ALAN H.

SCHOENFELD AND JEREMY KILPATRICK

TOWARD A THEORY OF PROFICIENCY IN

TEACHING MATHEMATICS

This volume of the International Handbook of Mathematics Teacher Education is

concerned with tools and processes in mathematics teacher education. It offers
essays on well-designed and well-tested tools organized into three broad
categories: cases as tools, tasks as tools, and research as tools.
Viewing the collection as a whole, one might ask the following: What principles
should guide the selection and use of these individually interesting and powerful
tools? Where do they fit in a “tool space”—the entire collection of tools that
mathematics teacher educators might bring to bear in their work? To address these
questions requires a wide-ranging view.
In keeping with the tool metaphor, we note that a toolkit for automobile
maintenance looks different from a toolkit for, say, furniture making, and that even
some of the tools present in both toolkits (e.g., screwdrivers) have a different
purpose and use depending on the context. Thus we must ask, Cases in the service
of what? Tasks in the service of what? Research in the service of what? The
answer, of course, is improved teaching. But that response is too vague; one needs
to say more. Along what dimensions might teaching be improved? Or better, what
are the dimensions of proficient teaching? One needs first and foremost a theory of
proficiency in teaching mathematics that could be used to guide the selection and
use of tools for mathematics teacher education.
Before providing a prospective outline of such a theory, we note that theories of
proficiency have been used in a number of ways in mathematics education.
Understanding how those theories have been used can set the stage for a discussion
of a theory of proficiency in mathematics teaching. Consider, for example, the
dimensions of proficiency in mathematical problem solving offered by Schoenfeld
(1985). Schoenfeld argued that, in order to understand the success or failure of a
problem-solving attempt, one needs to know about the individual’s:
– knowledge base
– problem-solving strategies
– metacognitive actions
– beliefs and practices
That set of categories represents a set of dimensions in a theory of problem-
solving proficiency and thus provides a set of goals for instruction in problem
solving. That is, if one sets out to help students become proficient problem solvers,
one needs to attend to questions of what should be in their knowledge base, what

Wood, T. (Series Ed.) & Tirosh, D. (Vol. Ed.). International handbook of mathematics teacher
education: Vol. 2. Tools and Processes in Mathematics Teacher Education, 321-354.
© 2008 Sense Publishers. All rights reserved.
ALAN H. SCHOENFELD AND JEREMY KILPATRICK

problem-solving strategies they should learn, how they should develop the
appropriate metacognitive skills, and what mathematical beliefs and practices they
might abstract from their experiences with mathematics.
Similarly, the authors of Adding it Up (Kilpatrick, Swafford, & Findell, 2001)
offered a characterization of the dimensions of proficiency in school mathematics:
conceptual understanding, procedural fluency, strategic competence, adaptive
reasoning, and productive disposition. Those same dimensions, appropriately
modified, were also used to characterize proficient teaching of mathematics. As
with the problem-solving work, such conceptualizations provide a set of goals for
mathematics instruction—and with the goals, one can examine curricula and
pedagogical practices (i.e., tools) for their potential utility.
With these examples and purposes in mind, we offer in Table 1 a provisional
framework consisting of a set of dimensions of proficiency for teaching
mathematics. In the balance of this chapter, we elaborate on these dimensions and
examine the various chapters in this volume with regard to how the tools they offer
can contribute to the framework.

Table 1. A Provisional Framework for Proficiency in Teaching Mathematics

Knowing school mathematics in depth and breadth

Knowing students as thinkers
Knowing students as learners
Crafting and managing learning environments
Developing classroom norms and supporting classroom discourse as part of “teaching for
understanding”
Building relationships that support learning
Reflecting on one’s practice

KNOWING SCHOOL MATHEMATICS IN DEPTH AND BREADTH

Proficient teachers’ knowledge of school mathematics is both broad and deep. It is

broad in that such teachers have multiple ways of conceptualizing the current
grade-level content, can represent it in a variety of ways, understand the key
aspects of each topic, and see connections to other topics at the same level. It is
deep in that such teachers know the curricular origins and directions of the content
—where the mathematics has been taught and where it leads to—and they
understand how the mathematical ideas grow conceptually. This kind of knowledge
allows proficient teachers to prioritize and organize content so that students are
introduced to big ideas rather than getting lost in a welter of details, and it allows
them to respond flexibly to questions raised by their students. This kind of content
understanding has been called “knowledge of mathematics for teaching” by
Deborah Ball and her colleagues (Ball, Thames, & Phelps, 2007; Hill, Rowan, &
Ball, 2005) and, as discussed below, involves more than “just” knowing the
mathematics in the curriculum.

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 TOWARD A THEORY OF PROFICIENCY IN TEACHING MATHEMATICS

Breadth
Consider what it means to understand the meaning of a fraction, the multiple ways
in which fractions are represented, and ways of interpreting operations on fractions.
Teachers must have a firm grasp of all of these if they are to help students navigate
through the territory of problems involving fractions. Consider, for example, the
simple definition of a unit fraction. Independent of its representation, the fraction
1/n represents the selection of one object or subunit when a unit (which might itself
be a collection of discrete objects) has been one partitioned into n equal subunits.
Half of a pie—a standard model for fractions—is thus visualized as one of the two
pieces that result when a pie is sliced into two equal pieces, as in Figure 1.

Figure 1. “Half a pie.”

A third of a chocolate bar is viewed as one of three (perhaps imaginary) slices in

a bar, dividing it into three equal pieces (Figure 2).

Figure 2. “A third of a chocolate bar.”

The unit interval, divided into quarters or eighths, is also a standard reference
(Figure 3).

0 1

Figure 3. The unit interval divided into 8 equal segments.

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ALAN H. SCHOENFELD AND JEREMY KILPATRICK

So far, so good—but the unit might also be an object that is unequally divided,
such as in Figures 4 and 5.

Figure 4. A rectangle divided into 4 unequal parts.

0 1

Figure 5. The unit interval divided into 5 unequal segments.

These unequal partitions cause many students difficulty, so teachers must know
them. Moreover, the unit is less obvious in some cases, as when the task is to
divide, say, one and a half pizzas fairly among n people, or when the distance to be
covered is one-nth of one and a half miles. After unit fractions come nonunit
fractions, including so-called improper fractions, and their equivalents.
Should all of these ideas seem straightforward, we assure the reader that for
students, they are not. Further, teachers’ rapid access to all of these representations
is essential, including the knowledge of which ones are likely to be helpful for
students in particular situations and which ones will help to reveal students’
understandings and misunderstandings. For an example of an interview with a
student that shows the kind of mathematical (and pedagogical) knowledge required
and a discussion of the issues involved, see Ball and Peoples (2007) and
Schoenfeld (2007).
The mathematics, even at this level, becomes more complicated when one is
called upon to understand and explain operations on fractions. Consider the
following problem:
Solve the following problem with a diagram:

a. Wanda really likes cake. She decides that a serving should be 3/5 of a
cake. If she has 4 cakes, how many servings does she have?

b. Solve the problem by writing an arithmetic sentence.

c. How does your arithmetic sentence match the diagram?

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 TOWARD A THEORY OF PROFICIENCY IN TEACHING MATHEMATICS

d. After 6 portions are eaten, how much is left?

e. Why is the answer to the division problem 6 and 2/3 rather than 6 and
2/5?

(From SummerMath, Making Meaning for Operations: Facilitators’ Guide,

p. 69; cited in S. Cohen, 2004, p. 50.)
As Sophia Cohen (2004, pp. 48–79) shows, this kind of problem—especially
Part (e), which requires one to see that 2/5 of a cake is 2/3 of a serving (which is
3/5 of a cake)—is a real challenge for many practicing teachers (see Figure 6). Is
the remainder, the two unshaded pieces in the upper right, 2/3 or 2/5 of a portion?

Figure 6. Four cakes divided into fifths, with 6 portions of 3/5 cake shaded in different
colors.

A well-known problem that offers comparable challenges is discussed by Liping

Ma (1999):
People seem to have different approaches to solving problems involving
division with fractions. How do you solve this one?

… Sometimes [teachers] try to come up with real-world situations or story

problems to show the application of some particular piece of content. What
would you say would be a good story or model for ? (p. 55)

As Ma shows, only 9 of the 21 American teachers in her sample who attempted the
computation did it successfully, and many of them had a hard time with it. Only
one of the teachers in her sample was able to craft a story that corresponded to the
division. In contrast, all 72 of the Chinese teachers in her sample performed the
operation correctly—mostly justifying their work by saying “dividing by a number

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ALAN H. SCHOENFELD AND JEREMY KILPATRICK

is the same as multiplying by its reciprocal” (p. 58)—and with many of them
generating one or more nonstandard procedures for arriving at the answer. Sixty-
five of the 72 Chinese teachers (90%) offered a correct story to model the
calculation, and many of them offered multiple stories, corresponding to what Ma
calls the measurement model (“how many ½-foot lengths are there in something
that is 1 and ¾ feet long?”), the partitive model (“if half a length is 1 and ¾ feet,
how long is the whole?”) and the product and factors model (“If one side of a 1¾
square foot rectangle is ½ feet, how long is the other side?”) (p. 72). Clearly, a
teacher who knows such models can work more productively with students
struggling with fraction division than a teacher whose knowledge is more limited.

Depth
The examples discussed thus far concern teachers’ knowledge of the mathematics
at the level being taught, but there are also issues of what knowledge students are
likely to have when they enter a classroom and where they will be going
mathematically in future years.
Not long ago Schoenfeld (in press) joined a workshop in which sixth-grade
teachers were discussing the relationship between fractions and rates. Asked to
create a problem that would assess student understanding of rates, one teacher
posed the following:
It takes John 50 seconds to run 400 meters. It takes Mary 60 seconds to run
500 meters. Who is faster?
The teacher’s intention was for students to compute the two ratios. John runs at a
rate of 400/50 = 8 meters/second, and Mary at a rate of 500/60 = 8 1/3
meters/second, so Mary is faster. The group spent some time discussing what
would happen if students divided seconds by meters instead of the other way
around. Although these calculations are nonstandard, the resulting values of 0.125
seconds/meter and 0.12 seconds/meter do make sense: They indicate that John
takes slightly longer to run each meter than Mary does (i.e., Mary is faster). Such
an understanding relates to the issue of breadth discussed above.
At that point, Schoenfeld suggested that it might be useful for the students to
draw a graph representing John’s and Mary’s progress over time. The teachers
were incredulous: What does graphing have to do with the topic at hand? He
pointed out that over the next 2 years their students would be given problems in
which Mary gives John a head start of so many meters and asked how long it
would take her to catch up, and that the students would be asked to solve such
problems analytically and graphically. Some of the teachers were unaware that the
mathematics they were teaching would lead in that direction.1
In some countries, for example, Japan, teachers commonly “rotate” grade
assignments, so that a teacher working at any particular grade is likely to have
taught both the preceding and the following grade (Fernandez & Yoshida, 2004).
That practice provides the teachers with a sense of curricular and mathematical
depth, which shapes the ways in which they orient their current instruction.

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Teachers are handicapped when they lack this kind of knowledge or, more
generally, a deeper understanding of the core mathematical ideas that evolve as one
proceeds through mathematics.
In short, mathematical knowledge of various types is necessary for proficient
teaching. Professional development typically emphasizes depth over breadth, at
least in the United States: Teachers are exposed to more advanced mathematics
under the assumption that the more advanced one’s mathematical knowledge, the
better one can see how any particular piece of mathematics fits into the big picture.
Studies such as those by Ma (1999) and S. Cohen (2004), cited above, and the
work by Ball and colleagues (Ball et al., 2007; Hill et al., 2005), however, show
that there are also benefits to be found in having a richly connected and broad
knowledge base at the relevant grade level.
Finally, there is a form of knowledge known as “pedagogical content
knowledge” or PCK. (Shulman, 1986). PCK includes knowledge of typical student
understandings and misunderstandings, and of ways to deal with them. For
example, every teacher of algebra will encounter students who compute (a + b)2 as
a2 + b2. Teachers will come to recognize the error as a frequent occurrence and will
prepare for it, developing a set of responses for helping students see clearly what is
wrong (“Why don’t you try the values a = 3 and b = 4, and see if it works?”). They
will also develop various ways to show the correct formula (including, possibly,
using area models to show pictorially why there are two ab terms when (a + b)2 is
expanded).2
In sum, proficient teachers have mathematical knowledge of various types:
broad and connected knowledge of the content at hand, deep knowledge of where
the content comes from and where it might lead, an understanding of “big ideas” or
major themes, knowledge of effective ways to introduce students to particular
mathematical ideas, and ways to instill understanding or help to counter
misunderstanding.
Mathematical knowledge in the broad sense we have described it is the
backbone of mathematics teaching proficiency, so it is not surprising that many of
the chapters in this volume discuss or provide tools for developing and enhancing
teachers’ knowledge of school mathematics. As Chapman argues, story telling is a
way in which people encapsulate and trade knowledge; thus, it follows that
narratives are a rich way of communicating and developing teachers’ mathematical
proficiency. The prospective teachers in Chapman’s classes unpack their teaching
stories as a means of challenging their “mathematics knowledge for teaching.” She
notes that narratives allow teachers to “deepen their understanding regarding the
nature of mathematics and its teaching and learning.”
Like narratives, cases are typically about more than the mathematics, of course,
but the mathematical issues in “The Ratio of Boys to Girls” case cited by
Markovitz and Smith, as in the exemplars and problem situations they cite, make it
clear how cases can highlight core mathematics content for discussion and teacher
development.3 Markovitz and Smith note that cases can provide

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ALAN H. SCHOENFELD AND JEREMY KILPATRICK

prospective and practicing teachers with the opportunity to develop

knowledge needed for teaching (e.g., knowledge of content, pedagogy and
students as learners) as well as the capacity for knowing when and how to
apply such knowledge, a capacity that depends on the ability to connect the
specifics of real-time, deeply contextualized teaching moments with a
broader set of ideas about mathematics, about teaching, and about learning.
They cite research demonstrating that the use of mathematical classroom situations,
among other benefits, “enhanced teachers’ mathematical content knowledge and
pedagogical content knowledge.”
Video cases, too, offer the potential to provoke rich mathematical discussions;
Maher gives a number of examples of such cases. She observes, “Video recordings
can capture how certain content is learned and how a teacher’s knowledge of the
subject for teaching influences the learning of that content during mathematics
lessons.” (The art in using these or any tools, of course, is to stimulate
conversations that explore the mathematics that is potentially relevant.)
Lesson study, as described by Yoshida, may be one of the most comprehensive
ways of addressing mathematical and pedagogical knowledge. A fundamental
difference between the approach taken in Japan and in the United States is that in
Japan, the assumption is that no matter how talented the beginning teacher, it will
take years of development for that teacher to become truly proficient. Lesson study
is a form of “on the job” professional development, built into the work week. In
pursuing lesson design (What is the mathematics we consider central? How do we
plan to have students approach it? What are students likely to do, and how will we
react to it?), lesson study involves teachers in the full spectrum of knowledge
issues we delineated above.
Tasks, examples, objects, and machines play a similar and sometimes more fine-
grained role as mechanisms for focusing attention on what is mathematically
important. For example, Sullivan and Watson describe the many roles and
functions of the tasks used by Swan, pointing out how the tasks can generate talk
about the mathematical ideas involved. Zazkis explicitly focuses on using
examples as mechanisms: “(a) to improve and enhance teachers’ personal
understanding of mathematics, and (b) to examine and introduce to teachers the
variety of students’ possible understandings or misunderstandings of mathematics.”
These mechanisms address exactly the sort of knowledge for teaching that we have
outlined above. Nührenbörger and Steinbring, and Bartolini Bussi and Maschietto
demonstrate clearly the ways in which “hands on” objects can also become “minds
on” objects when it comes to mathematical concepts.
Not surprisingly, each of the four theory chapters deals with the mathematical
knowledge of teachers as well. Tsamir, for example, mentions research “promoting
SMK [subject matter knowledge] and control when discussing polygons.” Clarke
discusses growth points (note that children’s different conceptions of arithmetic
operations are legitimate mathematics). Empson and Jacobs point out that listening
to children’s mathematics calls for unpacking some of the mathematics we as
adults have come to think of as unproblematic. And Gravemeijer’s “flexible

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arithmetic” provides an example of how a topic can be explored for breadth and
connections.
Nonetheless, it is now time to pull back with regard to theory and practice and to
take the long view. The chapters in this volume offer a range of theoretical and
practical tools, but it is hard to see the proverbial forest for the trees: In the absence
of a larger framework such as the theory of proficiency discussed here, it is
difficult to situate any specific tool. It would seem that next steps along this content
dimension of proficiency would be to elaborate and clarify the subdimensions of
mathematical knowledge that are necessary for proficiency—depth, breadth, PCK,
and so forth—and to push forward with a practical program to delineate the depth
and breadth of the relevant knowledge for key topics in the curriculum.

KNOWING STUDENTS AS THINKERS

Over the past months, Schoenfeld has been involved in a series of meetings with
middle school teachers whose purpose has been to explore student thinking. They
chose the topic of word problems knowing that such tasks have been a chronic
difficulty for middle school students. The ultimate goal of the project has been to
help the lowest-performing students in the school district be able to cope with such
problems. Teachers were given digital audiotape machines and invited to interview
their students about problems they thought might be challenging for them. This
section describes some of the events that transpired.
One group of teachers had chosen the following problem, which comes from a
textbook used by the district:
A five-pound box of sugar costs $1.80 and contains 12 cups of sugar. Marella
and Mark are making a batch of cookies. The recipe calls for 2 cups of sugar.
Determine how much the sugar for the cookies costs.
A teacher had chosen a student (let us call her Amanda) to work with because
Amanda had been performing significantly below grade level, and her work often
seemed to indicate that she had made little sense of the problems at hand. Indeed,
as the teacher pointed out, Amanda’s written work was disjointed and somewhat
confusing. A replica of the work is given in Figure 7. One can see how a teacher,
confronted with 30 such papers to grade, could miss some of what the student was
actually thinking and doing.

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ALAN H. SCHOENFELD AND JEREMY KILPATRICK

Figure 7. Student work on the sugar problem.

In an interview, Amanda’s “thinking out loud” problem solving showed very

clearly what she was thinking. She announced that she had to find the cost of one
cup of sugar, and then double it; and the cost of that one cup would be $1.80
divided by 12. She then proceeded to get enmeshed in the division algorithm, as
indicated in Figure 7. The teacher had a very strong and positive response to
Amanda’s work:
I realized that Amanda had the problem nailed conceptually and that her
difficulty was just with the algorithm. Because of this interview, I’m now
convinced that she can do grade-level work. She’s a perfect candidate for a
computer-based remedial arithmetic program we have, and with that help,
she’ll do just fine.
The teacher went on to say, “I realized that I completely underestimated her
understanding. I may have made similar goofs with other students. I have to
interview every one of them to find out what they know!”
A second set of interviews concerned the following problem:
A dragonfly, the fastest insect, can fly a distance of 50 feet in about 2
seconds. How long will it take for the dragonfly to fly 375 feet?
An elegant solution uses either rates (the dragonfly travels 25 feet/second and thus
needs 375/25 seconds to travel 375 feet) or proportions (e.g., to arrive
at the answer of 15 seconds. Both approaches employ multiplicative or
proportional models of the motion described in the problem statement. Such
approaches, at first, were what the teachers were looking for in the students’ work.
It turned out, however, not to be what some students found natural. One student (let
us call him Ben), for example, said,
It can fly 50 feet in about 2 seconds; 4 seconds would be 100 feet, so then 6
would be 200, 8 would be 300, and then 9 would be 350. But then there’s 25
missing, so a half of it to get 375. So about 9½ seconds to get 375.

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It is interesting to unpack what Ben did. He did not look for a unit rate. Instead,
aiming at 375 feet—which is a lot larger than 50 feet—Ben began to use what
appears at first to be a form of proportional or multiplicative reasoning. He
reasoned correctly that if the dragonfly could cover 50 feet in 2 seconds, it could
cover 100 feet in 4 seconds. He then lost track of the time units, incrementing the
distance by 100 feet but the time by 2 seconds instead of 4 seconds. That gave him
a distance of 200 feet in 6 seconds. Ben had inadvertently changed the dragonfly’s
rate of speed to 100 feet every 2 seconds. He followed through using that rate: 100
feet every 2 seconds (= 50 ft/sec = 25 ft/½sec) places the dragonfly at 300 feet in 8
seconds and 350 feet at 9 seconds; the last 25 feet are covered in a half second.
Once one realizes that Ben “lost the unit” in his second step, it becomes clear
that he was using not a multiplicative model but rather an additive one. His
“building block” in the additive model was a chunk of 100 feet that corresponded
to 2 seconds; he added those building blocks until he came close to the desired
distance and then had to cut the blocks into smaller pieces.
Another student, Carla, built a bar graph that showed the dragonfly’s progress.
She built up the graph 2 seconds at a time: The first vertical bar was 50 feet at 2
seconds; the next was 100 feet at 4 seconds, the next 150 feet at 6 seconds, and so
on. The bar graph may look as though it captures a linear function and is an
apparently obvious example of multiplicative reasoning. When one listens to the
tape of what Carla said, however, it becomes clear that here, too, the student was
actually using additive rather than multiplicative building blocks.
These observations gave rise to some interesting suggestions by the teachers for
“meeting the students where they are.” They wondered whether the students might
be induced to think multiplicatively if they changed the numbers in the problem.
For example, what would the students do if they gave this follow-up problem:
Suppose you start with the same information. How long will it take for the
dragonfly to fly 5000 feet?
Or, how might students approach the first problem if it was changed to the
following:
A dragonfly, the fastest insect, can fly a distance of 25 feet in about 1 second.
How long will it take for the dragonfly to fly 375 feet?
Might those changes lead more directly to multiplicative reasoning? Those
explorations are in progress as this chapter is being written. What is clear at this
point is that increased sensitivity to what students are actually thinking provides
additional information about how students are making sense of the mathematics at
hand and how one might build on those understandings. In this case, informal
interviews are a tool for improved learning and for professional development. As
the more extended example in Ball and Peoples (2007) indicates, there are
significant advantages to be gained from such interviews. More generally, all forms
of informal assessment in mathematics are tools in the service of developing an
understanding of what students know individually and collectively (see, e.g.,
Bright & Joyner, 1998; Wiliam, 2007). As suggested by the two examples

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discussed above, such interviews can lead both to more profitable interactions with
individual students and to alternative ways of thinking about instruction.
It is not surprising that the cases section of the present volume offers potential
tools for explorations of student thinking. As indicated by Chapman and as
illustrated above, narrative can serve as a mechanism for engaging teachers with
issues of student understanding. In Chapman’s second example of a prospective
secondary teacher’s story of “good teaching,” she points out that the student’s
rewritten story at the end of the semester “now contained features of an inquiry-
based, student-oriented approach to teaching.” Similarly, cases can be used to
focus on issues of student thinking—although the particular cases discussed by
Markovits and Smith, like the narratives used as illustrations by Chapman, allude
to the cases’ potential rather than deal with it directly. Maher’s discussion of the
Longitudinal Study of Student Learning at Rutgers University demonstrates how
attention to students’ “mathematical ideas and insights” as they proceed through
school can allow researchers to trace changes in students’ thinking and reasoning.
Finally with regard to cases, it should be noted that lesson study is predicated on
the examination of student understanding. Typical lessons are designed to provide
students the opportunity to reveal their understandings, and to build on them. Thus,
knowing students as thinkers is an inherent part of lesson study design. As Yoshida
says, lesson study “puts students at the heart of the professional learning activity.”
Tasks are neutral; their value as tools for illuminating student understanding
resides in their use rather than in the tasks themselves. As Watson and Sullivan
note, “Doing tasks does not guarantee learning.” That is true whether, as in Section
2 of this volume, the tasks are individual mathematical tasks or collections thereof
(Watson & Sullivan), examples (Zazkis), manipulatives (Nührenbörger &
Steinbring), or machines (Bartolini Bussi & Machietto). Watson and Sullivan
explicitly identify one purpose of task use as “to stimulate and inform teachers’
theorising about students’ learning”; their discussion of conceptual understanding
is aimed at that kind of task use. Likewise, one of Zazkis’s two major goals for her
chapter is “to examine and introduce to teachers the variety of students’ possible
understandings or misunderstandings of mathematics,” and she focuses on
examples that “increase teachers’ awareness of students’ possible mathematical
ideas.” In contrast, neither Nührenbörger and Steinbring nor Bartolini Bussi and
Machietto focus explicitly on the ways that the tools they describe can be used to
help teachers develop a deeper understanding of student thinking.
Theory plays an interesting role with regard to student understanding. To make
the obvious point, a teacher with a behaviorist perspective on learning would look
for very different kinds of evidence regarding student performance and
understanding than a teacher would who had a constructivist perspective. And a
teacher with a sociocultural perspective might attend to different factors in thinking
about shaping a student’s learning than either of the others. Three less obvious but
equally important points are the following:
1. Teachers have implicit theories regarding cognition that shape their
attitudes toward student understanding whether or not they are aware of it.

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2. Theoretical perspectives serve as constraints on what teachers consider

relevant and appropriate, thus potentially limiting the teachers’ actions in the
classroom. (That is, like all tools, theoretical perspectives can have a negative
or constraining impact as well as a positive one. Remember the old saying,
“If you have a hammer in your hand, the whole world looks like a nail.”)

3. What one professes to believe and how one actually acts may be two very
different things. The difference was shown vividly by David Cohen (1990),
who documented how a teacher’s ostensibly “reform” practices and rhetoric
were filtered through her traditional habits and understanding.
That said, it should be noted that each of the four chapters in the theory section
provides positive examples of the impact of attending to theory. Tsamir’s chapter
does so if one considers the teachers in her courses as learners. Clarke’s chapter
illustrates how a theoretical description of student knowledge trajectories can lead
to diagnostic teaching. “Learning to listen to children’s mathematics” is not simply
the title of Empson and Jacobs’s contribution but also an exemplification of the
power and value of attending carefully to what students say. And, as Gravemeier
indicates, Realistic Mathematics Education (RME) provides a case study of how
theory can be used to frame an approach to the development of instruction. A
further discussion of the relevance, utility, and constraints and affordances of
theories may be found in Cobb (2007).

KNOWING STUDENTS AS LEARNERS

Knowing students as learners overlaps substantially with the previous category,

“knowing students as thinkers,” but it includes many other things as well. It means
being aware of one’s theory of learning and how that plays out in terms of
classroom activities and interactions with individual students.
Consider, for example, what happens when a student goes to front of the
classroom and flounders or makes a mistake while working on a problem. There is
a wide range of possible responses to such a situation, varying from (a) having the
student sit down and calling on another student, to (b) leading the student through a
correct solution, or to (c) using the situation as an opportunity to raise and explore
the mathematical issues entailed in the problem statement and the student’s work
on it. What the teacher chooses to do is, in large measure, a function of the
teachers’ view of students as learners.
A response of Type (a) is typical of much direct instruction; indeed, it even has
a name, the “IRE sequence,” (for “Initiation-Response-Evaluation”) coined by Bud
Mehan (1979, 1984). A great deal of classroom discourse can be parsed into
tripartite units in which
– The teacher initiates the interactive sequence, typically by requesting (a small
amount of) information from a student;
– The student responds;

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ALAN H. SCHOENFELD AND JEREMY KILPATRICK

– The teacher evaluates the response as correct or incorrect, often calling on

another student (if the response is incorrect), clarifying (if the response is
correct or incomplete), and then moving on to the next IRE sequence.
The IRE classroom pattern must be seen as the surface manifestation of a set of
beliefs and understandings about student learning: Knowledge comes in small
pieces that can be “mastered” individually, it is built up by accretion, and it is bad
for students to flounder or err because doing so can build up bad habits. (The
notion of “errorless learning” was the holy grail of the behaviorists, and classroom
practices grounded in behaviorism are still widespread.)
A response of Type (b) was discussed at some length by Aguirre and Speer
(1999). It represents the action of a teacher in transition, not unlike Mrs. Oublier
(D. Cohen, 1990). The teacher, Ms. Perry, while solicitous and respectful of her
students and clearly desirous of crafting an open and collaborative classroom
environment,
believes that it is important for the students to experience a very
straightforward, direct, and clear presentation of the material. It is important
to share and discuss the methods that do not work but she believes that when
a topic is being introduced it is important for students’ incorrect solutions to
be intercepted. This is to ensure that the wrong ideas are not floating around
for the other students to hear, at a formative stage when the students are not
very familiar with the correct methods. Since she believes that students learn
by listening to explanations and problem solutions she feels that it is
important for them to have the opportunity to hear correct ones the majority
of the time. (Aguirre & Speer, 1999, p. 339)
Responses of Type (c) are manifest in some of the videotapes of Japanese
classrooms collected as part of the Third International Mathematics and Science
Study (TIMSS 1995; Stigler, Gonzales, Kawanaka, Knoll, & Serrano, 1999),
reflecting an underlying belief that current student understandings are and should
be the raw material from which lessons are crafted. That view, of course, is a core
aspect of lesson study. It is also a core aspect of a number of well-known
professional development programs, such as Cognitively Guided Instruction (CGI).
Carpenter, Fennema, and Franke (1996) describe the approach underlying CGI as
follows:
We propose that an understanding of students’ thinking can provide
coherence to teachers’ pedagogical content knowledge and their knowledge
of subject matter, curriculum, and pedagogy. … Our major thesis is that
children enter school with a great deal of informal or intuitive knowledge of
mathematics that can serve as the basis for developing much of the formal
mathematics of the primary school curriculum. The development of abstract
symbolic procedures is characterized as progressive abstractions of students’
attempts to model action and relations depicted in problems. (p. 3.)
It may be stating the obvious, but it is worth noting that the premises that
underlie approaches of Types (a) and (c) are diametrically opposed: A Type (a)

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approach effectively ignores the knowledge with which a student enters a learning
situation (or, if that knowledge is incorrect, treats it as something to be overcome),
whereas a Type (c) approach uses such knowledge as a starting point for
instruction. In short, one’s theory of learning highly conditions one’s actions in the
classroom.
A significant challenge for professional development is that teachers’ theories of
learning, and their own understanding of the relationship between those theories
and their actions, are often tacit. There are parallels here to the problem-solving
literature. It is well established that people’s beliefs regarding the nature of
mathematics play a strong role in shaping their mathematical behavior even though
they may be unaware that they hold such beliefs. For example, from their
experience in mathematics classrooms, many students develop the understanding
that the exercises they have been assigned can typically be solved in just a few
minutes if they understand the material. As a result, they stop working on any
problem that takes longer than that to solve—even though a more extended effort
might yield a solution. Altering such beliefs is extremely difficult because they are
built up over many years. Making them explicit can help, as can immersion in
environments (e.g., problem-solving courses) where ongoing actions can lead to a
revision of those core views. But the process is long and slow because one is
seeking to modify understandings and behaviors that are deeply rooted.
Cases can be used in various ways to develop and challenge teachers’ theories
of learning. Chapman points out that stories provide opportunities for prospective
teachers, among other things, “to construct or refine personal theories of learning
and teaching.”
Almost all tools can be used in radically different ways, depending on the
purpose one has in mind. That is certainly true for tasks as tools. Consider, for
example, a simple task such as filling in a three-by-three magic square. This task
can be a piece of busy work; it can be an “ice breaker” in a class because it is easy
to solve; it can be an introduction to mathematical problem-solving strategies such
as working forward and working backward; and it can be a first step into the
development of a mathematical culture, where students are encouraged to abstract
and generalize their work and to reflect on the process (see, e.g., Arcavi, Kessel,
Meira, & Smith, 1998). Thus, any discussion of tasks as tools may or may not
address issues of how students learn and how they reveal their knowledge. Of the
chapters in this volume addressing the uses of tasks as tools, the most explicit
consideration of task use for purposes of unearthing student knowledge is that of
Zazkis, who focuses on examples that “increase teachers’ awareness of underlying
mathematical ideas … and increase teachers’ awareness of students’ possible
mathematical ideas.” She goes on to observe that “the obvious role of examples, as
tools in mathematics teacher education, is to extend teachers’ personal and
potential example spaces.” The constructs of example spaces and schemas can
prove useful when mathematics teachers consider student learning.
Our discussion of “knowing students as learners” focuses largely on theory; thus
it is not surprising that all of Section 3, which focuses on research, is directly
germane. Although the authors employ somewhat different language and

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ALAN H. SCHOENFELD AND JEREMY KILPATRICK

characterize somewhat different approaches to their work with teachers, all of them
address the issue of “listening to children’s mathematics,” as Empson and Jacobs
put it. And that attention is as it should be: The more that teachers are attuned to
their students’ understanding, the more they can create learning environments that
are responsive to them. Tsamir’s chapter shows how aspects of Fischbein’s work
can be used to help teachers reflect on their own ideas about mathematics and thus
those of their students. Clarke’s first sentence states the case clearly: “There is
increasing evidence that the provision of knowledge based on students’ thinking,
particularly for teachers in the early years of schooling, is contributing to improved
teaching practice and student outcomes.” Indeed, the three main components of the
Early Numeracy Research Project described by Clarke show how the notion of
teacher knowledge of student thinking undergirds the project’s approach to
professional development.
Realistic Mathematics Education (RME) deserves special notice in this regard in
that it may represent the broadest and most ambitious attempt to develop a research
and development program grounded in a particular theoretical approach to student
thinking and learning. As Gravemeijer notes, the challenges are immense, but the
kind of “systems approach” taken by RME provides a coherent way of looking at
the various pieces of the mathematics education puzzle. When materials design and
teacher preparation are grounded in the same philosophical basis (the reinvention
approach), there is increased potential for synergy and coherence.

CRAFTING AND MANAGING LEARNING ENVIRONMENTS

When the authors were students there was one dominant model of the classroom
across the United States and in most nations of Europe and the Americas. The
teacher was clearly in charge; the students either sat at desks or, in the elementary
grades, perhaps in some other configuration organized by the teacher (e.g., a circle
for “story time”). Like an orchestra conductor, the teacher organized and
sequenced activities, telling students precisely what to do and when. Activities
typically included lecturing, with students taking notes; question-and-answer
exchanges designed to reinforce content; having students do seatwork, typically
with prepared worksheets or on a sequence of problems assigned from the text; and
having students present work at the board, with corrections by the teacher. In that
context, the job of “crafting and managing the learning environment” meant
training the students to listen respectfully and follow directions. A well run
classroom was one in which students had learned and implemented smoothly all
the classroom routines (e.g., how to pass homework forward so the teacher could
collect it quickly).
The skill of creating a classroom environment in which students attend
respectfully to the teacher and are “on task” a very large percentage of the time is
known as classroom management. A search of the scholarly literature on the Web
for the phrase “classroom management” yields almost 40,000 hits; a search of the
entire Web yields almost 1,700,000. One of the sponsored (i.e., paid commercial)
links gives the flavor of the enterprise:

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 TOWARD A THEORY OF PROFICIENCY IN TEACHING MATHEMATICS

Classroom Management

Are Students Driving You Nuts?

Get Control — Classroom

Management

ClassroomManagement101.com

1
In the United States, the sixth grade is often a dividing line in mathematics (and in school
more generally). Teachers of Grades K–6 are typically generalists who may or may not have studied
much mathematics, in contrast to Grades 7–12 mathematics teachers, roughly half of whom have a
college degree in mathematics.
2
Note that the relationship between PCK and mathematics for teaching is not settled. One can
see mathematics for teaching, for example, as encompassing PCK or as separate from it, depending
on one’s epistemological views.
3
The 1972 book by Bishop and Whitfield, published in England, contains situations very
similar to the problem situations cited by Markovits and Smith.

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ALAN H. SCHOENFELD AND JEREMY KILPATRICK

Click on the link and you find the following:

Dear Fellow Teacher,

Did you know that in the UK and the US more than 50% of those who
train to be a teacher leave the profession after only three years? …
Just spend five minutes walking down the corridor of any school you
choose. It hits you like a ten ton pile of bricks. Pupil behavior deteriorating
fast, and teachers left to pick up the pieces.
Does this ring any bells?
As hard as you try you just can't get them quiet? ...
Poor pupil behavior which you just can't control? ...
You have a noisy classroom that you just can't quieten? ...
Students laugh and giggle because you have lost their respect? ...
Take Back Control NOW!

In a nutshell, this description lays out the challenge of organizing and

conducting a traditional classroom. How productive such environments might be is
increasingly open to question. Over the past two decades or so, the field’s notion of
“productive learning environments” has changed substantially. One breakthrough
piece was Collins, Brown, and Newman’s (1989) essay on cognitive
apprenticeship, which highlighted the fact that schooling in a discipline had the
potential to serve as an introduction to disciplinary ways of thinking. Motivated by
some of Lave’s observations of apprenticeship environments in Liberia, and
abstracting over Scardamalia and Bereiter’s work in writing, Schoenfeld’s work in
mathematical problem solving, and Palincsar and Brown’s work in reading, Collins
et al. identified an enriched sense of instructional goals. These included goals for
learning (not merely domain knowledge but also heuristic strategies, control
strategies, and learning strategies), teaching methods (pedagogical strategies
including modeling, coaching, scaffolding, compelling students to articulate their
understandings, inducing reflection, and engaging in exploration), aspects of task
and topic sequencing (global before local skills, increasing complexity, and
increasing diversity), and the sociology of the learning environment (focusing on
situated learning, including authentic practices; creating classroom communities of
practice; and exploiting intrinsic motivation and classroom cooperation).
Those principles have flowered in a range of well-known learning
environments. There is, for example, the extraordinarily fine-grained and lucid

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description of multiple goals for the mathematics classroom in Lampert (2001).

One sees an emphasis on learning communities (e.g., Brown & Campione, 1996;
Scardamalia, 2002). Increasingly, there are conferences and volumes with titles
such as Powerful Environments for Promoting Deep Conceptual and Strategic
Learning (Verschaffel, De Corte, Kanselaar, & Valcke, 2005). In a chapter that
abstracted some of the properties of such environments, Schoenfeld (2005) made
the following claim:
Despite differences in grade level (the instructional programs range from
elementary school through graduate school) and subject matter (topics
examined in these courses range over the life sciences, history, literature, and
mathematics), there are strong commonalities in assumptions and practices
across those environments [Schoenfeld’s problem-solving courses, Brown &
Campione’s “Fostering a Community of Learners,” and Scardamalia &
Bereiter’s Knowledge Forum]. They are:
– Disciplines offer distinctive and powerful forms of sense-making.
– Such sense-making includes knowledge, values, ways of seeing, and habits of
mind.
– These come to life for individuals via membership in rich, thriving intellectual
communities.
The learning environments discussed in this paper are successful because
they are self-consciously designed to foster interactions that support all of the
above. (pp. 29–30)
This set of assumptions (see also Engle & Conant, 2002) shapes the balance of
the present chapter. We assume that the creation of productive learning
environments includes a great deal more than “classroom management.” Rather, it
involves the creation of intellectual communities in which students engage in
legitimate intellectual activity. This perspective is clearly on the ascendance, as
reflected in the chapter “Mathematics Teaching and Classroom Practice” (Franke,
Khazemi, & Battey, 2007) in the Second Handbook of Research on Mathematics
Teaching and Learning. As Franke et al. stress, the current conception of
mathematics classrooms as complex learning communities demands attention to
issues such as the personal relationships engendered in them and the discourse
patterns one finds in them—more specifically for mathematics classrooms, the
social, mathematical, and sociomathematical norms (Cobb & Yackel, 1996; Yackel
& Cobb, 1996) constructed and enforced in such communities. An understanding
of the richness of desired mathematics learning environments is either tacit or
explicit in all of the chapters in the present volume. Here we make global
comments regarding the three main sections. More detailed comments pertaining to
issues of discourse, norms, and interpersonal relationships are pursued later in the
chapter.
To varying degrees of explicitness, the four chapters in Section 1 on cases
address the notion of the character, if not the creation, of rich learning
environments. Clearly, all the tools in that section can. Narrative is a powerful tool

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ALAN H. SCHOENFELD AND JEREMY KILPATRICK

for describing one’s intentions and how they played out (or failed to). Specific
cases, whether written or video-based, can highlight the same by helping to raise
questions about what was intended, how well the attempts played out, and why.
Lesson study is predicated on the notion of a particular set of rich mathematical
practices; hence involvement in it helps to develop deeper understanding in and
fluency in those practices. Seen from a greater distance, any instance of lesson
study is, like the other practices described in this section, a case in and of itself,
which can be used for reflection on essential issues.
As should be clear by now, tasks live within a social context: In two different
environments the same task can play out very differently. Hence what is central is
not simply the mathematical nature of a task but also the affordances it offers for
the kind of engagement that will be productive for a classroom community. Along
those lines, the notion of “group-worthy” tasks—tasks that support collaborative
engagement with powerful mathematical ideas—deserves special mention. (see,
e.g., Horn, 2007).
Finally, the role of theory in the enterprise of understanding classroom
environments (and what they can be) is absolutely central. There is a dialectic
relationship between what one understands and what one thinks is possible. Over
the past decades, mathematics educators’ understanding of thinking and knowing,
how teaching works, and how learning environments work has gotten broader and
deeper. The connection between theory and practice—understanding what one is
doing and why—is essential. Each of the theory chapters contributes in its own
way to that necessary dialectic.

DEVELOPING CLASSROOM NORMS AND SUPPORTING CLASSROOM

DISCOURSE AS PART OF “TEACHING FOR UNDERSTANDING”

One of the best-known episodes of teaching in the literature is the January 19,
1990, third-grade mathematics lesson taught by Deborah Ball. (See Schoenfeld,
2008, for a collection of analyses of that class session.) In the lesson a student,
Sean (known as Shea in some transcriptions), conjectures that the number 6 is both
even and odd. His reasoning is the following, in essence: Since 6 is made up of a
number of twos, 6 is thus even; but six is also made up of a number of threes (an
odd number), and 6 is thus odd as well. Sean is sorting the issue out as he speaks
and is not altogether clear. Neither the class nor the teacher has fully grasped what
Sean is suggesting when another student, Mei (also known as Lin), says she thinks
she understands. Ball asks Sean to stay at the board (“Could you stay there? People
have some questions for you.”) as Mei explains. The following dialogue (Ball,
1990) ensues:
Mei: I think what he is saying is that it’s almost, see, I think what he’s
saying is that you have three groups of two. And three is an odd number so
six can be an odd number and a even number.

Ball: Do other people agree with that? Is that what you’re saying, Sean?

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Sean: Yeah.

Ball: Okay, do other people agree with him? (pause) Mei, you disagree with
that?

Mei: Yeah, I disagree with that because it’s not according to like … here,
can I show it on the board?

Ball: Um hm.

Mei: (She comes up to the board.) It’s not according to like …

Ball: Student 1, can you watch what Mei’s doing?

Mei: … how many groups it is. Let’s say that I have (pauses) Let’s see. If
you call six an odd number, why don’t (pause) let’s see (pause) let’s say ten.
One, two … (draws circles on board) and here are ten circles. And then you
would split them, let’s say I wanted to split, spit them, split them by twos. …
One, two, … one, two, three, four, five … (she draws)

then why do you not call ten a, like— a …

Sean: … I disagree with myself …

Mei: … odd number and an even number, or why don’t you call other, like
numbers an odd number or— and an even number?

Sean: I didn’t think of it that way. Thank you for bringing it up, so—I say it’s
—ten can be an odd and an even.

Mei: Yeah, but what about ...

Liz: Ohh!!!

Mei: What about other numbers?! Like, if you keep on going on like that
and you say that other numbers are odd and even, maybe we’ll end it up with
all numbers are odd and even. Then it won’t make sense that all numbers
should be odd and even, because if all numbers were odd and even, we
wouldn’t be even having this discussion!

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ALAN H. SCHOENFELD AND JEREMY KILPATRICK

Sean: It wouldn’t be all odd and even like— I’m just skipping over to the
even— I’m just using the even ones, like I’m just using the even ones, I could
could be like um— ex— except like, except two. But everything else you
could just, you could split so it could be an odd and an even number. All the,
all the rest of the even numbers.

Student: Even a hundred?

Mei: Then here. It— let’s say, for instance, three (draws one circle, draws a
second circle), two (draws a third circle). You can split it, split it in half. And
do you— and then you can also. … That would be two groups so do you call
three an even number too?

Sean: I’m not calling three an even number, because one a h— um, like one
and a half on each side isn’t a number. One and a half isn’t a number. It’s a
number plus a little more.

Ball: Let’s um, get some other people’s reactions here. Um, Sean, do you
want to turn around so that you can hear other people’s ideas? Student 3,
you’ve had your hand up for awhile.
There are many remarkable things about this exchange, not the least of which is
Mei’s reductio ad absurdum —a rather sophisticated form of argument for a third
grader! We wish, however, to focus on this classroom as a discourse community
and the work that Ball has done to create and maintain it. Earlier in the lesson,
Sean had conjectured that six is both an even and an odd number; when he did so,
another student asked if he could prove it. (“Prove it to us that it can be odd. Prove
it to us.”) In this exchange Mei, after clarifying Sean’s statement (with his
concurrence), goes on to disagree with him. All of these italicized terms are
technical terms in this classroom, and they have entailments. When a student labels
a statement as a conjecture, the student is signaling its importance and also
indicating that he or she is expected to provide a rationale for its correctness—a
proof. In more general terms, students in this classroom understand that any
mathematical claim must be backed up with warrants—for example, when a
student said he thought that zero was an even number, Sean said, “I disagree with
you because, um, if it was an even number, how— what two things could make
it?” Here as in the dialogue quoted above, disagree is a discourse signal with
entailments. It plays a social role, in that “I disagree” is more polite than “You’re
wrong!”—which is a much more typical third-grade utterance. But disagreeing also
places a mathematical demand on the person who disagrees: There has to be a
reason for doing so, and the resolution of any disagreement will be mathematical.
In the case of the claim that zero is an even number, the challenge is on the form of
an appeal to the definition: An even number is a number that is twice a number.
Two threes “make” six, so six is even according to the definition, and Sean asks
what two numbers could make zero. Similarly, Mei follows up her statement of

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disagreement with a clever argument that if six is odd, then every number is odd —
so what’s the point?
The point of this discussion is that the class has done a great deal more than
learn the use of a technical vocabulary. Their interactions are governed by a set of
sociomathematical norms (Cobb & Yackel, 1996; Yackel & Cobb, 1996) that are
both respectful as a form of social interaction and mathematically productive. See
Ball, Lewis, and Thames (2008) for a discussion of the various kinds of
mathematical work the teacher does in a lesson such as this; see Horn (2008) for an
analysis of this kind of discourse structure, which she labels “accountable
argumentation.”
The teacher’s work in establishing and maintaining the nature of a discourse
community cannot be underestimated. The lesson from which we have quoted took
place in January, a substantial way through the school year. By that time
productive discourse patterns had been established, and at first glance Ball’s role as
a teacher may not seem to be very great. A close look at her interventions,
however, shows that she is carefully orchestrating the class’s contributions and
making sure that the discussions remain productive and respectful. In some parts of
the lesson she provides metalevel commentary about the state of the class’s
discussion, and in other parts of the lesson she facilitates their entry into fertile new
territory. Building such norms is decidedly nontrivial.
There are interesting parallels between the forms of sense-making in Ball’s
third-grade class and in Schoenfeld’s college-level problem-solving classes. Here
is a description of the opening weeks of Schoenfeld’s (1994) course:
[Typically my college students] have little idea, much less confidence, that
they can serve as arbiters of mathematical correctness, either individually or
collectively. Indeed, for most students, arguments (or purported solutions) are
merely proposed by themselves. Those arguments are then judged by experts,
who determine their correctness. Authority and the means of implementing it
are external to the students. Students propose; experts judge and certify.

One explicit goal of my problem solving courses is to deflect inappropriate

teacher authority. I hope to make it plain to the students that the mathematics
speaks through all who have learned to employ it properly, and not just
through the authority figure in front of the classroom. More explicitly, a goal
of instruction is that the class become a community of mathematical
judgment which, to the best of its ability, employs appropriate mathematical
standards to judge the claims made before it.

In the course discussed here, the explicit deflection of teacher authority

began the second day of class when a student volunteered to present a
problem solution at the board. As often happens, the student focused his
attention on me rather than on the class when he wrote his argument on the
board; when he finished he waited for my approval or critique. Rather than
provide it, however, I responded as follows:

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ALAN H. SCHOENFELD AND JEREMY KILPATRICK

“Don’t look to me for approval, because I’m not going to provide it. I’m sure
the class knows more than enough to say whether what’s on the board is
right. So (turning to class) what do you folks think?”

In this particular case the student had made a claim which another student
believed to be false. Rather than adjudicate, I pushed the discussion further:
How could we know which student was correct? The discussion continued
for some time, until we found a point of agreement for the whole class. The
discussion proceeded from there. When the class was done (and satisfied) I
summed up.

This problem discussion illustrated a number of important points for the

students, points consistently emphasized in the weeks to come. First, I rarely
certified results, but turned points of controversy back to the class for
resolution. Second, the class was to accept little on faith. This is, “we proved
it in Math 127” was not considered adequate reason to accept a statement’s
validity. Instead, the statement must be grounded in mathematics solidly
understood by this class. Third, my role in class discussion would often be
that of Doubting Thomas. That is, I often asked “Is that true? How do we
know? Can you give me an example? A counterexample? A proof?”, both
when the students’ suggestions were correct and when they were incorrect.
(A fourth role was to ensure that the discussions are respectful—that it’s the
mathematics at stake in the conversations, not the students!)

This pattern was repeated consistently and deliberately, with effect. Late in
the second week of class, a student who had just written a problem solution
on the board started to turn to me for approval, and then stopped in mid-
stream. She looked at me with mock resignation and said “I know, I know.”
She then turned to the class and said “O.K., do you guys buy it or not?”
[After some discussion, they did.] (pp. 62–63)
One finds parallel discussions in Magdalene Lampert’s (2001) exegesis of her
teaching. In a chapter entitled “Teaching to Establish a Classroom Culture,”
Lampert describes how the physical organization of a classroom makes a
difference—for example, seats in a row convey one message, and tables grouped
with four students around them convey a different one. She discusses some of the
main themes introduced the first day of class, including rules of discourse and
“revising your thinking.” She explained that
having a hand raised meant to me that a person “had an idea.” I also made it
clear that those who had not raised a hand and were not speaking had a job to
do beyond simply listening. They were to reflect on what they heard in such a
way as to “see if you agree or disagree, or if you have something to add.”…

The elements of this form [the classroom interactions she has just discussed]
that would repeat themselves throughout the year included:

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 TOWARD A THEORY OF PROFICIENCY IN TEACHING MATHEMATICS

– Soliciting more than one contribution;

– Responding to each contribution in a way that communicated my
understanding (not necessarily approval) of what the student was saying;
and
– Asking the students to revoice the contributions of other students. (p. 61)
Lampert explains how, in the first week, she sets the ground rules for class
discussions:
In the context of these lessons, I taught my students three new activities and
named them as such for public identification:
– Finding and articulating the “conditions” or assumptions in problem
situations that must be taken into account in making a judgment about
whether a solution strategy is appropriate;
– Producing “conjectures” about elements of the problem situation including
the solution, which could then be subject to reasoned argument; and
– Revising conjectures based on mathematical evidence and the identification
of conditions. (p. 66)
Abstracting over a number of examples of classroom practices, including CGI
(Carpenter et al., 1996; Carpenter, Fennema, Franke, Levi, & Empson, 1999),
Franke et al. (2007) summarize their stance toward “teaching for understanding” as
follows:
Maintaining our dual focus on what teachers do and how that is experienced
by students; keeping equity central; drawing on a current, coherent
conception of teaching and learning; and attending to the limits and strengths
of the reform studies leads us to a particular focus for our review of
classroom practice. Research suggests the value of listening to students’
mathematical ideas and building on them, that attending to the details of
student thinking and the mathematics (particularly the mathematical task)
supports student learning, and creating opportunities for a range of ideas to be
a part of the classroom discourse matters for students and teachers alike.
Lampert’s conception of teaching parallels these ideas and suggests that
knowing the development of students’ mathematical thinking, understanding
the mathematical tasks, and orchestrating conversation around the particulars
of student thinking and mathematics are all a part of teaching for
understanding. (p. 230)
We concur, and turn to the question of how the tools and processes discussed in
this volume can serve these purposes. Not surprisingly, there is a good fit at a
general level: All of the chapters are concerned with teaching for understanding in
some way. The direct relevance and application of the ideas varies. The case for
cases (Section 1) is strong: Cases provides grist for exemplification of key ideas
and for reflection. That is true whether the exemplification is by means of
narrative, written or video case studies, or live or videotaped lesson study.

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ALAN H. SCHOENFELD AND JEREMY KILPATRICK

As described in Section 2, tasks are almost neutral with regard to norms and
discourse: One can imagine a set of discourse practices that made rich use of the
tasks, examples, manipulatives, and machines described in Section 2, but one can
also imagine rather didactic uses of them. The challenge is to craft learning
environments in which the patterns and processes of communal sense-making take
advantage of the potential affordances of those tasks.
Any particular theory, depending on its nature, can be directly or tangentially
germane to the issue of classroom discourse and norms. Fischbein’s theory, for
example, focuses on aspects of mathematical understanding; one can imagine
teachers reading or being lectured to about this or any other theory, or one can
imagine a set of tasks that engaged the teachers actively in constructing their
understandings of them. The words dialogue, discourse, and norms do not appear
in the chapters by Clarke and by Empson and Jacobs. In contrast, one finds the
following statement in Gravemeijer’s discussion of RME:
In contrast to the traditional classroom culture, reinvention asks for an
inquiry-oriented classroom culture. The classroom has to work as a learning
community. To make this happen, the students have to adopt classroom social
norms such as the obligation to explain and justify their solutions. They have
to be expected to try and understand other students’ reasoning, and to ask
questions if they do not understand, and challenge arguments they do not
agree with.

BUILDING RELATIONSHIPS THAT SUPPORT LEARNING

There has been an interesting change over time in the amount and character of the
attention that (at least in the United States) has been devoted to building strong
teacher-student relationships. The stereotype is that primary school education is,
for the most part, devoted to the “whole child.” Although content considerations
are important, a tremendous amount of the primary school teacher’s energy is
devoted to helping students develop as people and as learners and to learn to
function productively as members of the classroom community. Much of the
primary teacher’s work consists of getting to know the children as individuals,
helping them to understand themselves and build their relationships with others.
Such relationships are, in fundamental ways, the bases on which the classroom
community is founded and foundations upon which the individuals in it get the
work of growing and learning done.
The middle grades are typically a time of transition. The intact primary
classroom, in which one or possibly two teachers spend the whole day with the
same group of students, may give way (at least in the United States) to a
transitional form in which the class may spend half its time with a “language arts”
teacher and then move to a “math and science” teacher and possibly to other
teachers for subjects such as physical education, art, and music. This arrangement
gives way to the classic secondary school “bell schedule,” in which students take
five or six different courses and move from room to room. With this migration also

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comes a change in teacher responsibilities: High school teachers are content

experts, and their responsibility shifts away from the “whole child” toward
disciplinary instruction. Although some attempts are made to connect with the
children and, on occasion, their families, student-teacher relationships typically
become more distant as the students advance through secondary school.
Many things are happening, simultaneously, during the middle and high school
years. As children mature, there are issues of identity formation, group affiliation,
and more. It is precisely during these personally momentous times that the links
between teachers and students weaken: Students move from interacting primarily
with one or two teachers whose primary focus is the “whole child” to interacting
with perhaps half a dozen teachers whose primary focus in on subject matter
content. In the United States, a middle school or high school mathematics teacher
typically teaches five sections of mathematics; thus he or she will have
responsibility for the mathematics learning of 150 students or so. The amount of
time available for building relationships with individual students drops
significantly. In general, alienation, oppositional behavior, and dropout rates
increase.
Collegiate experiences vary, of course (as do those in elementary and secondary
school; we do not intend to imply homogeneity but rather that within-grade-band
variation is much less than across-grade-band variation). By and large, however,
students are increasingly independent. Save for the bonds that happen to develop
between individual student and teacher, or for students who live in institutional
housing, with adults in designated roles such as “house parents,” the
responsibilities of the faculty for their students and the cultivation of relationships
between them are largely at individual discretion. The overarching assumption is
that the students, now autonomous, are migrating toward their personal career
choices, and that the faculty members are sharing their (discipline-related) wisdom
with them along the way.
Interestingly, these relationships tend to change when students enter more
advanced degree programs, for example, for teaching degrees or for doctorates.
Both kinds of work are so arduous and so personally challenging that, at times, the
students—although older and presumably more mature than secondary or college
students—need a greater degree of personal support. (Having a student-teaching
lesson fall apart, dealing with a disruptive class, or realizing that one is having
major trouble with one’s dissertation, all call for a level of personal knowledge,
understanding, and support that far exceeds the typical demands placed on
secondary or college teachers.)
Franke et al. (2007) address such issues directly, in their conception of
mathematics teaching and classroom practice. In a section of their chapter entitled
“A Conception of Teaching,” they state that:
Teaching is relational. Teachers, students, and subject matter can only be
understood in relation to one another. The teacher works to orchestrate the
content, representations of the content, and the people in the classroom in
relation to one another. Students’ ways of being, their forms of participation,

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and their learning emerge out of these mutually constitutive relationships.

Teaching is also multidimensional. Within research on classroom practice,
several images of this multidimensionality emerge, images that overlap with
one another but that are often emphasized in one line of work. Teaching is
creating an environment for learning mathematics, orchestrating participation
so that students relate to representations of subject matter and to one another
in particular ways. (p. 227)
Such teaching, Franke et al. (2007) note, draws on ideas of identity and culture.
The idea is that students bring various mathematically productive cultural forms
into the classroom and that teaching can draw upon those forms—see, for example,
Moll’s “funds of knowledge” (Moll & Gonzalez, 2004). Building relationships
with the students grounded in their identities (“culturally relevant teaching”; see,
e.g., Gallego, Cole, & the Laboratory of Comparative Human Cognition, 2001;
Ladson-Billings, 1995; Mercado, 2001) is a potentially powerful way of
connecting students and content. “And a growing body of research shows how
African American, Latino, and Native American students draw on their cultural
and community knowledge to help them succeed in mathematics” (Franke et al., p.
247).
For the most part, the chapters in the current volume do not directly address
such issues. That omission is not surprising given that the notion of teaching
mathematics as a fundamentally relational act is relatively new. Each of the three
sections has potential affordances for enhancing relational practices in teaching.
The use of cases is obvious: Whether by means of narrative, written, or video
cases, the issues discussed here can be raised and reflected upon. Tasks can play a
catalytic role, both in terms of structure and content. Earlier in this chapter, we
discussed group-worthy tasks (Horn, 2007). Such tasks provide structures for
student interaction and problem ownership, as well as different student-teacher
relationships. Similarly, problems that deal in various ways with mathematizing
aspects of students’ lives (see, e.g., Gutstein & Peterson, 2005) provide more than
“motivation”: They can provide a different view of mathematics, a means by which
students can collaborate in meaningful ways over content that is personally
meaningful, and an opportunity for deeper personal relationships between students
and teachers. Theory is a necessary tool. The very notion of teaching as a relational
act is a theoretical statement. Theorizing in this arena, summarized by Franke et al.
(2007), has expanded significantly over the past decade, but the work is just
beginning. There is much more to be done in theoretical terms and in developing
the tools to make use of the theoretical ideas.

REFLECTING ON ONE’S PRACTICE

Reflection is the ultimate key to one’s professional growth as a teacher. On a local

level, the question is essentially how the day’s or the week’s classes went, and
what one might do about that. On a more global level, the question is about not just
what one does, but why.

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Attaining proficiency in teaching mathematics, like attaining mathematical

proficiency, is a lifelong, iterative process. Confronted with a problem of teaching
practice, the teacher of mathematics needs to think reflectively about the problem if
he or she is to resolve it. Once it is habitual, reflection can become the principal
mechanism for improving one’s teaching practice.
John Dewey (1904/1965) was among the first to consider the role of reflection
in education. He saw teacher education as providing an unparalleled opportunity
for prospective teachers to reflect on problems of practice (Mewborn, 1999), but he
also saw such reflection as needing to continue throughout one’s teaching career.
Dewey (1933) defined reflective thinking as “active, persistent, and careful
consideration of any belief or supposed form of knowledge in the light of the
grounds that support it and the further conclusion to which it tends” (p. 9). By
thinking reflectively, a teacher can “transform a situation in which there is
experienced obscurity, doubt, conflict, disturbance of some sort, into a situation
that is clear, coherent, settled, harmonious” (pp. 100–101). As Mewborn (1996)
notes, “In an educational context … reflecting on teaching practice can assist
teachers in making intelligent choices about future teaching actions” (p. 14; see
also Mewborn, 1999, 2004). Like Pólya’s (1945/2004) “looking back” phase of
problem solving, reflection on one’s teaching practice is a bootstrap for improving
one’s proficiency.
As a fundamentally important habit of mind, reflection can be fostered by
teacher preparation and professional development. It is, for example, an explicit
part of the design of the 2-year teacher preparation program in which Schoenfeld is
involved, at the University of California, Berkeley. We introduce the idea through
an anecdote and then discuss the underlying principles.
When Schoenfeld first began teaching at Berkeley in the mid-1980s, he
volunteered to offer a problem-solving course for students in the teacher
preparation program. The course had a number of components. First, there was
hands-on problem solving, using problems like those in Schoenfeld’s (1985)
regular mathematics problem-solving courses. Second, the class reflected on the
mathematics they had done and the lessons about thinking and problem solving to
be learned from that mathematics. Third, halfway through the course, the student
teachers were asked to design a series of lessons that approached a topic that they
were supposed to teach “from a problem-solving point of view.” The student
teachers were to be explicit about the intended goals, why they structured the
lessons the way they did, and what they expected their students to learn from them.
Fourth, the student teachers taught the lessons, gathered data on students’
performance, and reported on what happened. Fifth, they reflected on what
happened and reported what they would do differently the next time.
A few years after one student had earned her teaching credential, Schoenfeld ran
into her on the street. After some catching up, he said “Okay, you’re independent
now. I can’t do anything to you, so you have nothing to fear. Tell me the truth: Did
anything you learned in the course do you any good?” Her response was,

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Not for the first few years. I was too busy surviving. But as I settled in as a
teacher and didn’t have to worry so much about simple issues of survival, I
found myself thinking more and more about the issues raised in the problem-
solving course. Now I use them quite a bit to reflect on my teaching, and
they’re having a real impact on what I do.
That conversation played a significant role in the reshaping of Berkeley’s
program, which was revised in the early 1990s. The idea behind the 2-year post-
baccalaureate program had been to provide a fair amount of knowledge and “how
to,” much of it along the lines of the earlier sections of this chapter. Not all of that
could be done, for even 2 years is hardly enough time. Thus, for example, the
program tended to select students with very solid mathematical backgrounds and
reinforce their understanding through the problem-solving course. But the faculty
realized that in the chaos of the first few years of teaching, much of what the
students had learned in their coursework would be abstract “book knowledge” that
they would not have the opportunity to put into practice while they were struggling
to master the art of teaching. Thus, the question was how to develop the habits of
mind that supported reflection.
That development was addressed in a number of ways. Methods seminars
included routine debriefings and reflective memos. Students joined faculty research
groups, where the inspection of practice was a routine activity. Course projects
often involved reflection of the type described above: If you did something, can
you say upon reflection about how you would do it differently, and why? In
addition, the program (which offers a credential and a master’s degree) culminates
with a master’s paper. There is great latitude in the selection of the paper topic, but
the default is an expansion of the kind of project described above: The student
thinks about a fundamental aspect of practice, designs a piece of instruction and a
measure of student performance, tries the instruction and gathers relevant data,
reflects on them, and then describes possible changes on the basis of that reflection.
The hope is that, as in the case of the student quoted above, such reflection will
become habitual and contribute to the teachers’ ongoing professional growth. 4
As with all of the categories of the framework we propose, the three sections of
this volume offer potential affordances for stimulating and supporting teacher
reflection. Cases (Section 1) are natural stimuli for that purpose, though they need
to be accompanied by appropriate opportunities to reflect. Narratives can raise
issues for reflection—about both one’s practices and the reasons for them—and
they can be used to promote reflective thinking through activities such as writing
and rewriting one’s teaching stories. Chapman notes that “narrative provides a
reflective way of knowing, which is widely accepted as central goal in teacher
education.” As Markovits and Smith point out, quoting Merseth (1999, pp. xi–xii),
“Cases in mathematics education share a common feature of providing realistic
contexts for helping teachers ‘develop skills of analysis and problem-solving, gain
broad repertoires of pedagogical technique, capitalize on the power of reflection

4
A framework and tools for engaging systematically in such reflective activities can be found
in Artzt, Armour-Thomas, and Curcio (2008).

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[italics added], and experience a positive learning community.’” The case activities
they describe “are intended to invite exploration of and critical reflection on a
teacher’s own practice.”
Likewise, Maher addresses the issue explicitly:
Using videos as a tool to evaluate and improve one’s practice, teachers can
plan and implement lessons, study the videos of the lessons, and analyze
students’ developing understanding as they take into account their role as
facilitators in the process. Teachers can also reflect on the extent and quality
of their probing of student understanding. … By studying their lessons,
teachers can become more aware of their classroom behavior. They can
reflect on the moves they make and then consider and discuss with others
whether or not certain moves are effective.
Finally, reflection is a design feature of lesson study. The very nature of the
practice is to propose a course of instructional action in theoretically grounded
ways, to try it out, and to reconsider the approach and its underpinnings on the
basis of carefully conducted observations of the lessons. Yoshida observes that
“collaborative interactions with other teachers help the teachers to reflect on their
own subject content and pedagogical knowledge.”
The affordances for reflection of any task depend very much on the character of
the task and the context within which it is used. After identifying four purposes for
teachers’ engagement with tasks, Watson and Sullivan note that teacher learning
“may be mathematical, pedagogic, or a mixture of both depending on how task
goals, discussion and reflection are structured in the teaching session,” and they go
on to say
Teachers in educative settings often want tasks or task-types that can be used
in their own classrooms with minimal transformation, while teacher
educators might seek to offer tasks which influence teachers’ learning. Here
we combine these aims by concentrating on how teachers can be educated
about classroom tasks through reflective engagement [italics added] with
such activities.
Zazkis begins her chapter with the idea that carefully chosen examples can
“persuade teachers to reconsider ‘basic assumptions’ used in teaching and learning
of mathematics, or to become explicitly aware of these assumptions.” The theme of
reflection is less overtly manifest in the chapters by Nührenbörger and Steinbring,
and Bartolini Bussi and Maschietto, but it is easy to imagine how the tasks they
describe can be embedded in contexts that support reflections by students and
teachers alike.
And last but not least, theory. Not surprisingly, reflection permeates the theory
section of this volume. Tsamir devotes substantial space to descriptions of
teachers’ reflective notes. Clarke’s concluding paragraph focuses precisely on the
issue of reflection:

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Rather than a recipe for teaching, the notion of rich ingredients that are
combined in a range of ways, using the professional judgement of teachers,
was a powerful and successful approach. There is little doubt that the
framework and growth points were two key ingredients in equipping teachers
to exercise their judgement as reflective professionals and produce increased
student outcomes in the ENRP [Early Numeracy Research Project].
In the section of Empson and Jacobs’s chapter that deals with recommendations
for working with teachers, they
describe three learning activities mathematics teacher educators have used to
help teachers develop responsive listening: (a) discussions of children's
written work, (b) discussions of videotaped interactions with children, and (c)
opportunities for teachers to interact with children (in real time) and then to
reflect on those experiences with other teachers.
Finally, we note that the discussion of reflection in Gravemeijer’s paper operates
explicitly at two levels, as it should in all discussion of teaching. At the student
level, Gravemeijer notes that a major goal of instruction is to have learners
construct their own knowledge and that stimulating reflection is an important
mechanism for fostering such knowledge construction. But that claim holds for
teachers as well.
As we conclude, it is useful to recall the admonition from the editors of How
People Learn:
The principles of learning and their implications for designing learning
environments apply equally to child and adult learning. They provide a lens
though which current practice can be viewed with respect to K-12 teaching
and with respect to the preparation of teachers. (Bransford, Brown, &
Cocking, 2000, p. 27)
The habits of mind, including reflection, that we hope to instill in young learners
will serve teachers equally well; and the kinds of respectful, supportive, interactive,
mathematically rich and reflective learning environments we hope to provide
young students will also serve as productive learning environments for teachers.

FINAL REMARK

In this chapter, we have offered what we consider to be the first steps toward a
theory of proficiency in teaching mathematics. Undoubtedly, refinement and
elaboration are called for; this effort is merely a first approximation. Even so, we
hope that the framework described here will be useful. As noted in the
introduction, a theory of proficiency provides an orientation to a domain. It says
what is important—what skills people need to develop if they are to become
proficient. With those goals in mind, mathematics teacher educators can make
effective use of the rich collection of tools offered in this volume.

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Alan H. Schoenfeld
Graduate School of Education,
University of California, Berkeley
USA

Jeremy Kilpatrick
Department of Mathematics and Science Education
University of Georgia
USA

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