setting the stage

by Adam

My first trip to San Antonio has been a successful and exciting one. Though brief, it’s set the stage for our meeting in September. The meeting rooms have been selected, lunch arrangements made, and a rough schedule is confirmed so that it flows from one event to the next. I’ve even picked out which chair I can sit in as guests arrive at the St. Anthony Hotel. It’s deep and comfortable, ornamented with brass handles shaped like swans. It’s next to three others — so there’s room for you, too. We can sit and look out onto the street as people begin to arrive.

Even as I wait in this airport gate getting ready to head back home, and as John is already in flight, the fun is now underway. I’m charmed by all the possibilities. These all start with imagining people arriving, welcoming them to the reception as they walk past the piano and into the warm room surrounded by dark wood panels and filled with friends and fellow attendees. There’s the hall where we kick things off the next morning, and the small, comfortable rooms where all the incubator sessions take place. This framework awaits, and for now I’m left to wonder about details, if Naomi Shihab Nye (our guest poet on Monday evening) should stand or sit; and if we’d like pastries or fruit during a morning break.

The big piece that needs to be filled in now is you. Mark your calendars for September 25th, and start pecking away at proposals. Until then, imagine that I’m just sitting at the St. Anthony, patiently, in this comfy chair with the brass handles.

planning the revolution … and the call for papers

[by Adam]

Today I was on the radio for an hour. Previously, when I would fantasize of such a day, I would have been discussing my rock star status, sitting behind a piano. Or, more recently my images of grandeur put me and John in comfortable chairs sitting across from John Stewart on the Daily Show. This wasn’t quite as big — a public radio show that reaches out across the state, although on satellite radio you can hear it across the nation, and on the internet you can get it around the globe. So, being excited about the insides of the radio studio and the chance to feel important was tempered by a bit of terror.

Here’s what pushed me through: I was introduced as “Dr. Adam Johnston, Professor of Physics…” [blah blah] “..awarded” [blah blah] “and co-founder of Science Education at the Crossroads, a conference with a mission to reform science education.” I grinned, because if John was able to listen at that instant, I imagined him cheering for the publicity that was gained after each break and re-introduction. Moreover, this affiliation meant that I wasn’t alone. The reason I was there in the studio wasn’t because I’ve reformed science education or even because I know how. I was there because I’ve seen what others are doing, what they continue to do, and what their mission is all about. I battled a bit, politely, with the MacArthur award winner on the phone line who believed science should help us to place our elite students on trajectories to more science related jobs. I countered that we should think about reforming the culture of science within schools, educating all kids with the science ideas and attitudes that they can use throughout life, regardless of professional track. And, at the end of it all, I summarized that I know we can do these kinds of things because the people I’ve worked with and learned from at Crossroads have shown this.

When I got in my car and tried to put my head back together (I still don’t remember what exactly I said on air), I was listening to Frank Turner, and specifically these lines:

We planned the revolution from a cheap Southampton bistro
I don’t remember details, but there were English boys with Banjos

And that made me smile, because that was pretty much where this all started. Not exactly with banjos and no British accents, but the same idea. Crossroads started because we thought we could do better, and we knew that we needed to.

And so, this is all just a longwinded introduction to the announcement that the Call for Papers is out, the dates are set, and the place is ready for us. We have our poet booked. We can’t wait to hear from you. Until then, we’ll be playing these banjos, whether on the radio or not.

plans & anticipation

[by Adam]

John and I have been busy lately, and even our email exchange you can hear our respective buzzing and giggling. Taking the year off from Crossroads has been good in several ways, but maybe none more than the benefit of re-realizing how much fun this all is.

We know what city Crossroads will be in 2011.

And we have the dates pinned down: September 25-27.

And, we have our poet. We’ve had amazing poets in the past, but … well, you’ll just have to wait and see. I’ve typed out and deleted so many times the official announcement that I feel like I’ve already betrayed the secret.

Once we figure out the exact locale whittled down from the many great offers on the table, we’ll let you all know. Right now we’re just looking at fine details, things like menu selection and how the chairs are arranged in a given meeting room. (If you’re going to be at ASTE in Minneapolis in January, we should be able to tell you all the details.) For now, mark your calendars and start to mull over your Vexations and Ventures. Maybe you could start with the inspiration of a poem, or two. These, at least for me, give me pause and are discussion prompts for classes and reminders about the purpose of education and the roles of teachers and other human relations:

Rain

by Naomi Shihab Nye

A teacher asked Paul
what he would remember
from third grade, and he sat
a long time before writing
“this year sumbody tutched me
on the sholder”
and turned his paper in.
Later she showed it to me
as an example of her wasted life.
The words he wrote were large
as houses in a landscape.
He wanted to go inside them
and live, he could fill in
the windows of “o” and “d”
and be safe while outside
birds building nests in drainpipes
knew nothing of the coming rain.

_____

How to Paint a Donkey

by Naomi Shihab Nye

She said the head was too large,
the hooves too small.

I could clean my paintbrush
but I couldn’t get rid of that voice.

While they watched,
I crumpled him,

let his blue body
stain my hand.

I cried when he hit the can.
She smiled. I could try again.

Maybe this is what I unfold in the dark,
deciding, for the rest of my life,

that donkey was just the right size.

consolation

[by Adam]

Billy Collins’ poem, “Consolation,” has been stirring in my head as I’ve been thinking about various goings on. John is currently en route for Ireland, a trip that is part sabbatical oriented, part vacation. Mostly, I think he plans destinations that are named after favorite whiskeys. I’m reminded by the poem because it attempts to suggest that it’s even better to not be going away to Europe, but in the process makes it clear that those of us left behind, here on the North American continent, aren’t so much better off:

Instead of slouching in a café ignorant of the word for ice,
I will head down to the coffee shop and the waitress
known as Dot. I will slide into the flow of the morning
paper, all language barriers down,
rivers of idiom running freely, eggs over easy on the way.

I’ll eat my eggs and enjoy my ice while John is sampling those fine whiskeys and visiting quaint establishments, sweet accents included, no charge. But it’s more than this. Fall is the time of year when we’re usually hosting Crossroads. It’s not that there has been a lack of things to do: An extra obligation here, another department commitment there, plenty of other projects I’ve never quite caught up on. And yet, something’s still missing.

I think about recent Crossroaders and even lurk on Facebook pages and read over emails. People are busy, taking on new administrative roles, finishing graduate programs, starting new jobs, hosting new endeavors, working with teachers, welcoming kids on Saturdays, welcoming kids on Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays . . . it’s all kinds of busy out there, and I know I only catch the small glimpses of it, peeking through the openings between slats in the fence as I run by.

Taking a sabbatical from Crossroads for a year was exactly the right thing to do. At the same time, I miss it just enough to think about next year, and the year after. So, while it’s a “year off,” it’s also been a chance to deliberate about future venues, guests, and directions. Yes, we think we know where we’re going to host the conference in 2011. And 2012. It’s infuriating that I can’t stop thinking about the future plans for this. And exhilarating.

To all of you out there not coming to Crossroads in 2010, I’m thinking of you. Nice work. Keep it up. Can’t wait to see you in 2011.

To John in Ireland right now . . . well, I just don’t want to talk to you. I’m here, eggs over easy, with the waitress known as Dot.

the story of the STEM pipeline

[by Adam]

Stacy, a colleague just a few steps away in my friendly physics department hallway, popped her head in my office the other day. Her approach is signaled with her distinctive two step, stomp clomp, my audio cue that Stacy is dropping by with a question. Everyone in my department has their own cue: a shuffled set of steps from my department’s chair, a subtle wave from my friend Colin, a quick-paced knock from John, a gentle peek around the doorframe from Michelle. Stacy’s cue though is particularly noteworthy because it inevitably leads to discussions about science education. This time she asked: “Where do we find the picture of the STEM pipeline?” It’s a simple question, and if you are in the business you know exactly what “STEM” is and exactly what this pipeline metaphor represents.

STEM, of course, is Science Technology Engineering and Mathematics; and the “pipeline” is the flow of quantized, atomic little students up through the stages of K-16 and into the workforce. I suspect the pipeline is a bit like an oil well, or at least the comic book animation of such, and we have this vision that if we just pump on this a bit we should have an output of little scientists, engineers, and other economy-driving careers pouring out.

Given the last summer and the sickening oil offenses in the Gulf of Mexico, visions of STEM-fluid disasters suddenly come to my mind. I suppose this is only one reason why the pipeline metaphor might not be appropriate.

We also all know the story, and it goes a little something like this: Somewhere in the upper elementary grades, we start to lose interest in science. Sure, in the lower grades, children love science and all that it represents: fun, questions, gooey stuff. But then bad things happen. The subject matter goes dead; the curriculum becomes stiff; we implicitly punish children by punishing schools by restricting funding for anything that doesn’t meet the stipulations of a mandate with a clever acronym. And somehow, girls first drop their interest in science and a year later their male counterparts follow. No child left behind, they all follow one another down a route of disinterest in the study of the natural world.

Like I said, we all know this story. But I can’t find the data for the story. Anywhere. John, my loyal and much better informed mentor and friend, tells me that it’s the same story that he tells. Yet, he’s never written about it because he doesn’t have any data to back it up. We’ve passed this legend down from one generation of science educator to the next. The story is most certainly true, but we all describe it as though we read the primary data, maybe as though we collected it ourselves. Certainly, we all know with some kind of familiarity how it has happened because we’ve all seen it firsthand.

I wrote my friend Heidi about the story of the STEM pipeline, because my friend Heidi is smarter than John, and also because she does her work in girls’ identities with science. She would have cited the story of the STEM pipeline in the first paragraph of her dissertation. But Heidi tried to suggest that she really didn’t read that much — because “early career award” members of national science education organizations can earn such acclaim without reading much research? Perhaps, but more likely, it seems that the story is just a story. Just to prove the case that much more thoroughly, she goes on to actually suggest that I had the story a bit wrong: “…[M]uch of my stuff focuses on students who have the interest and motivation and skills/understanding… and [they] still end up leaving [scientific fields of study].” So, even though Heidi hasn’t read the official story of the STEM pipeline either, we know she’s heard it. We’ve all heard and have retold a different version of this, but is it true? And what part of it is true? And why do we use it? To what end?

Today, my two daughters walked into new classrooms, along with hundreds of other children at our elementary school down the street. They’re laughing and smiling, a bit jittery but mostly excited to see their new classrooms, their teachers, and their friends. It doesn’t look like a pipeline to me. It looks like it could be fun. We are a species that can create pipelines, but we have also invented and even placed a priority on these things called schools. Children learn to get along, they learn to count, and they should be learning about how to ignite sparks. In some ways, I really hope that there isn’t any pipe, narrow and with the potential for clogs. Instead, I hope we have something which launches individuals in all different directions, along trajectories they are passionate about. Rather than trying to fix the leaks in any given pipeline metaphor, we should be trying to produce fountains.

dinner with Christina; or, to make a difference

[by Adam]

We go into academics for lots of reasons. Besides the draw of the academy and a fondness for the university system, there’s the desire to make a difference. Our friend Christina came to our home on Friday night for a visit, for some dinner, and for some advice. She wants to go to graduate school and join the academy. Like many before her, Christina wants to make a difference, one that would be more far-reaching than would be possible by continuing to be an elementary teacher. At a university, in a scholarly position, she perceives the potential to bring scholarship to teaching practice. She wants to study policy and was asking about specific programs and what I knew about schools, programs, and individuals. I could tell her what I know, what I’ve seen and where I’ve been myself. Ultimately I handed her the AERA program from the 2010 conference — all 400 pages — which to her looked like a buffet of possibilities. She seemed grateful, even excited. But I was worried about the infinite confusion I was getting her into.

My hesitation about giving Christina advice about graduate school goes deeper than just feeling like an inadequate guide. I worry more about what I’m doing to the rest of the world by helping her pursue her personal ambitions. As a favorite first grade teacher in our household, Christina already has changed lives. She’s taught children to read. She’s made them see the wonder in a blade of grass. She’s taught them to recycle. She regularly ends a day of class with “wishes and stars,” in which children debrief about their day, their emotions, and how to deal with the dramatic swing of events that can transpire between recess, spelling, lunch, and arithmetic. What could be more important?

Of course, there are personal drives in all of us. It would be hypocritical for me to second guess Christina’s bold new route. It’s the one that I’ve taken, after all. But for me and my daughter who was given the gift of having Ms. C as a first grade teacher, there is no question that this person is making a difference in the world already. Grace learned self-worth, long vowel sounds, and how to how to get along with others. What bigger difference could Christina, or any one of us, make in a person’s life? In our university settings, we teach about Dewey and dynamics, Eratosthenes and ecosystems. But this is practically trivia compared to the impact of classroom teachers. And yet, we still believe that there is a difference to be made by packing bags and books for graduate school, finding the right advisor, writing the dissertation that will change the world. We have to believe, don’t we? If we don’t hold onto this thread of faith, then we may as well just cash in our souls right now.

Frankly, I’m still looking for the dissertation that will change the world. I was unable to write one. And, by their own admission, none of my friends or colleagues seem to have done any better. So there must be something else. We find employment in university positions because we love to teach, we love the scholarship, and we probably function well with the amount of independence that the academy affords us. We get to do the things we really love — at least it should be this way, so if you don’t love what you’re doing as a faculty member you should find another orange to peel — so we should be contributing something really worthwhile in return. We should be providing at least as much to the world as Christina has been as a first grade teacher.

As I’ve been working on a bigger writing project (another one that probably won’t change the world), I’ve been reading about the history of the university in the United States. The role of these institutions has changed dramatically and relatively quickly over the past few centuries. I can also see that there are new challenges and changes that the university system and its faculty must face. As Christina embarks on this new path, she may be leading us into a new era for the university. What is it going to look like? What is the difference that we will be making? And how is it going to be done? In all likelihood, the paradigms of traditional scholarship aren’t going to have the impact that they may have in the previous century. Moreover, such a model isn’t going to have the same impact as teaching a single 6-year-old to read. I’m not going to tell Christina not to follow her academic ambitions. Rather, I need to ask the rest of us: What is the academy going to look like in the next century? More responsibly, what role will I play in moving it in those directions?

persistence and progress

[by John & Adam]

Following the big national organization meeting, the two of us took a train ride from Denver to our rustic writing retreat in Utah. Our goal was to make substantive progress on a manuscript describing what we’ve learned by hosting Crossroads. In the process, we expected to discover what Crossroads might be in the future. Our days were divided into thirds: writing the manuscript, seeing the sites, and re-hydrating our bodies. Train rides and thoughtful pauses in between induced new pieces, models, and re-drafts for the next day.

The local landscape offered useful contrasts to our internal landscapes. Whereas five years of Crossroads feels like a long time, it has no comparison with the geologic features carved over millions of years. On the other hand, the arches and walls we photographed, climbed through and scraped against are the results of the gentle persistence of water, wind and exposure. We were inspired.

Writing is a long, hard, arduous process. It, like any building or erosion, is a process of change. Sand grain by sand grain, a dune is built up; and sand grain by sand grain, a fin is eroded to leave behind the essence. We hope that our own writing and editing leaves behind some structure that looks as if it was always there, just waiting to be revealed. Nature’s own whimsy suggests to us that the beauty was always locked somewhere deep inside a pile of sand. Wind and water just had to work their way into the crevices to find the sculpture within.

As nature’s persistence reveals the comical geology of the desert, there’s a model for all of our work. Certainly for us there was consolation in the landscape that patience and persistence were virtues for our writing. Every word added or removed was a sand grain being placed. And having come from the meeting in which an ocean of educational researchers had convened just days before, we could imagine the sand grains of work being done. Some should be whittled away, sent by natural forces into a forgettable dune. But some endure, remain, and have effect. Having listened to countless words and having been blinded by countless slides, it is easy to become jaded and think that there is no real progress being made. Some pieces must remain, though: calls for social justice, critique of current standards, and re-thinking of the very bases for practices that we take for granted. We have to believe that what we do must leave behind something enduring, something important, something worth writing about.

(That small white sliver under the arch, right of center, is John. 6' 2" tall, just for scale.)

_____

Epilogue: Other images and lessons learned

Lesson 2:
“Sometimes you can’t wait for change; you must carve your own path”:

Lesson 3:
“From out of a dry landscape there is beauty”:

Lesson 4:
“There must be room for joy in our work.”
Or,
“Sometimes you just need to go outside and ride your bike.”
Or,
“Holy $%^& that’s amazing”:

Where is Heather?

[by Adam]

Every year I show a group of preservice teachers the videos from “A Private Universe.” Every year I wonder the same thing: Where is Heather now?

Many of us, I suspect, “grew up” with Private Universe in one way or another. Myself, I was entrenched in physics education and science misconceptions (or, if you prefer, alternative conceptions), and watching Heather and others grapple with their own ideas that flew in the face of instruction and evidence was exciting. Not horrifying, but exhilarating. Even now in undergraduate and graduate courses, I revel in my students’ clearly wrong ideas. In a similar vein, I love to watch my own preservice teachers watching Private Universe for the first time. Their jaws drop, they gasp, they laugh and shake their heads. How could someone think the moon’s phases are caused by shadows? Why does that girl insist that she can see in the dark? How does the Harvard grad, with a background in chemistry, get away with saying that there shouldn’t be substantial amounts of carbon in a piece of wood? And how is it that all these people think elliptical paths have anything to do with a planet’s seasons?

Heather is the star of the show. We see her grapple with classroom instruction, textbook diagrams, and her own thinking-throughs and sketches to come up with a still wrong explanation of the phases of the moon. Year after year I see this video footage, and year after year the narrator concludes how imperative it is that we fix this problem. We must free these people of their imprisoning, constricting, private universes. Otherwise . . .

Otherwise what? This question strikes me with each annual viewing. And this is what makes me start to wonder about Heather’s current whereabouts. Is she poor, destitute, sitting on a curb and hoping that a kind soul will spare her some change? Did her misunderstandings, the confines of her private universe, lead her to a life of discontent? Did she miss out on opportunities because of her funny, bouncing light model of moon illumination? Other than a missed question on a random quiz, or the missed connection that could have spurred her on to a career in astrophysics, what opportunity did she really lose?

Here should be our real fear: What if Heather is perfectly happy and successful, in spite of her private universe? I suspect she enjoys her career as a lawyer in the greater Boston area. She has a family and is active in her community. Her two children are enrolled in a prep school where they, too, have misconceptions about phases of the moon — maybe even the cause of the seasons. In spite of all the emphasis and empathy we have for science misconceptions, what if they really don’t matter that much?

I’m left with these morals: My primary research emphasis is mostly peripheral, though interesting. Maybe it leads to other insights about cognition on the individual level, but for the most part it doesn’t really mean that much. I’ll continue to pursue it, but I’m not going to think that a ninth grade misconception really has grand meaning in the grand scheme. Instead, Heather and her many successful possibilities remind me that there are more important issues to tackle. Heather was well supported, her teacher cared for her, and she was in an environment where learning was valued, where she was valued. She was so valued, in fact, that cameras and microphones were intently turned upon her, and year after year we continue to watch the ageless teen grapple with light rays. Heather didn’t suffer from a private universe, she benefited from it. I suspect that she is mostly happy and healthy and even prosperous because we gave her the education she deserved. If only we gave all our children, from all schools, in all neighborhoods, the same opportunities, the same universe. There ought to be room in Heather’s universe to share.

to say it can’t be done

[by John]

At a recent multicultural education conference, Dr. Carl A. Grant gave the keynote talk. He was standing in for Dr. Jacqueline Jordan-Irvine who had taken ill. Because of his backup status, he had little time to prepare, yet little to lose. It was one of those daring occasions where someone uses PowerPoint for the first time. Doing it away from home and in front of teachers and teacher educators further increased the tolerance from the audience. Kudos for jumping in as both a speaker and a power-pointer.

Boldly, Dr. Grant insisted that the local tech guy sit on stage behind the lectern in case problems developed. This distinguished and dynamic scholar of color charmed us all in an instant. Dr. Grant began his talk about culturally responsive teaching by preparing the audience to view a video called The Danger of a Single Story that is a TED lecture by Chimamanda Adichie (http://snipurl.com/adichie). The essence of her talk is that when we rely upon a single story to understand another group we are destined to get it wrong because one story necessarily lacks sufficient complexity.

Primed as we were, there was a collective groan when the audio did not work. Tech Guy was on his two-way radio, apparently to God, trying to fix the problem. When God didn’t appear, Tech Guy was left to his own devices. His solution involved turning up the laptop speakers and bringing the lectern microphone close by. I could hear the narration if I didn’t breathe. Dr. Grant asked if we could hear and received a collective “no.” More fiddling by Tech Guy and then the sound rose so the author could be heard. We were now almost 2 minutes into the video. Someone called out with the legitimate request: “could you start it over at the beginning?” Tech Guy shook his head and said “no.” Dr. Grant explained to the audience how important it was to get the big picture — and Tech Guy relented. Using all his physical strength and technological brilliance, he dragged the slider back to 0:00, pushed by the communal will of the room.

The rest was the kind of rare and wonderful magic that I am incapable of fully communicating. I encourage you to watch the whole twenty minutes yourself. The point here is that much would have been lost had the lecturer accepted Tech Guy’s refusal at face value. His only task as the assistant was for the audio to be loud enough. That the message was not being delivered was immaterial to Tech Guy. His job and motives were discrepant from his responsibility to Dr. Grant and the gathered community. What should have been a shared goal ended up being misaligned. Only through intervention and insistence was the goal realized.

We often find ourselves at the gates of an Emerald City. The doorman refuses to let us see the Wizard until we tell who sent us and provide proof. Dorothy had to evoke the name of the Great Witch of the North and coquettishly display her ruby slippers to substantiate the claim. Dr. Grant had to lean on Tech Guy to slide a virtual controller a couple of centimeters. To his credit, Dr. Grant was calm and benevolent. He also stayed true to his purpose and would not be deterred. The lesson for us is to refuse to accept the initial “No, it can’t be done” when offered by someone else — especially by those whose goals are near-sighted aim or non-existent.

This tale of gentle graciousness and mob mentality converging so Dr. Grant could fulfill his purpose is but one example of our responses to the word “No.” Other strategies — persistence, annoyance, deviousness — might be effective in other settings. Crossroads is but one example where the insinuation that “it can’t be done” was enough to push it to fruition. From the outset there was a clear goal in mind — and more have since emerged. Continued and collaborative pushing brought us to this point. More importantly, individual Ventures arise as direct response to Vexations. Those with clearer and deeper senses of purpose can accomplish what needs to be done without being told. It is as if you arrived with sufficient foresight and boldness. There are big differences between “can’t” and “won’t” — recognizing the distinction and making strategic decisions is how things will get done.

in the beginning

[by Adam]

Exchanges of writing have provided a foundation to many collaborative efforts. For us (John and me) writing to each other remains central and essential to how we work together. Not so long ago, we sent each other emails in an effort to shock, surprise, and delight one another. We learned not to swig coffee when opening an email from the other: too many mouthfuls of coffee have been sputtered onto our screens and keyboards.

A few of you might recall our mock journal called JEST that we handed out at conferences some years ago. John came up with the slogan, “It’s all in JEST” and we giggled as we handed them out to unsuspecting NARST conference attendees. I still believe in the merits of several notions presented in JEST. These included incorporating cheese as a positive reinforcement for science learning, employing sock puppets as guest lecturers (with an Argyle sock as an international instructor), and relying upon the capacity to interpret science jokes to assess scientific literacy (e.g., Atom #1: I think I just lost an electron. Atom B: Are you sure? Atom #1: Yes, I am positive!). These were ideas simply ahead of their time. Much too far. Nevertheless, these proto-endeavors served as proving grounds for what became Crossroads.

Crossroads itself emerged during face-to-face discussions at other conferences. But details, philosophical and pragmatic, were hashed via email exchanges. Perhaps because our use of writing was so central to the development of our understandings that we insisted that writing by others was a prerequisite to Crossroads participation. During my sabbatical I began to write more frequently and deliberately. I started using a blog and invited John to peer in. I challenged him to do the same, and ever since we’ve been dueling and debating via our blogs.

Another writing collaboration was an infamous exchange in 2007 of op-ed pieces published in the Journal of Science Teacher Education. People who didn’t know us thought they were witnessing a long-standing feud and that there must be bad blood between us. Mostly, it was the opportunity to bring ideas to the fore that otherwise would just sit stagnant in offices — or hang in the stale atmosphere of a tavern in which we first aired these ideas.

The point of all this is to explain that while Crossroads has been a major five-year project for us, there is an entire other realm of work between us via qwerty keyboards. Time and again we re-discover the great potential of letting ideas ferment a bit as we develop them independently. But then there’s an even greater power when the ideas are hashed out in a public forum. Which leads us to our latest Venture.

For one year, we are taking a stay-cation from Science Education at the Crossroads. During this sabbatical we are doing some writing and one of those projects, we’ve decided, should appear here in this most public of forums. This is “Intersections” — not the same as Crossroads, but with a similar orientation and mission. If nothing else, we’ll entertain ourselves with ideas about science education. Occasionally we might shock one another into generating a contradictory posting. Or maybe just send a coffee in an unexpected direction. The hope is that what we start here will evolve into something else that exceeds even our imaginations. We have almost come to expect our initial efforts to evolve and grow in this way.

Our ambition is to use this site as a focal point for critical exchanges about the purpose and direction of our work. We intend to highlight the work of others, call attention to a few traditions we could do without, and debate whether we ought to seriously contemplate alternate pathways. In all of it, we welcome your involvement. You can follow our blog entries, subscribe to the feed, and post comments to us and for others to consider. Best of all would be to provide your own contributions that can appear on this site.