Abstract
The field of learning disabilities (LD) has a complex and complicated history. Tensions over definitions, eligibility criteria, service delivery models, and best practices, as well as epistemological debates, have been a part of that history from its inception. Given our collective struggles, as well as the current realities facing the field, there could not be a more critical moment for a conversation about how it is that we go about knowing what we know. In this concluding essay, we consider how, by focusing so intently on what works, we, as a field, may inadvertently lose sight of what matters. In other words, contrary to the push for narrowing what counts as evidence or knowledge, we examine the potential value in opening up the field to a more diverse range of methods for students who struggle academically. We also challenge taken-for-granted assumptions in the push toward evidence- or research-based practice. Finally, we highlight several compelling themes that we take away from the contributors of this special double issue.
Not everything that can be counted counts, and not everything that counts can be counted.
The field of learning disabilities (LD) has a complex and complicated history. Tensions over definitions, eligibility criteria, service delivery models, and best practices, as well as epistemological debates, have been a part of that history from its inception. Presently, special education faces a myriad of challenges, both from within the field and from without (Paul, French, & Cranston-Gringras, 2002). Although noting the good intentions of special education practitioners and researchers alike, politicians, parents, and the media have all voiced concerns about the expanding growth and cost of special education, the continuing lack of efficacy and poor transition outcomes of those receiving special education services, the ever-widening achievement gap, and the persisting disproportionate placement of students of color in special education. Given our collective history as well as the current realities facing the field, there could not be a more critical moment to be having a conversation about how it is that we go about knowing what we know and what difference that knowledge makes to the students we serve.
In planning this double issue on pluralizing research methodologies, we thought it would be interesting to structure both issues as a conversation by inviting a diverse range of authors and commentators to consider the value of a diverse range of methodologies, including but not limited to qualitative research, particularly in the current era of accountability, high-stakes testing, and evidence- or research-based practice. Our sincere aim was to promote a discussion that would be open and respectful rather than exacerbate the “culture of rancor and cynicism” (Paul et al., 2002, p. 326) that these kinds of debates often produce. We are indebted to the outgoing editor of LDQ, David Scanlon, who guided our efforts in creating this double issue, from its inception to its publication, and provided important insights along the way. We are also humbled by our esteemed contributors, who, despite a tight publication schedule, were enthusiastically committed to the project and eager to enter the dialogue.
In the introductory article we provide a content analysis of the number of quantitative, qualitative, and mixed-method studies published in four prominent LD journals in the course of a year. It would not surprise many readers of LDQ that this analysis shows a clear preponderance of quantitative studies published in the major LD journals (see Note 1). Driven by the current political climate, which focuses on a very narrow definition of what counts as “evidence,” these numbers obviously reveal quite a lot about what the field considers to be an acceptable set of methodological tools. Yet, because, over the course of our studies and academic careers, we have found a host of research methodologies useful, provocative, and insightful, we thought it essential to consider what is lost when we, as a field, rely to this degree on only one methodological framework to address the vast range of critical questions with which we must engage.
In this concluding essay, we consider how in this almost unidimensional focus on what works we may inadvertently lose sight of what matters. While acknowledging that the two are not mutually exclusive, we do want to argue for a more integrated view of our collective work. In this final article, we examine the potential value in opening up the field to a more diverse range of methods for students who struggle academically. We also challenge taken-for-granted assumptions in the impetus toward evidence-based practice. Finally, we highlight several compelling themes that we take away from the contributors of this special double issue. First, we address the role of bias.
Is Bias Always a Bad Thing?
How do we answer critics who might question why we have not provided equal space for quantitative research in this double issue, particularly given its prominent place in special education and LD research? Why, in other words, did we not aim specifically for an even balance of perspectives or a pro/con structure to the issue? To this we would say that although we are calling for pluralizing methodologies, real understanding often necessitates more than merely providing equal airtime to contending points of view (Babbitt, 2001). Making a space for marginalized voices to come to the fore obliges us to first interrupt dominant discourses or paradigms (Thompson, 2002; Young, 2001). This interruption may dictate suspending or silencing the dominant story, at least for a time, according to Babbitt. Thus, because not all stories are understood as equally valid, Babbitt argues that understanding diverse perspectives may require more than simply having all perspectives present at the table. Because they challenge taken-for-granted assumptions about how the world works, some points of view are harder to absorb and more difficult to hear. They may not seem to make sense, at least not in any way that we initially recognize. As St. Pierre (2002) explained, researchers operating from one epistemological framework often find those working from differing frameworks “unintelligible” (p. 25). Thus, in order to hear diverse perspectives, we may need to be relentless in our bias toward those voices that might otherwise be overlooked or seen as less meaningful or important (Babbitt, 2001).
The difficulty in this kind of engagement is that it requires the dominant group to account for its own power and privilege (Delpit, 1995, 2006). As Delpit (2006) wrote, “careful listening to alternative points of view . . . [compels] those with the most power, those in the majority . . . to take the greater responsibility” (p. 46).She underscored that this kind of engagement can be difficult, and even painful, because it involves a disinvestment of our own sense of who we are and what we know. To listen this way, Delpit (2006) wrote, you must “be willing to see yourself in the unflattering light of another’s angry gaze” (pp. 46–47; see Note 2). Babbitt (2001), too, suggested that engagement and dialogue across difference demand a level of engagement in which we risk being transformed, changed, and influenced—what Bakhtin (1982) would call a dialogic encounter. Thus, to move beyond tokenizing different perspectives, Utall (1990) suggested that we must remain open not only to the inclusion of difference but also to the possibility that that difference may influence us in unforeseen ways. It is therefore not enough to welcome the occasional minority voice or perspective (or “special” issue). Instead, voices that are typically excluded or marginalized must be afforded a position of primacy in order to be heard.
Of course, when the minority perspective begins to gain a foothold, the dominant group may begin to feel that things are out of balance. The sociological (and economic) concept of “tipping point” suggests that once a minority represents 20% to 30%, the dominant group will begin to feel that things are out of balance. First used to explain “White flight” in urban areas (Schelling, 1971), the tipping point has since been used to explain a range of social dynamics related to both gender and racial segregation. The question here becomes, at what point does opening the field to qualitative and alternative research methodologies begin to be seen as tipping the balance of power or influence currently held by quantitative research and researchers? Although we are not advocating that editors enact a quota system, we might question what we (as readers and editors) see as an ideal mix of methods that we should expect to see represented in our major journals—or in LDQ specifically? How many qualitative studies would tip the scale from “on target” to “too many” for the various stakeholders of LDQ, and has this changed over the years?
Which brings us to the role of journal editors. Paul et al. (2002) contrasted editorial statements from two major special education journals, Behavior Disorders and Intellectual and Developmental Disabilities (formerly Mental Retardation). First, we present a statement by Kauffman and Brigham, editors of Behavior Disorders (as cited in Paul et al., 2002):
Our conceptual orientation, like that of our predecessors, is scientific and positivistic. We believe this orientation best serves not only the profession but also the children and families for whom we advocate. . . . We will . . . do our utmost to discriminate legitimate from non-legitimate claims to knowledge. (p. 320)
We contrast this with a statement by Taylor, editor of Intellectual and Developmental Disabilities (as cited in Paul et al., 2002), who provides a very different view of the role of journal editor:
The role of journal editors in our field is not to silence new voices—or theories, methodologies and modes of exposition, for that matter—but to allow opportunities for reasoned argument, discussion, and debate. If, indeed, we can believe in progress, this is how it can occur. (p. 320)
Obviously, these are statements by scholars who espouse very different research traditions and philosophies—the first, staunch proponents of positivist methodologies, and the second, a pioneer, and continuing authority, in qualitative inquiry in education. Both represent the field of special education in all of its diversity, but whereas Kaufmann and Brigham view the role of editor as serving as arbiter of knowledge, Taylor sees his role as opening up spaces for new knowledge and dialogue to flourish. Berliner (2002), too, argued that “unrestricted questioning” is key to the “energy and vibrancy” of research and inquiry (p. 18). He, like Taylor, placed a premium on professional debate and dialogue. Acknowledging the limits of science in “reducing ignorance,” Berliner contended that “as long as argument is tolerated and unfettered” (p. 18), the potential for knowledge and understanding exists. Finally, the editorial comments by Deshler (1978), the first editor of LDQ, which were published in its inaugural edition, are instructive. He wrote that LDQ is
designed to disseminate information and present issues about learning disabilities from an applied educational focus. This focus, except in unusual circumstances, precludes publication of articles not directly pertinent to educational endeavors, such as medical reports or laboratory studies. . . . The Quarterly will attempt to maintain a balance between the types of articles presented. The board of consulting editors represents a diversity of professional training, experience, and philosophy. It is intended that the journal will reflect this diversity and present and express differing and conflicting points of view. (p. 2)
Deshler’s view that laboratory studies and medical reports may not always find relevance in the classroom is a viewed shared by many teachers in the field (see Connor, Gallagher, & Ferri, 2011, the opening article for this double issue of LDQ). Most relevant, however, to the overarching theme of this double issue is the stated commitment by LDQ from its inception to provide a balance of diverse perspectives and philosophies and to promote engagement with conflicting points of view. If indeed this continues to be LDQ’s commitment, how then do we maintain such a commitment in the era of government directives espousing a very narrow conception of scientifically based practice (see Note 3)?
The “Hard” Science of Education
Although improving education has long been a goal shared by researchers and teachers alike, it has become somewhat of a “national obsession” in recent years (Hood, 2003, p. 5). The call for evidence-, or scientifically-based research has occupied such a central role in the discourse of school reform that it has been afforded its own acronym: SBR. In fact, SBR is mentioned over 100 times in the No Child Left Behind Act of 2001 and 111 times in the 2002 National Research Council (NCR) report “Scientific Research in Education” (Feuer, Towne, & Shavelson, 2002). The impetus for SBR (see Note 4) creates a hierarchy of research methods, placing quantitative research involving randomized clinical trials with control groups as the “gold standard” for educational research (Hood, 2003). In an interesting contrast to Deshler’s (1978) view that medical or laboratory studies would have limited currency in terms of informing classroom practice, legislators, in their concerted sponsorship of SBR, often cite the need for educational research to mirror the shift to evidence-based practice in medicine (see Note 5). As Feuer, Towne, and Shavelson (2002) stated, the motivation behind these calls for SBR is to improve the credibility of educational research by modeling it after medicine.
Interestingly, although evidence-based practice (EBP) currently dominates the field of medical research and practice, it, too, is not without some degree of controversy or debate. According to Grypdonck (2006), for example, because there is no evidence that EBP actually works, EBP is an ideology that fails its own ideology. A somewhat more cynical view of EBP’s popularity, according to Grypdonck, is that it offers doctors the reassurance of a diminished risk of malpractice. A stated limitation of EBP is its failure to account for culture, context, complexity, or complications related to implementation or outcome. Furthermore, Tonelli (1998) asserted that “the necessary gap between clinical research and medical practice means that evidence can never directly dictate care; the evidence cannot tell us when it is best to ignore evidence” (p. 1239). Specifically, in terms of individuals with disabilities, EBP also fails to address the reality that vulnerable populations are “poorly represented” in randomized samples, calling into question the assumption that simply because an intervention is research- or evidence-based, that it is universally applicable (Grypdonck, p. 1379; see Note 6).
Green (1998) and others view qualitative research as broadening the scope of medical research in productive ways. As Curry, Nembhard, and Bradley (2009) argued, mixed methods and qualitative research are increasingly valued in clinical medical research for their ability to:
examine complex phenomena,
promote comprehensive understanding,
provide insight into potential causes and to generate hypotheses,
promote innovation, and
study special populations.
Indeed, the very presence of a peer-reviewed journal dedicated to qualitative research in medicine (Qualitative Health Research), as well as emerging fields of study, such as medical humanities, signal at least some degree of acceptance and influence for multiple research paradigms within medical research and training.
Thus, although critics of SBR in education often attempt to distinguish educational research from medicine and the physical sciences (Berliner, 2002; Erickson & Gutierrez, 2002), we would argue that rarely is any form of scientific inquiry without complexity. As Berliner stated, to myopically think that there is only one form of research that is scientific is to confuse “a particular method of science with science itself” (p. 18). Anyone who has come up against the limits of medicine on a personal level comes to realize that sometimes there simply are no hard and fast or easy answers. Furthermore, as Erickson and Gutierrez (2002) warned, placing such a naïve faith in a “white coat” image of science is not only misdirected but also dangerous. It is important to remember that any science always operates inside its own historical and cultural contexts. Medical research is replete with examples of unintended consequences, such as serious side effects, as well as moral and ethical lapses brought about by desperate attempts to discover “what works” in the short-term (see Note 7).
Thus, although we do not view any scientific research as fully controlled or objective, as educational researchers, we typically conduct our research in everyday classrooms, not laboratories, and in conditions that “physical scientists [would most likely] find intolerable,” (Berliner, 2002, p. 18). Berliner argued that education, which is not typically thought of as a hard science, should certainly be considered a “hardest to do science” (p. 18), due to the degree of variability across learners, teachers, and schools. The uniqueness of each educational context makes it impossible for a researcher to replicate or control variables (Iano, 1986; Poplin, 1987). Moreover, because of the dynamic interaction between learners and teachers, fidelity of implementation is also quite rare in educational settings (Erickson & Gutierrez, 2002). In fact, an earnest recognition of the complexity of educational research has been at the center of years of formal deliberation among prominent special education researchers who are strong advocates for the use of experimental and quasi-experimental research designs (see Gersten, Baker, & Lloyd, 2000). As researchers, we are also increasingly answerable to both the local context and the larger constituencies of our research (Harrison & Morton, 2001, p. 324). Finally, the findings of educational research, according to Berliner, often have a short shelf-life, due to the ever-changing social, cultural, and intellectual environments of schools. Perhaps it is the ever-changing, complex nature of our work and the intransigence of the challenges we face that lead critics to question why educational research itself is rarely static.
What Works: The Contested Terrain of Research in Education
The terrain of educational research is ever shifting. For example, the Obama administration’s “Blueprint for Reform” (Elementary and Secondary Education Act or ESEA Reauthorization) could be read as a softening of the SBR-focused language of the NCLB (No Child Left Behind Act). Whereas SBR was mentioned more than 100 times in NCLB, references to “evidence” show up fewer than 20 times in the Blueprint. Perhaps in response to the embarrassing lack of success of the Reading First program, the focus of the Blueprint presents a shift from “evidence” to the notions of “effectiveness” and “innovation” (ESEA Reauthorization). According to Heller (2010), several factors contributed to this change in emphasis:
First, results of Reading First programs employing carefully controlled scientific research have failed to demonstrate the dramatic improvements in student learning that advocates predicted. Secondly, the Obama Administration has emphasized innovation—not necessarily research-based instruction. (¶8)
Yet, perhaps this is a necessary shift if we, as researchers, are going to be able to have an impact on the ever-more complex challenges of today’s schools. We could read this shift as asking us to make room for educational research that supports innovation, exploration, and experimentation, in addition to evidence. It might also mean that a wider range of methodologies might be better suited for each of these purposes. In any case, all educational researchers are increasingly held to standards not entirely of our own making as the federal government takes an increased role in mandating what counts as research. It is of no small consequence to say that “both epistemology as well as method is at stake” (St. Pierre, 2002, p. 25).
Furthermore, despite this shift in terminology and the changing focus of the Blueprint, it would be a mistake to assume that the influence of SBR has completely diminished, particularly within special education. A quick search of the U.S. Department of Education IDEA 2004 website yielded 168 hits for “research-based practice” and 156 matches for “scientifically-based research.” Thus, it is fair to say that the issue of SBR is alive and well within the U.S. Department of Education, particularly within the Office of Special Education.
Nonetheless, despite this emphasis, a search of the What Works Clearinghouse (IES) yields a surprising lack of “evidence” for interventions directed at students with LD since the initiative began, in 2002.Of the 12 interventions listed, 9 have “no studies meeting evidence standards” (including Wilson Reading, Read 180, Orton-Gillingham, Voyager, the Herman Method, and Alphabetic Phonics). Of the 3 remaining interventions, 2 are listed as having “evidence of positive or potentially positive effects for at least one improvement outcome” (Lindamood Phoneme Sequencing and Read Naturally) and 1 as having mixed or no discernable effects (Project Read). Given the amount of time, energy, and research dollars spent on using SBR to determine what works, we might be wise to reevaluate some of the assumptions behind this quest for certainty. In our desperate attempts to discover what works in the short term (to raise test scores, for example), we might lose sight of the fact that finding what works for any one learner is unlikely to be found in any particular program, even when it is extensively researched and implemented with unflinching fidelity. Invariably, what works requires individual interaction and thoughtful engagement between highly qualified teachers and particular students, in all of their messy individuality and impossible-to-replicate social contexts.
By way of example, the first author is reminded of a mother she knows who said that despite sending her daughter to a specialized school for students with learning disabilities, where they tried numerous research-based reading programs and approaches, it was not until her daughter encountered the Harry Potter book series that she learned to read. She and her daughter read the whole series by taking turns at bedtime, painstakingly reading the pages of each book, until her daughter, in Grade 5, was reading fluently. She credits Harry Potter (or J.K. Rowling, actually) for teaching her daughter to read by finally giving her something that was worthy of her daughter’s best efforts. In our sincere efforts to determine what works, we can sometimes forget that reading is not simply about evidence or tightly scripted commercial programs but also about desire, joy, sweat, tears, and a certain amount of risk taking, especially for someone who struggles with literacy.
A second example involves the head-scratching disbelief of researchers who know, based on any measure of scientific evidence, that the benefits of incorporating the concept of multiple intelligences into a teaching or as a learning strategy are not research-based. So why, despite its lack of scientific evidence, does multiple intelligences theory continue to be relevant to teachers? Rather than conceiving of teachers’ use of multiple intelligences theory as an example of their failure to implement SBR, might we ask instead,what is the research missing? Or, more to the point, what role might our methodological choices play in the precipitous and possibly erroneous rejection of potentially useful approaches (see Note 8)? Could it be that a teacher who integrates multiple intelligence theory creates varied lessons and gives students choices? And could it be that students who are given choices feel more engaged, and engaged students learn more, even if that learning does not necessarily reveal itself on standardized test scores? Think of a memorable learning experience in your own schooling—how were you engaged in the learning task? How do we create learning experiences that result in genuine engagement and excitement, and what do those kinds of learning experiences do for students that cannot be measured in standardized ways, at least not in the short term?
Finally, although we can be sure that SBR will be an important part of our continued efforts to improve educational outcomes for all learners, we must also ensure that evidence does not inhibit innovation or more original approaches to investigation. As a report by the OECD (Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development) found, requiring “evidence that an educational innovation represents a significant improvement over traditional or mainstream practices hinders the demand for innovation” (OECD, 2010, p. 63). As researchers, we need a fully stocked toolkit in order to continue to improve practice and to promote social justice, equity and access for all learners.
Concluding Points
We end by revisiting the issues we raised in the introduction to this special double edition of Learning Disability Quarterly. Our focus remains centered on what can be gained by promoting pluralism in LD-related research and, conversely, what may be lost, missed, blocked, or dismissed when we exclude certain approaches to inquiry. Furthermore, we seek to reconnect research on LD to the lived experiences and aspirations of students and teachers in real-life classrooms, most particularly those of individuals identified as having learning disabilities.
Our sincere hope is that the contributors involved in this double issue will inspire readers to engage in ongoing conversations toward achieving greater methodological balance in our field’s research endeavors. We can no longer, in our view, afford to privilege certain forms of knowledge while at best neglecting and at worst stifling other ways of knowing. Given the number of contributors involved in this special double issue of Learning Disability Quarterly, and the varied and complex issues they raise, we can only touch upon “the tip of the iceberg” in this closing section. That said, we hope this abbreviated synthesis captures the tone, tenor, and substance of the collective conversation(s) we have been privileged to assemble.
Broadening and Deepening Our Knowledge Base
On the whole, and regardless of methodological allegiances, contributors welcomed the prospect of increased pluralism within the field of LD, as well as the field of special education overall. Contributing authors repeatedly acknowledged how methodological variation, along with the expansion of topics addressed, questions posed, frameworks employed, and so on, can yield significant contributions that both enlarge and challenge the field. Topics that typically form the central interests of LD and special education research, such as definitions, assessments, and interventions, were recognized as legitimate, yet insufficient. Such a limited scope of research topics precludes important contributions of research that draws from historical interpretations (Danforth), mediated and organic-based classroom interactions (Dudley-Marling), philosophical groundings (Allan), cultural explanations (Artiles et. al.), individual understandings (Valle), arts-based interpretations (Ware), and well-balanced, mutually informative mixed methods approaches (Klingner & Boardman).
As Poplin notes, drawing on Maslow’s oft-cited phrase, “It is tempting, if the only tool you have is a hammer, to treat everything as if it were a nail.” Taken together, contributors agree upon the value of, and indeed the need for, restocking our collective research toolkit. Moreover, Harry reminds us to “be humble in our assumptions about research.” Put differently, in the act of asserting any claim to knowledge, we may inadvertently overreach.
Throughout this special issue, research itself was reaffirmed as a highly complex endeavor, always imperfect, and constantly subject to a vast array of influences. Several authors embraced the notion of further elaborating our understandings by seeking alternative or counter perspectives, by making relevant connections, and considering multiple possibilities, rather than reducing or isolating the phenomenon of study (Allan, Artiles, et al.: Dudley-Marling; Klingner & Boardman). Likewise, commentators advocated for more than one paradigm of thinking (Stone, Bursuck, Paxton-Buursma & Mariage), more than a single framework for understanding (Rueda, Harry), and more than one stance toward the long-standing, artificially framed qualitative versus quantitative “divide” (Trainor). In summary, it appears that we share a greater consensus than many of us from all philosophical and methodological stripes may have thought possible.
Relating Research on LD to Schools and Classroom Life
In linking our introductory and closing articles, we seek to strengthen the link between research on LD to life in schools and learning in classrooms. Several contributors focus on the idiosyncratic nature of classrooms, including how teachers provide instruction and respond to student needs, as well as how students respond to the teacher’s instruction (Dudley-Marling, Poplin, Artiles et al.). These contributions conveyed, among other considerations, the fascinating complexities involved in all classroom interactions; the need for responsive, intuitive teachers; and the mismatch (and, indeed, the inadequacy) of a unidimensional set of research methods to address phenomena as complex as the relationship between learning and teaching.
Other authors remind us that scholarship is always historically and culturally contingent, a product of its time and reflective of particular meanings within the culture that gave rise to it (Danforth, Stone). If, like everything else, the act of research is a cultural practice (Artiles et al.) imbued with power, then what are we to make of our current scholarship as embedded in our contemporary cultural context? For instance, how does the sustained, and arguably intensified, emphasis on a “one size fits all” gold standard for research within all fields in education detract from pressing issues such as educational equality for all students? Unfortunately, researchers rarely recognize or accept ways in which their beliefs and practices may contribute to the historical marginalization of certain groups (African American, Latino, immigrant, second language learners, people with disabilities). As Artiles et al. assert, if we base our research criteria on ecological validity alone, for example, the majority of educational research would lack cultural or even ethical validity.
To extend this point further, we might consider the broader question of validity embedded within current debates about RTI by noting that the non-responsiveness of students to certain interventions must be considered in relation to what is being asked of them. Just as Dudley-Marling urges us to consider what is meant when we assert that an intervention “works,” is “effective,” and so on, we must pose the questions, Works for whom? And, in what context? By the same token, the work of Artiles et al. should signal the need to raise questions about researcher responses to what is not working for some students under particular circumstances. As Rueda notes, long-standing difficulties, such as the overrepresentation of children of color in particular disability classifications and the lack of efficacy associated with separate settings and pull-out service delivery models, cannot be addressed by research frameworks that do not openly acknowledge power dynamics within our culture. He also observes the chasm that is all too familiar to many of us between the knowledge that researchers traditionally generate and that which is sought and used by teachers. Novice teachers are typically genuinely eager to engage with research that is accessible and relevant. They value research that provides them with a deeper understanding of their daily situations—including how to counter the pervasive deficit-based interpretations of their students. We would concur that what is needed is research that speaks beyond any narrow version of educational reform, toward greater societal change that is explicitly tied to the ethics inherent in what educators do (Trainor, Ware, Allan).
One possibility to help teachers grapple with “real life” situations is to utilize thick descriptions of complicated classroom ecologies within well-crafted qualitative and mixed-methods research (Poplin, Stone, Klingner & Boardman). Studying the context-dependent ways that teachers respond to student learning and behavior, their “on the spot” responsiveness, offers valuable insights into engaging students and managing classrooms (Dudley-Marling, Poplin). Artiles et al. and Dudley Marling suggest that attending to multiple ways of learning, drawing on the prior knowledge of students, and observing the many forms of “informal learning” in which students participate would provide insights into “what works” for individual learners within their specific contexts.
Incorporating Individuals Identified as Having Learning Disabilities
The classroom-based research of Dudley-Marling, framed within sociocultural theories, reminds us that students cannot “perform failure” on their own; it must occur within interlocking systems undergirded by notions of ability, success, and age- and grade-level expectations—otherwise known as “normal functioning” (as culturally determined in the context of a particular time and place). His research consistently shows us that how educators initiate and sustain specific interactions either enables or disables learning. The dynamics between teacher and student, and their interpretations of these dynamics, are a core space in which much can be revealed, including how students are perceived and labeled as LD.
The use of disability labels is raised by several contributors (Allan, Ware, Valle). How we come to understand, name, and respond to the “difference” evoked by disability is central to all of our research. Interestingly, many students reject, challenge, or respond negatively to the labels given them, as evidenced in Allan’s vignettes of students with various disabilities, including those with LD. While the negative self-concepts of students with LD has been documented, as well as contested (Bursuck), we are mindful of who is “claiming disability” (Ware) and note how few studies actually contain the voices of people with LD, let alone are conducted by (or with, as opposed to on) people with LD.
In keeping with Linton’s (1998) notion of “claiming disability,” the knowledge of parents is often undermined and dismissed in research, as well as in school settings (Valle, Harry). The largely implicit but powerful blaming of parents for their child’s inability to function within the norms and expectations of school is not adequately addressed in LD research. Valle’s work, for instance, is unique in that it centers on narratives of mothers whose children are identified as LD and reveals mothers’ unique ways of knowing and understanding their children. Her work also brings to the forefront larger issues of power, including trends to “contain” parents by shifting the burden of proof onto them to demonstrate that the school is failing to meet the needs of their child (a burden that can be taken up by savvy, middle class parents, but less likely for working class, poor, and immigrant parents). This genre of research overtly disputes the boundaries of what is understood to be LD and how LD profoundly affects a person’s life both in and out of school.
Similarly, Ware’s humanities-based work boldly asks readers to challenge themselves to re-imagine ways of understanding LD. She piques our curiosity as to how individuals with LD might represent themselves in some of the same mediums used by the people with disabilities whom she features. The nuanced, particularized intricacies involved in representation and self-representation of LD are welcomed by Paxton-Buursma and Mariage, who see such interpretations as the stepping-stone to reflexivity in researchers and participants alike.
Finally, the “local knowledge” of teachers and students (Klingner & Boardman, Dudley-Marling, Artiles et. al) about “what works”—when, where, why, and how—is not only worth incorporating into research but also central to the educational project writ large. Given the complexities of teaching and learning, the more information educators have about what occurs in specific classroom contexts, the better they can evaluate the information being presented. In sum, it must be acknowledged that the kind of information presented by a researcher, and how it is presented, inevitably influences readers’ interpretations. Ultimately, interpretations of research are a result of mediation between the reader and the text—beyond the sole control of the researcher him- or herself.
Closing Thoughts
The dialogue we sought is indeed now under way. The authors and commentators have all raised a range of themes for us to consider. Like a rhizome, they are not meant to be linear or easily fit with one another, yet they are connected through our common interests in conducting research within the field of LD. Some of the major issues include recognition of the philosophical, historical, political, and ethical dimensions of our work (Danforth, Trainor, Bursuck). These dimensions all pertain to the cultural locations of research—and the necessity to reframe explanations within research conducted without an acknowledged cultural location, including the positionality of the author (Artiles et al., Rueda). Another theme is how the relentless push for generalizability (Dudley-Marling) should be superseded by our attention to nuance and particularity (Stone). Likewise, the danger of accepting the premise of “one size fits all” signals submission to conformity within research at the expense of creativity (Ware), and the exploration of other ways of knowing (Allan). Indeed, facing the challenge of complexity and engaging with it, rather than trying to reduce it, is a recurrent theme among many contributors (Poplin, Klingner & Boardman, Paxton-Buursma & Mariage), as is the notion of power imbalances between: the researchers and the researched (Artiles et al.); school personnel and parents (Valle, Harry); teachers and children (Dudley-Marling); mainstream and minority cultures (Ware); and the “able bodied” and disabled (Allan, Ware). All of these issues suggest the benefit of using interdisciplinary work to pose questions, decide on appropriate methodologies, and generate a deeper, more complex, wider knowledge base for LD.
Finally, several contributors used the phrase “healthy” in relation to this particular dialogue. We sincerely hope that the conversation we have started continues throughout LDQ and within other journals—be they dedicated to learning disabilities, special education, or education in general. After all, like eating vegetables, dialogue across difference is good for us all.
In closing, we hope that readers who answered the questions listed below, originally posed at the start of this special series of LDQ, will now reread them with a view to contemplating any differences in their response. Such differences are the seeds of epistemic reflexivity, and we eagerly encourage their growth.
What is considered acceptable knowledge about learning disabilities?
Who decides?
What are the origins of this knowledge?
Who uses it, and toward what ends?
Who, in the end, benefits?
Footnotes
The authors declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
The authors received no financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
1.
Articles within four prominent LD journals were analyzed from 2008 (Journal of Learning Disabilities; Learning Disabilities: An Interdisciplinary Journal; Learning Disability Quarterly; Learning Disability: Research & Practice). Our analysis revealed that only 2% of the studies published by the top journals in LD were qualitative and 6% were mixed methodology. Quantitative studies made up 75% of the published articles, and 91% if you include meta-analyses. Although we expected this analysis to reveal a preponderance of quantitative studies, we did not expect this level of imbalance.
2.
Both Delpit and Babbitt write about how minority points of view get silenced or excluded by the dominant group, but from a critical race perspective. We draw on their work here to explore how a minority viewpoint, that of qualitative and alternative methodologies, can also be silenced and subjugated by the dominant epistemological position of the field of LD, which privileges quantitative ways of knowing.
3.
It is not uncommon to see the terms evidence-based, research-based practice, and (the most recent iteration) scientifically based research used interchangeably. Evidence-based research is often attributed to medical research and practice but was popularized in education in the No Child Left Behind Act. Both the terms evidence-based and research-based practice have been usurped at the policy level by the term scientifically based research (SBR), in part due to the lack of progress shown by research-based methods in Reading First schools. In practice, however, we would argue that the terms are essentially interchangeable.
4.
SBR, or Scientifically based research, is defined as follows:
(a) research that involves the application of rigorous, systematic, and objective procedures to obtain reliable and valid knowledge relevant to education activities and programs; and (b) research that 1. Employs systematic, empirical methods that draw on observation or experiment; 2. Involves rigorous data analyses that are adequate to test the stated hypotheses and justify the general conclusions drawn; 3. Relies on measurements or observational methods that provide reliable and valid data across evaluators and observers, across multiple measurements and observations, and across studies by the same or different investigators; 4. Is evaluated using experimental or quasi-experimental designs in which individuals, entities, programs, or activities are assigned to different conditions and with appropriate controls to evaluate the effects of the condition of interest, with a preference for random-assignment experiments or other designs to the extent that those designs contain within-condition or across-condition controls; 5. Ensures that experimental studies are presented in sufficient detail and clarity to allow for replication or, at a minimum, offer the opportunity to build systematically on their findings; and 6. Has been accepted by a peer-reviewed journal or approved by a panel of independent experts through a comparably rigorous, objective, and scientific review (IDEA).
5.
Given the increased role that government is playing in setting the agenda for educational reform, very few of our members of Congress have relevant educational backgrounds. For example, of the 535 voting members of Congress, only a handful of legislators have a bachelor’s in education or related fields, and far fewer have related master’s degrees. We could find only one member of Congress (Rep. Diane Watson, CA-33rd Congressional District) with a PhD in an education-related field (see the list compiled by the Scientists and Engineers for America for the educational make up of the 111th Congress).
6.
In fact, medical research has long been critiqued for excluding women and minorities from clinical studies, leading researchers to uncritically assume that research based on White males would be universally applicable. In response to these critiques, the National Institute of Health (NIH) established an Office of Women’s Health in 1990 (see 
) and federal legislation that followed requiring female and minority participation in NIH-sponsored research. Similarly, critiques of standardized testing also question whether large normed samples are necessarily applicable to local contexts or under-represented groups of students, particularly in areas of the country with highly changing demographics. It is hard to imagine a normed sample that would adequately capture the diversity of languages and cultures present in any large urban school district, for example.
7.
Although a thorough discussion is beyond the scope of this article, several examples would include unintended birth defects resulting from prescribing Thalidomide to pregnant women in the 1950s and early 1960s for morning sickness, the infamous Tuskegee Syphilis Study (1932–1972), American eugenics in the first decades of the 20th century, the Stanford Prison Experiment (1971), the Monster Study (1939) at the University of Iowa, early medical trials of the birth control pill in Puerto Rico (and later in Haiti and Mexico), and human radiation experiments conducted by the United States in the Marshall Islands. It is instructive to think about how many of these studies were conducted on marginalized populations and to ask how current educational reforms reinforce and magnify inequities found in our contemporary educational system.
8.
For example, Gersten, Baker, and Lloyd (2000) discussed several dilemmas involved in researchers’ selections of dependent measures in experimental and quasi-experimental research designs, most particularly the fact that the more narrowly designed the outcome measure (or posttest), the more valid it is. Unfortunately, as these researchers also pointed out, narrowly designed outcome measures are also more restrictive. They therefore recommended that researchers use multiple measures, a solution that raised yet another caution because the use of multiple measures increases the risk of inflating the finding of significant effects. Furthermore, they specified that using multiple outcome measures also makes if difficult to account for the effect of differing test formats. Finding no unqualified solution to the outcome measure dilemma, they concluded that “there is an art to selecting and developing measures” (p. 12, italics added). For a thorough analysis of this and other methodological and procedural dilemmas, including those pertaining to independent variables; implementation fidelity; comparison groups; and selecting, describing, and assigning students to conditions, see .