Why I Hate "Program Planning" (Part 3)

When Knud Illeris wrote about education’s “sorting function” (Illeris, 2007, p. 237), he was primarily concerned with role that education plays in the replication of social inequity from one generation to the next; but, when I read the phrase, I thought of another reason why I don’t like the phrase “program planning.”

In computer programming, you can’t sort anything without the fundamental “if-then” statement. This simple construct determines whether or not a particular criteria has been met. If the answer is yes, the computer will do one thing; but, if the answer is no, something entirely different will occur. These decision-making structures can become quite elaborate, looping through code over and over again to see if a value has changed or nesting dozens of if-thens inside one another in order to find just the right niche.

The same thing can occur in real life programming. When I graduated from high school, I needed to find a summer job; so I sought the help of an important government program: the employment office. When I arrived, I dutifully completed the forms handed to me, even though very few of the questions seemed to apply to me. When I sat down with a representative, she looked through my papers as she began to ask me questions. The more questions she asked, the more befuddled she seemed. I explained as clearly as an 18 year old knows how that I only needed a job for the summer, but I could see her looping through the program in her head, trying categorize me, and my replies simply did not compute. Finally, somewhat exasperated, she informed me that she couldn’t really offer me any help unless I’d be willing to interview for a fast food job. That was exactly what I wanted, but I could tell that she felt defeated. She had run through all of the if-thens she could think of; but, in the end, all she had for me was the consolation prize that her office offered to everyone who didn’t fit the program’s parameters. As far as she was concerned, her program had failed me.

In a previous post, I described “programs” as “self-contained” and “finite.” Clearly defined parameters and protocols allow programs—especially government-sponsored ones—to carefully sort those who may receive benefits from those who, at best, receive consolation prizes. As an adult educator, though, I find this objectionable. I want to serve all comers as they are (Carter, 2009). I don’t want to be associated with such winnowing or weeding out.

Critics and realists will argue that resources are finite and no agency can afford to be all things to all people. Clearly delineated programmatic boundaries (a.k.a. “objectives” or “goals”) allow agencies to maximize their impact, despite limited resources, by focusing solely on what they do best. I must concede these points. Alas, sorting must sometimes occur in order to preserve an organization’s overall mission. But this is a reality to be mourned and resisted as often as possible and certainly never celebrated or promoted as a prominent activity of the profession. Yet, I contend that is exactly what happens when adult educators use the word “program” as part of the description of their single most important type of work: The phrase “program planning” advertises a willingness to exclude, a commitment to boundaries, a need to sort.

Surely, a better phrase is available, a term that captures the welcoming and empowerment to which we aspire, a word or two that focuses on the learning we want to foster rather than the teaching and/or administering we must sometimes do. It is important that, even in the little phrases we use to describe our work, we communicate the preeminence of learning and nothing else.

References

Carter, S. L. (2009). From preacher to adult educator: Recasting skills for new impact. Adult Learning, 20(3-4), 6-8.

Illeris, K. (2007). How we learn: Learning and non-learning in school and beyond (M. Malone, Trans.). London and New York: Routledge.