At the start of this academic year, I was invited to give a presentation to the staff at one of our schools. The theme I chose to talk around was that of discipline, and specifically the difference between discipline and motivation.
Whilst we may understandably associate the word ‘discipline’ in a school context with behaviour and its management – and a quick search for a definition of the word via Google would state (under definition #1) that discipline is “the practice of training people to obey rules or a code of behaviour, using punishment to correct disobedience”, it means many more things than that. My focus was on the definition that sat right at the bottom of the Google entry: Discipline (verb) “to train oneself to do something in a controlled and habitual way.”
The reason why I chose to focus on this dimension of discipline is that there is a growing body of thought where discipline is emphasised as the vehicle for success above other factors – including motivation. Those of us working in schools will know of children and young people who have excelled in their achievements not through desire and motivation, but through hard work and the application of regular habits that are conducive to achievement – such as routine and frequent revision.
We have all worked with people who exhibit these qualities too. Those individuals who will be successful whatever they seem to turn their hands to, not because they have boundless skillsets or they are lucky, but because they consistently apply themselves in a disciplined fashion to whatever it is they are doing. I wanted to highlight this to the staff at the school I was presenting to. Alongside their talents and their passions, which are both impressive and abundant, they exhibit a culture of discipline in their approach – and with that comes the consistency of performance, individually and corporately.
Instinctively, we know that discipline works as a failsafe when motivation waxes and wanes. It’s for this reason that the runner will lay out the running gear by the bed before going to sleep to make sure they get up for that jog in the morning, however they feel. It’s the reason the dieter goes to a slimming club each week for a “weigh in” when there’s a perfectly accurate set of scales in their bathroom. It’s the reason why the hopeful quitter has a chart on their wall with countdowns to treats and rewards, marking each day that they go cigarette-free. Such routines sustain us when we would otherwise be flagging.
Finally, the above is perhaps best encapsulated by a quotation by Stephen R. Covey: “Only through discipline are we truly free. The undisciplined are slaves to moods, appetites and passions.”
As leaders, we all have aspects of our work that ignite our passion more than others. A number of years ago, I read John C Maxwell’s “Five Levels of Leadership”, in which he argued that the most effective leaders are those where the “must – should – love” elements, if represented as three circles on a Venn diagram, overlapped each other totally.
Maxwell argued that our work falls into three categories: Must – that which we have to do. It’s in our job description and it is a non-negotiable aspect that comes with the role itself. Should – based on our skills sets and experiences, these are elements of work where we would naturally excel, and as such it is an efficient and effective use of capacity for such work to be undertaken. Love – areas that ignite our passions, that get us out of bed in the morning, and that drive us forward each day in making a difference. When our job description (must) compels us to undertake the things we’re good at (should) which are also things that enthuse us (love), we become both highly effective and happy.
We would all recognise such a dynamic, but also appreciate that those who find themselves in such a position are both fortunate and a rare breed. We may also be familiar with the sentiment that if we “choose a job that you love, you will never have to work a day in your life.” I’ve most frequently heard this from sports stars or those working in the creative fields, where there is a clear alignment between personal passion and their means of paying the mortgage.
An area of my work that has ignited my passion has always been strategic choice. Many years ago whilst studying for an MBA, it was this component of the course that I found most stimulating and enjoyable, and it was within this area that I chose to undertake my dissertation. I’m not sure why I find this area so fascinating. It may stem from the same root as my enthusiasm for history. A sense of causation, of shaping, of consequence.
Recently, my work has seen an even greater emphasis on strategic choice than usual, as I have become involved in a consultancy capacity in work that spans many and diverse school settings beyond our own trust (which itself is a source of constant strategic considerations!). Through this work, and wider experience, I thought I would share reflections on three impulses that drive leaders in schools. I’ll emphasise both here and in my concluding remarks that strategy is always contingent upon context. In other words, there is a time and a place for any of these three approaches. Where leaders go wrong is selecting the wrong approach for their context. Why they can be prone to do this may require another blog!
The first impetus I’ve described as the Theseus’ Ship Approach. You may be familiar with the philosophical problem that was presented by Plutarch: If, in order to preserve the Ship of Theseus, the Greeks replaced each rotting plank and each frayed rope and torn sail, to the point where none of the original components remained, can the object still be referred to as the Ship of Theseus? There are alternative versions of this problem, including a contemporary version from the BBC comedy series “Only Fools and Horses”, in which “Trigger’s Broom” was commended as being the same broom that he had had for twenty years, with “17 new heads and 14 new handles in its time”! In schools, there is sometimes an urge to attempt to replace the component parts with identical replicas, in the hope that we can retain the original. This is a legitimate strategy if (a) the original cannot be bettered and (b) there are suitable identical replicas. If, like me, you’re struggling to find things that change in schools – staff, buildings, qualifications etc. – that fit the tests of (a) and (b), you may appreciate why this approach is problematic. It neglects the opportunity to improve, and often results in disappointment for everyone (especially if the “component” that is the replacement is a person!).
A second impetus I’ve described as the Brailsford Bike Approach. Sir Dave Brailsford, formerly Performance Director of British Cycling and more latterly of Team Sky/Ineos Grenadiers became the poster boy for the concept of improvement through marginal gains. Every millisecond that could be derived through part selection, engineering design, coaching and nutrition and fitness of rider was to be squeezed out, with the expectation that this would make sufficient difference to result in success. This approach requires constant evaluation, and an openness to change. There are schools that have seen significant successes through marginal gains. It may be in the curriculum: If we give an additional thirty minutes to maths each week, if we put our phonics teaching at the start of the day… It may be in staff development: If we invest more in middle leadership training, if we ensure consistency in behaviour management… and it may be through other “marginal” decisions – how to spend Pupil Premium funding, for example. The potential drawback of such an approach is it rests upon a central premise that what is current is (a) at least slightly sub-optimal yet (b) worthy of essentially being maintained. Such an approach can destabilise those who are invested in the current system or provision, in that they fear – often with good reason as a result of (a) – that change will always only be around the next corner. If they can own and drive that change, this fear can be turned into enthusiasm, of course. But if they can’t… The issue with (b) is that there may be a reluctance to make a step change, if the culture of the organisation is too wedded to the strategy of incremental improvement.
The third impetus I refer to here is The Wright Brothers’ Approach. Here, there is a drive to change more radically. To reject the orthodoxy and tradition of the bike shop in Dayton, Ohio, and strive forward into the skies of Kitty Hawk. Again, this can prove highly successful. We know of world-leading schools that, through innovation and creativity, have forged ahead and set the standard for others to follow. We rightly admire those organisations, and we all benefit from their success when, as “late adopters” we acquire many of the benefit with none of the risk. And the risks can be considerable. It’s the risks that keep the majority from adopting such a strategy. Innovation is resource intensive, and often results in an outcome more akin to that of Icarus than Orville Wright. When the greatest risk is to the education of children and young people – who only get one chance – many will understandably hang back.
Where truly skilful leaders are effective is in knowing when to stabilise and maintain, when to adapt and evolve, and when to jettison and then revolutionise. Their schools may be the subject to all three approaches in different areas of provision, or at different times. Conversely, some leaders will deliberately find settings to work in that match their own strategic impetus. This is just as effective. The worst of all worlds is the self-styled “new broom” that, in reality, is an iconoclastic wrecking ball that sees an effective and harmonious school as a test centre for vanity projects dressed as innovation, or the “steady eddie” that hopes that much-needed improvement can miraculously and spontaneously come into being without any change being implemented. After thirty years in education, I’ve seen the damage caused by both the new brooms and the steady eddies. But I’ve seen much more from the leaders who get it right, and admire them immensely for it.
It would be impossible to publish my monthly blog without reference to the events of such magnitude that we all witnessed in September – a month which saw the arrivals of both a new Prime Minister and a new monarch. The extensive media coverage that accompanied both events frequently made reference to their historical significance. This was particularly profound in relation to the death of HM Queen Elizabeth II, where our schools and our Trust sought to commemorate in a fitting manner the end of a reign that for many in our communities was the only reign we had ever known.
Such commemorations are important for nations, for communities, for families and for individuals. They serve as markers to us of the things that we hold significant – serving as a precursor to acts of celebration, thanksgiving, or grieving. “Commemoration” is from the Latin, meaning “to bring forth remembrance”. As a teacher of History, a sense of our collective memory is hugely important to me. For our young people, it is this collective memory that makes “the bringing forth of remembrance” possible for events that they cannot personally recall but which they would undoubtedly regard as important were they able to. The work of organisations such as the Holocaust Education Trust and the Royal British Legion amongst others has proven to be vital in maintaining a sense of shared memory of the horrific and the tragic – but also of the human condition in all its fragility. The sentiment that “those who forget the mistakes of the past are compelled to repeat them” has become a cliché, but only because it is so true. Conveying this to children can be challenging. The role of the history teacher isn’t that of a preacher – our morality is our own. Nor is it that of a doctor – with dispassionate diagnoses and prognoses. But causes and consequences are important. They’re also complex and need to be treated with respect by teacher and pupil alike.
Of course, looking at ourselves in the context of history is akin to looking at our planet in the context of the universe (some of you may remember “The Pale Blue Dot” – July 2021’s Blog?). This can lead to children feeling a sense of futility. In so many ways, their lives have very finite limits compared to those of adults, and we can compound this as we reflect on the tiny place we each occupy in the space-time continuum. I think there are different ways to approach this.
First, we should recognise the possibilities that remain within our potential – especially when we are young. Margaret Mead, the American anthropologist, advised us to “never doubt that a small group of thoughtful committed individuals can change the world. In fact, it’s the only thing that ever has.” The scale of our world is still not beyond our influence, and the moment that our children believe it is, is the moment we are truly lost.
Second, we should encourage children and young people to explore philosophy as a way to consider meaning. Without meaning, we become the “Tralfamadorians” – alien creatures in the mind of the protagonist Billy Pilgrim – from Kurt Vonnegut’s classic “Slaughterhouse Five” (which I read this month):
“- Why me? – That is a very Earthling question to ask, Mr. Pilgrim. Why you? Why us for that matter? Why anything? Because this moment simply is. Have you ever seen bugs trapped in amber? – Yes. – Well, here we are, Mr. Pilgrim, trapped in the amber of this moment. There is no why.” (Kurt Vonnegut Jr., Slaughterhouse-Five)
It is up to us all to find our ‘why’, and philosophy can be our compass and our lamp, but is neither a roadmap nor daylight. As the Harvard University faculty guide to the study of Philosophy concludes: “The goal of philosophy is always the same: to assist men to understand themselves and thus operate in the open, and not wildly in the dark.”
We all know individuals who appear to be operating “wildly in the dark”, and maybe we have felt that way about ourselves too. It is not something we would want our children to feel – either now, or in their future.
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