Different. Good (but it's not Aldi)

We’re all now back for Term 2, after the strange, staggered calendar of breaks across the nation. Regardless of when you had yours, hopefully it provided opportunity for rest and refreshment. Changes of pace give opportunity to go somewhere different, to recharge, to explore something new, and to look at life through different eyes. Two recent experiences of different traffic cultures raise questions that seem more far-reaching than at first sight.

The photo this week was taken recently after successfully crossing ???ng T?n ??c Th?ng, the riverside boulevard that runs adjacent to Saigon River in downtown Ho Chi Minh City. The experience of crossing any street in Vietnam can seem fraught to the casual observer, but crossing one of the country’s busiest stretches of road takes it to quite another level.

There are three critical considerations. First, do not expect that any vehicle will stop for you, even at a clearly marked pedestrian crossing: they just won’t. Second, when a slight gap appears between vehicles (mostly scooters, given a recent estimate suggested there is in excess of 8 million of them in Ho Chi Minh City), set out with confidence and courage: they will move around you like a gentle stream that parts around a tree that’s fallen in its path and comes together again to continue its journey. Third, just keep going until you get to the other side: the riders will grant you the space and assume your own journey to the footpath will continue undaunted.

My friends, my wife, and I also noted a remarkable absence of police and ambulance amid all this traffic. In short, it is such a contrast to how we in Australia (and plenty of other places, too) expect traffic to flow and be regulated.

For many countries, such road behaviour is unthinkable. Order rules, and the laws of the road are to be adhered to (just by the way, pedestrian footpaths also make worthwhile Vietnamese roads for scooters, when needed). The traffic is expected to stop when I step on to a pedestrian crossing; drivers who fail to stop are met with indignation and contempt for potentially endangering lives.

Stepping back a little, it’s worth asking what are the benefits of each approach. On the one hand, rules help guide how we interact, what behaviours are acceptable, and give a sense of order and predictability. These have their value and place. Yet in the decade 2010-2021, despite this apparent chaos, Vietnam has reduced its road fatalities by an extraordinary 43.5%, according to the World Health Organization. In fact, in the week and a half visit, only one very minor “incident” was observed, and even that was when a scooter got too close to a car that didn’t move as quickly as the rider expected. Both rider and driver seemed rather unfazed, checked each other and their respective vehicles, then headed off. No angst. No confrontation.

It seemed there was a cultural agreement struck between riders, drivers, and pedestrians based on respect and humility. No-one was yelling at each other, even when there was frequent and flagrant ignoring of traffic signals and road markings. It was as if everyone accepted that the dance of street traffic works best when everyone gives space to one another without needing to demand compliance. Road rage, which would be exponential if such conditions existed in Australia, was impossible to find.

To be clear, I still prefer road cultures that are dictatorships of traffic lights and lane markings. So, it was good to be reminded that the two cultures are not necessarily irreconcilable. In Melbourne recently, having recently returned from Vietnam, the civility of road sharing between that city’s iconic trams and other vehicles speaks to the same types of values of the chaos of Ho Chi Minh City roads. Cyclists, cars, and far fewer motorcyclists than in Vietnam did similar dances with an early morning tram down a major street in Fitzroy. Sydney is still coming to grips with its more recent light rail system, and letting cars too close to them seems a bridge too far at the moment.

No doubt these are utopian reflections (plenty of Melburnians will likely suggest early Sunday morning in Fitzroy is not the traffic norm), yet the challenge they pose remains valid. Just because I’m comfortable with one culture of action does not necessarily mean it is the only valid way. Different starting assumptions and courses of action might still be effective, even if I don’t appreciate how, or wish to adopt them myself.

This reflection recalled some of the recent conversation around direct instruction and the science of reading. There’s a right and proper concern about having students develop effective reading skills; fundamentally, it’s a gateway into the entire curriculum and a functional skill for successfully thriving in contemporary life. Direct instruction is also a very effective way to teach literacy skills, much like having some strict road rules leads to safe and successful travel.

But there seems a danger that they are positioned as a solution to all student learning needs and contexts. It’s reminiscent of Maslow’s reflection that “if the only tool I have is a hammer, I tend to see every problem as a nail”. Unsurprisingly, there’s been some furrowed brows about this because at the heart of effective teaching is adaptability based on changing contextual needs. Only two days ago, Mathematics educator, Jill Brown, raised some important questions; for those who are interested to explore this further, the comments also highlight how contested this conversation can be.

What also seems missing in the current conversation, though, are the purposes of education. We don’t want students just to be able to read effectively if they end up learning how to be more effective at being socially destructive or discover how better to be abusive and filled with hate towards others. As UK educationalist Trevor Cooling once quipped at a conference years ago, we don’t want to educate “clever devils”.

It's not enough to have literacy skills as the only goal in isolation. It’s certainly easy to advocate for the skills; what’s harder to articulate, and not prevalent in the current discussion, is the reason and end goal of why we educate in the first place, the telos (as ancient philosophers once named it). That’s because the ends of education are so contested in themselves. But without having some sense of what the goal is, we risk reducing education to skill acquisition and leave the practical application to chance. Further, this risks reducing the art and humanity of teaching to stepwise processes that, reasonably speaking, could be automated digitally. That would be training; it’s not education.

A wise colleague once used the analogy of Roger Federer becoming a tennis legend. He didn’t start by playing five set matches until he got better; he practised skills that could then build together over time. It’s a nice analogy, but only when there is clarity about the goal. Federer didn’t learn serving to have the best serve, but to set up winning points, that set up winning games, that led to winning matches, that led to winning tournaments. Having a great serve only makes sense when placed in this larger telos, a larger purpose.

The inadequate analogy of traffic still seems pertinent. All traffic, regardless of its culture or my personal comfort with it, serves to get us somewhere – home to loved ones, to work, to a holiday destination. Philosophers of science call this equifinality: different paths lead to the same destination.

Too much conversation about direct instruction and the science of reading is largely devoid of purpose and destination. More clarity about this from its proponents might garner more support and less divisiveness.