The New Zealand Education Phd Experience 1948-1998

Researching lives: The New Zealand Education PhD experience 1948-1998

Professor Sue Middleton Chair of the Department of Policy, Culture & Social Studies in Education (PCSSiE) Tari mö ngä Kaupapa, Tikanga me te Mätauranga Noho Häpori. School of Education University of Waikato Private Bag 3105 Hamilton New Zealand.

E-mail: [email protected] Phone: 64 7 8384500 X8083 Fax: 64 7 8384243 Web site: http://www.soe.waikato.ac.nz/PCSS/middleton/

Paper presented at the British Educational Research Association Annual Conference, University of Glamorgan, 14-17 September 2005.

NOTE: This paper was presented under a different title at the annual conference of the American Educational Research Association, Montreal, April 11-15, 2005. It has also been submitted for publication under this title: THE PLACE OF THEORY: LOCATING THE NEW ZEALAND ‘EDUCATION’ PHD EXPERIENCE, 1948-98. 2

ABSTRACT: In 2001, I published a history of the first 50 years of the PhD in Education in New Zealand. This paper re-interrogates the data - life-history interviews with 58 Educationists with PhDs from New Zealand Universities. It reads their collective history “otherwise” by tracing strands that threaded through the published monograph, but were fragmented by its partitions. By “reading across” students’ accounts of thesis work’s epistemological, methodological, spatial (domestic and institutional), and technological groundings, it suggests a situated history of New Zealand doctoral candidates’ experience. The paper falls into two sections. Part One charts shifting tendencies in thesis topics, theories and methods, and contextualises them in the intellectual ebbs and flows of international scholarship, New Zealand politics, and social change. Part Two narrates a parallel history of the changing circumstances and sites of the theses’ production – biographical, domestic, and institutional. In order to satisfy contradictory ethical and methodological imperatives, connections between these parallel stories are not made at the level of individuals, but, rather are suggested through common political, technological and cultural circumstances of time and place. How has New Zealand’s “corpus” of Education PhD thesis production been enabled and constrained by its temporal/ spatial location? 3

1998 marked the first 50 years of doctoral study in New Zealand universities1 and in 1999 I researched the history of the PhD in Education. How many Education PhDs had there been and at which universities? Bibliographic searches identified 183 PhD theses in Education2 completed from 1948-1998 and I charted the growth in their numbers (Fig 1). Interviews with 57 of these graduates addressed five questions. Who were the students who had done Education PhDs and what had brought them into doctoral studies? What were the topics, theories, methods and techniques employed in their thesis research? What were their experiences of doctoral pedagogy (supervision) like? How did they organise time and create space for a thesis in their everyday domestic and working lives? How did they experience their examination and graduation processes? Resulting publications included a book-length monograph3 (Middleton, 2001a). This was organised into chapters, each focussing on one of the above questions. This paper reads the data otherwise by tracing strands that threaded through the monograph, but were fragmented by its partitions. By “reading across” students’ accounts of thesis work’s epistemological, methodological, spatial (domestic and institutional), and technological groundings, I suggest a history of New Zealand doctoral candidates’ experience. How has New Zealand’s “corpus” of Education PhD thesis production been enabled and constrained by its temporal/ spatial location? Talk of “location” or “positionality” is not new in Education, the vocabularies of which are replete with geographical metaphors. Literature reviews survey intellectual territories, domains of knowledge, landscapes of learning, areas of study, or fields of inquiry and doctoral students “situate” their work accordingly. An Educationist’s sense of epistemological “belonging” is mirrored in allegiances to learned societies, professional conferences, and academic journals. Intellectual and professional affinities intersect in complex, and sometimes contradictory, ways with the financial and administrative categories whereby institutions allocate students to programs, distribute resources to departments, and locate “bodies” in buildings. These multi- levelled compartmentalisations are usefully encompassed in Bernstein’s (1971) concept of “classification and framing.” While this focus is useful to my inquiry, a study of New Zealand Education PhD experiences also requires analysis at the level of the nation. Educationists’ recent preoccupations with globalisation and internationalisation (e.g. Scott, 1998) discourage such bounded-ness:

1 The University of New Zealand consisted of four university colleges, but its degrees were awarded by the central governing body. In 196* the University of New Zealand was disestablished and its four constituent colleges became universities in their own right. Since that time four additional universities have been established. 2 Until the introduction of the Ed.D. in the 1990s, a doctorate (Ph.D) was by thesis only – there was no course work involved. 3 Other publications from the project include an electronic “supervision” resource , and a paper on its Foucaultian methodology . 4

Such a reconception shifts attention from notions of geographical bound contexts that develop in chronological sequences to notions of regions bound by a discursive ‘field’ and uneven dimensions – the latter give focus to how the subject is to be known and knowing in a terrain not bound to geographical landscapes and physical points of reference but to discursively constructed practices (Popkewitz & Brennan, 1998, p.12).

This usefully highlights flows of ideas across borders, and alliances between political, economic, intellectual and cultural capital. However, such a trans-national perspective may also render questions of local history and intellectual identity marginal. A bridge between local and global is found in the writings of relational geographers, whose critiques of conventional geography’s oppositions between space and place offer theoretical resources (e.g. Allen, 2004; e.g. Harvey, 1996; Massey, 2004; Sibley, 1995). Conceptualising “space” as abstract, traditional geographers’ “general feeling was that the concept of space was ultimately a mathematical one” (Lefebvre, 1974, p.1). In contrast, a “regular litany of words accompanies the characteristic evocation of place; words such as ‘real’, ‘grounded’, ‘everyday’, ‘lived’” (Massey, 2004, p.7). This binary reproduces a (Descartian) split between mind and body (Lefebvre, 1974), and, with respect to my research, it severs an intellectual commodity (a Ph.D. thesis) from its site and process of production. Relational geographers’ object of analysis offers the alternative view of “a spatio-temporal world of flows networked through powerful financial centres and governmental institutions” (Allen, 2004, p. 22). Here I assume a parallel (and allied) “spatio-temporal world of flows networked through powerful intellectual centres and academic institutions.” 4 Similarly, my research questions and interview questions aimed to span the space/place divide. But, positioned “inside” Education, my object of study, as I interviewed colleagues, the conceptual, ethical and methodological imperatives of my science began to conflict (Middleton, 2001a, 2003). Recording a history for a New Zealand audience demanded that I identify theses and name their authors “for the record”. But, at the same time, as a sociologist, I needed accounts of thesis work’s “private” dimensions in order to explore how traces of their conditions of production might surface in their texts. My promise of anonymity elicited accounts of dysfunctional families, conflicted departments, abusive supervisors5, and domestic violence. In the monograph, I resolved this by recounting interviewees’ public and private stories in separate chapters. But this severed the epistemological history from that of its sites of production; split space from place. Embedded in the social world that is my object of study, my

4 For studies of the connections between academic and economic globalisation, see Burbules and Torres , and Scott . 5 The term ‘supervisor’ is used in New Zealand instead of the American term “advisor” for the staff member responsible for guiding the student through the thesis process. 5

“academic taxonomies classify according to the logic of the structures whose product they are” (Bourdieu, 1988, p. 207). While infused with the same dilemma, this paper narrows the “space/place” divide while retaining informants’ anonymity across what remains of it. It falls into two sections. Omitting historical details, such as “who wrote what” in New Zealand theses, Part One charts shifting tendencies in thesis topics, theories and methods, and contextualises them in the intellectual ebbs and flows of international scholarship, New Zealand politics, and social change. Part Two narrates a parallel history of the changing circumstances and sites of the theses’ production – biographical, domestic, and institutional. While connections between these parallel stories are not made at the level of individuals, they are suggested through common political, technological and cultural circumstances of time and place.

THINKING SPACES: THESES, POLITICS, AND SOCIETY, 1948-1998. New Zealand’s universities were colonial in origin, and in the first half of the twentieth century remained substantially so in orientation (Peters, 1997a). As suggested by post-colonial theorists, what was local was often regarded as inferior; to move “outwards” from Britain or Europe (“civilisation’s” centre) was to move “backwards” in time across what McClintock terms “anachronistic space” (1995, p. 9). University staff were often recruited from overseas, and candidates for higher degrees encouraged to study in Britain, and, increasingly, in the U.S. (Philips et al., 1989). The first university Education Departments were established in the 1920s (Beeby, 1992; Watson, 1979). With support from America’s Carnegie Foundation, NZCER (the New Zealand Council for Educational Research) was founded in 1934. Particularly influential were the Fulbright Foundation’s exchange visits of scholars between New Zealand and the U.S., and this programme commenced in 1948 (Renwick, 1989). The modern PhD has been characterised as a product of an ‘industrial age’ and as originating in nineteenth century Germany as a foundation for scientific training (Noble, 1994; Readings, 1996). It was introduced into New Zealand’s university system in 1948. Amongst the first cohort of students were a few in Education and the first of these graduated in 1953, a time when educational research was still embryonic. In the first forty years of the PhD in Education, the growth in the numbers of Education doctoral graduates (Fig 1) parallels the increasing size of university Education Departments: “In 1950 the total number of teaching staff in New Zealand’s four university education departments was seventeen; in 1960 it was twenty-two; by 1970 there were six departments, employing 67 teaching staff; by 1980 they employed 107”6 (Middleton, 1989, p.52). Education fragmented into “increasingly separate

6 See note 1. 6 worlds with their own professional identities, journals, conferences and vocabularies” (Watson, 1979, p.12). The first part of this section, “Gaining credibility”, looks at the period from 1950s to the early 1970s. The second, “Shaking the foundations”, addresses the period from the mid- 1970s to the early 1990s. The concluding section, “Restructuring the state” is a brief discussion of theses affected by this in the 1990s.

Gaining credibility: 1950s- early 1970s. One of the first Education doctoral graduates was a returned serviceman, who did his PhD while employed as a junior lecturer in Education: “Normally the pattern in the past was people like me would have gone to Britain or somewhere.” 7 The circumstances of his post-war family intervened:

In 1950 I wrote to the University of New Zealand and asked them in view of the fact that I had a wife and a baby and no money, could I defer [the scholarship] for a year or two? And they said “No”. That's why I didn't take the usual route of going to the London Institute of Education and doing a Ph.D and had to rely on New Zealand. So when New Zealand brought in local Ph.Ds and allowing staff members to do it part-time, that was my saviour.

As in Britain, liberal-progressivism was a dominant theoretical tendency in post-war educational policy-making. It had a dual focus - individual (psychological) and social (sociological/ philosophical) (Beeby, 1992; Middleton & May, 1997). How could the developmental “needs” of children be met in a way that would assure their commitment to democratic values? As in Britain, progressive policies for individual and social development were to be enhanced with the help of science (Walkerdine, 1982). A former Director General of New Zealand’s government Education Department described the post-war environment as: … the heyday of the technical expert. Science and technology were the engines of progress. The limiting factor was not the assured availability of money and natural resources but of human capital. Education thus came into its own both as an instrument of personal betterment and of economic and social progress (Renwick, 1986 p. 106).

Science (including social science) could assist post-war social engineers through the diagnosis and measurement of individual and social problems. Social scientific (including educational) research would be encouraged. In the 1950s and 1960s, “Education was struggling for respectability as a discipline, so researchers were encouraged to pick up what the social sciences had garnered earlier from the sciences in terms of research methods.” To ensure scientific respectability, theses used experimental methods. For example, a thesis on science teaching involved: “nine experimental

7 Quotations from interview transcripts are in italics. 7 treatments, three measuring the effects of differences in content coverage and six measuring the effects of different things that a teacher could do during the course of a lesson. The lessons were all scripted.” Behavioural psychology often informed such projects. Seen as consistent with the post-war quest for democracy and equal opportunities, behaviourism “placed the responsibility for the limited progress of children and adults with behavioural and learning difficulties on the quality of their instructional contexts rather than on their disabilities or on perceived deficiencies of the families or their culture or ethnic groups” (Glynn, 1989, p.131). Behaviourist projects aimed to “treat” or “act upon” a problem. Other psychological projects of the time were centred on understanding how members of a designated group made sense of the world and these were usually based on developmental psychology (Morss & Linzey, 1991). In the 1950s, Piaget’s texts were becoming available in translation. One early reader of these studied: “the development of intelligence in very young children and infants. How does it even begin? How is it conceivable that it can emerge?” While retaining the statistical modes of analysis characteristic of experimental studies, the emphasis in early developmental approaches was on issues of “difference” in children’s ways perceiving and learning. Questions of “difference” became of increasing political concern in the 1950s and 1950s as New Zealand experienced the rapid mechanisation of agriculture and an urban expansion of manufacturing industries. The urbanisation of rural (particularly Maori) families, and increasing immigration from the Pacific Islands, led to rapid expansion of increasingly multicultural suburbs and classrooms (King, 2004). As in other former British colonies (Selden, 1999), in colonial New Zealand, policies often rested on Social Darwinist assumptions that social inequalities were indicative of “biological” inferiority. In the post-war environment, these conflicted with premises of equal opportunities (McGeorge, 1982). Groups such as the Maori Education Foundation supported a thesis that questioned “the prevailing ideas that somehow you teach the [Maori] children [English] grammar or their language is deprived. “ Another thesis on this theme employed: … a social psychological explanation - about cognitive style. One of the reasons for kids not doing well at school is that different cultures have characteristically different modes of learning, different concepts of teaching and learning and so on… So I just set out to try and track that down in relation to Maori and Pakeha8 in New Zealand.

Such questions, arising from encounters between teachers and children in increasingly multicultural classrooms, fuelled doctoral projects, since most of the candidates were former schoolteachers educating future schoolteachers. Similar questions informed theses in

8 The term Pakeha is sometimes used to men “white” but today is used mainly to refer to someone born in New Zealand, but of European ancestry. 8 comparative education, an interdisciplinary field allied to post-war political concerns with New Zealand’s role in the Pacific: “I was now really interested in the whole area of comparative education, cross cultural education, development education as it was then called, or third world education… which arose out of the Maori education interest as well.” By the late 1960s and 1970s, universities were experiencing the full impact of the post- World War Two baby boom population “bulge”. In schools, the post-war teacher shortages had continued and governments provided generous financial inducements to attract school-leavers to programmes of teacher education. The increased length of pre-service teacher education through the establishment of four-year Bachelor of Education degrees resulted in a huge increase in the number of students and staff in university Education departments (Middleton, 1989; Middleton & May, 1997). Many of these staff did their doctorates “on the job” and swelled the numbers of part-time doctoral candidates in Education (Fig 1). However, although the numbers of enrolled PhD students (particularly part-timers) began increasing from the early 1970s, the full impact of this growth would not be reflected in completion statistics for another five years or so – the time taken for a part-time student to complete the doctoral degree. Questions of “difference” in world-views, experience and ways of knowing, tended to overflow the boundaries of purely statistical methods. By the late 1970s a few supervisors were allowing qualitative data as illustrations of quantitative categories, but a purely qualitative study was not usually regarded as sufficiently “scientific.” One student found a respectable precedent: “ I had read quite a lot on Piaget and how he conducted clinical interviews with children but I hadn't seen anyone do it. ” He used interviews to document “the way in which children develop an understanding of metaphor and response to imagery and so on.” Theses on children’s and teachers’ everyday experiences and perspectives are found in all Education’s sub-disciplines from this period. Research questions and methods could draw on two main sources – Piagetian (as described above) and philosophical. Throughout the 1970s, Continental phenomenology was “imported” into social sciences (e.g. Berger & Luckmann, 1971). Inspired by Greene’s existential phenomenology (1973), one candidate: “… had to be careful because qualitative studies were brand new. [My supervisor] was terribly frightened that I didn't have enough quantitative sort of data gathering. So I did a lot of frequency counts.” Phenomenology’s emphasis on “everyday” knowledge and understanding had its counterpart in a popular literature on how teachers and students made sense of their everyday classroom experiences. Paper-back books such as How children fail (Holt, 1974), and Teaching as a Subversive Activity (Postman & Weingartner, 1971), expressed the frustration of “progressive” American and British teachers, who were struggling to work in 9 student-centred ways in urban conditions of poverty and civil unrest. Such books gained a ready market among New Zealand teachers (Middleton & May, 1997) and provoked one former teacher to study how “it is the hidden life of a teacher that is the most important to know and understand because all you are looking at is the expression of the hidden dimension of teaching.” He explained that: Where it was going to take me was more towards qualitative research. This was new territory and obviously there were relatively few studies simply that were descriptive and interpretive in character. I wanted to understand - simply to be able to describe - the character, the nature of the thoughts that teachers might have.

Another graduate explained that her “actual research question broke the rules … It was what facilitates student learning in classrooms and what inhibits student learning in classrooms? I wasn’t going to be hypothesis testing … we needed an exploratory phase in classroom research…” Her thesis involved case studies of three children whom she “followed every half minute…” The thesis was “quantitative as well as qualitative” and was based on “open research questions.” By the late-1970s, studies of relations between official curriculum knowledge and children’s (and/or teachers’) commonsense understanding were being supported by government funding bodies such as the Department of Education. The later variants of this approach, popularly known as “constructivism,” became particularly influential in science and mathematics education theses (Bell, 2005): It was a very individualistic notion… there were all these things going on around us and we only engage in those things where we have some prior knowledge or that our senses attend to for some reason, so there is always something there that requires in our heads. If we take for example all the hundreds of events that are occurring around us now, we only attend to a few of those and we only construct from a few of those.

Constructivism was not confined to universities. Contracts, conferences, consultancies and graduate courses were meeting points brought between researchers from university Education Departments and the state agencies that designed curricula and commissioned research. In New Zealand constructivist thinking increasingly influenced the design of school curricula. The Department (and, later, Ministry) of Education contracted university-based researchers for curriculum design, teacher development, and associated research projects (Bell, 2005; Bell & Gilbert, 1996). Doctoral students were sometimes employed as researchers in these. The observational techniques used were paralleled by classroom observation studies in other Education disciplines. Traditionally the province of anthropology, ethnography was increasingly popular in the sociology of education, a field still in its infancy well into the 1980s (Bates, 1980; Middleton, 1989). One of the first (early 1960s) graduates in sociology of 10 education explained that: “classroom observation stuff was all the rage then amongst the sociologists of education”. He gathered classroom observation data as part of a team project in the U.S. This pioneered the use of statistical analyses of different categories of classroom communications as recorded on videotape. Like other sociological theses of the 1960s-early 1970s, his used “a systems model.” He explained: “when I enrolled for the Ph.D, there had to be a theoretical model … what was taught in New Zealand as the sociology of education at the time was basically the American functionalist model”. A 1970s student had also used “ a systems model … Probably Weber would be the closest.” He and others began to use systems theory to frame qualitative data: “I read Boys in White; Street Corner Society, that sort of stuff, so I was right into ethnographic process” This dual focus on “systems” and “everyday life” also characterised the history of education, for example a thesis based on “collecting school textbooks, to see what kids actually had in front of them. And so it all coalesced into a study of the values presented to kids in schools”.

Shaking the foundations: The late 1970s-1990s. During the late 1970s and early 1980s, increasing numbers of baby-boomers moved out of school-teaching to take up appointments in university Education departments and teachers’ colleges. During childhood and adolescence this generation had been promised equality of opportunity, with access to “success” limited only on the bases of merit or effort. Yet, at the same time, many of this cohort, who were among the first in their families to enter higher education, had experienced a sense of alienation or marginality from what counted as academic - students from working-class or rural backgrounds, Maori students, women students, or those who were multiply marginal. International social movements gave voice to such experiences – Nga Tamatoa [a movement for Maori cultural autonomy], women’s liberation, leftist student groups, etc. By the 1980s, increasing numbers of this cohort of younger academics were enrolling in PhDs (Fig 1). Those with experiences of marginality sometimes brought a “critical edge” to Education and other social sciences (Said, 1993a), which increasingly explored how what counts as knowledge had come to be that way, and whose interests it served. As Harvey argues (1996, p. 103), “The margin is not simply a metaphor, but an imaginary that has real underpinnings. From that location a powerful condemnation of supposedly emancipatory discourses shaped at the centre can be launched.” For example, as shown in Fig 2, by the mid-1980s, women began to outnumber men in the cohorts of doctoral graduates in Education. By this time the grassroots women’s liberation movement had infused most academic disciplines and feminist scholarship began to surface in 11 thesis research. One student’s feminist history thesis was stimulated when archives showed that: the missionary story had been told from a male perspective, that all missionaries were assumed to be men; that women were simply their wives; and that missionary work was a male activity. I had started to argue that these women were actually appointed as missionaries.

While some feminist theses took gender or sexuality as their central focus, others studied these in relation to inequalities of race and/ or class (Jones, 1991; Middleton, 1993). Particularly influential in the late 1970s and throughout the 1980s were neo-Marxist theories. Their impact was fuelled by British academics who took up employment in New Zealand Education departments, particularly in the sociology of education (Middleton, 1989) and British writers were widely read: “Paul Willis’s Learning to Labour was the core book on education.” Other key texts included: “Bowles and Gintis, I read Althusser.” Theses explored questions such why did “ some working class people manage to become socially mobile and others don't - the vast majority don't?” They used a range of qualitative and quantitative methodologies. One Marxist-feminist ethnography set out to:

… map the details of social reproduction of a certain kind in a New Zealand secondary school. I did manage to use ‘symbolic violence’ and ‘habitus’ and ‘cultural capital’, all those kind of key theoretical ideas from Bourdieu to make sense of the experience of working class and middle class - working class Pacific Island girls and middle class Pakeha [white] girls - at school.

Neo-Marxism’s impact extended beyond sociology and into other Education disciplines. A philosophy of education graduate explained:

One of the questions here was the centrality of history to philosophy. The historicist interpretation began to allow politics to enter into philosophy in a very interesting way. Analytic philosophy debarred politics because it never admitted anything from context. It always wanted to philosophise at the level of the universal, and that's the way I saw it. And I guess I was strongly influenced at that time by the Australian Marxists.

An historian explained that during the 1980s history and sociology of education increasingly “crossed over,” as sociological theses incorporated historical methods and sociological concepts crossed over into historical research. His history of school examinations had drawn him to “The Australian writers of the 1980s. I was looking at Connell, the sociologists.” He explored how: “The types of qualifications achieved and their length of time at school very much correlated with changes in labour markets.” Marxist ideas also influenced theses by Maori candidates studying Maori education – directly, and also via international Black and post-colonial writers (Bhabha, 1994; Fanon, 1986 12 edition). A 1990s Maori graduate read “Gramsci and the critical theorists … Freire.” Reading these from a Maori cultural perspective generated his critique of critical theory: … embedded inside the Western transformative theorists is the lineal progression of an implicit hierarchy which moves from: First you needed to develop a sense of conscientisation or politicisation. Then you take aboard these politics to the extent that you want to make change, you want resistance, develop the politics of resistance. Then the third phase is you actually make change. And that kind of sequence I felt, which was embedded in a lot of the Western critical pedagogy in particular, was very exclusive, it privileged people.

Maori graduates described theses grounded in “the validity and the legitimacy of Maori knowledge - the Maori ways of doing things - understanding; knowledge and pedagogy and so on.” Another student attributed his methodology to cultural traditions: the idea of working ‘with’ people instead of ‘on’ them came from my family, from some kaumatua [elders] in the family, from the other people that I worked with when I was doing research in my family. If they were not happy to work with me then I would take the material away and go back to my office and work on it.

Such students argued that, “theory itself was a site of struggle that had been largely taken as unproblematic in that Maori needed to also argue for their own theoretical position and space.” While allied with international indigenous people’s movements and theories such as postcolonialism, kaupapa Maori was becoming accepted in its own right as “not anything else … it is kaupapa Maori” (Hingangaroa-Smith, 1990; Tuhiwai Smith, 1999). As with sociology, history and philosophy, developmental psychology increasingly acknowledged its own “embeddedness” in the social, cultural, historical and political world, as bearing traces of the circumstances in which it was produced (Drewery & Bird, 2000; Morss & Linzey, 1991). Piaget’s theory of universal stages in human development was seen as descriptive of the developmental sequence of western children, rather than as a universal progression: “being an adult, for Piaget, means being able to think like a Western scientist” (Morss, 1991, p.9). One student described how reading translations of Vygotsky had shown her “the unavoidably social nature of all human activity.” For her and others basing theses on developmental psychology in the 1980s, Vygotsky “was very influential. This was a new theoretical approach, which didn't separate individuals from their historical and socio-cultural backgrounds. It treated cognitive development as a process of acquiring culture and it all made such good sense to me.” This perspective strengthened attention to “cultural sensitivity” amongst those describing their work as “constructivist”. For example, a Pacific Islands student’s thesis on mathematics education was based on fieldwork in her own country, where she needed to adapt constructivism to suit local conditions: 13

at the time … constructivism was the theoretical framework - the whole idea that you allow students to construct for themselves ideas. That didn't quite work out for me because I think the students were so used to having a teacher right in front to teach them specific teaching strategies. I tried that and then I had to use a combination of the two - allow students to explore and at the same times I sort of pointed out exactly what could be teachings.

Restructuring the state: Late 1980s-1990s. From the mid-1980s, as in Britain, the U.S. and other western nations, New Zealand’s (Labour) government embraced neo-liberal economic theory and embarked on a program of deregulation, privatisation, and reduction in the size of the bureaucratic state (King, 2004). New Zealand’s system of school administration was restructured, with the central Department of Education replaced by a streamlined Ministry and individual school Boards of Trustees (Olssen & Matthews, 1997; Thrupp, 1999). The restructuring of the state influenced doctoral research in several ways. Government policies of de-regulation, and the setting up of a New Zealand Qualifications Authority encouraged the emergence of degree courses in institutions other than universities. Colleges of Education, polytechnics and private providers began to offer degrees and diplomas in teacher education. The statutory requirement that those teaching in degree courses be active researchers (Woodhouse, 1998) meant that more staff in colleges of education, polytechnics and other degree-granting institutions sought to upgrade their qualifications, creating a wider demand for doctoral degrees (Fergusson, 1999) and a resulting surge in the numbers of students (Fig 1). Furthermore, the university sector itself was subject to restructuring, which reshaped the economic, institutional and theoretical contexts in which doctoral students conceptualised and carried out their research (Peters, 1997b). Educationists engaged substantively with the new policies – they wrote submissions; they engaged in critique; they theorised, and a burgeoning literature resulted (e.g. Olssen & Matthews, 1997; Peters, 1997b; Thrupp, 1999). Neo-liberal theories, the restructuring of school administration and subsequent curriculum reforms provided topics for Education theses as “policy studies” began to supplant traditional disciplines like sociology and history of education. To help them engage with issues such as the ascendancy of neo-liberalism, and economic globalisation, Educationists drew into the discipline theories of the state from fields such as political science (Dale & Robertson, 1997; Urry, 1998). One thesis on “state theory” described Jessop as “an accessible Marxist. He was trying to deal with all of the difficulties of Marxist state theorising and trying to make it applicable to looking at politics and policy.” A thesis on teachers’ unions argued that: “education was a function of the state and that that the changes in education create changes in the structures of the state itself”. 14

Others argued that the geographical vantage-point of a South Pacific location could throw into stark relief the hegemonic tendencies of the fashionable international literature that highlighted states’ common experiences of globalisation. This risked rendering invisible or marginal the experiences and problems distinctive to small countries. A thesis on a Pacific Island state argued that:

in terms of developing policy in a small island state, a third world, under developed state, … the focus had been too much on global influences. There hadn't really been much done on education policy development in a small island state, in fact nothing. My argument was that policy is shaped as much by local cultural influences as it is by global economistic influences.

The “perspectivity” of the social theories that informed both policies and academics’ critiques of them came under increasing scrutiny as researchers discovered the conceptual and explanatory limitations of concepts such as identity, class, race/culture, gender, intelligence, success and achievement. The search for more flexible categories that could “float” as “identities” shifted attracted some to Foucault, Derrida, and other post-structuralist and post-colonial writers. Post-structuralism influenced Educationists in a range of fields, including educational sociology (Jones, 1991; Middleton, 1993) and ‘discourse psychology’ (Drewery & Bird, 2000). This provided a common language for reading across shifting, multiple, and contradictory marginalities and identities. Older critical theories, such as feminism and neo-Marxism sometimes incorporated post-structuralist ideas, including: “post modernist stuff … stuff about bodies. Kathy Davis and her book Embodied Practices was quite influential and Bronwyn Davies’s stuff on agency.” At the time of my interviews (1999), such inter-disciplinary fusions were informing doctoral projects still in process (e.g. McKinley, 2003). This section traced changing trends in the “thinking spaces” available to New Zealand writers of doctoral theses in Education – the topics studied, the methods used, and the theories on which analyses were based. It charted international theoretical and methodological tides and currents, how these were adapted to local conditions and address local issues, and suggested how “epistemological breaks are often social breaks” (Bourdieu & Wacquant, 1992, p.203). In Derrida’s sense, its focus was the intellectual, “mediatised” dimension of doctoral experience: “culture, readings, interpretation, work, generalities, rules and concepts” (Derrida & Ewald, 2003, p. 72). But what of the personal, embodied, or “singular” dimensions of thesis experience? Do, and if so in what ways how might, the PhD theses on library shelves bear traces of the places in which their authors lived and worked – their embodied locations in towns, households and workplaces? And, conversely, were, and if so how were, the places 15

“encasing” the reading, researching and writing bodies of doctoral students “inscribed” by the PhD projects carried out within?

RESEARCHING PLACES: FAMILIES, HOMES, AND WORKPLACES. There is a considerable literature on relations between the positioning of the body in geographical space and people’s perceptions, beliefs and theories. The phenomenologist Merleau-Ponty argued that: “all my knowledge of the world, even my scientific knowledge, is gained from my own particular point of view, or from some experience of the world without which the symbols of science would be meaningless” (1962, p.viii). Less individualistic are post-structuralist ideas of the subject position9. At birth, writes Derrida, we are “thrown” into a pre-existing “singularity of a place of speech, a place of experience, and of a line of filiation, places and lines” (Derrida, 1994, p.12). This place “where work and singularity intersect each other” (Derrida & Ewald, 2003, p.72) is illustrated with brief examples of childhood dreams, interests, and activities that doctoral graduates identified as formative of their adult research interests and theoretical perspectives. How did their childhood “emplacement” in families, towns, houses and schools inform their adult intellectual positioning in epistemological space? Many identified childhood predispositions towards their adult thesis topics and questions. An early graduate traced his post-war interest in developmental psychology to his childhood in the 1930s in a family with strong Protestant church involvement:

What I was interested in was what motivates people to do things, because I was very interested in the whole theory of volition … I suppose you could say this reflects my background a little. That, being a person very interested in religion, the social conscience and all the rest of it - the nature of will and will power - seemed an obvious thing.

Another saw “continuity between what I started in terms of seeing service to other people as being the goal and finding an opportunity for doing that with the education background.” A younger leftist sociologist related his Catholic family and schooling to his focus on “ the social justice thing” in teaching and research: I was brought up a Catholic and that is a very powerful thing. I have thrown away a lot of it now but that side of it I think has definitely coloured so much of my work… I have always had a kind of concern. And also being schooled in Catholic schools I think you do get a sense of being taught that everyone should be on the same level. There is an egalitarianism – that’s the rhetoric anyway!

9 Derrida did not like the term “subjectivity”, but his ideas are consistent with those who do use the term e.g. Foucault and Butler . 16

The geographical location of families within the nation was also formative, as in the case of a Maori student’s account of childhood in: … one of the first areas in which Maori lost land. It's one of the first places where the loss of language was felt. It was one of the most red-necked places in the 1960s in New Zealand. Going through that experience in schools was very formative… Basically the racism and so on had a very formative impact on wanting to do well, to show people that we were capable, we could achieve.

A Pakeha 10[white] child’s experiences in a Maori community would influence her research on social justice in the 1980s: “It was only a township of about 200 people, but it had a really high proportion of Maori people living there. So that was my first experience of living in the community and having a lot to do with friends with close Maori connections”. The political affinities of parents was sometimes seen as important as in the case of a sociologist, who explained: “I loved Economics. I thought here was a vehicle with which one might change the world a bit. I saw that Economics was a tool for shaping policy. My family was a working class family and a Labour Party family.” Many used sociological categories such as “class”, “gender”, and “race” to categorise aspects of their childhood and later educational experiences. As Hacking expressed it (1991, p. 194), “The bureaucracy of statistics imposes not just by creating administrative rulings but by determining classifications within which people must think of themselves and of the actions open to them.” Some interviewees’ categorisations of their class or socio-economic status did not rest at the level of mere statistical labels, but signified deep emotional or affective meaning. This was particularly evident in stories of feeling marginal, or out of place. A feeling that something was wrong, or a sense of injustice at school was sometimes described as an experience of “not fitting in.” For example, “a scholarship child at a private school“ said that: “people were very nice to you but they’d say things like, ‘Well we are going out on the boat but we didn't invite you 'cause we knew you couldn't afford it.’ ” As an adult student, she viewed this experience through a Marxist lens. As Harvey (1996, p. 103) argues, “The margin is not simply a metaphor, but an imaginary that has real underpinnings. From that location a powerful condemnation of supposedly emancipatory discourses shaped at the centre can be launched.” However, links between “the condition of exile” (Said, 1993b, p.39) and the taking up of Marxism or another critical theory are not simple cause-effect connections. Another working-class child in a private school attributed to this experience his life-long quest for status and drive towards individual success. He had to “prove that he was good enough.” I went to a little private boarding school. If you don’t get caught up in the status symbolisation system then, you don’t get caught up in anything, so status has always

10 See note 7 17

been a factor. And I think that’s the university’s business, to peddle status and, if you want to be a peddler, you’d better have some!

As Britzman argues, “what attaches the psychical to the social and the social to the psychical are matters of love and hate in learning” (Britzman, 1998, p.8). How or whether particular biographical events or psychological characteristics, will predispose someone to be attracted to, or repelled, by certain theories, will vary. However, as Hollway says (1982, p. 238), we all “have investments in taking up certain positions in discourse;” our preferences for certain theories or ideas give us “some satisfaction or pay-off or reward” and are “not necessarily conscious or rational.” Bourdieu (1988) provides evidence that students from dominant class or cultural backgrounds are more likely than those from marginalised or subordinate groups to feel at home in academic settings: “when habitus encounters a social world of which it is the product, it is like a ‘fish in water’ therefore it does not feel the weight of the water, and it takes the world about itself for granted” (Bourdieu & Wacquant, 1992, p.127). With its historical, organisational and professional grounding in, and recruitment of academic staff from the ranks of, the school teaching profession, the subject Education has greater representation of staff and students from working-class and/or Maori backgrounds than many other university subjects. Class “position” here is more than an abstract point on a graph of socio-economic status. The allocation or “choice” of subjects by students allocates them spatially to buildings and amongst specific social groupings of staff and students (departments). Working-class students and Maori cluster disproportionately in the buildings and departments of lower status subjects like Education (a university’s “abject zones”) (McClintock, 1995; Sibley, 1995). Experiences of feeling at home or out of place in a particular university department sometimes led to shifts out of, into or between departments. These involved administrative relocation within subjects and spatial movements between buildings. A philosopher of education from a working class background had moved out of philosophy and “down” to Education:

I guess the politics of knowledge became really important to me at that point. In particular, I came to see the philosophy department as this privileged little enclave, a kind of pale imitation of the progression of the public school system in Britain where people talked in funny voices about questions which bore no relationship to their own context. That propelled me towards Education, which was perceived in the university as being at the bottom of the hierarchy of subjects, and philosophy was at the top. 18

A mature woman who had a repressive childhood and a traumatic period of marital violence shifted out of Education and into philosophy when she felt disempowered in “radical” sociology of education classes: I heard why working class people fail. Then I thought, “You bastards! You're sitting there saying how people fail and you're not empowering anybody”. I looked at some post- modern stuff and I thought, “Fuck this! It doesn't actually tell me how to change any policies!” All I'm interested in is looking at how you change policies and what policies are going to work for people who need empowering. Theories that say that this rationality's as good as that rationality did fuck all for me. It just made me so angry after what I've been through. I thought, “All you intellectuals sitting there - you don't know a shit!” I got really carried away.

She adopted a libertarian, individualistic philosophy. Theories and pedagogies designed to give voice to an oppressed group may have that effect for some, but once woven into the apparatuses of power, they may also be experienced as oppressive (Lather, 1990). As discourses, educational theories, methods and disciplines: “express human thought, fantasy and desire. They are also institutionally based, materially constrained, experientially grounded manifestations of social and power relations” (Harvey, 1996, p.80). Taking up an academic discourse requires more than mastery of knowledge; it also require a psychological process of identification. Furthermore, academic “identifications are never fully made; they are incessantly reconstituted and, as such, are subject to the volatile logic of iterability” (Butler, 1993, p.105). Many described a shaky sense of competence. A mature student from a working-class family was intimidated when attending staff-student seminars: I didn't understand what was going on. I mean I couldn't really read the language most of the time. I really struggled with the jargon of that academic education for so long because it didn't mean anything to me. I was working in an area that was particularly starting to be jargonised … new ways of talking about these things. I found it very difficult because, while I was a good reader, I had never had to deal with this very academic language before and I found that incredibly difficult.

These stories suggest relations between students’ geographical locations (in towns, schools, departments, etc) and the topics, theories and methods of their research. Geographical theory suggests that these “different schemas take hold in the imagination and serve to influence the timing and spacing of activities” (Allen, 2004, p.23). How does the doctoral experience influence the spacing and timing of students’ activities in the places in which they live and work? One of the early theses was written during the housing shortages of the 1950s and this account of the “mapping” of domestic space reflects 1950s gender-relations: I was a family man, struggling on a junior lecturer's salary ... I didn't have a study or anything like that. Most of my thesis writing was done on a card table in whichever room was not being used in the house – a lot of it in the bedroom. In other words, I had 19

minimal facilities. I would disappear and work on my thesis and my wife would bring up the children.

By the 1970s, university lecturers could usually afford larger houses and could allocate themselves study space. This affected family relations: “It was a little sort of detached den outside the house. So I used to retreat out there. I can still remember their mother saying, ‘Don't disrupt Daddy, he's working on his PhD”. Another father tried to avoid isolation from his family: I worked incredible hours - crazy hours I suppose, but I must have been young enough and fit enough to take it. I set up an office at home in a bedroom so that I never went away from the house to work apart from my standard work hours. Weekends, late at night, I always worked at home because I wanted to keep the family connection and not always be seen to be away somewhere.

Another preferred to write “mostly in my office at the university, because I tried to keep a division between work and home”. Some university staff said that their paid work and thesis work needed separate places: “I didn't do any PhD work in my office [on campus] because I found that I had to keep the two things separate.” Sometimes the timing of work was determined by children’s bedtimes, as a father relates: “family time was in the early evening. I would often come back to work very late - I would come back [on campus] at 8.00pm and stay there until well after midnight.” Some said that the thesis took up too much “space” and contributed to stresses or breakdown in marriage: “I became more and more isolated.” During the late 1970s, the women’s liberation movement encouraged women, including mothers of young children, to continue to post-graduate study (Fig. 2). A married woman described how: “I walked the children to school and then would come back and start work. That was a demarcation to the beginning of the day.” Solo mothers were constrained spatially, confined to their homes when children were present. They claimed space through demarcations of time, working on the thesis before dawn or late at night when children were asleep, or, as in the case of a mother sharing custody, “week about” with her child’s father, working in the weeks the children were absent. Another “wrote a page a day. The spatial whereabouts of family members, the configurations of rooms, and routines of family life were mapped according to thesis requirements. Conversely, students described designing research in accordance with family requirements: Even before I found a topic, I’d decided on a basic research design. It was basically going to be a pre- and post-construct methodology with some kind of repeated measures in it and groupings that depended on different variables so that the study could be done in a quantitative way. The primary reason for that was that it was practical and fitted my lifestyle. So I’d worked out the design before I had the topic. Fortunately the topic fitted in nicely, so that was that! 20

Homes were not simply “containers” for (abstract) thesis “content.” The technological equipment available and deemed appropriate also mapped the spatial and temporal distribution of households. In the early 1970s, the clatter of a manual typewriter at night demanded a writer’s isolation: “What I did was to finish work, come home and then go over there again. I wrote it all on a mechanical typewriter. I would go back [to my office at the university] at about 8.00pm and set everything up and then get to work. I'd come home and the house would be in darkness.” In the 1970s, the introduction of mainframe computers for statistical analysis had spatial implications for families. A provincial university had to “dial in” to a mainframe at another campus: Because my data needed statistical analyses - no mainframe computer here - we used to use the Burroughs computer at [another university in a neighbouring city]. It was a thing about as big as a room. We used to have a telephone link from 5.00pm to 6.00pm every night - that was my campus’s bought time.

When campus computer laboratories were introduced, students worked there for long periods. One young mother described how, during the statistical analysis phase of her work, she had spent nights in the campus computer laboratory and had slept only “one hour a night six days a week for six months.” With a young baby in the house, “How do you ever get the uninterrupted time to do the kind of theorising I needed to do?” She explained: I used to love it. It was one of the great privileges of my life. I would be on this mainframe and I would get hours with not a soul. At first you had to get through the barrier of tiredness and I'd take to the coffee. Then I remember the sadness when the birds would start to sing and you'd know that the sunrise was coming and I had to stop... I'd drive home and be there when the baby woke up.

By the early 1980s, home computers allowed more choice in where to work. In the 1990s, there were more full-time doctoral students (Fig, 1) surviving on scholarships (with strict time limits) and casual employment. This could mean inferior housing and dependency on university computer laboratories: “I was in a one-bedroom bed-sit. I couldn't afford anything more. I had no space to work at so whatever space the university could provide me with as a PhD student was my space”. As Sibley argues, “personal space defined by the self and the intimate spaces of the home are integral elements of social space. These private spaces have a relationship with the public spaces of geography” (1995, p.77).

CONCLUSION My aim in this paper has been to outline some parameters for a situated history of the doctoral experience in Education in New Zealand. Derrida’s definition of experience usefully encompasses the multidimensional sense in which I have used this term: “experience, this word which means all at once crossing, journey, ordeal, both mediatised (culture, readings, 21 interpretation, work, generalities, rules and concepts), and singular – I do not say immediate (untranslatable ‘affect’, language, proper name and so on)” (Derrida & Ewald, 2003, p. 72).11 The “mediatised” dimension of thesis experience was addressed in part one, which situated thesis topics and methods in “epistemological space” in the sense of the theories, methods and debates of the Education disciplines. Part two discussed experience’s “singular” aspects – students’ biographical affinities, domestic and institutional circumstances. Forced by ethical considerations to narrate parallel histories, rather than link them through case studies of individuals, the connections I was able to make were at the level of historical shifts in political priorities, economic and demographic change, and technological innovation. Traversing the epistemic, the biographical, the domestic, and the institutional dimensions of thesis students’ lives and works, these illustrate how academic disciplines like Education “are utterly everyday and grounded at the same time as they may, when linked together, go round the world. Space is not outside of place; it is not abstract, it is not somehow ‘up there’ or disembodied” (Massey, 2004, p.8). Relational geography helps a conceptual reunification of space and place, mind and body, public and private, theoretical and practical, domestic and public. This reunification brings the subject Education into view in the form of global flows of intellectual capital networked through powerful academic, political and commercial centres. This can be particularly valuable for those researching and writing in small nations, as: “thinking in terms of networks and flows, and living in an age of globalisation, refashions, but does not deny, a politics of place” (Massey, 2004). Accounts of the specificities of a nation’s intellectual history, from its thesis topics to the minutiae of its domestic routines, can enhance understanding of the political, social, intellectual, and cultural power dynamics of our discipline. For, as Harvey describes them (1996, p.316), Places are constructed and experienced as material ecological artefacts and intimate networks of social relations. They are the focus of the imaginary, of beliefs, longings and desires (most particularly with respect to the psychological pull and push of the idea of 'home'). They are an intense focus of discursive activity, filled with symbolic and representational meanings, and they are a distinctive product of institutional, social, and political-economic power.

11 Emphasis in the original. 22

FIG 1: NUMBER OF NEW ZEALAND PHD GRADUATES IN EDUCATION BY UNIVERSITY

N Fig 1:PhDs by University 1950-1997

Auckland Canterbury Massey Otago Victoria Waikato 23

FIG 2: NUMBER OF NEW ZEALAND PHD GRADUATES IN EDUCATION BY GENDER

N Fig 2. Gender of PhD Graduates 1950- 1997 50 45 40 35 30 25 20 15 10 5 0

Men Women Total 24

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