, nationally representative sample. This technique is known as matrix sampling, wherein each student takes only a portion of a large test and results are averaged for groups. Teachers of the students in the national sample filled out a separate background questionnaire, but the results of the teacher survey have not yet been compiled and analyzed by NAEP and are therefore not reflected in this book.

We hoped to print the entire test in this book, providing readers with all of the questions and answers in the full assessment, but this was precluded by NAEP’s need for confidentiality. It is NAEP’s policy to allow only limited public disclosure of its test items, in order to be able to reuse the undisclosed questions in future assessments. Questions that are used again and again provide a gauge for comparing student performance over time. NAEP did give us permission to reproduce test questions that it does not plan to use again, and many of these are shown in Chapter 2.

This assessment provides a snapshot in time; it shows whether students do or do not know the answers to the questions that were posed; it contains rich background information about students, their families, and their attitudes; it captures student descriptions of what happens in their classrooms. But this assessment also has certain limitations. It tests a representative sampling of knowledge but does not claim to test everything worth knowing in these two major fields. It does not explain why students perform well or poorly in these subjects, although it does identify significant differences between those who do well and those who do poorly. By the time students are seventeen, their performance on a test of this kind is the result of eleven or twelve years of schooling, as well as whatever they have learned from reading, parents, friends, movies, television, travel, and other experiences. We cannot, and do not, infer that any given classroom practice causes them to do well or poorly, although we are able to describe some of the practices that are typical today.

WHY HISTORY AND LITERATURE?

At the time planning began for this assessment, the nation was in the midst of a major education reform movement. One report after another appeared during the early 1980s, criticizing the performance of American schools and deploring the waste of human talent. Most of these reports and studies called on schools and states to strengthen their academic curriculum and to raise graduation requirements. State after state responded by increasing the number of mandated courses in science and mathematics, and occasionally in social studies, English, and foreign languages.

Yet amid all this educational activism, it was rare that anyone spoke out on behalf of history and literature. The advocates of mathematics and science were not so reticent. They made their case with a bulging portfolio of evidence and an evangelical sense of urgency. They pointed to falling enrollments and test scores in these subjects as proof of the need to improve the quality of instruction, the training of teachers, and the time devoted to these subjects throughout the span of elementary and secondary schooling. It was not hard to convince the public of the importance of mathematics and science, in light of their presumptive utilitarian value. These subjects are linked directly to jobs and careers in engineering and other technical fields. The supply of engineers and technicians, as we have known since the time of Sputnik, also affects the capacity of the nation to keep abreast of technological developments and to maintain a strong economy. Ignorance of mathematics and science, it was rightly said, undermines the quality of the workforce and threatens our nation’s ability to compete in world markets. Several major reports went beyond the economic arguments to warn that widespread scientific and technological illiteracy would erode the public’s competence to understand complex policy issues, thus jeopardizing the democratic ideal of informed discussion.

In the battle for public attention and curricular time, the humanities were scarcely contenders. No prestigious body of citizens called on American schools to reassess the teaching of history from the first to the last year of schooling, as others had for science. No concerned professors of English banded together to decry their students’ ignorance of major works of literature. The representatives of business, labor, government, and education who regularly issued edicts on the need for change in the schools had little to say about history and literature. In our books and conferences, we tried to argue the case for history and literature; so, too, did Ernest Boyer in High School; Theodore Sizer in Horace’s Compromise; and Mortimer Adler in The Paideia Proposal. But none of the national or state commissions recommended more time and attention for history and literature. Probably their authors supposed that these subjects are so fundamental that they are always taught, no matter what else changes. Perhaps those who cared about these subjects assumed that they would somehow benefit by any gestures made on behalf of social studies and English.

In fact, proponents of the humanities (and history and literature are the fundamental bearers of the humanities in the schools) were strangely silent. They could not argue that knowledge of history and literature is important in the job market, because they were not sure that this is so; nor could they claim that such knowledge strengthens the nation’s economy or contributes to its material well-being, because here, too, proof was lacking. At a time when reshaping the curriculum was high on the agenda of almost every state legislature, those who might have been forceful proponents of history and literature in the schools were unable to articulate why it was important for students to learn these subjects, just as they had earlier failed to defend history and literature against distortion into amorphous courses in social studies and language arts. There were powerful arguments to be made about the importance of history and literature in transmitting and enriching our culture, in developing critical intelligence, in cultivating understanding, character, and judgment. But these arguments were seldom made and, when they were made, not often heard by policymakers.

These subjects were neglected by the education reform movement also because of the absence of the kinds of hard documentation that made claims for science and mathematics so compelling. The evidence that was available from tests of reading and vocabulary—in which achievement scores had fallen sharply since the mid-1960s—was not much help for the disciplines of history and literature. Paradoxically, the erosion of verbal test scores may have made things worse for history and literature in the schools. The most widely publicized score decline was that of the Scholastic Aptitude Test, which more than a million students take annually as part of the college entry process. The revelation in 1975 that the national average had fallen precipitously over a ten-year period stirred a public furor. The news of this decline contributed substantially to demands for educational reform; it aroused public concern about the quality of education; it alerted the media to education issues as no other single indicator had done, doubtless because of its very specificity. Yet no one used the decline of SAT scores to argue that students needed to study more history and literature; no one intimated that the deterioration of verbal scores might in some way be related to decay in the quality of what students were reading. Instead, the celebrated test score decline fueled demands for basic skills, critical thinking skills, reading skills, vocabulary-building, and a host of other nonliterary, content-free exercises.

While we had no brief against the teaching of basic skills— who could?—we believed that this was rather too simplistic a remedy for our educational ailments. The skills of reading, writing, speaking, and listening are clearly fundamental, and no learning of value can proceed until the student has firm command of them. But they are only starting points in the process of education.

As the reform movement gained ground, it seemed clear that the demand for basic skills had become an irresistible rallying cry. These skills are universally valued. They are noncontroversial precisely because they lack any cultural content. For the very reason that basic skills and critical thinking skills could become popular banners behind which to march, history and literature were shunted aside. Unlike skill training, teaching the humanities requires people to make choices. Deciding what content to teach risks offending some group or individual, those who prefer a different version of history or different works of literature. How much easier, then, to teach social studies as skills rather than as history, offending practically no one; how much easier to teach the skills of language arts, to fill in blanks and circle words, rather than to bear the burden of selecting particular poems, plays, short stories, and novels and to have to figure out how to make them meaningful for adolescents.

We were convinced that history and literature had lost as much ground in the curriculum as had science and mathematics. The only history studied by most high school students was a single year of American history. Few states or communities require more. A year of world history, once obligatory as a high school graduation requirement in most districts, had become an elective or had disappeared altogether. Even as the need for knowledge of other nations and cultures grew more apparent, willingness to require the study of other nations and cultures faltered. The situation in the elementary and intermediate grades was no better: most elementary school children study history only one year, usually in fifth grade, and history instruction in the middle school years has no pattern, no assured place at all.

THE SAGA OF THE LITERATURE CURRICULUM

The condition of literature was more difficult to ascertain than that of history. While it is often possible to distinguish the presence of a history course under the broad umbrella of social studies, either because of its course title or because of the textbooks in use, the same cannot be said for the teaching of literature. In using the term “literature,” we mean works that have received some degree of critical recognition for their quality. Literature in American schools is taught in English classes, but not all English classes teach literature. Some English courses are devoted entirely to reading skills, grammar drills, workbook exercises, and other kinds of nonliterary activities. Even when a significant portion of time is set aside for reading stories and poems, much of the material that is assigned or included in mass-market readers would not be considered “literature” by any reasonable definition of the term.

A generation ago, the literature curriculum in most high schools, though already diverse, had a modicum of coherence since it was centered on major works by renowned British and American writers. Students were likely to read, for example, Eliot’s Silas Marner, Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter, Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar or Macbeth, Dickens’s Great Expectations or A Tale of Two Cities, essays by Emerson and Thoreau, and poetry by Wordsworth, Byron, Keats, Shelley, T...