| PHILOSOPHY OF EDUCATION 1997 |
Kindness as a Teaching Ethic
Steve Broidy
Southwest Missouri State University
Teaching, as more than one writer has observed, is most often seen as an essentially moral enterprise. In the United States, we have, with perhaps only the exception of recent decades, certainly claimed to be treating education as more than complex technical activity; we have traditionally associated teaching with what we have viewed as valuable, even idealized teaching aims. And we have demanded that teachers' professional activity should be consistent with and serve to further the achievement of those aims.One product of these concerns has been the many constructions of "codes of ethics" and other legal or quasi-legal documents outlining teachers' accountability to their various clients. But recently there has been a renewed interest among philosophers of education in the sort of "teaching ethics" that concerns classroom relationships with students. The writing in this area is very different from that concerned with teaching codes and rules. This classroom teaching ethic, because of its focus on the continuing, face-to-face, personal encounters of teachers with students, in many ways incorporates the features of traditional philosophical ethical concerns, and has evoked philosophical responses.
I mean the term "teaching ethic" here to refer to the sorts of moral sensibilities to which teachers do or should give priority in classroom decision-making; and primarily, in this paper, I will try to provide a good case for concluding what sort of moral sensibility we should bring to our teaching: one that features a concern for kindness.
I use the term "sensibility" deliberately, though at this point rather obscurely. I will proceed by distinguishing actual professional moral choices from systematic, "principled" moral judgments; by connecting these choices as, frequently, products of what I will clarify as ethical sensibilities; and by arguing that a sensibility which is especially reliant on a concern for kindness provides teaching with a focus consistent with many of our professed teaching-aims, especially a concern to preserve and develop democracy. In this way I hope to introduce a line of thinking about teachers' professional ethics that may have results we should greatly desire: It may allow us to work ethically with our students in ways that are coherent, consistent, and defensible.
FROM VALUE CLAIMS TO SENSIBILITIES There are several factors that may motivate us to conceive of the task of dealing ethically with students as one of acquiring an adequate teaching ethic. One factor concerns the logical and practical difficulties presented by the traditional alternative, what we might broadly call principled moral decision-making (PMD).
Principled moral decision-making, whether consequentialist or non-consequentialist, supposes that we may justify (either in the sense of providing logically necessary grounding or in the sense of providing publicly conclusive evidence) moral decisions by means of categorical, even universalizable moral rules. Such rules, depending on the arguments presented for them, are claimed to be, variously, self-evident, commanded by unimpeachable authority, derivable from generalized or idealized human activity, or self-generated. In such schemes, singular moral judgments are derivable from premises that include the moral rule and the facts of the current situation. A sophisticated version of PMD, W.D. Ross's "prima-facie duties" argument, allows for the possibility of a number of such moral rules, each of which creates actual and necessary duties. Since in a given situation more than one of these rules may well apply, singular moral judgments would then involve prioritizing these rules in the context of the decision at hand.[1]
But many writers - some logicians, "practical ethicists" who reject theoretical bases of moral choices, and care-ethicists among them - have pointed to fundamental logical problems with PMD arguments.[2] Singular moral judgments are, logically speaking, value judgments. That is, they consider issues of program - what should be done. While "moral issues" have traditionally been considered a privileged subset of value issues (It is not entirely clear what the boundaries of that subset are: The usual description is something like "issues in which our choice of what to do affects others' interests"), as value issues they must involve us in the same broad logical strategies for "reasonable" decision as do other value issues.
Unlike the manner in which we decide metaphysical questions, reasonable value decisions require evidence. But unlike the way we decide empirical questions, value questions do not look to publicly conclusive evidence. From the homeliest to the most unique or difficult issue of program, we look to the accumulation of what might be termed "personally sufficient" evidence on which to base our decision, rather than to evidence which we believe any reasonable person would have to find sufficient. And while that evidence may be conventional or even privileged within a community ( socially privileged evidence for deciding what to do in given sorts of situation may be one mark of a community), there is no reason to suppose such evidence to be required for reasonable choice. Indeed, evidence may be more or less idiosyncratic without being unreasonable, and we may change our minds about the adequacy of evidence upon reflection. Moreover, what we may think of as enough evidence for us personally may not carry enough weight with another person to make that person, acting reasonably, agree with our decision. Reasonable agreement among persons about what to do comes from providing each with evidence each finds personally sufficient.
Consider this fairly uncomplicated example: My wife and I awake early on a Sunday morning. I say to her, "Suz, we should have eggs for breakfast this morning." "Why?", she asks reflexively, though sleepily. "Because we both like eggs, we haven't had any in a week - no cholesterol guilt - and our kids are both away this morning, so we can eat what we like!"
To this she responds, "Well, all that's true, as far as it goes. But: 1) We don't have any eggs; 2) if you want them, you'll have to get up and drive to the store for them; and 3) then you'll have to cook them, because I don't feel like it." "We should have cereal for breakfast," I decide firmly. "Fine," she says, before rolling over to go back to sleep.
The evidence I rely on initially does not provide publicly conclusive evidence in the matter: my wife's dissent is not unreasonable. Even less so does this evidence count as principled, in the sense described earlier. Its truth provides no logically necessary grounding for my value decision. Moreover, the evidence my wife brings to bear on the question provides countervailing evidence for me, but not as publicly conclusive evidence against my value claim. Neither does it bring to bear some principle from which I must derive the falsity of my initial claim: The fact that I find my wife's evidence personally sufficient to reject my own initial claim is contingent on many factors, not the least of which may be that, this morning, I find the prospect of going to the store more problematic than that of eating shredded wheat. Tomorrow it could be otherwise, though it probably will not be.
If we want to argue that moral issues are qualitatively different from issues such as the one above, it will have to be an argument based on something other than the logical status of such issues. It is understandable that, given the importance we attach to deciding some questions involving the role of our value decisions in affecting the important interests of other people (or sentient beings, as some would have it), we want our evidence to make our decisions as confident as we can make them. But that should not lead us to make category mistakes. We can write out in conditional language the sorts of argument that underlie reasonable arguments relying on principled, publicly conclusive, and personally sufficient evidence; but it would be an equivocation to suppose that this conditional language indicates that moral arguments, or value arguments generally, are of the same logical sort as principled decisions. "Moral decisions," Nel Noddings reminds us "are after all, made in real situations; they are qualitatively different from the solution of geometry problems."[3]
Many moral decisions, like many other value decisions, are also more complex than PMD would make them, often mixing together premises involving the interests of others with those reflecting our own prudential concerns, in particular situations, with particular provenances and a range of likely effects. In practice, moral decision-making is just more complicated (though not, interestingly, often more difficult) to do than PMD schemes suppose. Bertrand Russell, noting the simplistic and distancing effect of PMD on the moral thinking of the ancient Skeptics wrote that "Kant - who resembles them, says that you must be kind to your brother, not because you are fond of him, but because the moral law enjoins kindness; I doubt, however, whether, in private life, he lived down to this precept."[4]
More particularly: had my wife and I, in the previous eggs-for-breakfast case, added to our discussion a concern for the interests of our children - perhaps having eggs this morning would not be fair to our son, for whom we had declined to cook eggs yesterday, and who would rush home from his friend's house to share eggs with us this morning, were he to be notified - this might have complicated our decision-making, perhaps in part outweighing for one or both of us some of the earlier evidence. But it would not have annulled the importance to us of that evidence. Making the decision to some degree a moral decision does not automatically make it any less complex.
It does not follow from our reliance on personally sufficient evidence in deciding moral issues that we make such decisions inconsistently or arbitrarily. Our accumulation of evidence, it turns out, is no mere piling up of pros and cons. It is guided at every step by the habits, dispositions, experiences, and allegiances we have developed from birth and continue to modify throughout our lives. As Max Van Manen says, "Every child is unique and exhibits inclinations, sensitivities, modalities of being which soon express themselves in certain choices, interest, and desires."[5] And as cognitive and moral development researchers have observed, these "sensibilities" are consistent and coherent, though subject to modification and development, even as they are broadly influential in the ways we make our choices of what to do, including our moral choices.[6]
I want to distinguish a sensibility, however, from a "cognitive stage" or, in the case of an ethical sensibility, from a "moral stage". The very complexity that we recognize in the practice of making value decisions, and the role of countervailing evidence, which can, in given circumstances, outweigh or annul what otherwise we would have counted as personally sufficient evidence, make it clear that our sensibilities do not, alone, determine how we make value decisions, as moral stage theorists often have it. Nor do our sensibilities make it impossible to perceive the nature of the situation before us in any other than one form , as cognitive stage theorists sometimes imply.
But sensibilities are also more than mere orientations or predilections. Whether we speak of intellectual, emotional, or ethical sensibilities, we do not merely imply that certain positions are generally favored; instead we recognize our sensibilities by what we take to be the "default" positions, the ways of viewing situations and the manner of dealing with them that, failing countervailing factors, we are disposed to see as correct and appropriate. In moral decisions, we recognize our ethical sensibilities by the ways in which we want, at least initially, to characterize a moral question before us, and by the sorts of evidence which we tend to rely on in building personally sufficient evidence - unless we come to see, in a given context, other evidence as outweighing or annulling it. It is our sensibilities that provide our decision-making with what consistency and continuity it has, though we may be either more or less conscious of the process.
I suspect that we acquire our sensibilities from many sources: from the ethos which may permeate our families and our various communities; from theories elevated to ideologies; from digesting our own experiences and choices, and drawing lessons from our deliberations on that experience; even from genetic predisposition. I think that it is also clear, both from our own observations and from the research of some of the same developmental theorists mentioned earlier, that what I call our sensibilities are often subject to refinement and change, though not, perhaps, easily.
As practical ethicists have observed, those of us who live in a given society or set of societies make use of a number of preferred factors in deciding moral issues, including, for us, issues of self-interest, justice, the interests and welfare of others, and particular ways of describing the "facts" of a given situation. To speak of our teaching ethic in terms of our ethical sensibilities means, in one sense, to describe the factors that represent our default descriptions of moral teaching questions, and the factors that, failing countervailing evidence, we want to associate with an adequate decision. But my interest, in the remainder of this essay, is to first describe, and then to argue that we should try to develop a teaching ethic that gives important weight to one sort of factor in characterizing moral issues and deciding what to do about them. To the extent that we can acquire such an ethical sensibility, I will argue that one featuring a concern for kindness is most compatible with a profession that works directly with children and does so in the context of a society that employs and values democratic processes.
First, it will be useful to clarify the notion of 'kindness," for only with a fairly clear account that distinguishes "kindness" sharply from other notions with which it is sometimes conflated can I make an understandable case for preferring this complex of features to the other factors we are used to consulting in moral decision-making.
"KINDNESS" At first glance, "kindness" is not a promising term in which to incorporate some consistent approach to a teaching-ethic. One problem is that is in many respects an ill-defined concept. Though, for example, kindness is often made a central moral concept in Judeo-Christian thought, the term is used variously and equivocally. "Chesed," the term usually translated as "kindness" from Jewish liturgy and philosophy, is just as likely to be translated as "mercy" - a term that I will argue is significantly different from and less useful than kindness in the context of developing an adequate teaching-ethic. In the New Testament, sources such as Paul are notorious for conflating kindness with a large array of similar concepts, to such an extent that it is difficult to see any clear, or at least consistent differences, among kindness, love, charity, meekness, compassion, mercy, and a variety of other terms. The Encyclopedia of Religion and Ethics matter-of-factly notes that in early Christian writings, "kindness" means at least this range of things: a forgiving disposition, love of enemies, mercy over legality, tenderness to small children, the golden rule, and good works.
Educational sources aren't much help, either, even in time periods that professed to give great importance to kindness as a "moral virtue." In nineteenth Century American school textbooks, for example, discussions of kindness, though earnest, were very fuzzy. There was enough variety in the use of the term in such texts that it must have been just as puzzling as it was exciting for intelligent young children to learn in McGuffey's Eclectic First Reader that animals would "follow at your call/ If you are always kind" ("Mary's Lamb"); when they could not be sure whether the key to this Pied-Piper status lay in gentleness, a loving nature, or in helpfulness - all occasional uses of the term "kind" in school readers of the time.[7]
Even so, there is a coherent core of meaning in the term, and I will try to draw it out. Moreover, the term's very familiarity and fuzziness make it a good candidate for co-optation, which I will also, in small part, do here - just as terms such as "caring," "hospitality," and "tact" have been taken over and partly reconstructed by other writers. It seems to me useful, in order to speak clearly of the sort of features that mark a useful teaching ethic, to use a term which in large measure actually captures key features of my concern, and to stipulate a clear account of the term for those parts which are, in ordinary use, not clear at all. My account of "kindness" will be, in part, a construct, but one aimed at providing clarity.
"KINDNESS" AND ITS RELATIVES Though "kindness" is from time to time discussed as a sort of character trait, a virtue, or as an ethos (remember former President Bush's campaign slogan advocating a "kinder, gentler nation"); the usual context for noticing kindness is in a particular act, or in a particular situation. There are several ways that we recognize a kind act and distinguish it from other sorts:
First, by certain Relational Features: Some of the features that distinguish kindness from other concepts have to do with the ways in which the one acting kindly (K) "meets" the one to whom the kind act is directed (the recipient R). These relational features include a) that there be a particular R toward whom K acts; b) that K, in the situation at hand, be in a position to affect some need of R; c) that some need on the part of R exists; and d) that K avoid at least to some extent what Nel Noddings calls "motivational displacement" in dealing with R.[8]
To elaborate: feature a) is meant to call attention to the fact that, in acting kindly, there is a one-to-one quality about what happens. Though we may, for instance, act charitably toward whole populations at a time, kindness seems to require that we focus on particular persons. Though a teacher may certainly be said to have, on some occasion, been kind to some set of students, as when the teacher gives some of them extra time and help with a crucial assignment the students are struggling with; still, to call such an act "kind" seems to imply that the teacher's relationship is with each student personally.
Feature b) speaks to relative power in the situation. We can't speak of someone acting kindly if that person is powerless to affect someone else's position. If a teacher, for instance, is unable to provide the help a student needs, no action of the teacher with regard to that need could be called kind. This feature does not address the general relative status of K and R, but refers instead to K's power to affect R's need. Though teachers have a "higher" general status in the school than a student, a student may still, on occasion, perform a kind act toward a teacher. Put another way, in comparing 'kindness' with related terms such as "mercy," it is clear that in concepts such as "mercy" R must be in someone's power, but in "kindness," K must have the power to affect R's position.
The "need" mentioned in feature c) refers to some situation which, left unaddressed, would actually cause harm to R. This is not to be confused with R's desires - with things R believes would benefit him or her. To act with regard to R's desires that are not also needs may help to make us generous, hospitable, indulgent, or "nice"; but would disqualify us from being kind.
Finally, feature d) introduces one of the most important considerations in any discussion of the importance of kindness to a teaching ethic: the presence of "multiple perspectives" in K's decision to act. Though I will discuss this feature more at length shortly, it is necessary in speaking of relational conditions of "kindness" to observe that an act is not kind if the only perspective from which possible decisions are considered is that of R. Though it may be symptomatic of "caring" (or the care-ethicists' construction of that term) that the one caring adopts the motivations of the one cared for in deciding what to do, I will argue shortly that to recognize kindness we must at least observe that K takes on multiple perspectives in the situation, including R's, K's, and those of others who may be seriously affected by K's actions.
Second, by Emotional and Intentional Features: In acting kindly, a) K intends to show respect for R's position. When we notice that K attends to R's need, but in a manner that trivializes that need, we recognize condescension. This is not to say that K must respect R, like R, or admire R. Kind acts are not acts of worship, of love, or of friendship (though such states of affairs often inspire kind acts). A teacher need not have affection toward a student, or think highly of that student, to act kindly toward that student.
b) It must be K's intention to act in such a way that R's need is met. Though I will argue that one acting kindly always intends to regard the interests of people other than R, K must at least address R's need. This distinguishes "kindness" from concepts such as "tact," in which the tactful person's concern is to not exacerbate the need he or she sees, or to not call it to public attention. Indeed, one way we recognize acts as the very opposite of kindness is by the lack of this feature: When someone acts with the intention of disregarding the need of another person, we call that unkind; and when someone acts so as to frustrate someone else in meeting his or her need, or so as to aggravate that need, we call it cruel.
To be kind, K's actions must also be c)voluntary and d)discretionary. If a teacher is coerced by a principal or by a parent into staying after school to help a student with assignments, the teacher's actions are not kind, even if they do attend to a need. Likewise, if we believe that a teacher has become obsessed with a student, the teacher's many helpful acts toward that student will not be seen as kind, to the extent that they are seen as emanating from the obsession. In a different direction, K must feel that viable alternative choices of action are available but not preferable to the one chosen: If K acts in a way that merely bows to convention or ritual, that act may constitute good manners, politeness, proper etiquette, or even righteousness; but it can't be kind. Kind acts are not intended to respond conventionally to the situation at hand (even if the act does in fact correspond to a conventional response). Their dependence on multiple perspectives insures that each kind act is, to an extent, demanding of a unique response.
Third, by Knowledge and Belief Features: What makes an act kind includes features that describe certain skills, insights, competencies and beliefs K possesses. One such feature is a) that K understands R's situation and need.
While we may from time to time benefit from the "kindness of strangers", a "stranger" must at least be able to gain some insight into the particular nature of our need, in order to be said to act kindly toward us. Strangers may act in conventional ways that help us, without particular knowledge of our situation; but that again would be courtesy rather than kindness. A teacher may have enough experience with other students in similar situations to make a shrewd guess at the need of a student with whom the teacher is not well acquainted; and a teacher may come to know a particular student well enough to guess correctly at a current need. Some such knowledge seems required to distinguish kind acts toward those students from accidental or incidental aid on the one hand, and courtesy and politeness on the other. "Kindness" implies understanding.
In this section it also seems proper to give more extended consideration to b) K having both the ability to take and the belief in the importance of taking multiple perspectives from which to choose how to act toward R. To explain the sense of this condition, consider a classroom dilemma: Martha, a student in Joan's class, is having a bad day. Though not normally disruptive, today she is talking to herself, ignoring Joan, and disturbing the concentration of her neighbors. Finally, Joan asks her to quiet down, to which Martha says in a loud voice, "I won't!" The class looks and sounds shocked by this behavior; all eyes turn to Joan.
Joan realizes that something is wrong with Martha: something very disturbing must have occurred to make her act in this way, since it is so different from what Joan is familiar with. From what she has been hearing from other teachers, Joan suspects that Martha's parents are breaking up, and that this has much to do with Martha's current behavior.
To act kindly toward Martha in this situation, Martha must consider the problem from more than just the perspective of Martha's situation and Martha's needs. Joan must also consider her own situation: how attending to Martha's emotional and other needs may affect Joan's own position with the class at this moment and in the foreseeable future. Joan must also consider the welfare of the rest of the class in her choice of how to meet Martha's needs on this occasion: How will Joan's actions affect what they learn today, their emotional states, their satisfaction with the class?
To leave out any of these perspectives - even though her main concern is to see to Martha's welfare - is to keep Joan's eventual actions from being kind ones. If Joan acts only from the perspective of meeting Martha's needs, we may recognize compassion, caring, thoughtfulness, considerateness, or a number of other acts; but not kindness. If Joan acts only from the point of view of her own interests, she acts prudentially - perhaps incidentally in a way that will help Martha - but not kindly. If Joan's perspective is entirely that of what would be best for the entire class, she may act in a way that we see as fair; but again, not as kind.
Other factors aside for the moment, to be recognized as acting kindly Joan must take the view that she should find a way to meet Martha's needs in the context of her own interests and of the welfare of the class as a whole.
It may be objected that here I am asking of "kindness" rather more than is reflected in ordinary usage. We speak, after all, of "simple acts of kindness," don't we? And the concept I have outlined is not simple, but very complex. My response (leaving aside the point that, as a construct, this notion of "kindness" is intended to provide a vehicle for articulating a program for building a teaching ethic) is that our actual understanding of "kindness" is as a complex, not a simple concept. That is why it is possible to distinguish it along many lines from related and contrasting concepts.
Finally, to say that an act is kind appears to impute a sort of success to the act. We say sometimes that an act was intended to be kind but was not. Often what is meant here is that the act did not meet R's need, or that it created other and important problems for R, even if it met the original need. The point in noting this manner of speaking, and some other features mentioned earlier, is that acting kindly is not just a complex activity; it is also a skillful activity.
KINDNESS AS A TEACHING ETHIC In the context of this study, there are two salient features of the teacher's ongoing work with students in American classrooms: First, teachers work with, indeed live with children. Secondly, they do so in a context that includes an institutional setting that makes demands separate from the needs of individual children or even from groups of them; and a community setting that, at least in the case of educators and others who articulate long term aims, seems most to value democratic processes, and to demand schooling that aims to preserve and develop those processes.
I make this last point even in the face of Americans' traditional disagreement about what schools should strive for. Whether arguing for a focus on individual students' success or strengthening American economic, cultural or political dominance, most thoughtful public disputants take for granted that the ideal for which these aims are instrumental is the vision of democratic society that John Dewey articulated earlier in the century. This view articulates the best hopes of care-ethicists and critical thinking advocates; of humanists and critical theorists; but also of communitarians and those who view American society as in constant competition for dominance in the world, and education as serving in that struggle.
Certain features of Dewey's notion of a democratic society have been particularly influential in formulating an ideal for which educators, making professional moral judgments in the classroom, might strive. These include a tendency to increase "points of shared common interests," using recognition of those shared interests as "a factor in social control," a "freer interaction between social groups," and constant adjustment of society's functioning to meet "the new situations produced by varied intercourse."[9]
Also important to Dewey's conception is the sense of the contingent nature of the existence of a democratic society: There is nothing necessary about the appearance or the continuance of democracy in his sense of the term. It has been brought about as an effect of the development of science and technology under certain conditions. And keeping democracy, increasing and improving it, requires real effort and constant education: "A society which is mobile, which is full of channels for the distribution of a change occurring anywhere, must see to it that its members are educated to personal initiative and adaptability. Otherwise, they will be overwhelmed by the changes in which they are caught and whose significance or connections they do not perceive. The result will be a confusion in which a few will appropriate to themselves the results of the blind and externally directed activities of others."[10]
In other words, the maintenance of a democratic society depends in large measure on how much its individual members are aware of what's going on around them, sensitive to the consequences of changing conditions, and capable of and disposed to make decisions concerning their own and others' welfare.
From this perspective, Dewey saw moral life as decision-making involved with the overlapping interests and interactions of people with one another. In its widest sense, "As a matter of fact, morals are as broad as acts which concern our relationships with others."[11]
In this view, democratic life is interactive and seeking always to expand both individual initiative and common interests. Democratic moral life, as a corollary, is, in situations involving our interaction with others, one that seeks to increase the capabilities of those involved in that interaction, and to expand the bases of their common interests.
It is in this setting, where teachers must seek consistent and coherent ways to make a continuing stream of moral decisions (and to articulate them to various publics), that a teaching ethic which is built around what I have described as kindness should be most agreeable. A teaching ethic that allows us to characterize situations for moral decision in terms that always seek out the needs and welfare of those affected by our decision, but giving precedence to the needs of the individual students whom we have it in our power to aid; an ethic whose default evidence is what may be done to help the one in need and at the same time respect the welfare of others directly affected - that is an ethical sensibility that works hand-in-glove with our commitment to educating the individual child, in the context of institutions and community operations that preserve and increase democratic ways. It is a complex ethic for a complex task.
***For a response to this essay, see Applebaum.
[1] W.D. Ross, The Right and the Good (Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1930).[2] Most prominent here is Bernard Williams, Ethics and the Limits of Philosophy (London: Collins, 1985). especially chap. 5 and 6. See also Alasdair MacIntyre, After Virtue (London: Duckworth, 1985), chap. 4 and 5. "Practical Ethicists" as a term may be attributable to Garrett Cullity, "International Aid and the Scope of Kindness," Ethics 105 (October 1994): 99-127. See also Nel Noddings, Caring, A Feminine Approach to Ethics and Moral Education (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984).
[3] Noddings, Caring, 3
[4] Bertrand Russell, A History of Western Philosophy, and its Connection With Political and Social Circumstances from the Earliest Times to the Present Day (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1966), 256.
[5] Max Van Manen, The Tact of Teaching: The Meaning of Pedagogical Thoughtfulness (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1991), 19.
[6] Jean Piaget, The Language and Thought of the Child (New York: Harcourt and Brace, 1926); Lawrence Kohlberg, The Philosophy of Moral Development: Moral Stages and the Idea of Justice (San Francisco: Harper and Row, 1981); Carol Gilligan, In a Different Voice: Psychological Theory and Women's Development (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1982).
[7] For a useful discussion of moral issues in the history of schoolbooks, see Ruth Miller Elson, Guardians of Tradition (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1964).
[8] Noddings, Caring, 16 and Noddings, The Challenge to Care in Schools: An Alternative Approach to Education (New York, Teachers College Press, 1992), chap. 2.
[9] John Dewey, Democracy and Education (1916; reprint, New York: The Free Press, 1966), 86-87.
[10] Ibid., 88.
[11] Ibid., 357.