I start this chapter with a very simple story about tests told to me by Wen-Hsing, a former student of mine who now teaches at a secondary school back home in Taiwan. Wen- Hsing recently sent me an e-mail about what happened when she and her colleagues were grading the English language component of an entrance exam: One section of the English test was: “According to the picture, answer the following five questions.” It was a picture of a classroom, where there is a teacher standing and six students seated. It looked like two of the students were talking to each other and the teacher was not happy about it. One of the five questions was “Why is the teacher angry? The teacher is angry because students are__.” This blank only allowed one word and the “standard” answer, according to the test-giver, was “talking.” When we were grading the answer sheet, we found there were a variety of answers and some of them that seemed possible were “playing,” “noisy,” “bad.” Thus, we voted to decide if we would accept these answers. Interestingly, “noisy” and “bad” were accepted but “playing” was rejected. The reason of the majority was that we could not tell from the picture whether these two students were playing or not. Well then, I asked them, “Can you tell from the picture that these two are bad?” The answer I got was “We all agreed not to include ‘playing’ in the answers. If we reached an agreement, it is fine.” Although I would like to give students whose answer was “playing” credit, I couldn’t do it and I graded those answer sheets the way I was told to do. This case was not unique. It happened every time I graded in the entrance exam. I don’t know why some possible answers were accepted but some were not. I think it is good to have students answer questions according to the picture they see, but is it necessary to restrict the number of answers? You know what, I always felt “not so good” after grading because there was always one or two answers that would arise dispute. The problems faced by Wen-Hsing and her colleagues reveal the profoundly moral nature of assessment in language teaching. These Taiwanese teachers are striving to adjudicate which knowledge is sanctioned and which is not; their deliberations involve drawing lines in the sand where there are few if any objective criteria unambiguously separating right from wrong. Yet the consequences of their decisions will be visited on the children of their classes and, over time, will become part of each child’s permanent record. Of course, one could argue that the item in question is simply badly designed and that what is needed is just a better test composed of less ambiguous questions. Yet I believe that anyone who has tried to write a test, whether a professional test designer or a classroom teacher, will recognize the difficulties the Taiwanese teachers face. With such a phenomenally complex thing as a language, there are limitless problems that arise in determining ways of testing students’ knowledge; the more complicated and interesting that knowledge becomes, the harder it is to test (Bachman, 2000). Furthermore, those who are most adept at writing test items—professional testers—are also those farthest removed from the classroom, and thus they lack information about what has been covered in class by particular groups of students. All of us are obliged to make do with faulty tools in the work of evaluating students. In this chapter I explore the moral dynamics underlying various aspects of testing and evaluation. During the discussion, I raise many complex moral questions both about traditional forms of evaluation such as standardized tests and examinations, and about alternative approaches to assessment such as portfolios. I argue, however, that two profound moral paradoxes underlie the entire realm of language testing and assessment.

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From a perspective of values, however, rejecting critical pedagogy does not really get us very far, because we are still faced with the same moral problems. I have known several teachers who found the discussions about the political role of the English language that we had in our classes to be profoundly disturbing, precisely in the sense that they presented moral dilemmas quite independently of whether one embraced critical pedagogy or not. Indeed, the dilemma ran even deeper: If the spread of English is having, and has had, such a devastating effect on peoples and cultures across the world, do I even wish to continue to be a part of it? I have not known teachers who actually gave up teaching for this reason (though I can imagine it happening), but for many teachers, once they develop an awareness of their own implication in the global processes described by Pennycook (1994), Phillipson (1992), and others, they often find that, as happened to me, their view of the world and, more specifically, their own personal and professional role in it, are radically and permanently changed. At the same time, not many take up critical pedagogy; most continue to teach in ways that are not radically different. Why is this? My feeling is that underlying this whole issue is one of the most profound moral dilemmas of the ELT profession. This dilemma lies in a moral disjuncture between the broader political processes described earlier in this chapter and the inherent goodness that teachers know for certain is an element of their classrooms. For most teachers, the immediate moral contours of the classroom are clearly delimited: There is moral worth in developing positive and encouraging relations with their learners and in acting as a cultural bridge between them and the new culture; there is moral worth in teaching another language; and there is moral worth in giving these particular individuals access to English, which, other things being equal, may well improve their lives in any number of potential ways, whether material, intellectual, or spiritual. Yet when the teachers look at the political interests vested in English, and at the history of its spread, they cannot deny that it has been and continues to be a virulent and predacious scourge on the other languages and cultures of the world. The dilemma dwells in the sheer impossibility of reconciling these two facts. On the one hand, it is a good thing to teach English, and the teaching of English is good in several ways that one would like to think of as universal values. On the other hand, the teaching of English is a bad thing, and it is bad in ways that one would also wish to see as universal evils. What is one to do in the face of this dilemma? How does one move forward knowing both that teaching itself is a moral imperative, and yet that one is simultaneously implicated in devastating social, cultural and political processes? I do not have any easy (or even difficult) solutions. The one thing I know is that each teacher must pick her own path. Critical pedagogy offers one way forward but, as I pointed out earlier, this is a way that itself requires a particular set of values and moral choices, and it is not for everyone. It is not an easy puzzle; neither can it be solved by a single decision, but like other moral dynamics it must constantly be addressed with each new group of students and each new teaching and learning situation. I only hope that by showing the problem for what it really Values and the Politics of English Language Teaching 58 is—a moral dilemma that is both highly complex and terribly important—I have helped you to be able to think about it in new and enlightening ways.


QUESTIONS FOR REFLECTION AND DISCUSSION
1. Recall the problem faced by Kay in her work in the Central African Republic. What should she do in this situation? What would you do in her place? What values would affect your decision about whether to push for mother-tongue education or whether to concentrate on French?

2. Now look back at the brief description of my work with the Dakota. What, if anything, could or should I have done in this situation? To what extent did I have a right, or a duty, to take further action? Furthermore, what do you think about the question of who was “right” in this context, Angela Wilson or the Tribal Council? What further information would you need in order to decide? Morally speaking, could this conflict be resolved? What other courses of action were open to us?

3. Consider the situation from Bowers and Godfrey’s (1985) book presented on p. 62. Are the authors of the book correct to label Yuen-Li’s situation a problem? What is your view of the situation presented in this vignette?

4. What is your response to the course of action chosen by Brian Morgan (1997) in his class? How would you have handled the same situation? More generally, how do you decide when your values should override those of your students or the alleged values of their cultures?

5. What do you think about the possibility of using critical pedagogy in EFL settings? What do you think might happen if such an approach were taken in an EFL context with which you are familiar?

6. Consider your own teaching situation. What political forces act on it? Who gets to choose what books are used, what cur-riculum is selected, or how examinations are organized? What values are brought to bear in these decisions?

7. The spread of English in the world has been widely documented. What is your view of this process? What values does the spread of English carry with it—for example, in the teaching context in which you work?

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Critical Pedagogy Reassessed

As I have explained elsewhere (B.Johnston, 1999b), I am not entirely convinced by critical pedagogy, I have several objections, all of which have a moral coloring. First, I find a lot of writing about critical pedagogy to be too abstract, theoretical, and couched in exclusionary language; in this I believe that many theorists have failed in their moral obligation to make their ideas fully accessible to others, especially practicing teachers. Second, I resent the posturing that accompanies a lot of the theoretical work in mainstream education (and is mercifully absent in most critical pedagogical writings in ELT); this writing claims the moral high ground in debates over the political nature of schooling, and I believe that such a claim does not support the best interests of teachers and learners (Janangelo, 1993). My primary point of disagreement with critical pedagogy, however, is not so much an intellectual objection as a difference of axiomatic starting points. While Giroux, McLaren, Pennycook and others see teaching as above all involving issues of politics and power, my view is that the most basic quality of teaching is its moral dimension. The ways in which political interests and power relations exist in all educational contexts is of very great importance; I have tried to underline this fact by placing the present chapter near the beginning of my book. However, my view of teaching rests ultimately on a different assumption. At heart, teaching for me is not about political interests. It is about the teacher-student relation and about the nurturing of learning. Giroux, McLaren, Pennycook and oth-ers are themselves teachers, both in university classrooms and through their writings. The reason they teach, and the reason people go to their classes and read their books, is because teaching and learning are inherently valuable processes. One of the things that attracts me to critical pedagogy, on the other hand, is that, as my own personal experience has shown me, many of the pedagogical elements of the critical approach—empowering learners, giving them voice, helping them to see the interestedness of knowledge claims and allowing them to become producers rather than only consumers of knowledge—quite simply constitute excellent pedagogy, from a moral standpoint as well as an educational one. Let me approach this from another angle. Returning to my own experiences, how was it possible for us to even live in such an oppressive context as that of Communist Poland? It was possible because life is not just about politics, power, and the struggle for social change. People lead rich and fulfilling lives in even the most repressive of regimes, simply because life can never be reduced to political oppression. While a few heroic individuals—the Lech Wałęsas and the Anna Walentynowiczes of the world—took on the political struggle, the rest of us were just trying to live ordinary lives, and for the most part succeeding. In most cases, you do not need to engage in a political struggle to love your family, to enjoy the company of your friends, and to do good and important work, and you do not need complete democracy to engage in meaningful teaching and learning with your students. Democracy, freedom, and social change are all terribly important, but for the great majority of us the real business of life can and must go on regardless, whatever our political context. The alternative view—that until equality among all people is achieved we must devote ourselves above all to the struggle for social change—strikes me as being a bleak prospect indeed, and one that denies the richness and profound humanity of relation, including the teacher-learner relation, as it is played out in whatever circumstances it has found itself. 57 Values in English Language Teaching

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